Death in August

remaining ham. They now knew not only that they were not the only ones eating it, but that the others were Nazis. In the end they quietly smiled and put the prosciutto back under the straw. When they returned the following day, again the ham had been eaten. By this point it became clear that the Germans had caught on. It went on this way for several days: one Italian bite, one German bite, down to the bone. It was almost touching, but mostly it was absurd. Tomorrow they might shoot a Kraut and dispatch him to the next world, though he might be one of those with whom they had shared the prosciutto.

Bordelli crushed the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray and remained pensive for a few minutes. Then he stood up with a sigh, got in the car and went to Forensic Medicine to see Diotivede. The heat didn’t reach the lab. Aside from the stink of disinfectants, it was a kind of paradise.

The doctor was preparing some slides for the microscope, humming through his nose, which was rather unusual. Diotivede never sang. Bordelli went up to him, hands in his pockets.

‘You in a good mood?’ he asked.

Diotivede looked at him askance.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘You’re singing.’

‘I don’t see the connection. Black slaves used to sing, too.’

‘Well, I’ve never heard you singing before.’

‘Actually, I wasn’t singing.’

Bordelli realised the conversation was going nowhere and therefore changed the subject.

‘So, the dinner’s all set for Wednesday,’ he said.

‘Have you asked your friend about bean soup alla lombarda?’

‘He said it’s one of his specialities. He must have spent a holiday in San Vittore.’

‘And they say you never learn anything in prison.’

‘It’s a question of character, dear doctor. There are those who go to university and remain ignorant, and there are those who become cultured behind bars.’

The doctor put his slides in place and began his magical journey through the world of living microorganisms. He started droning again as before. It must have been an operatic aria, but it remained unrecognisable.

‘It that Carmen? asked Bordelli.

‘Barber’, said the doctor, still humming.

The inspector felt like arguing.

‘So you are singing …’

‘Call it whatever you like,’ said Diotivede, who kept on humming. When he was focused on his microscope, he was able to stand as still as a statue. If Bordelli ever sculpted a monument to him, he would portray him like that, hunched over his microscope.

All at once Diotivede tore himself away from the microscope and went up to a slab, raising the sheet, exposing a stocky body with a bloated belly. It was a man of about fifty whose skin had turned grey. Round his dry, nearly blackened lips was a layer of coagulated, yellowish saliva.

‘What are you going to do?’ Bordelli asked. Diotivede had rubber gloves on his hands and was poking the corpse’s belly, seeking the right point to begin cutting. Fascinated, the inspector followed those expert hands as they traced a path from the navel to the ribs. ‘You going to open him now?’ he asked the doctor.

‘I’m running late. They wanted it done this morning.’

‘Why don’t you request a helper?’

‘I’ve tried. The ministry said that when yours truly checks out, they’ll send a new doctor,’ Diotivede said bitterly.

‘How thoughtful of them.’

‘It’s probably better that way. Who knows what kind of person they would send?’

‘Such faith …’

Diotivede interrupted his work, turning serious.

‘When I die, make sure nobody opens me up, all right?’ he said.

‘Maybe I’ll die first.’

‘Don’t change the subject. Will you prevent them from cutting me in two? I want an answer.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘I don’t want some youngster learning the ropes on my mortal remains. Swear that you won’t let them do it.’

‘There are certain circumstances in which-’

‘Swear it,’ Diotivede interrupted him.

‘You know perfectly well that it also depends on the cause of death.’

‘I don’t give a damn. Swear it.’

‘And what if I’m unable?’

‘Just swear to it. At any rate, I’ll never know.’

‘I swear,’ said Bordelli, sighing. Diotivede finally seemed satisfied and returned to the corpse. He sank the tip of his scalpel into the hollow of the dead man’s stomach, going deeper and deeper. They heard a snap, then a burst of air. Smelly gas came pouring out as the stomach deflated. The blade slowly continued along its path, without so much as a single drop of blood oozing from the lips of the cut. Setting down the scalpel, Diotivede widened the aperture with his hands.

‘Who is he?’ Bordelli asked.

‘Some poor bloke they found dead in the middle of the street.’

‘Murder?’

‘Looks more like a heart attack.’

‘I hate those words.’

‘I could call it cardiac arrest, if you prefer.’

‘You’re a true friend.’

‘Would you hand me that basin, please?’ Diotivede had extracted the liver and held it in his hands, waiting to set it down.

The moment had come to pay a call on Rodrigo. Driving through the streets, Bordelli started quibbling with himself: Why was he going to see Rodrigo? And for whose sake? For Zia Camilla’s? For Rodrigo’s? Or for his own? And if he was doing it for his own sake, what was the reason? So as not to feel guilty in his auntie’s eyes? To do his moral duty? Or was it merely for curiosity’s sake? There was no question that he found Rodrigo’s spinsterish bitterness terribly amusing. Maybe, all things considered, that was the real reason.

He parked his Beetle a couple of streets away from his cousin’s flat and continued on foot. It was always best to get a breath of air before visiting Rodrigo. When he got to the main entrance, he instinctively looked up to the fourth floor. The building was not very pleasant to look at, overloaded with monumental motifs as it was. Rodrigo’s shutters were closed. Bordelli rang the intercom, but no one answered. He rang again, repeatedly, with no result. Finally he squashed the button and held it down a long time, and suddenly the lock started clicking frantically. Bordelli climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Finding Rodrigo’s door closed, he knocked.

‘Who the fuck is it?’ he heard someone call from behind the door. Strange. Normally Rodrigo never used certain words.

‘Is that you, Rodrigo?’

‘No, it’s the big bad wolf.’

‘Could you open the door?’

‘What do you want?’

‘To have a little chat.’

‘I really don’t feel like it.’

‘All right, I’ll go. But I’m going to come back tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day-’

He heard a click, and the door slowly opened. Rodrigo was in his underpants, a week’s growth of beard on his face. He stood in the doorway, as if guarding the flat.

‘It’s nice to see you finally dirty and debased like the rest of humanity,’ said Bordelli, genuinely pleased.

‘What do you want?’