Death in August

As they entered the flat the coffee pot started whistling. It felt better in there than on the street; the three steps down made all the difference. Botta’s home consisted of two large, gloomy rooms, arranged with a certain care despite the modesty of means. One was the bedroom, with a bed and and an old wardrobe for clothes; and the other was a kitchen as well as sitting room, ‘work’ room and every other kind of room possible. Hanging on one wall was a framed photo of Fred Astaire in motion. Ennio had a burning passion for dance, never fulfilled for want of means. But, like all sentimentalists, he had many other passions as well.

Bordelli saw some ten or so half-dismantled wristwatches on the table.

‘Looks like you’re starting another “little job” the police ought not to know about.’

‘Just changing the dial-plates, Inspector. That way, Forcella watches become Swiss.’

‘I don’t want to hear about it, Botta. Let’s have this coffee.’

Ennio went and prepared the cups according to his personal method, with the sugar first, and any use of spoons forbidden.

‘What brings you here, Inspector?’

‘I was thinking about arranging a dinner at my place. What do you say?’

‘When?’

‘Got anything on for Wednesday?’

Botta reviewed his engagements in his mind, staring at the floor.

‘Wednesday … Wednesday … Yes, I’d say that would be all right.’

‘Good, I’ll tell the others.’

‘They’ll be the same as last time, no?’

‘Mind if I add a couple more?’

Ennio’s face darkened.

‘Policemen?’ he asked.

‘Don’t worry, one is the son of an old friend, and the other is a scientist and friend to mice.’

‘I’ve got no problem with that.’

‘Okay, then, you’re to make whatever you like. Just one wish, on the part of Diotivede.’

‘If I’m up to the task …’ Botta said, modestly.

‘Bean soup alla lombarda. Just imagine, in this heat.’

Ennio brightened.

‘Excuse me if I start drooling, Inspector, but that’s one of my specialities. It doesn’t matter if it’s hot outside; I only have to find the right beans. And for the rest, I’ve already got something in mind.’

Now came the most delicate part of the operation, since Botta was a very sensitive man. Bordelli coughed into his hand and, with maximum nonchalance, pulled out his wallet, took out one ten-thousand-lira and two one- thousand-lira notes and laid them on the table.

‘That should suffice,’ he said.

Botta blushed.

‘It’s too much, Inspector. Take back the two thousand,’ he said, putting the two notes back into Bordelli’s hand. The inspector put them back on the table.

‘You’ll see, there won’t be any change,’ he said.

‘You can tell a good cook by the way he shops, Inspector.’

‘Well, if there’s any left over, you can buy more wine.’

‘Sooner or later, I’m going to buy you a fine dinner, I swear.’

Bordelli lowered his eyes.

‘Never mind, Botta, you’ve already paid enough.’ He patted him on the shoulder and left him to his watches with Swiss faces and Neapolitan hearts.

The heat in the street was ghastly. And there was no hint of rain. Bordelli tried to distract himself by thinking about the dinner and the guests. Was Dr Fabiani in town? He was an old, melancholy psychoanalyst who had made a strong impression on him. Bordelli had met him a year before, during the course of an investigation, and invited him to Christmas dinner with Botta and Diotivede. It was a quiet, pleasant evening. Late into the night, each had told an old story from his past as they sipped cognac.

On his desk Bordelli found a handwritten note: I must speak to you. I’ll be back shortly. Zia Camilla. Zia Camilla was Rodrigo’s mother. Strange. She never called on him at headquarters. Bordelli expedited a couple of matters by telephone and finished reading the report of an arrest for murder. An unambiguous affair: a row, a knife, many witnesses. The killer was a young Calabrian male whose mother’s virtue had been slandered. He had been in town for only a few days and didn’t know that, in this part of Italy, slandering someone’s mother was almost as common as saying ‘Ciao’. A sad story of cultural misunderstanding. Bordelli got to the last lines: ‘… after which Bruno Pratesi addressed Salvatore Loporco with the words “son of a whore”, whereupon Loporco took out a cutting instrument with a five-inch blade and set upon Pratesi, stabbing him repeatedly in the chest and abdomen, saying in dialect, “I’ll teach you to talk about my dear mother that way”. All witnesses concur in saying that Loporco etc …’

At that moment somebody knocked, and Mugnai’s head popped inside the half-open door.

‘Your aunt is here,’ he said.

‘Show her in.’

Zia Camilla was fat only from the waist down. She always wore a stunned expression and a hint of alarm in her eyes, but today more than usual. Bordelli got up to greet her.

‘Zia, what’s wrong?’

The woman set her shopping bags down on the chair in front of the desk and remained standing.

‘I wanted to talk to you about Rodrigo. Lately he’s been sort of strange,’ she said in a worried tone.

‘I saw him a couple of weeks ago, and he seemed fine … In the sense that he seemed normal.’

‘It’s only been these last few days …’

‘In what way has he been strange?’

‘He’s just strange … A mother can feel these sorts of things.’ Bordelli sat down on a corner of the desk, thinking that Rodrigo had always been a bit of a pill.

‘Tell me more,’ he said. Zia Camilla threw up her hands.

‘He never goes outside any more, he doesn’t shave, he hardly ever answers the telephone, and when I call on him he keeps me standing at the door and can’t wait for me to leave.’

‘Wasn’t it the same four years ago, when you gave his old shoes to Father Cubattoli?’

‘This time it’s worse.’

‘Really?’

‘Why don’t you pay him a call? Talk to him a little. Maybe he’ll confide in you.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘You’re his cousin … and you’re a detective.’

‘For him those are points against me.’

‘Just pay him a little visit. Do it for me. I’m worried.’

‘All right, Zia, I’ll try ringing him later.’

‘And what if he doesn’t answer?’

‘Then I’ll go and see him at home.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

‘Thank you, dear. God bless you.’ She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him and stroked his cheek with her fingers. Bordelli saw her out, carrying her shopping bags for her.

‘Ciao, Zia, give my best to Zio Franco.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

‘I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve got any news.’

From the window the inspector watched Zia Camilla walk briskly across the courtyard’s flagstones. At seventy-three, she was still strong and healthy. She was his father’s sister, which gave him hope for the Bordelli line. It would take an accident to make him die young. Which was, in fact, what happened with his father, Amedeo Bordelli, a big, burly man with the broad, handsome face of a good-hearted boxer, who fell from a window while painting the shutter-latches.