Before going back to the office he decided to drop in on old Gastone in Borgo Tegolaio. He wanted him to hear the VW backfire a couple of times. Gastone’s garage was where Tenaglia worked, a great big lad who couldn’t buy a lucky break and for whom Bordelli had found a job at the garage to keep him out of jail. He still hadn’t gone to see him at work, but he’d heard that things were going pretty well. Tenaglia wanted nothing so much as to get his hands on automobile engines. It was almost a disease for him. He loved plunging into the entrails of cars to find the illness to cure, it had always been his dream. But usually nobody wanted to take on a guy like him; a gigantic ex- convict usually inspired fear. And so he had kept on stealing cars and driving them down to Naples. Old Gastone, however, had faith in Bordelli. He hired the kid and every so often would phone the inspector to thank him for sending the big lug his way.
Bordelli turned on to Borgo Tegolaio and pulled up in front of the garage. He immediately spotted Tenaglia’s silhouette struggling with a Fiat 1005. Gastone was in a corner, cleaning something with a rag. Seeing the inspector walk in, they both dropped everything and came towards him, greasy hands extended.
‘So, Inspector, what are you doing still in town while everyone else is roasting their bum on the beach?’ said Gastone.
‘And what about you two?’
Gastone gave a half-nod and smiled.
‘We’re crazy, Inspector,’ he said. And he pulled out a bottle of port and three tavern glasses. There was no way to say no; they would have felt offended. Tenaglia’s forehead was dripping sweat like a fountain, but he looked happy.
‘Any problem with your armoured car, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘It keeps backfiring, as if it’s got digestive problems.’
‘Lemme have a listen; noises are my speciality,’ said the giant.
‘That’s all I’m asking.’
‘Get in and we’ll give her a whirl.’
Gastone intervened.
‘Just go alone, Tenaglia. You don’t mind, do you, Inspector?’
‘Of course not.’
That’s funny, thought Bordelli. A car thief driving a policeman’s car. Tenaglia went and scrubbed his hands so as not to dirty the steering wheel, then hopped into the VW and pushed the seat as far back as it could go, though he still had his knees in his mouth. Then he drove off in a manner quite unlike Bordelli’s, as if pulling out from the starting gate at a racetrack. The roar of the engine at high throttle could be heard fading down the narrow, hazy streets. At the first downshift, a kind of shot rang out, as the Beetle continued down the road towards diagnosis.
Gastone took Bordelli by the elbow and led him into what he called his office: two square metres of linoleum and a small table strewn with incomprehensible sheets of paper. Gastone seemed in a confidential mood.
‘Don’t tell him, Inspector … but I’ve got no relatives, I have nobody. I’ve already been to see the solicitor … I’m going to leave the garage to him.’
‘You always did say you wanted to leave it to someone who knew the ropes.’
Suddenly they heard the German rumble of the Beetle returning to base. An entirely new rumble, generated by Tenaglia’s driving. The giant pulled the car into the garage, gunning the engine one last time and stepping out of the car with a smile on his lips.
‘It’s the spark ignition, Inspector. The petrol’s not burning up completely in the cylinders, and so it pops in the pipes.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘We just gotta fix the carburation; I can do it in a jiffy.’ He went to get a screwdriver and lifted the bonnet. Bordelli watched him open a small, mysterious box and delicately stick the screwdriver inside. A minute later Tenaglia raised his head.
‘Start ’er up, Inspector.’
Bordelli obeyed and, at the giant’s orders, revved the engine for a good minute. Tenaglia then lowered the bonnet with a thud.
‘All taken care of, Inspector. If it happens again, I’ll eat my hat.’
Bordelli turned off the engine and got out of the car.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Any time.’
‘How much do I owe you, Gastone?’
The old mechanic raised his hands.
‘Don’t even mention it, Inspector.’
Bordelli went up to Tenaglia.
‘How much do I owe you?’ he said, pulling out a thousand-lira note. The young man spread his arms, as if to move them away from the money.
‘I don’t want anything,’ he said.
‘C’mon, Tenaglia, it’s like you pulled an aching tooth from my mouth.’
‘A thousand lire is too much, Inspector.’
‘It’s not a thousand lire. It’s a way to say thanks.’
He entered his office, pulled the shutters to, and lay back in his chair as best he could. His intention was to reread the transcript of the Morozzi interview. But, as usual, it was too hot. He sent Mugnai for coffee and a couple of beers. While waiting he started thinking about his fifty-three years of life, how brief they had been and yet how full. A very long time ago he had asked himself how and when one realises one is old. Now, perhaps, he knew. One day he had happened to think about the past, and in so doing, he had felt very melancholy. That must have been the exact moment when he turned old. Before that, memories had only been faraway images, more or less faded, a weightless train of events; but after that day they had become something entirely different, something hard to define, part consolation, part resignation.
Mugnai knocked. He had two puddles of sweat under his armpits.
‘Here you are, Inspector. Coffee and beer.’
‘Thanks. Just put it right down here.’
‘Need anything else?’
‘No, thanks.’
Mugnai wiped his brow with the sleeve of his uniform.
‘Half an hour ago a man called for you, sir, a certain Dante.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he’d call back later.’
‘Good.’
Mugnai went out and Bordelli lit what he defined as his second cigarette of the day. But perhaps he was cheating. He smoked it while drinking his coffee and thinking about the war. He was unable to forget those years; they were still with him, as present and real as his own hands. August 1944 had been hot; and their dirty uniforms stank of sweat. He had gone out on patrol with Piras Sr, machine gun slung over his shoulder, finger on the trigger. The Germans were in the vicinity, as always, just over the hill, quartered in small villages abandoned by all but a few old, terrorised peasants. Piras and he walked along shoulder to shoulder, scanning the horizon with their eyes. The countryside lay fallow; mines had taken root in place of grain, but the wild flowers didn’t give a damn about the war and still blossomed everywhere, filling the valleys with colour. In an abandoned farmhouse they found an almost whole ham of prosciutto hidden under some straw. It was like a vision. They ate it in big hunks, cutting it with their daggers, then put it back in its place. When they returned to base after dark, their throats burned from the salted meat. Next day the thought of the prosciutto drove them back to the abandoned house, this time with a piece of stale bread. Crawling through the high grass all the way to the door, they entered carefully, preceded by the machine-gun barrel. There was nobody there. But they quickly discovered that the prosciutto had been partly eaten, almost certainly by some Nazi patrol. A good chunk of it was gone. They sat down, backs to the wall, and pulled out the bread. It seemed like a dream to be able to eat the stuff. It reminded them of the snacks their mothers used to make for them, centuries before.
As they chewed their last morsel, he and Piras looked at one another. They had to decide what to do with the
