Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (16 page)

‘You mustn’t pay any attention to things that don’t concern you … Don’t worry about others, you must think only of yourself … Do you know what I mean?’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Other people only want to cheat you. If you’re nice, they take advantage of you, if you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. Nobody ever does anything for nothing, remember that. You must do what’s good for you. Don’t look anyone in the eye and just go your own way … Do you know what I mean?’

‘Yes, Papa … Can I have those marzipan fruits now?’

And they turned down a side street, continuing their lesson in living. Bordelli shook his head and smiled. Hearing that rich father’s words was like looking through the keyhole of the Italian bourgeoisie’s soul. It was only one more confirmation of what he had always thought. There was nothing more rotten than the Italian bourgeoisie, than the families of the upper, middle and petite bourgeoisie, steeped in the rot of Fascism and that of the Liberation. It was all quite horribly simple. The rich thought only of becoming richer and didn’t give a damn about how the rest of the world fared, so long as they could plunder it and accumulate wealth. They didn’t give a damn about Fascism or democracy. They merely wanted to be left in peace to make money. They were greedy, petty and stupid, with the sort of pettiness and stupidity that the rich are so fond of, because therein lies the strength that enables them to get richer and richer. They got rich on the backs of people they disdained, as has been the case in every other epoch and every other nation on earth. They were scornful, greedy, banal, obtuse, licked their fingers as they counted their money, locked themselves up inside their villas thinking they’d left the rest of the world outside, believed they had no connection to the world barely scraping by just outside their garden walls. They were even convinced they’d shut death out, and when one of them died, they looked at each other with terror in their eyes, shocked that so much wealth couldn’t protect them from death.

He thought of the
commendatori
, oil men, lawyers, bankers, businessmen and builders who were ruining the city, and he burst out laughing. He thought of all the bourgeois who were so impressed with pomp – the pomp of the king of Italy, the military pomp of Mussolini, the decadent pomp of d’Annunzio’s Vittoriale villa, the hidden, imagined pomp of democracy – and he burst out laughing. He thought of all the drab, banal bourgeois who dragged themselves along behind the rules and customs of their fathers and grandfathers, thinking that it would go on for ever. Didn’t they look their sons and daughters in the eye? Didn’t they see the vipers in their bosoms? Didn’t they know that their children didn’t want any more rules and were itching for their own share of power, authority and money? Didn’t they understand that their children, raised in arrogance, had naturally become arrogant towards the rest of the world? Didn’t they realise that their children were only waiting to inherit their wealth, their fathers’ wealth, and had no use for their rotten rules? Didn’t they realise their children wanted to undermine their authority and have no bosses so they themselves could be the bosses? Having grown up in luxury, crushed by iron-clad rules, those young people had the rage of the unredeemed in their eyes, a universal disdain. All they wanted was to knock their fathers off their thrones and take their place. They were worse than their fathers and mothers, wanted to be even more rich and powerful than their parents, and the seeming hunger for freedom was nothing but a desire for power and money. But even more ridiculous was that nowadays even the workers, even the clerks, the paper pushers, wanted to be like the rich they had always served. Envy took the place of pride. They too wanted to be rich and powerful, they wanted a villa and garden to lock themselves up in and leave the world out of, with all its poverty, suffering and death, the way you leave your rubbish outside the door for collection …

He walked slowly back to the station, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Nodding hello to Mugnai, he went upstairs to his office, dropping into his chair like an accused man taking the stand. A child had been killed, and he was getting nowhere. He was frittering away the time with outlandish and useless reflections on the disgusting human race as a way of not thinking about his failure. He even felt a little stupid, but what could he do if, even at a moment like that, he couldn’t get the pretty salesgirl in Via Pacinotti out of his head?

Late that afternoon a jewellery-store robbery threw the police department into disarray. There was a chase up Via Bolognese, and then the burglars’ car flipped over on the curve at Pian di San Bartolo. Two men died on the spot and a third was on the way to the hospital. The jewels were recovered down to the last diamond, and they all lived happily ever after.

At 8.30 sharp the inspector rang Rosa’s buzzer. After an eternity she poked her head out over the balcony and shouted for him to wait ‘another minute’ and she would be right down.

When the front door finally opened, Bordelli had already smoked three cigarettes. Rosa appeared in all her splendour, teetering atop red patent-leather stilettos, eyes swollen with make-up, and wrapped in a short, scarlet cashmere coat with a fur collar. Her lips were bursting with red.

‘Don’t worry, it’s me … Stop making that face.’

‘You have a very subjective sense of time, Rosa.’

‘Don’t start with your usual male arguments.’

‘It’s ten past nine, but since I’m a gentleman I won’t mention it.’

‘It’s your fault for always arriving on time,’ she said in all seriousness. Bordelli stood there for a moment, open-mouthed, then shook his head and said nothing. They got into the Beetle, and Rosa said she’d reserved a table at Alfredo’s, in Viale Don Minzoni.

The moment they entered the restaurant, the murmur of conversation fell silent. Everyone turned to look at the strange couple: a middle-aged man with a vaguely unkempt air and a flashy blonde wearing too much make-up and piercing the floor with her high heels. The women stared with malice in their eyes, while the men gawked with feigned indifference. Bordelli felt a little embarrassed but didn’t show it. Rosa left to Bordelli the honour of taking off her coat, which revealed to the world a tight red dress that hugged her hips as though painted on. They sat down at a table apart from the rest, and finally the hum of voices resumed. Bordelli took thirty seconds to decide what to eat, then waited patiently for Rosa to overcome her indecision. An impassive waiter with a long, thin face uncorked a bottle of Amarone before their eyes, filled their tulip-glasses and scampered off. Inside their black circles of mascara, Rosa’s eyes sparkled with joy.

‘What shall we toast to?’

‘I don’t really feel like it, Rosa,’ Bordelli muttered, thinking of the murdered boy.

‘Ah, I know what: a toast to the woman who succeeds in dragging you to the altar … Aw, come on, don’t make that face.’

‘I don’t think I’m cut out for marriage, Rosa.’

‘At mass this morning, Father Mauro said some very beautiful things about marriage … It almost made me want to get married.’

‘You go to mass, Rosa?’ Bordelli asked in astonishment.

‘I’ve never missed a single Sunday. Why?’ asked Rosa, seeming almost offended.

‘So you used to go even when you …’

‘Even when I what?’

‘When you worked at the little house?’ the inspector said in a whisper.

‘Ah, you mean when I was a whore?’

‘Sshhh, speak more softly, please,’ said Bordelli, looking around.

‘What’s wrong? Are you embarrassed? Even Jesus Christ was fond of whores, you know.’

‘There’s no need to tell the whole world.’

‘Everybody knows it, it’s in the Gospels.’

‘That’s not what I meant …’

‘Well, whatever the case, all my prostitute friends go to mass, to confession, and even take communion.’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘Deep down, we’re all saints. Do you think it’s easy to play mamma to a bunch of overgrown little boys with their brains in their pants?’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Bordelli admitted. The waiter arrived with the first course, and their hunger reduced them to silence. A little later Rosa gave a little smile and said in a soft voice that she’d recognised a former client of hers there in the restaurant.

‘The one with the glasses and white hair sitting across from that hag … who’s his wife, actually.’

‘Don’t be mean.’

‘She’s ugly as sin, look for yourself.’

She waited for her gaze to meet that of her former client, then smiled and waved her fingers in the air at him. The man stiffened and, after a few seconds of bewilderment, started speaking rather heatedly with his wife.

‘You’ve ruined his evening,’ said Bordelli.

‘He’s a judge. He always wanted me to pronounce him guilty and spank him. After all the things I did for him, he should be on his knees, kissing my feet, instead of pretending not to know me. Don’t you think it’s funny?’

‘Not for him.’

‘I think it’s funny.’

She waved at the man again, this time winking as well. The judge turned white as a sheet.

‘If you carry on that way, tonight it’s his wife who’s going to be spanking him,’ said Bordelli, smiling.

‘I can’t help myself, I’m having too much fun. D’you know how many of my old johns I’ve run into, arm in arm with their wives? You have no idea of the things they do to avoid being discovered. One guy pretended to faint, another nearly got hit by a car – but the funniest are the ones who throw themselves on their wives and start kissing them passionately … it’s so amusing …’

‘They’re the ones who paid for your flat.’

‘After what I did for them they should have bought me the Pitti Palace.’

She waited for the judge to give in again to the dangerous curiosity of looking at her, and then she shook a scolding finger at him, as if he were a child. His wife realised something was up and turned round to see what was happening. Rosa blew a fire-red kiss at the judge and relished the scene in all its detail: the wife opened her eyes wide, gave her husband a withering look, then stood up calmly, grabbed her coat, put it on, and left the restaurant without turning round. The judge remained paralysed, staring into space. Everyone in the restaurant had witnessed the scene, and silence descended on the room. A waiter went over to the judge’s table to ask whether something was wrong. The judge didn’t answer, then put five thousand lire down on the table and staggered out of the restaurant. A few seconds later, between stares and giggles, the buzz of voices started up again.

‘You’re a witch,’ the inspector whispered, chuckling to himself.

‘And you’re a dear. Any other man would have got angry.’

‘About what?’

‘You’re dining out with a woman who blows kisses at other men.’

‘It’s the least I can do for you.’

‘You’re such a sweetheart …’ Rosa whispered, caressing his cheek.

‘It’s all the Amarone’s fault,’ said Bordelli.

The dinner continued serenely, with the help of a second bottle of wine. Bordelli still had the salesgirl on his mind, but preferred not to bring up the subject. He did, in fact, have a strong desire to talk about her, to describe all her beauties in detail, and even emit a few sighs like the forlorn admirer he was. But he certainly didn’t feel like hearing that he was too old for a woman like that. He was already all too well aware of it.

They ate like pigs, making small talk. And between idle chatter and grappa, it got to be almost midnight, at which point Rosa leapt out of her chair.

‘Oh my God, Briciola! I haven’t fed her!’ she said.

Bordelli asked for the bill and paid without flinching, even leaving a handsome tip. It was money well spent. He’d had a pleasant evening, having managed to clear his mind for a few hours.

They emptied their grappa glasses and stood up, unsteady on their feet. A young waiter helped Rosa to put on her coat, and she thanked him with a lipstick-bright smile. They went out of the restaurant, followed by the curious gazes of the few remaining customers.

‘How nice! It’s not raining!’ said Rosa.

‘I don’t see any stars. I’m afraid it’s going to be the same old story tomorrow,’ said the inspector, his defeatism beginning to resurface. They got into the Beetle and drove off. The wind was blowing, tossing the trees’ bare branches in the air. When they were outside Rosa’s building, the inspector remembered the blouse.

‘I have a present for you, Rosa.’

‘For me? How sweet!’

‘Just a little thing I picked up.’ He searched the back seat for the package with the blouse and handed it to Rosa.

‘You’re such a dear …’ she said, all excited, and unwrapped the package. She tore the paper and held up the blouse. After giving a little cry, her face changed expression, darkening.

‘I’m not twelve years old any more,’ she muttered, frowning as she looked at the blouse.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Can’t you see how tiny it is?’

‘Don’t you even want to try it on?’

‘How do you expect me to fit into this … this sock?’ said Rosa, dropping the blouse into his lap like some kind of rag.

‘All right, I’ll go and exchange it tomorrow,’ he hastened to say, happy to have an excuse to see the pretty salesgirl again. His enthusiasm made Rosa suspicious.

‘Men normally hate wasting time exchanging articles of clothing, except … I smell a woman in this,’ she said, reading the name and address of the shop on the card inside. Bordelli blushed.

‘There’s no woman …’

‘I know you better than you think, sweetie,’ said Rosa, grinning like a protective mother.

‘What size should I ask for?’ Bordelli queried, to change the subject.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Rosa, there’s no woman.’

‘Liiiiii … ar! Liar!’

‘I’m not a liar.’

‘Careful going through doors with that nose, Pinocchio.’

‘Come on, Rosa, tell me your size.’

‘Well, if it were up to me, I would rather have a red blouse.’

‘And the size?’

‘A thousand dollars, dead or alive.’

He drove down the viali in the rain, blowing his smoke out through the open vent. As if everything else weren’t bad enough, the rain added the finishing touch. There weren’t many cars about, as many Florentines had left town. The long All Saints’ Day weekend had already begun, but not for everyone. The schools would remain closed for the entire week, though many shops were open. But not the one the beautiful girl worked in, unfortunately.