‘And what’s the Mecca got to do with this dead lady?’
‘What’s that?… Ah, yes, of course … it’s still a bit early to say. I just need to verify a few things.’
Bordelli described the Morozzi brothers to Elvira in great detail, pleased to have at last something specific to say to her. This calmed him down a little. The girl held out her hand, her finished cigarette between her fingers.
‘Would you put that out for me, please?’ Bordelli took the butt from her fingers and looked around for an ashtray.
‘Just throw it in the sink,’ she said. She turned on to her side, propped herself up on one elbow, and rested her cheek in her open hand.
‘Yeah, I remember them. They were really revolting. And there were two women with them who looked like whores.’
Bordelli took advantage of the moment to look her straight in the eye.
‘What do you mean, revolting?’
‘They’d drunk a lot and were trying to be cute. One of them even put his hand on my bottom. Disgusting! And the two geese did nothing but laugh!’
‘Can you tell me what time they arrived and what time they left?’
‘They didn’t leave till closing time. I remember it well, because they were stinking drunk and could barely stand up. But don’t ask me what time they arrived, because you have no idea how chaotic this place gets.’
Bordelli thought again just how beautiful Elvira was. Subtle and wild at the same time.
‘Is there anyone who might remember what time they arrived?’ he asked.
‘I really don’t think so. As I said, it’s too chaotic here. By nine o’clock this place is a zoo.’
‘I see.’
Elvira extended her arms and stretched for a long time, closing her eyes and arching her back with obvious pleasure. Then she sat up and put her feet on the floor.
‘Are we finished? Because, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some things to do,’ she said. Bordelli felt a pang in his chest. Only now did he realise he’d been hoping she liked him, at least a little, and that she’d be sad to see him go. Stupid old codger, he thought.
‘Yes, we’re done,’ he said, trying to smile.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, surprised by his grimace.
‘It’s my ulcer …’ he lied.
‘I’ll show you out.’
Elvira got up from the bed and stopped for a moment to look at herself in a make-up mirror hanging from a nail. She made an expression as if to say: You are so ugly. Then she turned to Bordelli.
‘Shall we go?’
They headed towards the exit. Bordelli remained one step behind her, to watch her walk. Her blonde hair left a sun-scented wake in the air. Hold your nose, old moron, he said to himself. When they were at the door, she held out a warm little hand.
‘Well, goodbye,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Elvira. See you again some time.’
She smiled.
‘I really don’t think we’ll ever see each other again,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, policeman.’ She closed the door and Bordelli found himself singing a song by Celentano. He crossed the avenue slowly. The pavements were full of mothers and prams. Back in the Beetle, Bordelli found Piras bare-chested and asleep. Hearing the car door open, the Sardinian jolted awake, sat straight up, and started putting his shirt back on.
‘So, Inspector, how did it go?’
‘How did what go?’
* * *
Bordelli breathed in very deeply through his nose, and the smell of the sea brought him violently back to a very distant past. In his mind he saw again, as in some mythic remoteness, the house at Marina di Massa where his Mantuan aunts, rich old maids, used to spend their holidays, an art nouveauish little villa of grey stone, nobly spotted here and there with dry, greeny moss. It looked like a miniature castle ensconced in a magic garden, shady and private, full of very tall, slender pines and big dark plants. Resting on the brown, fertile ground was a broad basin full of slimy water with goldfish in it. A table of travertine stone glowed almost white under an arbour of passionflower, site of grown-up conversations. He saw again the great marble staircase, the tea-room with its lead-lined windows, the cast-iron spiral staircase that ascended mysteriously towards the ceiling and up to a room he was not allowed to enter. He was, however, allowed to eat chocolates, which were always old and stale, and the maid’s own home-made biscuits. And he was allowed to play with the cat, but not to hurt it. After lunch there was the usual nightmare: he had to take his nap. This was a terrible sacrifice for him: outside the sun was beating down, hundreds of lizards were waiting for nothing more than to be chased, while he was forced to lie in bed between Mamma and Papa, doing nothing. All he could do was think or follow the blurry, colourful shadows of passers-by on the ceiling, cast by the sun through the slats of the closed shutters. But as soon as Papa began to snore, he would get out of bed. Mamma was his accomplice and would gesture to him to be quiet, and he would go downstairs. The house was all his: silent, in semi-darkness from the partially closed blinds, and full of shadows. He used to slither across the floors on his belly, sliding under the furniture to escape the monsters who wanted to eat his feet. Round about four o’clock he would hear his mother’s footsteps upstairs, as she went into the bathroom. A bit disappointed and a bit glad, he would come out from under the sideboard and go and sit on the big red couch, already at the beach in his mind … Sea, sun, playing in the sand, diving, hearing Mamma call from afar: ‘That’s enough now, come out of the water.’ Then, after the last swim, a warm focaccia, taking big bites while shivering under his bathing-wrap. The sun, big and red, sinking into the sea before his eyes, an infinity of unfinished thoughts cluttering his head, turning him pensive, serious. The aunties used to say under their breath that ‘the little one’ was a melancholy child, and so they smiled and coddled him more than was necessary, and gave him presents. Poor aunties. They had died quite a while ago. He saw them again, seated one beside the other on the beach, dressed as if in a sitting room, with gold brooches and necklaces. They would look out at the sea, making useless comments or discussing projects for their vast farm in Argelato. Zia Cecilia, with her tiny head and a face like a night-bird; Zia Vittorina, with a black hairnet over her head and a walking stick with a silver knob at one end; Zia Ilda, white and transparent as a ghost, with her big, untroubled eyes, deep-set in her skull; and lastly, Zia Costanza, tiny and round, with her always cheerful face and gravelly voice. She gave off a sickly-sweet smell and loved to kiss everyone. A future friend of Il Duce and a famous medium, often chosen by the spirits of the long dead to be their voice for a few minutes among the living. Images of a vague, time-worn past, made all the more remote by the profound differences between those times and now, as distant from each other as a horse-drawn carriage and a Lancia Flaminia …
Under the spell of these thoughts, Bordelli had stopped eating his ice cream, which was now melting and dripping down the sides of the cup. A baby’s scream woke him up, and he found himself sitting in a cafe mobbed with people in bathing suits. Piras was looking at him, a curious expression on his face.
‘Inspector, can you hear me?’
‘Sorry, Piras, I was distracted.’
‘I said it’s already two o’clock.’
Bordelli ran his hands over his face to wipe away the memories. He pushed away the cup of ice cream and lit a cigarette.
‘Well, Piras, it seems the Morozzi brothers told the truth. What do you think? Shall we go look for these Salvettis anyway?’
‘Why not?’
Bordelli paused for a moment to reflect, then took out his wallet to pay.
‘Then let’s go straight away, so we can catch them before they go to the beach.’ When he stood up, he felt slightly dizzy, and in his mind he saw Elvira, clear as a photograph.
‘Signor Salvetti?’
‘Yes, I’m Salvetti. Who are you?’
‘Inspector Bordelli. This is Piras. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?’
‘About what?’
