Death in August

‘Both, Piras, both.’

They parked the Beetle under a great palm along the seafront. Piras stayed in the car to eat a panino. Bordelli had already crossed the street and was knocking on a locked door under a green sign that said: La Mecca — Dancing. Nobody answered. The inspector turned to face Piras and threw his hands up, then crossed the avenue again and got back in the car. He bit into the panino he had left half eaten and said something with his mouth full, which Piras didn’t understand.

‘What did you say, Inspector?’

Bordelli swallowed.

‘I said it looks like we’re going to have to hang around here till this evening,’ he said. Piras looked back towards the Mecca.

‘Maybe not,’ he said, gesturing towards the nightclub door. A dishevelled blonde head had popped out of the now half-open door. The girl looked around, yawning, then came out into the sunlight and stretched. She looked very young, and pretty too. She was wearing a bathrobe too big for her. Bordelli quickly rewrapped his panino in its paper and raced back across the avenue. He reached the girl just before she could close the door behind her.

‘Excuse me, miss, I’m Inspector Bordelli, police. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.’ The girl looked at him askance, a soft wrinkle appearing on her broad, smooth brow. She still had one hand on the door, as if waiting to decide what to do. Bordelli looked down and saw her bare little feet, slender and tanned, the toenails painted bright red. He thought: she really is pretty.

‘Do you work here?’ he asked.

‘Why do you ask?’ She had a northern accent, proud, intelligent eyes, and a stubborn air that made her seem even prettier. She shifted one foot forward and curled the toes, leg slightly bent at the knee, which jutted forward out of the bathrobe. Bordelli smiled.

‘Want to tell me your name?’

‘Elvira.’

‘Do you work here?’

The girl shrugged.

‘I’m a waitress, but only in summer. The rest of the year I’m a student.’

‘Were you here last Thursday evening?’

‘I’m here every day. But why are you asking me all these questions?’

‘Do you happen to know two brothers by the name of Morozzi?’

Elvira shook her head, a blonde lock falling over her face.

‘I don’t know anyone,’ she said. Bordelli didn’t know what else to say, but was unable to leave. With every second that passed, Elvira looked more and more beautiful to him. She radiated something magical that fascinated him. It had been a very long time since he had last felt such things. Then he realised she could be his daughter and scratched his head in embarrassment. The girl rearranged her hair and burst out laughing.

‘What’s wrong, Mr Policeman? Have you lost your voice?’

‘No, it’s that …’

‘You can’t keep me all day at the door like this. If you want to know more, come inside. I need some coffee.’

‘Of course.’

Bordelli turned towards Piras and gestured for him to wait. He crossed the threshold and found himself in an entrance hall full of pitiless mirrors. Seeing himself next to the beautiful young girl, he felt even older than he already was. He followed Elvira into a very big, dark room illuminated only by a red light hanging from the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a circular dance floor surrounded by the dark shapes of empty sofas. The girl walked across the room, her bare feet making a slapping sound. She parted a heavy velvet curtain, holding it open for Bordelli to pass through, then headed down a narrow corridor that led to a small, disorderly room, half bedroom, half kitchen, with an unmade bed and a small gas cooker in the corner. The blue-tiled floor was covered with a light veil of sand. High up on the wall was a half-open window that gave on to the sea, beaming with sunlight. A chair was completely buried under a layer of clothes, and atop the pile was a pair of white knickers. Seeing them, the girl grabbed them and stuffed them into her pocket.

‘Please sit wherever you like,’ she said.

The only thing available was an old wooden chair. Bordelli flopped down into it and felt the legs sway. A shaft of light speckled with floating dust filtered down through a crack in the ceiling. Turning her back to the inspector, Elvira busied herself making the coffee.

‘Will you have some too?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’ Bordelli gazed admiringly at the girl’s legs and sinewy feet, not looking away until she turned round.

‘I’m all yours, Mr Policeman. What would you like to know?’

‘Just a bit of information,’ said Bordelli. Elvira put the coffee pot on the burner and went and sat down on the bed. She raised her knees to rest her arms on them, causing the bathrobe to slip down and uncover her legs.

‘What are you doing, looking up my dress?’ said the girl, without covering her legs.

‘No … forgive me. You’re very pretty, Elvira.’

‘Forget the compliments, Inspector. They make me sick. That’s all I’ve ever heard my whole life.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bordelli, who in his mind was thinking: Old fool, get out of here as soon as you can!

The girl started picking at an old scab on her ankle until it finally came off. Bordelli was sweating. He didn’t know where to look. He felt happy when he heard the coffee start to bubble up in the pot. Elvira stood up, rearranging her hair, went to get two espresso cups in the sink, and rinsed these off, wiping the inside with her fingers. A blonde lock of hair fell on to her face and she blew it away.

‘How many sugars?’ she said.

‘One, please.’

‘So you really don’t want to tell me what you’re looking for?’ she said as she handed him the coffee. The handle on the little cup was broken, and Bordelli burnt his fingers. Still, it was easier than drinking out of one of Dante’s cups.

Elvira remained standing in front of him, bathrobe hanging loose, and looked at him. Her eyes were big, green and full of irony.

‘I’m investigating a murder,’ said Bordelli, blowing on the hot coffee in embarrassment. He felt awkward and silly, and wished he had never come inside. Elvira tightened the bathrobe round her body.

‘And who was killed?’ she said, without emotion.

‘A very rich lady.’

‘Then it wasn’t my mother,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. With a grim smile she went and sat back down on the bed, espresso cup in hand, and folded her legs like a fakir. Bordelli set his scalding cup down on the floor and pulled out his cigarettes. He offered the girl one, and she gestured for him to throw it to her. He got up anyway and handed her the pack, then lit a match and leaned over her so she could light hers. Mingled with the odour of burning sulphur he clearly smelled the scent of her blonde hair and tanning lotions and felt as lonely as a dog. She inhaled and smiled, revealing a mouth of perfect little teeth.

‘Your hands are shaking, Mr Policeman.’

Bordelli hid his hands and stepped back.

‘Watch out for the coffee,’ Elvira said, pointing at the floor. Bordelli missed the little cup by a hair, staggered for a moment, and then leaned against the wall to keep from falling. This was the height of embarrassment. He really didn’t understand what was happening to him. This girl made him feel uneasy as nobody had ever done before. He picked the cup up off the floor, emptied it in a hurry and went and set it down in the sink. He would have liked to light his cigarette, but he felt too ashamed of his trembling hands, and so he left it in his mouth, unlit. He didn’t understand why he had ever agreed to come inside. It made no sense. And now he felt he couldn’t leave. He stood stiffly in the middle of the room, lacking the courage to sit down. He didn’t know what to say, and his silence weighed heavily on him. He had never felt so humiliated in all his life. And yet he was a police inspector aged fifty- three, and Elvira not much more than a little girl. She watched him, a knowing smile on her lips, then set down her cup and collapsed on the bed, lying back in complete innocence. She extended her legs, crossed her ankles, and then took a lock of hair between her fingers and started looking for split ends.