Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (20 page)

He headed off on foot, came out into Piazza Tasso and turned down Via del Campuccio. When he got to Botta’s place he bent down to tap on the window pane. No reply. He went into the building and knocked on his door, calling out his name. Ennio wasn’t there. Where the hell was he hiding? There was no point in asking the neighbours or at the local bars. Nobody would say a word more than necessary, especially if the person asked actually knew something. It was an unspoken agreement, and they all benefitted from it.

Bordelli went back to his block to fetch the Beetle. While crossing the Ponte Vespucci he saw the Arno, swollen as a whale’s back. The fall at the Santa Rosa weir looked frightening, but it wasn’t the first time. When he got to the station he shut himself up in his office to wait for Ennio’s phone call, taking care of a few overdue matters by dint of sighs. No news about the butcher … but he’d better be ready to be disappointed.

At eleven o’clock Commissioner Inzipone rang for his umpteenth useless scolding concerning the Pellissari murder. As usual he started citing newspaper headlines accusing the police of somnolence and incompetence. Bordelli cursed him in silence.

‘I’m following a lead, sir … As soon as I’ve got any news …’

‘What lead?’ the commissioner asked impatiently.

‘I’d rather not say for now.’

‘More secrets, Bordelli …?’

‘I’m superstitious, you ought to know that by now.’

‘Well, this time I hope it works,’ Inzipone grumbled, then hung up without saying goodbye. He could go to the devil, thought Bordelli.

A bulletin came in from the north. Maximum alert: a terrorist from the Alto Adige
³⁶
was on his way to Rome. Apparently he intended to set off a bomb at the National Monument to Victor Emmanuel II the following day, to celebrate Victory Day in his own way. Roadblocks were set up everywhere in a big hurry, and every traffic patrol car was to have a photo of the suspect.

At a quarter to one, Bordelli already had hunger pangs and walked to the Trattoria da Cesare. It was nearly deserted. The waiters stood in the doorway watching the cars go by on the Viale, and Cesare complained that it was all the fault of the long All Souls’ Day weekend and the bloody weather.

‘Enjoy a day of rest,’ Bordelli advised, patting him on the back, and then went and sat down in Totò’s kitchen, letting himself be led by the hand into the sinful world of Ciacco
³⁷
… crostini, salami, fried polenta …

‘You’ve been looking a little down the last few days,’ said Totò.

‘Must be the rain.’

…
pappardelle alla lepre
, sausages, big tumblers of red wine …

‘An October to be forgotten, Inspector.’

‘You can say that a little louder, if you like.’

… grilled pork chops,
fagioli all’uccelletto
, a bowl of custard pie, a nice cup of coffee, and some home-made grappa to finish things off.

He couldn’t carry on eating like this, he wasn’t twenty years old any more. He swore it would be the last time. He often made vows of this sort as the grappa was being served. He glanced at his watch and downed the glass.

‘Time to go back to the henhouse, Totò,’ he said, getting up with difficulty. He felt like a barrel packed full of stones.

‘You mustn’t miss dinner here tonight, Inspector. I’ll give you a taste of a
peperonata
that can raise the dead.’

‘We’ll discuss that this evening, Totò. If I think about it now, it’ll make me sick.’

He patted the cook on the back and went out of the kitchen with his knees buckling. It was raining hard outside, and Cesare lent him an umbrella.

He came out of the restaurant with a cigarette between his lips and crossed Viale Lavagnini in a hurry. The minute he turned on to Via Duca d’Aosta, it started deluging. Tossing aside the now drenched cigarette, he broke into a run. He arrived back at the station panting heavily and with shoes completely soaked, and dragged himself up the stairs to the first floor. Aside from the sound of the rain, you couldn’t hear a thing. Everyone was at the windows looking out, fascinated by the downpour.

He ducked into the men’s room to towel-dry his hair, then shut himself up in his office and removed his wet raincoat. Without bothering to sit down, he grabbed the internal telephone and called the switchboard. No news of Botta. He couldn’t stand waiting any longer twiddling his thumbs. Lighting a cigarette, he too went and stood in front of a window to admire the deluge. The rail fell with unheard-of force, and the streets had turned into torrents. A cold shiver ran down his back, and he instinctively touched the radiator. It was as hot as a pan on the fire. So why did he feel cold? Must be from indigestion and his wet clothes. He blew the smoke against the window pane, head full of thoughts. From the start of this affair he’d felt as if he were playing chess with destiny. One wrong move, and his king would be dead. The next move was his to make, and it was Via Luna.

He went and sat down, huffing with impatience. Picking up the Pellissari file, he opened it on the desk, almost angrily. Seeing the photos of the body again, he felt his stomach tighten. Giacomo’s killers were free, to eat, drink and live in peace. He couldn’t stand it.

And why the hell didn’t Ennio call? He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray with such force that it crumbled. One second later there was another cigarette in his mouth, but with an effort of will he managed not to light it. His throat was dry. He took a sip of water, and it tasted bitter. He was trying to buck up. Soon it would stop raining and he could go with Botta to force open that damned lock. He needed only to be patient and wait … and wait … There wasn’t even a fly in the room to keep him company. He felt downcast and tired, and everything seemed gloomy. Had a genie appeared out of a bottle at that moment, he would have asked to be reborn in Lapland among the reindeer.

Another shiver shook his whole body. His shoes were dripping wet and his feet frozen. He’d probably best dash home to change clothes if he didn’t want to catch a chill. He really didn’t feel like facing that wall of rain, but he had no choice. When he got up to go, his legs felt weak. His joints ached into the bargain, and he realised he was sick. He must already have a bit of fever, damn it all. What a time to fall ill. He rifled through his drawers, found a box of aspirin and swallowed a couple. A few times in the past a couple of tablets had been enough to nip the flu in the bud, though at other times it was the flu that nipped him in the bud. Before anything else, he had to take off those wet clothes. He was already in the doorway when the ring of the telephone made him start. If it was Botta, he couldn’t be calling at a worse time. He staggered back to the desk, shivering all over.

‘It’s Mr Pellissari the lawyer on the phone for you, sir.’

‘All right, put him on,’ said Bordelli, sitting back down. He heard a crack, and the background buzz seemed to change.

‘Hello?’

‘Inspector Bordelli?’

‘Hello, Mr Pellissari …’

‘Tell me the truth, Inspector … Is there any hope the monster will ever be found?’

‘We’re following a very promising lead, but at the moment I can’t tell you anything else.’

‘I want to be able to look my son’s killer in the eye, I want to ask him how he could ever …’

‘We’ll catch him, I can promise you that,’ said Bordelli, hoping he was right. Shivering with cold, he patiently listened, without interrupting, as Pellissari unburdened himself. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that his son had been raped by at least three men. Before hanging up he repeated that the murderer’s days were numbered. He was about to get up when the phone rang again.

‘Yes?’

‘Have you seen how it’s raining?’ said Rosa, munching on something.

‘It’s been raining for weeks, Rosa.’

‘Not this hard … What if this is the Great Flood?’

‘That’s already happened, Rosa. I don’t think God repeats himself.’

‘My friend from Prato … Milena, remember her?’ she said, and then Bordelli heard her bite into a biscuit.

‘Rosa, I can’t stay on the phone.’

‘She brought me some Mattonella
biscottini
, and some
Brutti ma boni
, too.’
³⁸

‘Rosa …’

‘I’ll save a few for you, monkey, don’t worry. But don’t come tonight, I’ve invited some girlfriends and we don’t want any boys around.’

‘Rosa, please stop for a second.’

‘Why, what is it?’

‘I can’t stay on the phone. My clothes are soaking wet and I have to dash home to change.’

‘Oh, come on …’

‘I don’t feel well, I think I’m running a temperature.’

‘Oh, go on, you never get a temperature … Don’t you want to hear what I’m making for dinner?’

‘I’ll call you back later,’ said Bordelli, and he hung up without giving her time to respond. He was feeling worse and worse. He started down the stairs, grabbing the banister like an old fogey. Crossing paths with Inspector Silvis, who was on his way up, he let him know he was going home for a few minutes to change clothes.

‘Are you feeling all right, Inspector?’ Silvis asked, looking him up and down.

‘I feel great. Like an earthworm crushed by a boot.’

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you look to me like you’re burning up with fever.’

‘Nah, I’m sure it’s just a touch,’ the inspector muttered, knowing it wasn’t true.

‘Have you heard about the bomb?’

‘What bomb?’ Bordelli asked.

‘An anonymous phone call … A bomb at the Sita station … They’re on their way there now, with a team of explosives experts.’

‘One of the usual jerks, I’m sure.’

Bordelli continued down the stairs, and when he looked out into the courtyard it was like being behind a waterfall. Pressing the umbrella over his head like a sombrero, he ploughed his way to the Beetle. And, defying the temperature and the deluge, he drove off. The sound of the rain almost drowned out that of the car’s engine, and the tyres raised great waves of water on both sides. He felt terrible. His bones ached, he was shivering, and his nose was running. He certainly would not be able to attend the Victory Day celebrations the following day. Maybe that was why he’d caught the flu, to bail out of the 4 November ceremonies.

Without ever shifting into second, he ventured towards the centre of town. The windscreen wipers were useless. He was able to proceed simply because he knew the way.

As he drove down the Lungarno, great splashes of mud fell on the windscreen, only to be washed away at once by the rain. He caught a passing glimpse of a crowd of people along the parapets, huddled under umbrellas, looking out at the river. Common sense dictated that he should avoid going out again into the rain and race straight home and make some broth, but he didn’t want to give in to this stupid flu. During the war he’d slept in meadows, stables or outside in the snow … There was no need to panic over a couple of degrees of fever.

He parked the car with two wheels on the pavement, got out with the umbrella pressed down on his head and, wiping his nose with his hand, looked out at the Arno. It looked like a scene from the Apocalypse. A huge mass of muddy water coursed violently under the bridges, crashing against the pillars, rumbling like a squadron of aeroplanes. It was so close to the parapets that you could almost touch it. But it wasn’t something to get too worried about. It had happened before, and the Florentines were used to these sorts of scenes. In a few places in the countryside around the city it would burst its banks, flooding a few acres of farmland. But two days later, all would be back to normal.

He got back in the car, crossed the Carraia bridge and went on as far as Via del Campuccio. Without getting out, he stopped outside Botta’s windows, but the lights were still off inside. He drove off again, teeth chattering from the chill, and he felt almost pleased. He really wasn’t up to going to Via Luna, but he knew that if Botta had been at home, the temptation would have been too hard to resist.

He parked in front of his building and went inside. He climbed the stairs dripping like a tree after a storm, nose running. But he was safe at last. He’d never felt so happy to be home. He filled the bath and immersed himself in the boiling water, hoping to cook the feverish shivers out of him. Staring at a cobweb that undulated gently in a corner of the ceiling, he steeped in the tub for a long time, imagining that the beautiful salesgirl from Via Pacinotti was waiting for him in bed, already half naked, rubbing her little feet together between the sheets with impatience … Dreaming was cheap.

When he got out of the bath he felt extremely weak, got dressed in a hurry and put on two woollen jumpers. Outside it was already dark. The rain continued to come down with frightening force. It was the first time he’d ever seen such a downpour.

The thought of eating nauseated him. He heated some water in a saucepan, poured it into a glass and dissolved two spoonfuls of honey in it. He drank it in very small sips, to get the bitter taste out of his throat. He swallowed two more aspirin and, shaking like a leaf, went and lay down in bed with the thermometer in his armpit. His heart was beating in his ears and it felt as if there was a boulder on his head. He hadn’t been this sick for years. He felt like a war casualty and wished he had a pretty nurse with sweet eyes to look after him or, better yet, the dark salesgirl …

He checked the thermometer. Thirty-nine point three. What a fuss over a little temperature. In the days of the San Marco, he’d machine-gunned Germans with a forty-degree fever, and yet now he felt as if he didn’t even have the strength to peel an apple. He was old, he had to accept it. A bowl of broth, a hot-water bottle, and a whole lot of rest …

He glanced at the clock, unable to bring its hands into focus. It took him a few moments to realise that it was a few minutes before seven. He desperately needed to sleep. Picking up the phone and setting it down on his belly, he rang headquarters, said he felt bad, really bad, actually, and added with feigned regret that he would not, unfortunately, be in any condition to attend the 4 November commemoration.

Summoning his strength, he got up and took all the blankets he owned out of a chest of drawers and laid them down on the bed, one on top of the other. A good sweat was what he needed. He closed the shutters, both inside and out, and even unplugged the telephone so that nobody could wake him up. Sliding under the stack of blankets, he turned off the light. He sank his face into the pillow, crushed by a limitless sadness. He felt like the loneliest man on earth. Who knew where the pretty salesgirl was at that moment? Lying on a sofa, listening to the rumble of the rain? Or in the arms of a handsome young man? Perhaps both …