Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (27 page)

They unloaded the lorry in front of the Osteria Fuori Porta and, with the help of Don Baldesi and the students, distributed the contents down to the last bag of salt. The pretty salesgirl was nowhere to be seen, nor was the young man who’d been with her. Bordelli told the soldiers he wouldn’t be returning to the stadium with them, then watched the lorry drive away up the hill. While helping the priest carry another few pews out of the church, he kept looking around in the hope of seeing the girl again. Don Baldesi was telling him naughty priest jokes in a low voice, his large, kind eyes sparkling with irony. After the fourth pew, he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

‘I’m going to go and lie down for half an hour,’ he said, exhausted. Since the night of the flood he’d slept barely two hours.

‘I’ll stay and lend a hand,’ said Bordelli.

‘Are you sure you’re a police inspector?’ the priest asked, two deep furrows in his brow.

‘It’s my only flaw.’

‘I’ve got many – that’s why I’m a priest,’ said Don Baldesi with smiling eyes. He stood up unsteadily and disappeared into the shadows of a broad doorway.

Bordelli asked for a broom and started sweeping away the mud alongside the others. He was thinking of the salesgirl and felt like a fool, but he simply couldn’t leave before he’d seen her again. He didn’t have anything in particular in mind. He just wanted her to recognise him, look her in the eye, and see how she reacted.

After an hour of this, his back was a disaster and his hands were blistered, but he put his head down and carried on. There seemed to be no end to the slime. He helped a woman empty out her grocery shop. It was so sad to throw all that food out into the street, prosciutti, salami, cheese, pasta, crushed tins, boxes covered with oil …

Looking up from his labours for the hundredth time, he saw her at last. She was in front of the same doorway as before, sweeping the mud together with the shadowy youth, bantering with him and laughing. A beautiful couple, no doubt about it. One more beautiful than the other.

He was eyeing her surreptitiously, heart thumping in his ears. She looked beautiful even as she was, shabbily dressed, covered in mud, hair gathered behind her head. She had a light, graceful way of moving, natural and elegant … A pretty face alone didn’t make a beautiful girl. Even a gorgeous body wasn’t enough. You needed all the rest: the gaze, the voice, the smile, the bearing, the scent …

After a spell the lad went into the building, and she was left alone to sweep her broom across the cobblestones. Bordelli plucked up his courage and went over to her with a confident air. The girl was looking down and didn’t see him approach. Noticing him suddenly in front of her, she frowned.

‘Don’t you recognise me?’ Bordelli asked, feeling supremely embarrassed.

‘Yes, but I can’t quite remember …’

‘I bought a blouse in your shop a few days ago.’

‘Oh, right … though it’s not my shop,’ she said. She wasn’t exactly aloof, but neither was she jumping for joy.

‘I came to lend Don Baldesi a hand,’ Bordelli lied.

‘Don Baldesi has been wonderful,’ the girl said.

‘He’s gone off to rest for a little while …’

‘He’s been working like a dog, poor thing.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘On the first floor. Luckily I managed to save a few things in time.’

‘This mud is a nightmare.’

‘We just have to be patient,’ the girl said with a shrug.

The conversation was lagging, and Bordelli tried desperately to think of something intelligent to say, or something earth-shatteringly witty. He felt awkward and indiscreet and was waiting for her suddenly to say goodbye, fearing to see her eyes show the mild impatience of someone who is in a hurry or merely wants to be alone.
Come on, old fart, say something to make her laugh
… But what, indeed, was the use? In American movies there was always an old man who made the women laugh, though they certainly didn’t fall in love with him for it.
It doesn’t matter, take the plunge anyway. The worst that could happen is that you’ll seem ridiculous
.

‘Could I say something?’ He faltered. What kind of way of talking was that? The girl gave him a perplexed look, waiting for his revelation.

‘You’re … such a nice girl …’ he said, smiling stupidly.

‘Thanks,’ she whispered indifferently. And her eyes seemed to be saying: Is that all? God only knew how many other men had said the same thing to her, and more. Better to beat a hasty retreat, but with dignity.

‘Well, I’m glad to have seen you again,’ he said, giving a slight bow.

At that moment the shadowy beau appeared at the window. Seeing the stranger, he politely nodded in greeting.

‘Chicca, I’ve dismantled it. Come and give me a hand,’ he said.

‘I’ll be right there,’ she replied, propping her broom against the wall. The lad disappeared inside. He didn’t seem the least bit jealous. Indeed, how could he be, for Christ’s sake?

‘Your boyfriend seems nice,’ said Bordelli, ready to leave. She started laughing, and her face seemed to light up.

‘He’s my brother,’ she said, her small white teeth gleaming between her lips.

‘You don’t look very much alike,’ Bordelli muttered, trying to mask his delight. But he realised at once that it wasn’t any cause for rejoicing. Just because the lad was her brother, it didn’t mean she didn’t have a boyfriend.

‘Some people say we’re two peas in a pod,’ she said.

‘Chicca’s just a nickname, I guess …’

‘The family’s always called me that. My real name is Eleonora.’

‘And mine is Franco … If you like, I could give your brother a hand myself,’ Bordelli suggested.

‘Oh, thank you. There’s a bed that has to be brought down and thrown away.’

‘I’m happy to oblige.’

He went into the building and climbed two flights of stairs. After he had helped the brother bring down the dismantled bed, they went and put the parts on the pile of firewood. Eleonora asked them both whether they’d like a cup of coffee and then went upstairs to make it. They drank it quickly while standing on the pavement, then got back to work, speaking little and sweating a lot.

The Osteria Fuori Porta opened its doors at two o’clock. They bought some prosciutto and ate it with the bread from Campo di Marte. Before picking up their brooms again, they allowed themselves a glass of wine.

Don Baldesi returned with eyes puffy from sleep and resumed working alongside the others. Bordelli was always gravitating towards Eleonora, and every so often they would exchange a few words, without stopping their sweeping. Little by little they got to know each other, and before long Bordelli made an investigative comment.

‘In that get-up your own boyfriend probably wouldn’t even recognise you.’

‘Why don’t you speak more clearly?’ she said, without looking at him.

‘I don’t understand …’ he stammered hypocritically.

‘Are you trying to find out if I have a boyfriend? Why don’t you just ask me directly?’

‘No, no … I … It was just to make conversation,’ said Bordelli, blushing.

‘Actually I have three boyfriends,’ the girl said with a charming sort of sneer.

‘Ah, well …’

‘It’s boring with just one,’ she added.

The inspector took a few steps back, continuing to sweep the muck with an indifferent air. He even started whistling a song by Celentano, to show her that he wasn’t the least bit troubled. A couple of minutes later the girl came up to him.

‘It’s not true, you know,’ she said smiling.

‘What’s not true?’

‘I don’t have any boyfriends.’

‘You don’t?’

‘I had one until a few days ago, but I dumped him.’

‘At this point you also have to tell me why,’ Bordelli said nonchalantly.

‘I don’t know … I got bored …’

‘Had you been together for a long time?’ Now he really did want to know.

‘For ever … Almost a year,’ she said in all seriousness. Bordelli forced a smile. For him a year was like the twinkling of an eye.

They worked until the last moment of daylight. When they couldn’t see any longer, flood victims and students came together outside the San Niccolò gate, and Don Baldesi lit a big bonfire from the scraps of wood that had been piled up. They all sat down in a circle and began to eat, listening to the news reports over a transistor radio. There was yet another appeal concerning the inmates who had escaped from the Murate prison. More than fifty were still at large, and citizens were asked to report any suspicious individuals they might see.

The light of the fire cast a red glow on people’s faces. It was bitterly cold, and many had wrapped themselves in blankets. The atmosphere was peaceful and almost light-hearted. The salesgirl had sat down between two young students who were talking to her non-stop, almost vying to see which one could make a bigger fool of himself. Bordelli had sat down on the opposite side of the human circle so that he could see her from the front, and every so often they would exchange a glance. When the cigarettes came out, he lit one too.

A while later a number of men went out on patrol, armed with large sticks, to discourage looters. A lad with long curly hair pulled out a guitar and started singing a very sad song in English.

‘Why don’t you sing us something by Gianni Morandi?’ a woman asked. The long-haired lad ignored her and kept on singing his dirges. Don Baldesi was nodding off, chin on his chest, but every so often he would wake up and look around as though dazed. Bordelli stared at the flames, pretending to look thoughtful while secretly spying on the girl. He would have stuck his hand in the fire for a girl like her, like Gaius Mucius Scaevola.
⁴²
When their eyes happened to meet, he would look down … But what if he stared straight at her instead? What would happen? He looked up again and waited for her to look at him in turn. He didn’t have to wait long. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a very long time, and he was the first to look away. Finally he couldn’t stand sitting down any longer and stood up.

‘I’m going to go and baste the lobster,’ he said, and everyone laughed. He went up Via di Belvedere with his hands in his pockets. A moon shaped like a lemon wedge cast a placid pallor over the olive trees lined up along the wall.

His feet were cold and aching. The steep climb had him panting, but he didn’t feel like slowing his pace. Calm down, old man. You’re no longer a kid, you can’t be wasting your time with this kind of crap … Stop fantasising and go home.

He made it up to the Forte Belvedere, legs buckling and out of breath. He stood there gazing at the dark silhouette of Costa San Giorgio, waiting for his heart to settle down. What the hell was happening? Nothing. Nothing was happening. He’d merely had the pleasure of talking to a beautiful girl … and would do best to get her immediately out of his head, or he was setting himself up for a fall. A good night’s sleep was in order, and tomorrow would be another day.

Heaving a long, dramatic sigh, he headed back towards the bivouac of flood victims. He felt befuddled, but it wasn’t only fatigue. He had to fight the absurd hopes that were insinuating themselves into his fantasies. Never had he felt so old as at that moment. Not to mention awkward, clumsy and even a little ridiculous. Like a bear chasing after a colourful little butterfly. The wisest thing was to say goodnight to the gang and go home to bed.

When he reached the bottom of the hill he saw the cause of his tribulations and bit his lip. The guitar was no longer playing. Some people had lain down to sleep, while others had formed little groups and were whispering in front of the smoking embers. Don Baldesi was snoring, wrapped in a blanket. Eleonora’s hair was down. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the world. She was listening without much interest to the chatter of the two students, who were feasting their eyes on her. When she noticed Bordelli approaching, she looked at him with a hint of a smile on her lips.

‘Did you find the big bad wolf?’ she asked in a whisper.

‘Just the blue fairy.’

‘It might have been a witch.’

‘I’ve always liked witches,’ Bordelli said suggestively.

The two students seemed rather irked by the Methuselah’s intrusion and were waiting impatiently for him to leave. The girl paid no attention to them and continued talking to Bordelli.

‘Is it true you’re a police inspector?’

‘Who was the spy?’

‘So it’s true … I wouldn’t have thought …’ she said, looking him up and down. Her student friends didn’t appreciate the news and looked quite put out. Bordelli stuck a cigarette between his lips.

‘But they say you can spot a cop from a mile away.’

‘I never can.’

‘I have many other qualities,’ said Bordelli, in a purposely paternal tone. He didn’t want to seem like a hopeless suitor, like the two poor students.

‘What’s your area of expertise?’ the girl asked.

‘Murder.’

‘Really? And when somebody is killed, you go and see the corpse?’

‘I have to, I can’t help it,’ said Bordelli, shocked and pleased at all this interest on her part. The girl stood up and approached him, ignoring the murmur of disappointment from the lovesick youths.

‘That’s terrible,’ she said.

‘Somebody’s got to do it, if the killer’s ever going to get caught.’

They started walking downhill, side by side.

‘Doesn’t it ever upset you?’ the girl asked, a furrow in her brow.

‘The war was an excellent training course,’ said Bordelli, playing the card of the man of experience. How could two little students ever compete with him, a sapper from the San Marco battalion?

‘I was born during the war and don’t remember anything,’ said Eleonora.

‘You’re very lucky,’ Bordelli whispered.

The girl stopped in front of the door to her building. In the wan moonlight her face seemed to emerge from the darkness.

‘Are you married?’ she asked, to his surprise.

‘No.’

‘Were you ever married?’

‘No.’

‘Then you must be a womaniser.’

‘I wish I was, but I fall in love every time,’ Bordelli had the courage to say, gazing straight into her eyes. They looked at each other in silence for an eternal second, and then the girl shrugged slightly.