Dantesque clouds of smoke.
‘The crazy fool! It’ll be nice to see him, poor bloke. When did he get out?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘Want a few hot beans, Inspector?’
‘Thanks.’
Botta poured a ladleful of steaming beans on to a plate, then started chopping parsley with a mezzaluna. In one corner of the table was a large slab of red meat beside a salad bowl filled to the brim with diced potatoes. A number of mysterious bags were lined up on the sideboard.
‘What’s it going to be after the Lombard soup?’ Bordelli asked.
‘It’s a surprise, Inspector. All I can say is that it’ll be a journey outside of Italy.’
‘To the north or south?’
‘No more questions, Inspector. Botta never talks.’
‘In this heat I’m sure you’ll take us south. Morocco? Tunisia?’
‘This is a delicate moment, Inspector. Don’t distract me.’
Bordelli finished his tuna and ate an apple without saying another word. Ennio moved nimbly back and forth between table and cooker, completely submerged in his thoughts. Seeing him so busy, Bordelli decided to get out of his way, went and lay down in bed and lit a cigarette. The blinding sunlight forced its way through the slats of the closed shutters. At that hour, two in the afternoon, the silence was almost absolute. Feeling a great sadness well up in his chest, Bordelli closed his eyes and very nearly fell asleep with the lighted cigarette in his hand. He crushed it in the ashtray and turned on to his side. He was trying to banish from his thoughts the image of Elvira brushing a blonde lock of hair away from her face, and when he finally succeeded, it was replaced by another, much older memory … an abandoned farmhouse at the top of a hill … He was on patrol with Piras Sr, climbing the slope through fallow fields. When they reached the house they stopped in the farmyard and looked around. It was spring and the insects were buzzing round the flowers. A sort of maternal warmth emanated from the hot bricks. He felt like lying down in the grass and sleeping for ever. He slung the machine gun over his shoulder and folded his hands behind his head, breathing in the scented air. Then all at once he turned round, instinctively, without knowing why, and saw the double barrel of a shotgun poke out of some bushes beside the house. He managed to grab Gavino by the arm and pull him to the ground a split second before the shot. The pellets struck the wall of the house, raising a yellowish cloud of dust. Flat on the ground, they awaited the second shot.
‘Should I fire back?’ asked Piras. Bordelli shook his head no. They lay there on the warm brick, carefully scanning the bushes. The double barrel was gone, but soon poked out through more shrubbery. He and Piras rolled to one side and the shot wasn’t late in coming. The hail of pellets scraped the ground, cutting the grass and raising splinters of brick. At once Bordelli sprang to his feet and ran towards the shotgun, diving into the bush, where he found himself in front of an old man with a broad face, a long beard and a black peasant’s cap pulled down to his eyes. The man was pointing his now empty shotgun at him, shaking the barrels to keep him at bay.
‘You want my chickens, do you? Well, no chickens for you, my friend, the Germans gunned them all down, too, hee hee hee! Ah, no chickens, no rabbits, all kaput, heeheehee!
He goggled his eyes and burst into laughter. Bordelli heard Gavino panting behind him.
‘And who is this?’ asked the Sardinian. Without taking his eyes off the old man, Bordelli tapped his temple twice with his finger.
Piras came forward with a great rustling of leaves and branches.
‘He may be crazy, but he was ready to make us bleed,’ he said, gesturing as if to say that his cartridges were harmless, filled only with birdshot.
The old man was no longer smiling, but staring at the double barrel of the shotgun in wonder. He remained that way for a few seconds, brow wrinkled as if listening for a faraway sound. Then he set down his rifle, lowered his eyes, and sobbed three or four times, chest heaving.
‘Animals!’ he said, rubbing his nose and stamping his feet on the ground so hard he seemed to want to break through the earth’s crust. At last he spat to one side and raised the rifle again, pointing it at Bordelli.
‘No chickens,
Bordelli and Piras exchanged glances. They took the mad old peasant by the arm and walked back towards the field, as the man kept muttering ‘kaput, kaput’ without cease. Back at the infirmary they coddled him like a child. He scarfed down some American junk food and got so drunk he finally threw up. The following day they sent him along with a couple of wounded to a hospital behind the front lines. Bordelli continued to wonder whether he had done the right thing to take the old man away from his little house and not simply leave him there alone to live out his crazy life in peace.
* * *
A fly landed on his nose. He opened his eyes to look at the alarm clock. He was sure he had slept hardly at all, but in fact it was almost six o’clock. He lay in bed for a while longer, trying to revive his sluggish muscles. The stink of cigarette butts bothered him, so he covered the ashtray with a book. Stretching his legs over the hot sheets, he stared at the ceiling and turned his thoughts to Signora Pedretti-Strassen. He saw again her gnarled hands clutching at her throat, her blue-veined white feet, her sharp, slightly hooked nose, her open eyes, full of horror and almost alive, her body stiff on the great bed, alone in her large villa on the hill, high over the deserted city, surrounded by age-old trees … At once he felt like going back there, to breathe that air again, see that room again, look at those floors again.
He put on his shoes and poked his head into the kitchen. Botta was dicing meat, engrossed in his labours, while a white, spice-scented smoke rose up from a skillet.
‘I’m going out, Ennio. I’ll see you at nine.’
Botta muttered something without looking up. The inspector left him there and went out into the street, mouth still pasty with sleep. As the Volkswagen was parked in the shade, he could get in without trauma. Reaching the Lungarno, he crossed the Ponte alle Grazie and turned, as always, to look up at the church of San Miniato al Monte, his favourite. Its white facade always had the same effect, whether from up close or far away.
A few minutes later he turned up the sloping street that led to the villa. A warm, sticky wind blew in through the window. He could already see the villa’s roof from afar, with the great cedar towering over it. He took the last curves with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He would smoke it later, perhaps seated on a sofa in front of some beautiful painting.
He stopped the Beetle in the usual spot and got out of the car. Crossing the street, he looked down at the city below. A maze of red roofs bristling with the churches’ belfries. He felt a great urge to scream at the top of his lungs, to stop thinking about Elvira’s eyes, the slap of her bare little feet on the tiled floor. He wanted to forget he was fifty-three years old, a melancholy grump with no more desire to dream, an old man fond of solitude, unable to open up to others.
Lighting the cigarette, he headed towards the villa. He entered the garden somewhat tentatively, as if violating someone’s privacy. The cicadas hummed, high in the trees. All was calm. Entering the house, he went straight up to the first floor. In Rebecca’s room the window had been left ajar. Bordelli opened it wide, pulled up a chair, and sat in front of it. The wind gently rustled the trees’ great boughs, and soon he was asleep, chin on his chest, lulled by the cicadas.
A gust whistled through the trees, waking him up. It was almost dark outside. His cigarette had fallen to the floor and burnt down, leaving a brown streak on a floor tile. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was almost nine o’clock.
‘Shit,’ he said. Dinner must be almost ready. He tried to get up out of the chair, but his legs were unsteady. Bending down to pick up the butt, he looked around for an ashtray. Spotting a wastebasket in the corner, he tossed the cigarette and missed. Rising with a sigh, he walked past the bed and noticed something moving on it. Turning round with a start, he smiled: a huge white cat was lying on one of the pillows, paws in the air and eyes half open.
‘And what are you doing here?’ he said.
He went up to the animal and patted it. The cat opened its eyes and meowed. Its fur was soft. Bordelli ran his hand all along its belly.
‘Got to go now, pretty boy. Ciao.’
