Death in August

‘I mean just what I said.’

Rodrigo sighed indulgently and started fiddling with his red pen.

‘Italy used to be all wheat and sheep … and now prosperity is finally on its way,’ he said.

‘For whom, exactly?’

‘For everyone. We used to be a nation of peasants, and now we all drive cars.’ As usual, after a difficult start, Rodrigo was warming up to the idea of talking.

‘The power of statistics,’ said Bordelli. ‘Do you watch a lot of television?’

‘Why? Do you want to be left behind?’

‘Left behind by what?’

‘For now, we’re still at the beginning, but before long, you’ll be amazed.’

‘I’m already amazed.’

‘If each does his part, we’ll all be fine.’

‘I don’t know why, but I don’t like that statement.’

‘Can’t you see that you don’t understand? You don’t understand that everything is governed by the laws of chemistry, even man and society-’

‘So it’s all very simple, in other words.’

‘Look, it’s easy to see what you’re thinking. You’re one of those who think chemistry is only a cold science.’

‘Ah, you mean I’m not alone?’

‘You don’t understand, none of you. One need only find the right formula for each thing. There are certain substances that can change the molecular structure of others. Some compounds are inert until they come into contact with a new agent that makes them explode … It’s not magic; everything is governed by precise rules.’

‘And where does prosperity fit in with all this?’

‘Prosperity is the result of new combinations of elements that have always existed. Is that not chemistry? This is an important moment for our country … and Italians know this.’

‘Italians? What do you mean by “Italians?”’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Which Italians are you talking about? The lawyer who lives on the floor below, or the day-labourer from Bari?’

‘Everything’s always a joke to you.’

‘Look, I’m not joking. Which Italians do you mean?’

‘You tell me something. How did you end up becoming a policeman?’

‘Actually, it’s a good profession. I’ve made a lot of friends as a policeman.’

‘And a fine lot they are: prostitutes and thieves …’

‘You should meet them some time, Rodrigo. They could teach you a great deal.’

‘You are insane.’

‘Right, I’m insane because I refuse to condemn the poor and I despise this dream-besotted country that believes in the Fiat 1100.’

‘What are you, a communist?’

Bordelli shook his head.

‘For now, it is easier to say what I’m not,’ he said. Rodrigo raised the red pen and then dropped it on to the papers.

‘As usual, you don’t know what you want,’ he said smugly.

‘That’s possible, but I don’t like a poor little country that dresses up as if it’s rich. It’s asking for trouble.’

Rodrigo huffed and made as if to resume correcting papers. Bordelli finished his now cold tea and put an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t light it,’ he said, raising a hand.

‘I’m not worried,’ Rodrigo muttered. Bordelli stood up, approached the desk slowly, then leaned on it with both hands.

‘You know, Rodrigo, I really believe that, somewhere, there is a woman made just for me … Isn’t that also a question of chemistry?’

‘I don’t like the way you put it.’

‘Why, how did I put it?’

Rodrigo tightened his lips and said nothing. Snatching a paper already marked in red from the stack, he went back to work. Bordelli looked at his watch. He had a great many things to attend to, and here he was wasting his time doing nothing.

‘I’ll let you work,’ he said.

‘I’ve still got seventy more to correct.’

‘That’s a lot …’

‘Have you anything else to say to me?’

‘Let me think.’

Bordelli pulled out a box of matches and started to shake it as if it were some South American percussion instrument.

‘You’re making noise,’ said Rodrigo, annoyed. Bordelli immediately stopped.

‘You know something, Rodrigo? One day I’d like to take you to the forensics department and show you the corpses.’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘You’re wrong not to be. You don’t know how many things you could learn.’

‘Make sure you shut the door on your way out.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll seal everything up.’

‘Bye.’

‘Goodbye, Rodrigo. Give my regards to Auntie.’

The inspector set his cup down on a stack of papers and left Rodrigo to his flourishes of red ink. As soon as he was on the landing, he lit his cigarette.

Three weeks of relative calm passed at police headquarters. But it was even hotter than before. The humid, motionless air ruled every corner of the city. The houses were saturated with the smell of zampironi and DDT. In that hazy summer solitude Bordelli often indulged in long monologues in his mind, especially at night in bed, before falling asleep. Or, perhaps more correctly, before sinking into that sort of laborious, memory-laden sleep which got him through the night. It was a kind of semi- consciousness peopled with overlapping images, where distant memories merged with absurd fantasies, and fatuous little dramas played themselves over and over to the point of obsession, tiring him out until they finally woke him up. At which point he would get out of bed, go into the bathroom, drink two or three glasses of water, then lie back down again, not bothering to cover himself with the sheet. Window still open, a pitcher of water with ice cubes on the nightstand. Sometimes he couldn’t go back to sleep at all and would spend hours and hours in a confused state of mind, as if jumping from branch to branch like a restless monkey.

Rosa, for her part, had fled the city. But not before phoning Bordelli to invite him to join her and her girlfriends on their way to Forte dei Marmi. The old retired prostitute had the innocence of a pup.

‘Come on, darling, drop everything and come with us. You’ll have three women to yourself, all in love with you.’

Bordelli had made up some annoying chores that kept him hopelessly stuck in town. He really didn’t feel like playing the stud with three ingenuous whores. Rosa had praised his heroism and asked him to keep an eye on her place.

‘You know, with all the burglars about …’ she had said. She complained that it was no longer the way it used to be, when she, the beautiful Rosa, was well known on the circuit and didn’t need to worry. Things were different now; the new generations of burglars didn’t look anyone in the eye.

‘And don’t forget the flowers, dear, don’t let them wither like last year.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Thank you, you’re such a sweetie. I’ll leave the keys with Carlino for you.’

Carlino was the barman at the corner cafe. He never closed shop.