Back to Bologna
Michael Dibdin
1
‘Someone should kill him.’
Bruno didn’t reply.
‘Well, I don’t actually mean that, of course,’ Nando went on.
‘Not literally.’
‘No.’
‘As in a knife through the heart.’
‘For example.’
‘You were speaking allegorically.’
‘Er…yes.’
‘My client’s intention in allegedly uttering the phrase “Someone should kill him” was entirely euphemistic, not to say parabolic.’
‘Right. It’s just that if the smarmy bastard should happen to drop dead…’
‘Which God forbid.’
‘…then that would solve all our problems.’
‘Says who? The next one could be even worse.’
‘Worse than Curti? You must be joking.’
‘Plus you’re assuming that anyone in his right mind would be prepared to buy a club where half the players are on a loan or time-share deal with other teams, and the rest will be sold off at the end of the season to meet the budgetary shortfall. It would take years, not to mention very deep pockets, to turn i rossoblu around.’
‘All right, so hold the heart attack, cancel the stroke. Now what? One more season like this and I’ll…’
Nando broke off as the car’s headlights picked out an amazing pair of black legs displayed up to the white silk triangle of the crotch.
‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ Bruno grunted sourly.
‘Get stuffed.’
‘By her? Any time.’
‘Or him.’
‘With legs like that, who cares? God, I’m bored.’
Nando turned the radio back up.
‘…created several good chances, particularly in the second half, but this merely served to underline the thing that Bologna fans have been talking about all season, and in all honesty for many seasons past, namely the lack of a world-class striker who could capitalise on the many opportunities going to waste out there and put the ball in the net. The service from the wings and the midfield is always reliable and occasionally inspired, but when it comes to finishing it’s the same sad story week after week…’
Bruno yawned massively.
‘So how are the kids?’ he asked, cutting the volume of the radio to a plaintive whine.
‘All doing well except Carmelo. He’s got some sort of canker on his ribs just below the wing. It must be bothering him because he keeps gnawing at it.’
‘Can’t you put some sort of bandage on it? Or just tie him up till it heals?’
They drove past a rare prominence in this two-dimensional landscape, one of the vast tumuli where the city’s garbage was interred, its burning vapours a perpetual flame of remembrance.
‘They go crazy if you try and restrain them. I’m taking him to the doctor tomorrow. He needs to get on a course of antibiotics.’
‘They say now you shouldn’t overdo that stuff. Lowers your immunity to flu or something.’
‘Birds don’t get flu.’
‘Sure they do. Remember that Chinese chicken scare?’
‘Carmelo isn’t a chicken.’
Nando was a handsome hunk from some village down in the Abruzzi that Bruno had never heard of, whose latest doomed dream was to get his hands on the ten-cylinder, 500 bhp, 300 km/h Gallardo coupe which the Lamborghini company had recently donated to the Polizia di Stato for mutual public relations purposes. Built like a wrestler, with a neat black beard and an amiable but unfocused smile, he had for some reason married himself off to a skinny, neurotic harridan from Ferrara. Presumably to compensate for the fact that their marriage was and would remain childless, the couple kept a total of eleven parrots and cockatoos in their two-bedroom apartment. The birds perched on your shoulder, nibbled your ear and shat on your jacket, and the whole place stank. Bruno had been there for dinner. Once.
He and Nando were on their way back to headquarters after having been called to the scene of an alleged burglary out in Villanova. The complainant was a slyly pugnacious electrical contractor whose wife had just left him and gone home to live with her mother, taking their six-year-old son with her. He claimed to have come home after work to find the apartment gutted of just about everything except the plumbed-in washing machine. Since the sophisticated alarm system that he had himself installed had failed to respond, then clearly his estranged spouse, the only other person who knew the deactivation code, must be the guilty party.
It had taken over three hours to take the man’s statement and to question his neighbours, none of whom had noticed anything amiss. Bruno more than half suspected that the electrician had cleaned the place out himself over a period of several days, put the stuff in storage under a false name, and was now making a formal denuncia to back up an insurance claim and ensure that the ‘thankless bitch’ who had made his life hell got a fair ration in return. As far as the police were concerned, it would almost certainly be a total waste of time, demanding wads of completed forms, written reports and lengthy communication with the authorities in Ferrara, and never getting anywhere.
Bruno didn’t care, even though being rostered that night had meant missing Bologna FC’s local derby at Ancona, postponed from shortly before Christmas after the original fixture was cancelled due to a pitch invasion. He was bored and hungry and tired and looking forward to going off shift as soon as they got back to the Questura, but at a deeper level he was still blissed out, even though months had elapsed since the miracle had occurred to cut short his ‘hardship posting’ in the far north of the country and bring him back to Bologna. The young patrolman had stopped going to mass when he left home, but he had recently paid several visits to San Domenico, his neighbourhood church, and on each occasion had set ten euros worth of votary tapers burning before an image of the saint in a chapel where they still provided real sweet-smelling beeswax candles, not the moulded plastic electric bulbs that were replacing them these days and which always reminded Bruno of an amusement arcade. Maybe it had even been fifteen euros the first time. Anyway, at least he’d paid for them, unlike some people, hence the coin- in-the-slot replicas.
On a rational level, of course, he knew precisely how his early return from the German-speaking Sudtirol region had come about, but this didn’t alter the fact that a miracle of some sort had definitely been involved. Consider the odds. First, this high-flyer from the Criminalpol squad in Rome named Aurelio Zen gets sent up to Bolzano on some shady case with important political ramifications the exact nature of which Bruno had never understood. Second, he, Bruno, is detailed to drive the ministerial envoy or whatever he was to a windswept inn on a God-forsaken pass way up in the mountains on a back road to Cortina. Third, Bruno himself-stuck in said inn for the rest of the day while his passenger goes off with a young Austrian witness to pursue his investigations-finally cracks up under the dour cloud of graceless silence and the glares of loathing lasered his way by the locals, and finally freaks out completely at a cafe where he and Zen stop on the way back down the mountain, screaming actionably offensive abuse at the stocky, stolid Teutonic blockheads who have made his life and those of all his fellow recruits a misery for months on end. Fourth, instead of putting him on a charge for grossly inappropriate behaviour such as to cause serious unrest in an area notorious for its political sensitivities and separatist
