Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (24 page)

He returned to Piazza Beccaria, headed for Piazza Donatello along Viali, which was clogged with cars advancing a few feet every ten minutes. The ambulances and fire engines struggled to get through the traffic, as a few mud-spattered traffic cops hastily tried to clear a path for them in the middle of the boulevard.

The flood waters had stopped just past the English Cemetery, so there was no problem walking down Viale Matteotti. It was a real pleasure not to have slime under one’s boots. He continued on as far as Piazza della Libertà. The newspaper kiosk was open, and people were queuing up. He went to have a look round the corner of Viale Lavagnini. No trace of flooding: Cesare’s trattoria had been spared. And what about Totò? He knew he lived in Via Pisana but couldn’t remember on what floor. He retraced his steps and turned on to Via San Gallo, picking up his pace. It was only two days since he’d last left the station in Via Zara, but it felt like ten years. The boy’s murder seemed a distant memory, buried by time. There was no way, of course, for him to keep up with his investigation in the midst of the catastrophe. There were far more urgent matters to attend to. With a bitter taste in his mouth, he had to admit that it had almost been a stroke of luck, since he hadn’t known which way to turn anyway.

Police headquarters had been spared as well. The courtyard was mobbed with people who’d had to leave their homes and didn’t know where to rest their weary bones. The back-and-forth traffic of military vehicles continued unabated. The atmosphere was a combination of patience and agitation. Small children looked around with fear in their eyes, while the oldest still hadn’t forgotten the disaster of the war. Mugnai was pale and looked as if he’d lost weight. He was keeping busy amid the confusion, along with several other officers. As soon as he saw Bordelli, he came running towards him.

‘Inspector! Aren’t you supposed to be at home with the flu?’ he asked, as if he’d seen a ghost.

‘I’m feeling much better … Where are they taking them?’ he asked, indicating a lorry that was boarding a group of evacuees.

‘Wherever there’s room … Barracks, convents, a few schools …’

‘Was your place flooded?’

‘Everything’s fine, Inspector. I live in Le Cure.’

‘What about Commissioner Inzipone?’

‘He was here for about half an hour last night, then he went to the mayor’s. At the moment he should be at the Prefecture.’

‘Have we got phone service?’

‘Everything got knocked out, electricity included. We’re making do with generators.’

‘Is Piras in?’

‘I really don’t know. It’s been total chaos here since yesterday morning.’

‘Go and get some rest, you’re pale as a corpse.’

‘Not now, sir,’ said Mugnai, and he turned and went back to the evacuees.

Bordelli went straight to the radio room. You could cut the smoke with a knife, and everybody’s face was drawn. Maps of the province and the city were spread out over the tables, and there were empty espresso cups scattered everywhere. The murdered boy was the farthest thing from everyone’s mind …

They brought Bordelli up to speed on the situation. During the night the entire force had been called to report for duty, including the married men. They were trying to count the dead, rescue the living, draw up plans for repairing the aqueduct, the power lines, the telephone lines, the gas lines and the sewers. A few of the escaped inmates had been brought back to the fold, and one of them had drowned after trying to grab on to a tree trunk. People were already turning their attention to damaged artworks, devastated churches, museums and libraries. Rome was getting ready to send President Saragat the following day, as stormy meetings were held at the Prefecture. Only recently had instructions been issued for police and military to take autonomous action on the basis of need and not to wait for specific orders.

A relay system had been organised. Some police officers were making rounds of the city, checking on the situation and reporting back to headquarters. Emergencies were communicated by radio to the Comiliter and the military encampment set up in the stadium at Campo di Marte.

Deputy Commissioner Draghi had managed to organise a network of ham-radio amateurs, placing one at the Prefecture, another at Palazzo Vecchio, and another at police headquarters. They communicated with other radios broadcasting from areas that still had electricity, relaying calls for help to the fire department and ambulance services. Almost all of the operators were clandestine radio aficionados, previously working outside the law, but it was thanks to them that pregnant women and the seriously ill and wounded were brought to safety.

Bordelli asked whether anyone knew where Piras was. They said he’d gone out at dawn to take part in the rescue efforts and hadn’t been seen since.

Tinny voices kept coming over the radios through a thousand crackles. At Le Cure a small group of men and women had sacked a delicatessen. In Borgo Allegri a looter was caught rummaging through a flooded house and was nearly lynched by a mob. Word came that a household goods shop in Via dello Statuto was selling boots at six or seven thousand lire a pair, brooms for three thousand, and so on.

‘I’ll go and look into this myself,’ said Bordelli, searching for his cigarettes. Then he remembered finishing the packet and asked the others. He found himself with half a packet of Alfas in his hand, and immediately lit one upon exiting the radio room. In the courtyard he chose a grey Fiat 1100 from among the squad cars. Driving away, he immediately noticed it wasn’t a normal 1100 but had a souped-up engine.

The Viali were clogged with traffic. Two exhausted-looking traffic cops were trying desperately to remedy the situation, yelling and blowing their whistles. Bordelli even gave the siren a toot, and soon they cleared a path for him.

Driving with two tyres up on the pavement, he arrived at last in Via dello Statuto, an area the flood hadn’t reached. Spotting the shop on the opposite side of the street, he parked the car and made a beeline for it. With the sun that was beating down, it was hard to imagine that the centre of town had been inundated with mud.

He entered the shop and queued up with the others. There were some five or six people in front of him, and the air stank of smoke. The shop owner was in the process of selling a pair of boots. He was rather gaunt, with a pointy face and cheeks ravaged long ago by acne. His lower lip hung like a pork chop, and two little chains dangled from the stems of his glasses.

‘Seven thousand?’ said the customer, incredulous. He was about forty, with a round head and a moustache.

‘That’s how much it is today, it can’t be helped,’ the shopkeeper muttered with a shrug.

‘Normally they cost about five hundred lire,’ the client persisted.

‘What do you want me to say …?’

‘You’re taking advantage of people in need.’

‘If you don’t want them, just give them back, I’m sure I can sell them to someone else,’ said the shopkeeper, taking back the boots and acting offended.

‘Just give them to me anyway,’ the customer said angrily. And he threw the money down on the counter and headed for the door, grumbling through clenched teeth. The inspector stopped him in the doorway, inviting him to accompany him back to the counter. The man followed him, looking confused. Bordelli pulled out his badge and stuck it under the shopkeeper’s nose.

‘Police. I believe this gentleman’s seven thousand lire ended up in your wallet by mistake.’

‘What’s that?’ the shopkeeper muttered, frightened. The customers in the queue followed the scene with bated breath.

‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. I’m ordering you to give the gentleman back his seven thousand lire.’

‘But I …’

‘I’m losing my patience.’

‘But what are you saying? I … I’m not …’ the man stammered.

Bordelli slapped him square in the face.

‘I’ll give you one more second, and then I’ll arrest you for extortion,’ he said, with the same look in his eye as he used to get when shooting at Nazis. He had more respect for thieves than for characters like this man. The shopkeeper was terrified. With trembling hands he took a bulging wallet out of his pocket and extracted seven thousand lire. Bordelli accepted the notes and handed them to the customer.

‘Boots are on the house today,’ he said, smiling. Then he went around asking the customers what they needed, told the owner to serve them, then sent them off without paying. When he was at last alone with the shopkeeper, he looked him hard in the eye.

‘Now I want you to take out all the boots and brooms you’ve got, and don’t make me say it twice.’

He followed the man into the back room to make sure he didn’t try to pull a fast one. He ordered him to take the boots and brooms out of the shop and line them up on the pavement. In the street a long queue of cars was proceeding at a snail’s pace, spewing clouds of smelly exhaust.

‘Now close your shop,’ said Bordelli.

‘Why?’ the man whimpered, taking a step back.

‘Close it up,’ said Bordelli.

The man hurriedly pulled down the metal shutter and turned the key in the lock.

‘Can I go now?’

‘Give me the key.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘The key,’ said the inspector, extending an open hand. The shopkeeper took the key off its ring and put it in Bordelli’s palm, looking desperate. Bordelli stepped down from the pavement, bent over and dropped the key into a sewer drain. The shopkeeper opened his mouth but didn’t manage to say anything.

‘If you reopen your shop before the month is out, I’ll personally escort you to Murate,’ said Bordelli. Then he turned on his heels and, cutting through the traffic, went back to the Fiat 1100. As he started it up he noticed the shopkeeper walking down Via dello Statuto, bent forward as though into a stiff wind. He felt terribly sorry for the wretch, and hoped he wasn’t raising any children.

The inspector decided to go to Campo di Marte. The idea of holing up at the police station didn’t appeal to him at all. He would rather jump into the fray. To avoid the clogged Viali, he went by way of Via Bolognese, taking the steep descent past the Badia and coming out at San Domenico.

At last he reached the stadium. The field was swarming with people and military vehicles and was being used as a landing pad for helicopters. Supplies and provisions were being collected under the Marathon stand, where a small field infirmary had been set up. Red Cross nurses and soldiers were keeping very busy. Lorries came in, escorted by traffic police motorcyclists and loaded with bread, sugar, salt, fruit, bottled water, tinned food of various sorts, and mattresses. Some non-commissioned officers were consulting a map of the city spread out over a field table.

Bordelli started helping the soldiers unload crates, concealing his fatigue and ignoring the painful twinges in his back. He wanted to show these little boys what a Methuselah who’d fought with the San Marco battalion was made of. Meanwhile it occurred to him that Panerai’s butcher’s shop was only about a hundred yards away, and he felt defeated.

Someone turned on a small transistor radio at high volume. The city authorities were issuing directives. No one was to use their car except in cases of emergency … Anyone in need of medical assistance was to go to Careggi hospital … Medical supplies, food provisions, candles and blankets could be had at the Campo di Marte stadium. Tankers were distributing water in Piazza del Duomo, Piazza della Signoria and Piazza Santissima Annunziata …

The chaos grew by the hour. Volunteers were arriving from districts untouched by the flood, from nearby towns and villages, from other regions, and even from other countries. They included men and women of all ages. From Siena came a lorry loaded with bread, paid for by a private citizen. A number of wholesalers spontaneously brought foodstuffs from their warehouses.

A number of amphibious vehicles set off for areas still under water, and Bordelli asked to go with them. They took the more lightly injured to the field hospital, and the more serious and sick to Careggi. They rescued children, pregnant women, elderly people suffering from the cold. They distributed emergency provisions to families, mostly bread, bottled water and milk for the little ones, but also pasta, sugar, flour and fruit.

The great marble statue of Dante in Santa Croce looked down in disgust at the smelly muck stagnating at his divine feet, as a wicked glint seemed to shine in his scornful eyes. All around were ruined metal shutters and doors, damaged cars, fragments of furniture, twisted metal, great clusters of shrubbery, mud piles, animal carcasses and trees brought in from who knew where. A bomb would have done less damage. The stench made one gag. A thick black line ran across the church’s white façade. It didn’t seem possible for the water to have risen so high.

After sunset, a military floodlight was turned on from Piazzale Michelangelo high above the city, its powerful beam illuminating the small Piazza dei Cavalleggeri, where dozens of students had formed lines and were tirelessly passing from hand to hand the precious volumes of the Biblioteca Nazionale.

Bordelli managed to secure a parcel of provisions for Rosa, including milk for the one-eyed kitten. He spent the whole day going back and forth from Campo di Marte to the most devastated streets of the city’s centre. He forgot to eat, but not to smoke.

That night he found himself on a wooden scow in the still-flooded streets of Gavinana, sliding over the stagnant water with a lamp in his hand like demon Charon, with embers for eyes …
⁴¹

By the time he parked the squad car in Viale Petrarca it was almost midnight. His clothes were all soiled with mud and his feet ached. He felt exhausted, drained. He was getting too old for such exertions; normally he needed at least a few hours’ rest in between. Walking in the moonlight, torch in hand, he crossed Piazza Tasso, where there were still a few shadows moving silently about.

Climbing the stairs to his flat, he felt like Ulysses with Ithaca in his sights. In his pockets he had four half-consumed candles. He’d stolen them from the little church of the Madonna della Tosse, begging the dead to forgive him. At any rate, they no longer needed them.