Authors: Marco Vichi
Piras was only a few pages from the end of the novel. He read them in a few minutes, then closed the book and tapped it with his hand. He always did that when finishing a novel he liked.
Feeling a little groggy, he stretched and some of his joints cracked. To avoid falling back to sleep, he stood up, leaned on his crutches, and went out into the street. Staying indoors too long made him restless. There was never anything for him to do besides reading, and in his present condition he couldn’t even give his parents a hand in the field or in the stables. He would have been glad to do so, if only to help the time go by faster.
The inspector left Totò’s kitchen feeling as if he wanted to sleep. When all was said and done, he realised he had drunk nearly a whole bottle of wine by himself. The avenue was full of Christmas traffic. He headed towards Via Zara, repressing the urge to light another cigarette. It wasn’t raining, but the sky had turned into a slab of lead, and he could feel the humidity in his bones. He preferred snow, but it hardly ever snowed in Florence. He’d once slept in snow, on a night in Umbria in 1944, and it was one of the few times sleeping out in the open when he hadn’t felt cold.
Sotto la neve c’è il pane, sotta la pioggia c’è la fame
, the peasant saying went.
Under the snow there’s bread, under the rain there’s hunger.
He and his comrades had spent the night in their sleeping bags and woken up the following morning covered in sweat, under a ten-inch layer of snow …
There was no getting around it. No matter what he thought of, it always brought back memories of the bloody war. As he entered the courtyard of police headquarters, he greeted Mugnai with a nod and went to look for Rinaldi and Tapinassi. He wanted to give them the photographs of the girl that he’d found in the loan shark’s house, and tell them to track her down fast. The photos had been taken by Badalamenti with his fancy Leica, and Bordelli thought rather optimistically that it was a fair bet the girl lived in town. If they couldn’t find her, then they would have to start looking for her in the outlying province, and then in all of Italy. At any rate, it was a lead that deserved to be followed to the very end. He found the two officers standing in front of the Flying Squad office.
‘I want you to find this girl for me,’ Bordelli said, handing Tapinassi two of the photos of Marisa which he’d cut below the chin. The rest he kept under lock and key. Tapinassi looked at the photos and blushed so thoroughly his ears turned red.
‘Let me see,’ said Rinaldi, taking them out of his hand. When he saw the girl his eyes opened wide.
‘Blimey,’ he said. They looked like a couple of idiots. It was a good thing they were seeing only the censored photos, thought Bordelli, shaking his head. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the two policemen couldn’t take their eyes off them.
‘You’ll have all the time in the world to admire her. Take one photo each and don’t make any copies. I want only you two to look into this; you mustn’t tell anyone else. Understand?’
‘We’ll do our best, sir,’ said Rinaldi.
‘Try the schools, too, but nobody must know why we’re looking for her. Invent some excuse, if you have to.’
‘Why
are
we looking for her, Inspector?’ Tapinassi asked.
‘You don’t need to know, for now. When you find her, don’t approach her, don’t do anything at all … Just report to me at once.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Tapinassi, eyeing the photos in his colleague’s hand. Bordelli slapped him on the back.
‘But don’t take a week. We’re not in New York, after all,’ he said.
‘We’ll manage, sir,’ said Rinaldi, standing to attention.
‘Maximum discretion,’ the inspector reiterated, heading for the door. Before leaving he dropped into his office, for no real reason. Maybe just to have a look at the room. Every time he went in there he felt at home, and this worried him. It was very hot. He touched the radiators; they were boiling, at public expense. He put an unlit cigarette between his lips and left the matches on the desk. Leaving the room, he headed for the stairs, determined to smoke only if he ran into someone with a light.
He crossed the courtyard, pulling his trench coat tightly round his body. Passing Mugnai’s booth, he waved a greeting. Mugnai bolted out and came up to him.
‘Need a light, Inspector?’
Bordelli sighed and lit the cigarette on Mugnai’s match. His strategy hadn’t worked, but in truth this was what he’d wanted.
Otherwise he wouldn’t have gone around the station with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
‘Thanks,’ he said, blowing the smoke far away.
‘You can keep ’em,’ Mugnai said, slipping the box of matches into the inspector’s coat pocket.
It was hopeless. If he wanted to quit smoking, he had to rely on himself.
‘I’ll buy you another box,’ Bordelli said.
‘No need, Inspector. I don’t smoke.’
‘How did you manage to quit?’
‘I never started.’
‘I think you and Piras would get on well together,’ Bordelli said.
‘How’s he doing, now that you mention him?’ Mugnai asked.
‘He can’t wait to get back to hunting down killers.’
‘Give him my best.’
‘Will do.’
Bordelli got into his Beetle and drove away, imagining Piras with his crutches and his father Gavino with only one arm.
He glanced at his watch. Just three o’clock. Before returning to Badalamenti’s apartment he wanted to drop in on Diotivede.
He turned on to the Viali and tried to smoke the cigarette as slowly as possible, to make it last. Driving past the Fortezza da Basso he saw a man in the distance talking to a little girl near the pond in the garden. At first he paid no heed. But when he approached the intersection with Viale Milton, he stopped the car and threw it into reverse, ignoring the horns blasting in protest. He parked the Beetle between two trees and got out. He thought he’d recognised Lapo, the thirty-year-old son of a couple of businesspeople in the centre of town. Lapo had been convicted several times of sexual harassment of minors. His parents were wealthy and always managed to save him by hiring expensive laywers who tried to pass him off as insane. But Bordelli was not a judge. Crossing the busy avenue in a hurry, he walked towards the pond. The young man had his back to him and was on his knees, talking to the little girl.
‘Is there a problem here?’ Bordelli asked gruffly. The young man snapped his head around, saw the inspector, and stood up.
‘You scared me, Inspector.’
It was indeed Lapo, with his coat-hanger shoulders and hips as wide as a woman’s. He was trembling lightly from the fright.
‘It’s you who scare me, Lapo,’ the inspector retorted. The girl looked about ten years old. Long blonde hair and carrying a red satchel.
‘Are you the man with the toys?’ she asked Bordelli, looking him seriously in the eye.
‘Of course I am … Aren’t you going to introduce me to your daughter?’ the inspector said to Lapo.
‘He’s not my daddy,’ the little girl said.
‘She’s not my daughter,’ the young man stammered. He had a gaunt face, eyes too big, and his skin was always shiny. Bordelli approached the girl, smiling.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Beatrice. And you?’
‘Franco. What are you doing outside all alone at this hour?’
‘I was playing with my friend … she lives over there,’ she said, pointing a tiny finger in the direction of Via dello Statuto.
‘And where do you live?’
‘In that building there,’ said the little girl, pointing to a door across the avenue.
‘Come, I’ll walk you home,’ said Bordelli offering her his hand.
‘And what about the toys you promised me?’ she asked. The inspector shot a glance at Lapo, who looked away.
‘I forgot them at home.’
‘Ohh! And when will you bring me them?’
‘We’ll talk it over with your mamma,’ Bordelli said, to wriggle out of the bind. Then he went up to Lapo.
‘I’m going to take her home and come back. If you move even an inch, you’re in big trouble,’ he whispered.
‘I’ll wait right here, I promise,’ said Lapo, averting his eyes.
Bordelli took the child by the hand and escorted her to the front door of her building. Ringing the buzzer, he told the girl he wanted to talk to her mother about the toys. The mother came downstairs to meet them. The woman listened to him attentively and thanked him, then started saying a few words to her daughter, who looked at her in astonishment. Bordelli waved goodbye, and as the big door closed behind him, he could hear the little girl complaining that the toy man had tricked her.
He walked calmly back to the park. Lapo was huddled up on a bench, green greatcoat pulled tightly around him, smoking a cigarette. The inspector sat down beside him. He remained silent for a moment, gazing at the dark silhouettes of the oaks in the park and the naked branches of the plane trees lining the avenue. Cars drove by fast, as the volume of traffic increased.
He turned towards the young man and extended his arm over the back of the bench.
‘I was going to give you a little lecture.’
‘Of course, Inspector,’ Lapo said, still looking down. He stank of sweat and eau de cologne. Bordelli sighed with irritation.
‘I want you to listen very closely, because I don’t like to say things twice.’
‘Of course, Inspector,’ Lapo repeated. Bordelli turned round to face the avenue.
‘From now on I’m going to have my men follow you, day and night. If I find out that you’ve come within ten yards of any little girl, I’m going to come and get you personally and take you straight to the Murate and charge you with rape. I’ll have forty-eight hours to investigate and establish the facts. But rumours travel fast in jail, and you know what the other prisoners do to people like you? They cut their balls off. So do me a favour now and repeat what I just said … word for word.’
Bordelli had seen something similar in a Western whose title he couldn’t remember. He had to admit that it had made an impression. Lapo took a deep breath and started speaking.
‘From now on I’m going to have you followed … and if I hear that you’ve approached a … a little girl …’
‘Well done. Now finish the sentence.’
‘… I’m going to come and get you and … take you to the Murate …’
‘Go on.’
‘…and in jail …they’ll …cut off …’
‘What’ll they cut off? Come on, it’s easy.’
‘… m … my balls …’
‘Good, now I know you understand. And do you know what happens when someone cuts off your balls?’
‘No,’ said Lapo, pale as a corpse.
‘Well, if you want to find out, just try to bother another little girl and it’ll all be clear to you. Think you need any more explanations?’
‘No,’ said Lapo, and a second later he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears like a child. His shoulders shook as if they had an electrical current running through them.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ Bordelli asked. The young man passed him a packet of HB without raising his head. He continued whimpering and sniffling.The inspector took a cigarette and put the packet back in the man’s pocket. Then he stood up and headed for the Beetle. Had he remained a second longer he might not have been able to refrain himself from boxing the ears of that rich, sick kid. But he’d never liked beating people up, and so he’d left. Getting into the car, he imagined Lapo with his hands on a little girl and lit the cigarette with Mugnai’s providential matches.
He took the last drag at the bottom of Via Alderotti, and after flicking the butt out the window, he left it open to get rid of the smoke. It was bloody cold outside. He hadn’t noticed when sitting in the park with Lapo.
Before it got dark, Piras wanted to go another couple of kilo-metres towards Santu Lussurgiu. It was a beautiful route, and there was still an hour of daylight left. His house was at the edge of town, almost directly in front of the crossroads for Seneghe, and to go to Santu Lussurgiu, one first had to cross all of Bonarcado. There was a bit of wind, but it wasn’t too bad. The sun was warmer than in Florence.
Walking with crutches was hard, but he could feel himself getting closer to recovery and managed to enjoy the effort.
Every day that went by he felt a little steadier on his feet. He wanted to be the way he was before, and soon … Hunting for killers and making love with Sonia.
A donkey brayed as though suffering. It must have been one of the Perra family’s animals. Through the windows of the houses, Piras could see Christmas trees with coloured baubles. There were children playing football in the middle of the street with a deflated ball. They ran about like mice and raised smoke from the ball every time they kicked it. He himself had once played in these same streets, not too many years before.
He walked past the church of Santa Maria, which was large and massive, almost too big for such a little town. It was made of dark stone, and the bell tower made a fine impression. The façade was on the other side, looking on to the woods covering the hill. The church looked as if it was turning its back to the town. When he was a little boy his parents used to bring him to hear mass every Sunday. He still remembered how bored he felt during those moments, with the village elders singing, the priest speaking a strange language, his mother always telling him to go to confession, the gnarly candles dripping on to the terracotta floor, the smell of dead flowers, the round eyes of the Christ looking at him from behind the altar … Whenever he left that place he felt reborn, and he wondered why everyone in town went and did something so sad every Sunday. At age fifteen he finally rebelled, and in the end his parents stopped taking him there. The only time he ever went back inside the church was for funerals. The last time was three years before moving to Florence, when his grandmother, Maria Serena, passed away. Back then the priest was Don Beniamino, a fat tub of lard who always smelled of grilled pork and wine. His homilies were unending, and his funeral orations even longer. He had a shrill voice and always said things that made one feel anxious. Then one day Don Beniamino did something he shouldn’t have done: he started secretly selling the land traditionally attached to the church of Bonarcado. When somebody found out, the rumour spread in barely half an hour. Everyone in town took to the streets, even women and children. That land belonged to Bonarcado, and must never be touched. They all went to the church to get the priest, and then tied him to his donkey with a sign around his neck,
l’ainu asub‘e sa bestia
: ‘the ass riding his beast’. Then they whipped the poor animal and sent the priest down the road to Paulilatino, following behind and shouting at him never to come back. And that was the last they ever saw of Don Beniamino.