Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence (17 page)

He’d gone that morning, around nine o’clock, to the shop in Via Pacinotti, heart racing. And he’d found a sign on the rolling metal shutter:
Closed Till Sunday 6 November
. He’d got back in the car with his tail between his legs, tossing the blouse on to the passenger seat. He would have to wait a whole week before he could see the salesgirl again.

He’d even passed by the butcher’s in Viale dei Mille. The shop was open, the unmarked car parked nearby with Piras and Rinaldi in it. They’d greeted him with a look, and he’d kept on going, feeling more and more convinced that the Pellissari file would end up in the archives on the ‘Unsolved Cases’ shelf.

It was a long time since he’d last gone to the cemetery to see his parents. Two days hence the cemeteries would fill up with flowers and black-clad people, and the faded photos of the dead would smile at the relatives come to pay their respects. The Day of the Dead.
³⁰
You could also call it the Day of the Living. And Friday would be Victory’s turn to have its day, the victory in the Great War. Another Day of the Dead, actually: half a million of them, buried under flags and medals and so many grand speeches. A war of peasants’ sons executed by their generals because they didn’t want to die for no reason.
³¹

He stopped for a few moments on the Ponte Vespucci to look at the Arno, which was roaring over the Santa Rosa weir like the sea in a tempest.

Minutes later he parked the car near the gate of Soffiano cemetery and got out with an umbrella over his head. A beautiful girl passed him on the pavement, not deigning so much as to look at him, and it occurred to Bordelli that the salesgirl would have done the same.

Entering the cemetery, he walked leisurely until he came to his parents’ tomb. His father looked more nineteenth-century than ever and seemed to be smiling. His mother instead stared at him with concern … And he looked back at her in turn, at her well-combed hair, her sad eyes, her tight-lipped mouth that looked as though about to utter a cry. He relived the moments of her death, when he held her hand and smiled for her.

‘May God forgive you, Franco …’ his mother had whispered one evening.

‘Forgive me for what, Mamma?’

‘All the men you killed …’

‘It was war, Mamma.’

‘You took the life of other men and must repent.’

‘Mamma, you have no idea of the things I saw … If you’d seen what I saw … It was war, Mamma.’

‘The laws of Heaven are different from those of the earth … I’m very afraid for you, Franchino.’ She was dying, but she was afraid for
him
, for
his
soul.

‘I do repent, Mamma. I’ve already repented many times over. God knows me well …’ he said, so that she might die in peace. His mother smiled.

‘Go now, you have so many things to do. Don’t waste time on me.’

‘I don’t have anything to do, Mamma. It’s nice just being here with you.’

‘I have to die just to have you beside me …’

‘Don’t say that, Mamma.’

‘I’m sorry, that was mean.’

‘Do you want me to read you something, Mamma?’

‘Read me something, Franco …’

At that moment Franco had wanted to cry. But he didn’t cry when, a short while later, his mother died, and he didn’t cry when he threw the first handful of dirt on her coffin. Only then, at her bedside, had he felt like crying. But he’d smiled instead, got up, and gone to look for a book to read to his mother. He found a very old edition of d’Annunzio’s
Alcyone
, its pages spotted with mildew. To bring back memories of school days, he started reading the famous poem ‘Rain in the Pine Grove’, relishing its sublime, empty music …
Through the branches / one hears not / the hiss of the rain, / silvery, cleansing, / the whisper that varies / branch by branch, / now denser, / now finer
… And while he was reading, his mother died. She died with a smile on her lips and her eyes shut, accompanied by D’Annunzio’s crisp lines. Her hands on the blanket looked still alive, like the hands of a woman asleep. He had a feeling of infinite emptiness, and liberation as well, and guilt, and shock, all sweetly, agonisingly mixed together. He looked at his mother, expecting her to open her eyes and talk to him, even though he knew she was dead. He wished she would open her eyes and ask him about the war, wished she would ask him what the war had meant to him. He knew she was dead, and yet he expected her to open her eyes. He would have listened to his mother’s questions and replied by looking into her eyes. He would have said: Mamma, those who fought in the war, those who killed in the war, continue to see, for the rest of their lives, bellies torn open, heads blown apart by bullets, arms and legs severed from bodies, children crushed by rubble, women raped, eyes wide open, corpses covered with worms, and to them, every flag is stained with blood, even the flag of victory. When those who have killed in war see people walk by on the street, women, men, children, boys, girls, they see dead people walking, people who are dying, who are about to be killed, stamped out, slaughtered. They see this and try not to think about it, not to believe it, try to see luminous women, cheerful children, smiling men, but they see only the death that has generated that light, that cheer, those smiles. They cannot forget what they have seen, for the rest of their lives their eyes will be full of the war dead, those they killed and their friends who were killed, there is no difference, they’re all one great mountain of corpses they’ve had to climb over to get to the other side, and no flag, no love of country, no medals of valour, no official speeches or solemn commemorations can erase this memory. Killing in wartime is a curse that lasts a lifetime, killing in wartime is normal, if you kill in wartime you’ve done your duty, and that is what is impossible to forget. I would have told you this, Mamma, but you died before I could tell you. While you were alive I was afraid that sooner or later, in a moment of weakness, I would tell you all this, but now you’re dead and I’m no longer afraid. You were good to me, Mamma.

He’d turned out the light a good hour earlier, but was unable to fall asleep. The very air weighed down on him. The sound of the rain lashing the street kept him company. It hadn’t let up all day.

For dinner he’d finally eaten Panerai’s steak, prepared by the peerless Totò. A steak the shape and size of a 45-rpm record, and four fingers high. He’d washed it down with a flask of red and then hung around chatting with Totò till one in the morning, with the help of a bottle of grappa.

Back at home he’d looked at old family photos, still drinking. Without realising it, journeying through the past he’d finished the bottle … Then why couldn’t he fall asleep? As he lay there immobile in the dark, he felt a thin veil of death enfold him. Even when he moved and changed position, he felt the delicate veil of death enfold him again.

To forget his anxiety, he tried to imagine the beautiful salesgirl lying beside him … He even invented a whole story about her … They’d just finished making love for the fourth time … She’d fallen asleep like a stone and was breathing softly, so softly he couldn’t even hear her … There she was beside him, naked, warm, pleasantly exhausted … If he reached out he could touch her, caress her belly, breast, face … But he didn’t want to wake her …

He began to take it so seriously that he found himself wondering apprehensively whether she really loved him … If he wanted to stay awake all night, he was on the right track. He had to find another method. He started telling himself the story of Little Red Riding Hood and fell asleep right before the wolf ate Granny …

When he woke up it was almost ten, and yet he felt as if he’d slept for only a few minutes. He staggered to his feet and went and looked out of the window. The sky was still dirty with clouds, but it wasn’t raining.

He had no desire to shave and wash, and had to force himself. He didn’t want his mood to get the better of him. Personal care was very important, especially at certain times. So he’d learned from Capo Spiazzi at the time of Monte Cassino. Spiazzi demanded that all the men on the front lines look smart: close-shaven, clean uniform, buttons sewn on tight, boots polished. It was just stupid military zeal. He’d understood that strict formality helped keep morale high. After an absurd war ‘alongside our German ally’, everything had been suddenly turned upside down. Italy had already lost the war, and now she had to keep on fighting to pay for her disastrous choices. Winning a lost war was the best that one could hope for. It was a humiliating situation. Maintaining one’s appearance between bombings helped to keep oneself focused, to preserve, at least, a shred of personal dignity.

He went out and decided to walk to the station, to work off the dinner of the night before. It wasn’t too cold. In the few passing cars he saw families dressed up in their Sunday best. He’d resolved not to smoke until midday. At the end of the war he’d met an English officer who smoked every other year. And every other New Year’s Eve, after twelve months of smoking, he would enjoy his last cigarette, and then, after a year without smoking, on New Year’s Day, he would relish his first cigarette. No Italian would ever be capable of doing such a thing.

When he got to Piazza della Repubblica he stopped at the Giubbe Rosse café to take a coffee comfortably sitting down. Two tables away from his there was an attractive woman of about thirty, rather provocative and a little vulgar. She was with a nondescript man. She knew she was attractive, and though she didn’t look at anyone, it was clear she knew she was being looked at by everyone. Bordelli, too, was looking at her. Her beauty was the sort that caught the eye. Blonde, fleshy lips, almond eyes. A bit behind her sat another woman, also attractive, but with a completely different kind of beauty. Fine, delicate, with perfect little ears and chestnut hair tied in a short ponytail. She too was with a nondescript man. She did not attract attention; hers was a connoisseur’s beauty. The salesgirl, for her part, had both kinds, a blend of different beauties. That was what Bordelli liked about her.

He carried on looking at the two women, imagining what their lives were like. Was the blonde married to a rich man whom she tried to milk as much as possible? Like a sort of high-class whore? And was the other one perhaps a young mother who had left her beloved child with Grandma so she could go out for a drink with her husband?

He heard someone say something in Latin behind him, and turned round. Seated behind him was a slender, handsome elderly gentleman of about seventy, smiling. He was well dressed, with pure-white hair and the moustache of a Habsburg general. He had an upper-class air about him, and his black suit was from another era.

‘What was that?’ Bordelli asked, taking an instinctive liking to the man.

‘
Man is never what he appears to be, and woman even less so
,’ the old man translated for him, an ironic gleam in his eye.

‘Juvenal? Seneca?’

‘Manlio Ceramelli de’ Lupi Scarlini, that is, yours truly,’ the man introduced himself, holding out a bony, well-manicured hand.

‘Pleased to meet you. Franco Bordelli Casini Postriboli,’
³²
said the inspector, making the old man smile. They shook hands, and the gentleman’s eyes gestured discreetly towards the two beautiful women.

‘Have a good look at them … The striking blonde lady is a devoted wife who would rather be burnt alive than betray her husband. The other one, the little nun, is also married, but has the bad habit of sleeping in a different bed every night.’

‘How did you know I was thinking about them?’ Bordelli asked in amazement.

‘I’m under the illusion that I can intuit what is going through the minds of others.’

‘Apparently it’s not just an illusion.’

‘At any rate, I was lying. I don’t know the first thing about those two women, but I always try to avoid the lure of my first impressions. My greatest fear is the enslavement of prejudice.’

‘I’ll try to do the same.’

‘You work with the police?’

‘I’m beginning to think you’re a sorcerer.’

‘I’m not. A few months ago I happened to see your picture in the newspaper, and I’m lucky enough still to have a good memory,’ said the old man, lightly touching his temple with an index finger. Bordelli felt increasingly curious about the strange gentleman with three surnames.

‘And what do you do, if it’s not too indiscreet to ask?’

‘I squander inheritances. It may seem a rather simple occupation, but in reality it hides a whole host of insidious obstacles.’

‘Such as?’

‘A sense of guilt, the fear of poverty and scorn, common morality, reflection, fits of parsimony, far-sightedness … I could go on, but I’d rather not bore you.’

‘It must be tiring work.’

‘Extremely tiring, I assure you. Because of these contrary forces I’ve managed to save just one home, the last one remaining. A penthouse flat in Via de’ Bardi, with a view of the Ponte Vecchio. As you can see, I’m not a terribly good inheritance squanderer, otherwise I should already have taken up residence under a bridge, perhaps
dans un
château de carton
.’

‘How romantic.’

‘You’re probably wondering why I’m speaking so lightly of my personal affairs to you, a complete stranger. I confess I don’t really know why; it’s the first time this has happened to me. But it’s just the sort of thing I like, the fact that at my age I can still sometimes surprise myself.’

‘I wish I could do the same.’

‘
Homo faber fortunae suae
…’
³³
said Manlio Ceramelli de Lupi Scarlini, smiling.

‘Do you know Latin well?’

‘Just enough to have fun with it.’

‘Do you think you could translate a phrase for me?’

‘I could try.’

‘It’s carved over a shrine at the crossing of two paths in the woods, just a few steps away from an ancient abbey …
Omne Movet Urna Nomen Orat
.’

‘Well, let’s see … Firstly, if that’s really the way it’s written, it’s untranslatable. If it were:
Omne movet urna nomen … Ora
, or
Orate
or
Oratius
, or more precisely
Horatius
with an
H
, it would translate as follows: “The urn shakes every name. Pray.” It’s more or less a line of Horatius Flaccus, Third Book, First Ode, which begins thus: “
Odi profanum vulgus, et arceo
…”’