Death in Sardinia (43 page)

‘You’ve already asked me that.’

‘Yes, but you didn’t give me an answer.’ Odoardo remained impassive.

‘I’m not very good at these things,’ he said, opening the scooter’s fuel injector.

‘It doesn’t seem like such a hard question to me,’ the inspector said, all the while pretending he was trying to tear away the thread hanging from his sleeve.

‘You never told me how many Nazis you killed, either,’ said Odoardo.

‘You shouldn’t confuse matters. That was war.’ They stood there for a moment in silence. The birds cried loudly. They sounded as if they were being tortured.

‘You know something, Odoardo? I’ve known killers who were convinced they had acted properly … and at times I’ve almost caught myself agreeing with them. I’m not joking. But if everyone acted that way, we’d be in a pretty nasty pickle, don’t you think?’

‘I’m already late, Inspector. If you have nothing serious to tell me, I’d like to go.’

‘Absolutely, be my guest … Oh, but could you do me a little favour first?’

‘What?’ said Odoardo, sighing. Bordelli raised the sleeve of his trench coat and took the thread between his fingers.

‘Could you help me cut this? It keeps rubbing my wrist, and it always feels like a spider,’ he said, smiling.

‘I haven’t got any scissors.’

‘I saw some shears here somewhere,’ said Bordelli, going under the loggia. Odoardo walked round the Vespa and went to get the shears. He went up to the inspector with a sullen expression.

‘Here,’ he said, handing him the shears.

‘Did I ever tell you how Badalamenti was killed?’

‘Let’s be quick, please.’

‘Could you cut it for me? Otherwise I’ll have to take off my coat and waste even more of your time.’ Odoardo practically snatched the shears out of his hand.

‘Give me your sleeve,’ he said, trying to remain calm. The inspector held out his arm.

‘Try to cut it at the bottom, otherwise it’ll just start fraying again.’

‘Please don’t move,’ said Odoardo. And he grabbed the thread with his right hand and cut it with the shears in his left. Bordelli felt a shudder run down the back of his neck, but feigned a placid smile.

‘There,’ said Odoardo, tossing the shears on to a wicker chair.

‘Thanks ever so much. Now I’ll let you go and see your girlfriend.’

‘I hope this is the last time I ever see you, Inspector,’ the youth said, getting on his scooter.

‘Do you ever think about time, Odoardo? Don’t you think it’s quite a mystery?’ said Bordelli.

‘I don’t think a policeman should try to be a philosopher. He might become dangerous,’ said Odoardo.

‘I entirely agree,’ said the inspector. Odoardo started up the Vespa, turned it towards the courtyard, and stopped in front of Bordelli.

‘Why don’t you speak clearly, Inspector? It would all be so much simpler,’ he said, letting the motor idle. Bordelli rested his hand on the Vespa’s headlight in a friendly gesture.

‘You’re lucky to live in a place like this, Odoardo. I have to say I envy you … But did you really not know Totuccio Badalamenti?’ he asked point blank, looking the youth in the eye. He saw him tremble slightly, lips contracted.

‘What kind of game is this, Inspector?’ Odoardo asked.

‘I’m not sure it’s a game,’ said Bordelli, putting his hand on the boy’s arm. Odoardo put the scooter in gear and the Vespa leapt forward.

‘You should have the clutch adjusted,’ said the inspector.

‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘You know what, Odoardo? I have a theory all my own about killers … But I’ll tell you about it next time, otherwise you’ll be late …’ Odoardo moved his elbow slightly, just enough to release it from Bordelli’s hand.

‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ he said. Popping the clutch, he left in a flash, followed by the usual cloud of oily smoke. Bordelli felt like staying a little longer to enjoy the beautiful day. He slowly circled the house again, to the back, and started walking around, gazing at the countryside glistening in the sun. He liked just standing there, admiring the spectacle, he liked the sound of the chickens scratching about in the coop, pecking the ground. He wondered whether this was a sign of old age. He even liked to hear the birds screaming. Sitting down on the bottom of an upended demijohn, he lit the cigarette he had between his lips. And he smoked it slowly, savouring it, eyes on the horizon, listening distractedly to the chickens scratch about …

After Christmas lunch with his aunts, uncles and cousins, Pietrino rang Sonia. Since it was a holiday, the call cost less and they could purr all they wanted without worrying about running up the bill. He still told her nothing about the whole suicide case, mostly because he didn’t feel like hearing her tell him that a convalescing policeman should stay at home reading by the fire. She started saying silly things in her beautiful Sicilian accent and the raspy voice she used at times, which never failed to shake Piras to his foundations. Especially now, after they hadn’t seen each other for quite some time.

The relatives went out to visit some friends on the other side of town, waving goodbye to Pietrino as they left. They would return late that afternoon, and everyone would eat together again. After half an hour of talking, Piras kissed Sonia goodbye and went back to the kitchen. His mother was preparing more pastries and humming.

‘What song is that?’ Pietrino asked.

‘I don’t know what it’s called … How’s Francesca doing?’

‘Francesca who?’

‘Your girlfriend.’

‘Ah … yes, she’s fine,’ said Pietrino. He sat in the armchair by the fire and started reading Maigret. After some twenty pages, he set the book down, listening to the fire, and dozed off.

Around four o’clock Pina and Giovanni knocked at the door, carrying a tray full of amaretti and
papassinos
. With them were also Giovanni’s cousin and his wife, who’d come from Solarussa. He was short and stocky, she short and slender, thin as an anchovy. When they stood one beside the other, he looked as if he could snap her in two like a sprig of rosemary. Pina set the tray down on the table, as Maria put another pot of coffee on the fire. A few minutes later Gavino came in from the field, to which he’d fled right after eating. In winter the days were short and he needed to make the most of every hour of light, even on Christmas Day.

Maria poured the coffee into little cups. The wind was blowing outside, and every so often the chimney howled. They chatted of this and that, and after a while Gavino started talking about the war. Pietrino had heard those stories many times over, but whenever his father spoke about that period, people listened. His tales had more than their share of blood, and the power of lived experience.

Gavino was telling for the thousandth time the story of the night when they saw a column of Tigers pass along a country road … The sinister tanks were moving at a leisurely pace, about fifty yards apart. Covering their faces with mud, Commander Bordelli and his comrades had taken up positions in the ditches at the side of the road …

‘Open the sweet wine,’ he said to his wife. Maria uncorked a bottle and filled the glasses, and Gavino resumed his tale.

Pietrino felt good, sunk deep into the armchair and warmed by the fire, his father’s story swirling about in his sleepy head, the sound of the fire consuming the wood in the background. The sun was setting, the room slowly darkening. After a while the only remaining light came from the red flames reflecting on the faces of those present. Maria stood up to turn on the light.

‘Don’t bother, Mamma,’ said Piras.

‘There’s the fire.’

‘I’m not sure everybody likes it, Nino,’ his mother said, finger on the light switch. The others said it wasn’t a problem, and Maria sat back down. Gavino finished his story, and everyone sat in silence for a few minutes.

‘Pina, why don’t you tell us something about Benigno?’ Piras asked, wanting to hear another story. Pina nodded.

‘Where was Benigno during the war?’ Piras asked.

‘He was in the Piedmont. He went through some terrible times there,’ Pina said with a sad smile. But one could see she was happy to talk a little about her unlucky cousin.

‘Forget that awful story,’ Giovanni said, waving dismissively. Apparently he’d heard it too many times.

‘Let her speak,’ said Maria. Gavino also wanted to hear it.

‘It’s rather long …’ said Pina, looking at her husband as if asking his permission.

‘Let’s hear it,’ said Pietrino, curling up in the armchair. Giovanni resigned himself and refilled his glass. Pina started talking, staring into the fire.

‘When the king got rid of Mussolini, Benigno was a soldier in the Piedmont, at a base in Asti. Nobody knew what to do. Many of them actually thought the war was over. Nino wasn’t even twenty years old, and all he knew how to do was to tend sheep …’

Piras closed his eyes and listened to Pina’s story, translating her dialect into Italian, and her details into historic moments …

Marshal Badoglio announced the signing of the armistice on the radio, and by the following day the military commands ceased receiving orders. The country seemed left to its own devices. Nobody had any idea what might happen next. Word spread that the king had left for Brindisi together with Badoglio to welcome the Allies, who had already landed in Sicily some time before. Others said that
those two
had simply taken to their heels. Benigno didn’t understand a thing about any of this. He sensed only that everything was up in the air and waited to see what his fellow servicemen would do. Then news came that Rome had been occupied by Hitler’s troops, and a few days later Mussolini was freed by the Nazis. The Duce’s voice returned to the radio waves and wearily announced the constitution of the Italian Social Republic. In barracks across the land, soldiers took off their uniforms and left, officers included. Benigno did the same. He threw away his uniform and started walking. He’d grasped just one thing in all this: that it was best to hide. He slept for three nights in an abandoned warehouse outside Asti. On the fourth day he started walking again, and after a few hours he stopped at the empty stable of a large villa along a road leading out of the city. The villa was about fifty yards away and must have been inhabited, because he saw smoke rising above the roof. To avoid being discovered by the owners, he would go out at sunrise and return after sunset. During the day, Benigno roamed the countryside, eating sour apples and knocking on the doors of peasants’ houses asking for bread. He had no idea what was happening in the rest of Italy. At times he would ask the peasants, but nobody felt like taking the time to answer. One evening, when he returned to his stall, he found a bundle wrapped in paper. Inside was a piece of bread and a strip of lard. Someone had discovered that a stranger was secretly sleeping in the stable, and with that gesture had proved to be a friend. Perhaps it was even the villa’s owners, but there was no way of knowing. The following morning Benigno went out shortly after daybreak as usual. When he returned that evening, he found bread and lard in the stall again. And there was even a cigarette. The bread was very dark but delicious. He fell asleep with a full belly after smoking the cigarette down to the end and burning his fingers. At dawn he jolted awake to the rumble of engines approaching. It sounded like lorries. He heard them stop in front of the villa. Spying through a crack, he saw some black-clad military men jumping out of the trucks in the fog. There must have been fifteen of them, all armed with machine guns and moving brusquely about. Farther ahead there was also a very fine black car with mud spattered along its sides. Two men began to thrust their shoulders into the villa’s front door while three others started walking briskly towards the stable. Benigno felt his heart sink. There were no windows to escape through, and so he went and hid himself in a pile of straw. But the soldiers found him almost immediately. They wore shiny boots and had death’s heads sewn on to their uniforms. They started kicking him at first, then dragged him out, screaming curses in his ears. When they were in front of the villa, they left him on the ground, and he stayed down, thinking that his life was about to end. The house’s inhabitants were already lined up on the lawn: two women who looked like sisters, an elderly man, a young boy, and two little girls with jet-black hair. In the all-enveloping fog, it looked like a scene from hell. At that point the car door opened, and a man of about thirty stepped out, dressed in a very smart uniform. He came forward calmly, as if entering the opera house. He had a short whip in his hand, and as he walked he swatted it lightly against his thigh.

‘My, my, look what we have here …’ he said, examining the prisoners. He made a gesture with his head, and a handful of his men went back inside the villa.

‘As if it weren’t enough that you’re Jews, I see you’ve also taken to hiding deserters,’ he said calmly, looking at the woman and the old man.

‘They didn’t know,’ Benigno ventured to say. The demon turned towards him.

‘What was that, cur?’

‘I was sleeping in the stall in secret, they didn’t know anything,’ Benigno repeated, then put his head back down. The man walked slowly towards him and stopped beside him.

‘Apparently you’re one of those curs that still has the courage to speak,’ he said. Benigno raised his head to look at him, and at once the whip struck him across the mouth. He fell face down into the mud, feeling blood pour over his tongue. Those who had gone into the house came back out in a flurry and gathered round the leader like chicks.

‘We didn’t find anything, sir, but there are marks on the walls where there used to be paintings,’ said one of them, stiff as a tree trunk.

‘Well, well,’ the commander said, smiling. He dug in his heels and had a look around. Taking a deep breath, he took a gold cigarette case out of his pocket, opened it, took a cigarette, tapped it two or three times against the case, and put it between his lips. Before he had even begun to put the gold case back into his pocket, a lighted match appeared before him, held by a devoted soldier of his. He inhaled deeply, blew the smoke upwards, then lightly shook his head, as if something didn’t seem right to him. Unlike the others, he didn’t betray the slightest haste in any of his gestures. It was as though it were up to him to decide how quickly time should pass. Walking slowly, he approached the prisoners again. The boy looked at him with hollow eyes as though unable to grasp what was happening. The man stopped in front of the two little girls and tapped the ash from his cigarette. Then he moved on and stopped in front of the women.