Death in Sardinia (42 page)

Diotivede stopped and, without asking, took another cigarette from Bordelli, who lit it for him. The doctor took a sip and continued.

‘One day, as I was going out, I found her right in front of me. Her eyes were puffy and had dark circles around them, as if she hadn’t slept for days. Even so, she still seemed very beautiful to me. We stood there looking at each other. My heart was pounding in my ears. “I’m leaving early tomorrow morning, and I wanted to tell you,” she said. “Don’t leave,” I said. She shook her head. “I must,” she said. “But let me in for now.” We went into my place and spent the night together, without saying a word. We fell asleep at dawn, exhausted. Later that morning I reached out across the bed, but she wasn’t there. I called out her name, but she didn’t reply. I remember thinking: I’ll never see Maria Conchita again. I got out of bed and started rummaging about the flat. In the bathroom I found a note attached to the mirror.
We are not alone on this earth. MC
. I crumpled the paper and hurled it across the room.’

The doctor stopped and gestured for Bordelli to refill his glass again.

‘A year later I received a letter from Maria Conchita, posted in Peru. The plan to overthrow Diaz had gone to the dogs. Her brothers and many of her comrades had been killed. She’d managed to escape from Nicaragua again and gone into hiding in Colombia, and then Peru. Things were going very badly, in short. Maria Conchita was disgusted with the world and weary of life. She’d wept with rage when the Marines intervened in Guatemala just a few weeks before. Nothing had changed, she said, and nothing would ever change. Money and power were the only law on earth. She ended by saying she would like to see me again. That’s exactly how she put it: “I would like to see you again.” It seemed almost like a pat phrase, but it still got me excited. Then, right below it, Maria Conchita suggested we meet the following month in Lima. She even gave the date and time of day, and the name of the square. She would wait for me for half an hour, after which she would leave. She laid it all out in precise detail, like some sort of meeting between two revolutionaries. “If you don’t come,” she concluded, “at least think of me now and then.” The whole thing still seemed so absurd to me, I felt like laughing. Nothing about it made any sense. A letter, an appointment on the other side of the globe. It was just too silly.’

Diotivede allowed himself another pause to take a sip. Ennio couldn’t hold himself back.

‘So what did you do? Did you go to Peru?’ he said, staring at him. Diotivede turned towards Botta and kept looking at him for quite some time, as if telling the story only to him.

‘Yes, I went to Peru. I took ship a week later and was in Lima on the appointed day. The rendezvous was at noon in a plaza in the centre of town. I got there an hour early. The plaza was huge and had a garden in the middle, and there were a great many people walking about.We would have to look hard to find each other. As I was quite early, I started walking around without straying too far. At ten minutes to twelve, I was back in the square. I started walking back and forth, looking for Maria Conchita. I must have gone round the plaza ten times, sweating and cursing all the women who looked like her from a distance. I took my watch out of my breast pocket and looked at the time: a quarter past twelve. I felt like a fool. I’d crossed the ocean to see a woman I barely knew. She wasn’t going to come. By this point I was convinced of it. Still I kept searching the crowd for her face. But by one o’clock she still hadn’t shown up. I was feeling worse and worse, and after searching for another half an hour I realised there was no longer any point in waiting. I would return home, she would never write to me again, and I would never again have any news of her. I wouldn’t even know if she was alive or dead. I dropped down on to a bench, thinking that it had already been almost two months since I’d received her letter. Maybe she hadn’t come because something had happened to her … Maybe she’d been arrested and was being tortured, or perhaps she was already dead. Or maybe she’d simply changed her mind. I would never know. I needed a strong drink. I slipped into a sort of bar and ordered a tequila. When I looked up, above the bottles behind the bar there was a clock that said two forty-five. I looked at my watch, and it said one forty-five. I called the barman over and gestured at his clock. “It’s broken,” I said, tapping my watch with one finger. “It’s an hour fast.” I said it all in Italian, but he understood anyway. And he smiled at me. “
No, señor
,” he said, “
ese reloj funciona perfectamente, es el suyo que anda mal
.” I almost got angry; it was
his
that didn’t work. The man repeated what he’d just said to me, this time without a smile. But by then I no longer needed convincing; I’d understood everything. When getting off the boat I’d adjusted my watch to the local time, but I’d made a mistake. I’d been thinking of Nicaragua, whereas I was in Lima, Peru. In a different time zone, one hour ahead. Maybe she actually
had
come at noon, waited half an hour, and left. Maybe.’ Ennio was holding his glass tightly in his fist, as if wanting to break it.

‘And so? Did you ever see her again?’ he asked.

‘No.’

Bordelli looked at his watch: half past three. Dante had just left, an hour later than the others. The inspector looked out the window. A fine, freezing snow was falling. He lay down in bed and turned out the light. Contrary to habit, he’d only pulled the shutters to, and the glow of a street lamp filtered through. He lay there for a spell with his eyes open, watching the shadows on the wall. He’d eaten and drunk a lot, but felt light. He lit his last cigarette, this one the hand-rolled kind, and smoked it slowly, watching the lighted end burn red in the semi-darkness. He thought about Maria Conchita, trying to imagine her, young and beautiful, hungry for freedom. Who knew whether she was still alive or lying dreamless underground.

He snuffed out the butt and got comfortable, and as usual started travelling through his memories. The moments before falling asleep were always peopled by long-departed images. The last one that passed through his mind was his mother’s face at the moment she’d heard Mussolini’s voice on the radio cry: ‘
War!
’

He woke up the following morning in a pleasant state of numbness, the taste of apples still in his mouth from the Calvados. Yawning, he thought distractedly of Odoardo with the scissors in his hand … And at that moment he heard a clatter of dishes. Slipping his trousers on, he went to investigate. There, in the sun-drenched kitchen, was Ennio washing up, fresh as a rose. He’d already made a good deal of progress.

‘Coffee, Inspector?’The pot was already waiting on the stove.

‘What time is it, anyway?’ Bordelli asked, running a hand over his eyes.

‘Almost eleven. And the sun is out, despite the Christian Democrats.’

The sky was blue and cloudless. Ennio dried his hands and lit the flame under the espresso pot. Bordelli sat down, elbows on the table. He felt extremely lazy. ‘My dear Ennio, I really didn’t know you could cook like that … I’m speechless.’

‘Next time I can make you a Turkish dinner, or even a Portuguese one.’

‘Have you been in jail in those places too?’

‘I did two years in Erzurum and one in Coimbra, for smuggling.’

‘I’m beginning to be convinced that jail is good for you, Botta.’

‘I’ve always had a passion for cooking, Inspector. Sometimes I feel more like a cook than a thief.’

‘Have you ever been arrested in Romania?’

‘No, though I had a close call once.’

‘Too bad,’ said Bordelli.

‘Thanks, Inspector.’

‘I only meant that I’m curious about Romanian cookery.’

‘Nobody’s going to lock up Botta ever again, Inspector. I’ve made myself a promise.’

‘No more crime?’

‘I didn’t say that. But I’m getting on in years and have to start being more savvy when I work.’

‘Makes perfect sense to me.’

Ennio put the litle cups on the table and dropped into the chair in front of Bordelli. They carried on talking about jails, cooking and women. There weren’t many other subjects left to discuss. It was already past noon when the inspector went to shave and get dressed. Botta started washing the last pots, singing a tune of Celantano’s to himself. Before going out, Bordelli poked his head round the kitchen door.

‘Ciao, Ennio, thanks again for everything.’

‘Have a good day, Inspector. When you want to organise another dinner, just give me a holler.’

‘I’ll call you soon,’ said Bordelli. He went out and got into the Beetle. With the bright sun shining, he felt like going for a nice little drive along some country roads. He decided to go as far as Impruneta again, by way of the Bagnolo road. Maybe if he asked around again in town he could find out if there were any old houses for sale that fitted his needs … and didn’t cost too much. After the rain and sleet of the previous days, it was nice to see such a clear blue sky. It was Christmas Day, and there weren’t many people out. At that hour they were all at table. He wasn’t even hungry. He drove slowly across the city, thinking of the stories he’d heard the previous evening … Fabiani’s wife, the little Jewish girl, Maria Conchita. He felt the need for a cigarette and, holding the steering wheel still with his knees, he managed to light one.

He drove past the Certosa and after Villa Bottai, instead of proceeding straight for Tavernuzze, he took the Quintole road up the hill. Then he stopped almost at once, in front of the enormous gate of a villa. He’d had an idea. Leaving the motor running, he tried to unravel the fraying fabric on a sleeve of his raincoat and at last managed to extract a thread some three inches long. Then he drove off again. He rolled along slowly, and a little over a mile down the road, he turned onto Odoardo’s unpaved driveway. As he neared the house he noticed the Vespa parked under the loggia. He left his car on the threshing floor, and before turning off the engine, revved it twice to make himself heard. He looked at the windows, but nobody appeared. Perhaps the boy had stayed up late and was still asleep. Bordelli got out of the car and went round the house to the back. He was in no hurry. He stopped and gazed for a few moments at the olive grove and the hills covered with woods and vineyards. The still-wet countryside glimmered like ice, but the sun was almost strong enough to warm oneself by. He went back towards the house and looked through a grille-covered window. Inside he saw a big earthenware jug with a wooden lid. It must be olive oil, he thought. He would have loved to make his own oil, with his own olives. But while waiting to make the big move, he could at least do as his father had done … He could go and buy a few gallons of good oil from a peasant. He could hardly stand the industrial crap he bought in town any more. He leaned his shoulder against the corner of the house. The bricks were warm. Breathing deep the cold country air, he decided not to light another cigarette. Then he heard a window open over his head. Looking up, he saw the hostile face of Odoardo Beltempo pop out.

‘Hello, Odoardo. I’ve come to wish you a happy Christmas.’

‘What do you want this time?’

‘I was just driving around and ended up here. Could I come inside for a minute?’

‘I’m about to go out.’

‘Then I’ll wait for you down here.’

Odoardo stayed there for a moment, staring at him, eyes burning with anger, then closed the window with a thud. Bordelli made for the threshing floor. While waiting, he started studying the carcass of the old Ardea for the umpteenth time. It had white sidewalled tyres on rusted wheel rims.

Some minutes later he heard a door slam and turned round. Odoardo was coming towards him, looking rather fed up. He stopped a few yards away, hands in his pockets.

‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far, Inspector?’

‘Good morning.’

‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far?’ Odoardo repeated.

‘In what sense?’ asked Bordelli.

‘Why did you come?’

‘It wasn’t premeditated. My horse brought me here.’

‘Your horse must be pretty bizarre.’

‘That’s quite possible. Going anywhere interesting?’ Odoardo stood there without moving, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

‘Wherever I feel like going.’

‘Into town?’

‘Why do you keep asking me all these questions?’ the boy asked. Bordelli gave a hint of a smile, then turned to look at the distant hills covered with vineyards and olive groves.

‘I just love this sun. I never saw a Christmas like this in all my life …’

‘As usual you’ve got nothing to say to me, Inspector.’ Bordelli pulled out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips without lighting it, and looked the lad in the eye.

‘You know what I think, Odoardo?’

‘What?’

‘That we shouldn’t try to be what we are not. And you know why?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Because we might become dangerous. Have you ever thought about it?’

‘No.’

‘Try it some time.’

‘I’ll think about it all night,’ Odoardo said. Then he turned and started walking towards the loggia. Bordelli followed him, walking slowly, fumbling with the thread that hung from the sleeve of his raincoat.

‘Where’d you go to primary school, Odoardo?’ he asked distractedly. The boy turned and shot him a malevolent glance.

‘Was that your important question, Inspector?’

‘I must admit I sometimes ask questions without knowing why.’

‘That’s very interesting. Why don’t you continue your little game with someone else?’ Odoardo asked, putting on his gloves.

‘Going to see your girlfriend?’ Bordelli asked.

‘Wrong. I have to go and kill a loan shark and I’m running late.’

‘You see? I was right. Deep down, the subject does interest you,’ the inspector said.

‘It’s all I ever think about,’ said Odoardo, buttoning up his overcoat. Bordelli could still feel a hint of a smile on his lips. He liked this intelligent, stubborn kid.

‘Tell me something, Odoardo. If it was you who killed Badalamenti … don’t worry, I’m just saying this as an example … If it was you who killed a man as despicable as that, how would you feel now? Guilty or innocent? I’m just curious.’