‘Would you let me inside?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Shall we have a drink?’
‘I hate it when people answer a question with a question.’
‘Then let me in.’
‘Mamma sent you, didn’t she?’
‘I haven’t seen Zia Camilla for a month. Anyway, why would she send me to see you?’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘I’m a policeman.’
Rodrigo sighed with irritation, stepped aside, and flung open the door.
‘Come in.’
The flat was dirty. On the floor near the entrance were some strange shards pushed up against the skirting board and, high up on the wall, a large, sticky-looking stain. The air smelled musty. The telephone was unplugged. Bordelli followed his cousin inside, eyeing his naked legs. Rodrigo looked good for fifty: no fat, no hanging skin. They entered the study, and Rodrigo went over to the window, opened it brusquely, and stood in front of it in his underpants. He started watching the few cars passing along the avenue below.
‘Find yourself a place to sit down,’ he said. What had once been his study now looked like a chicken coop. Bordelli took off his shirt and tossed it joyfully on to a chair. He really liked this situation; it was like finding a friend who had fallen into the hands of the Germans. He managed to find a spot on an armchair by removing a tray covered with leftovers. The sofa was nearly invisible under a layer of dirty clothes.
‘Nice little mess you’ve got here,’ said Bordelli, looking around. Rodrigo made a guttural sound, lingered for another minute in front of the window, looking out, then closed it and left the room. When he returned he had a pair of trousers on and a glass in his hand.
‘What are you drinking?’ asked Bordelli.
Rodrigo looked into the glass.
‘I don’t know. Want some?’
‘Just a drop, thanks.’
Rodrigo shuffled off and returned with a bottle he dropped between Bordelli’s legs.
‘Find yourself a glass,’ he said. Bordelli glanced at the label. Triple Sec, a sweet liqueur they used to get drunk on in childhood. So as not to seem unfriendly, he went into the kitchen to wash a glass. Returning to the chicken coop, he poured himself some of the sugary glue.
‘Tell me something, Rodrigo. Do you remember the last time I dropped by to see you?’
‘Yes, I think so … years ago, it seems … you really got on my nerves.’
‘No, not years ago. It was a month ago, at the most.’
‘A month … Yes, maybe you’re right … I threw you out, if I remember correctly …’
Bordelli heaved a long sigh, deliberately, for rhetorical effect.
‘All right, Rodrigo, now tell me what’s going on.’
‘What the fuck do you mean by “what’s going on”?’
‘I mean, if you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.’
Rodrigo freed up the couch, throwing everything on to the floor, and lay down on it.
‘Talk about what?’
‘Take a look around. Tell me, how does a man so finicky and neat to the point of obsession turn his house, from one day to the next, into a magnificent pigsty? Don’t get me wrong, I say this with admiration.’
‘This is my house and I’ll do whatever I like with it.’
‘Good answer. A child couldn’t have said it better.’
‘Why don’t you just leave me alone?’
Bordelli took a sip of Triple Sec and repressed his disgust.
‘You shouldn’t be so mistrustful.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘If you’ll spill the beans, I promise it won’t leave this room.’
‘You talk like a cop.’
‘I appreciate the retort, but only because I didn’t think you capable of it.’
Rodrigo took a long swig. For a moment his face shrivelled like a fist; he looked as if he had stomach pains. Then he suddenly burst out laughing uncontrollably and slid off the sofa, chest heaving. He spilled his Triple Sec all over himself, which made him laugh even harder. He could hardly breathe, and tears rolled down his face.
At that moment, for the first time in his life, Bordelli felt sympathy for his cousin. Seeing him writhe in laughter on the floor, he felt like giving him a big kiss on the forehead. It was beautiful. He thought that whatever it was that had happened to Rodrigo, it had given him a chance to become freer. The results, for now, were a bit strange, but still better than before. Perhaps Rodrigo was suffering like a dog, but at last he was able to let himself go. One could only hope it didn’t end soon.
Bordelli finished his Triple Sec in one gulp and pulled out a cigarette. He could have easily resisted, but he didn’t because he wanted to see what would happen. The old Rodrigo would have goggled his eyes and screamed at him to extinguish ‘that disgusting thing’ at once. He lit the cigarette and blew out a nice big mouthful of smoke, waiting for his cousin’s reaction. Rodrigo slowly stopped laughing and, still lying on the floor, looked at Bordelli thoughtfully.
‘Could I have one of those?’
‘Shall I toss it to you?’
‘I’ll come and get it.’ He crawled on all fours to the packet, extended five dirty fingers and took a cigarette. Bordelli lit a match for him, and Rodrigo thrust his whole face towards it, singeing an eyebrow, though he was too busy lighting the cigarette to notice. After the first puff, he coughed for a good minute. With each hack, smoke came out of his mouth. He nearly lost his voice.
‘How the hell can you … smoke this … this stuff?’ he said, eyes red. Bordelli decided to take him by surprise.
‘It’s about a woman, isn’t it?’ he said.
Rodrigo took three puffs in a row, without coughing. His voice, however, was stuck in a gravelly timbre.
‘She’s a monster, not a woman,’ he said.
Bordelli decided not to press the issue, at least for the moment.
‘What are you doing for the holidays, Rodrigo?’ he asked.
‘What have the holidays to do with any of this?’
‘You’re not taking any time off?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Never mind.’
Rodrigo extinguished the butt on the floor and rested his chin in his hand.
‘A monster,’ he muttered.
‘Want to come to my place for dinner on Wednesday? There will be four or five of us.’
‘Give me another cigarette.’
Bordelli tossed him one, followed by the matchbox.
‘What do you do all day long, Rodrigo?’
‘I watch TV. Did you see Celentano the other day?’
‘Has she dropped you?’
Rodrigo lit his cigarette and pushed away a pile of detritus with his foot, remaining seated on the floor. He tore a page from a newspaper, rolled it up into a ball and aimed it at a vase across the room.
‘I should never have met her,’ he said through clenched teeth. He tore out another page and did the same as before; the ball hit the neck of the vase and rebounded far away. He started laughing again, from the effect of the Triple Sec, losing control and burning the sofa with his cigarette in his convulsions. Bordelli rather enjoyed watching him; he’d never seen him in such a state. Then Rodrigo stopped laughing and turned decidedly gloomy.
‘I want her … the witch,’ he said.
‘What’d you say?’
‘I said I want her. She’s very beautiful.’
