Death and the Olive Grove Read online

  ‘What’s the matter, Inspector? Y’oughta see your face …’ said Totò, coming up to him with a wooden spoon in his hand.

  ‘I’m just a little tired,’ said Bordelli, knowing that the news of the little girl’s murder hadn’t yet spread.

  ‘Just tell me how hungry you are.’

  ‘Give me whatever you want, Totò. I don’t feel like deciding.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Inspector. I’ll set you right,’ said the cook, who went and started fiddling at the cooker. He soon returned with a steaming plate of fried chicken and artichokes, a speciality of his. Bordelli poured himself a glass of wine and set to his food. Totò was loquacious as usual and started talking about politics and love against a backdrop of sauté pans, never once losing the rhythm of his cooking. The uneducated cook knew how to get to the heart of things, even if his way of getting there was all his own.

  ‘People getting married, people breaking up … I have this idea, Inspector … If a man and a woman want to work things out together, they can remake the world; but if they want to make war, then a plate of overdone spaghetti’s enough to bring out the knives.’

  Bordelli was gorging himself, washing it all down with wine and nodding in agreement with Totò. He had no desire whatsoever to talk. He finished off his fried chicken and artichokes to the sound of the shrill, sharp voice of the cook, who talked about everything from the bloody vendettas of his home province to the recipe for pork with myrtle.

  ‘Coffee, Inspector?’ he said in the end.

  ‘Make it nice and black, Totò. You’ve made me eat like a Pig.’

  ‘Then you’ll need a little of this grappa I’ve got,’ said the cook, looking on a shelf for the right bottle.

  ‘You’re shortening my life, Totò.’

  ‘But making it better …’

  ‘I can pick my poison …’

  ‘No poison, Inspector – here, have a taste of this,’ said Totò, filling his glass.

  ‘Sit down with me a minute, Totò, you’ve been on your feet the whole time.’

  Bordelli left the trattoria around eleven o’clock, feeling fatter and more tired, and swore he would not set foot in that kitchen again for at least a month. But he knew he would break his vow. After he got into his car, it started to rain, but in drops so tiny it wasn’t worth the trouble of turning on the windscreen wipers. He drove slowly, smoking, and every so often a sigh escaped him. He stopped to have another coffee in Via San Gallo and went back to police headquarters. The rain was starting to fall harder as he ran inside. Entering his office, he collapsed in his chair, wishing he could go to bed. But the night was not over yet; there was one more ball-ache to attend to.

  The round-up had been planned some weeks before and couldn’t be postponed any longer. Bordelli hated this sort of thing, especially when he had a case as serious as the child murder on his hands. He had tried to talk Commissioner Inzipone out of it, even pulling out the excuse that, on top of everything else, it was pouring outside. But it had been no use.

  ‘It’s only sprinkling, Bordelli. Let’s not have any tantrums. Every now and then these things have to be done. We have orders from the Ministry. Please don’t make life difficult for me, the way you always do.’

  Fine. If the round-up had to be carried out, Bordelli preferred to be there for it.

  Shortly past midnight, a number of police cars and vans full of cops pulled up in Ponte di Mezzo. It was common knowledge that those low-rent blocks housed a clandestine gambling den for the poor and a couple of brothels of the lowest grade, and that a great many receivers and smugglers lived there alongside countless petty thieves who could open any door in the world. Ponte di Mezzo was one of the poorest quarters in town, reduced to rubble during the war and rebuilt mostly on hope, and full of disillusioned, pissed-off people. Bordelli often thought that in some respects the first twenty years of the Republic had done more harm to Italy than the Fascists and Nazis combined. Such districts were a necessary and even useful scourge of the great mechanism of a society so fashioned—badly, that is—and it was extremely unpleasant to go and give a bollocking to a whole army of people who scraped by to survive.

  It was still raining hard. Bordelli, Piras and four uniformed officers ran through the downpour and slipped into a building in Via del Terzolle. Throughout the block there were underground tunnels and passages that in wartime had served several times to make fools of the Germans during round-ups. Bordelli and his men went into the basement and broke down a door. They entered a smoke-filled cellar where someone had managed to turn out the lights just in time. The policemen turned on their electric torches and put everyone up against the wall. The faces were the usual ones. Bordelli made gestures of greeting to a number of old acquaintances, then left the uniformed cops to check their papers, as he and Piras went up to the third floor of the building.

  On the door was a tin sign that said: PENSIONE AURORA. They went in without knocking, dirtying the small pink rugs in the entrance with their wet shoes. Signorina Ortensia came running towards them with all her heft.

  ‘Don’t you wipe your feet before entering at home?’ she screamed, the fat quivering under chin.

  ‘Not so loud, Ortensia,’ said Bordelli. The ‘signorina’ gestured crossly and two girls in dressing gowns ran upstairs with a giggle, slippers shuffling. A boa of red feathers was left behind on the threadbare carpet covering the stairs. The little drawing room was all light and shadow, with soft music playing in the background. There was an unbearable tang of sweat and cheap perfume in the air. A black silk stocking fluttered faintly on the back of a chair. It was one of the most squalid places Bordelli knew.

  ‘For the love of God, why do you persecute me like this?!’ Ortensia cried plaintively. She had massive thighs, and yet she danced on her feet as though she weighed ten stone less.

  ‘It’s just a routine check,’ said Piras.

  ‘And who the hell is this little boy?’ said Ortensia, eyes popping, looking at him as if she’d just noticed him at that moment. Piras blushed and started biting his lips.

  ‘Let’s make this snappy,’ said Bordelli, looking bored.

  ‘A routine check … You call this a routine check! You’re worse than the Germans!’ the woman whined, pulling her flower-print dressing gown tightly around her. She started saying the usual things … That her boarding house was a respectable place, frequented by important people, high-ranking politicians, even an undersecretary …

  ‘Bring the girls down,’ said Bordelli, tired of all the chatter. He could still feel Totò’s fried chicken churning in his stomach.

  ‘If you shut me down you might as well shoot me!’ the fat lady said, stamping her foot and making the floor shake.

  ‘Go and get the girls, Ortensia. All of them. And if there are any clients up there, bring them down too,’ said Bordelli, his patience wearing thin.

  Ortensia looked at a crucifix on the wall and made the sign of the cross.

  ‘You want to ruin me. If word gets round, nobody will come here any more!’ she said in an angry whisper, forcing herself not to shout, so as not to alarm the clients.

  ‘Never mind, we’ll go and do it ourselves,’ said Bordelli. He gestured to Piras, and they sidestepped the fat lady. Once upstairs, they started opening doors.

  ‘Police. Everybody downstairs.’

  Shouts and curses rang out, and in the semi-darkness they saw men pulling the covers over their heads. Bordelli and Piras went back downstairs to wait, ignoring Ortensia’s protests. Nobody could escape. Bordelli knew there was only one exit. A few minutes later various girls and a few men came down.

  ‘Are they all here, Ortensia? Because if I go up and find somebody hiding …’

  ‘They’re all here, General,’ said Ortensia, eyeing him with hatred.

  Bordelli gestured to Piras, and they lined them all up against the wall. The few clients huffed and smoked with an indignant air. Only one of them had the repellent look of guilt, eyes lowered and face sweaty. The
girls all wore the same plush slippers with pompons. They sniggered and held their dressing gowns provocatively open to fluster Piras, who was casting surreptitious glances at them. Bordelli felt ridiculous concerning himself with such things when he still had young Valentina’s dead body before his eyes. But he could do nothing about it.

  They finished checking everyone’s papers. There were no fugitives among them, and no underage girls.

  ‘Ortensia, does the name Merlin mean anything to you?’1 asked Bordelli, looking straight into her eyes, which were drowning in fat.

  ‘It’s all so easy for you, copper, but what am I supposed to do? Eh? Can you tell me what I’m supposed to do at sixty years of age?’ asked Ortensia, swelling with hatred. She gave Piras a dirty look, as the Sardinian stared at her in disgust.

  ‘Let’s go, Piras,’ said Bordelli, putting a cigarette in his mouth. They left the Pensione Aurora and came out on to the street. A few drops were still falling, but the worst was over. A number of people had been lined up against the wall outside, all men. It really did look like a German round-up, and it was hardly surprising that nobody liked it. Bordelli wished Inzipone could have been there to see the looks on all their faces.

  Among them was Romeo, a poor wretch from the Case Minime2 who kept pretty busy: robberies, receiving stolen goods, counterfeiting and other similar activities, though always very low-level. He often found his way into bigger circuits and regularly got a good thrashing. He had a moral code of his own, however: no blackmailing and no pimping. Everything else was fair game. He was short, skinny as a beanpole, with a round, shaggy head always tilted to one side, as if it weighed too much. He always wore a dirty bandana round his neck and coughed more and more each year. He made a pitiful sight, drenched in the rain like that.

  ‘Ciao, Romeo. Are you clean or did they find something on you?’ asked Bordelli, stopping in front of him. The little thief made a sad face.

  ‘I was playing poker at the Mouse’s place, and I was even losing.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Romeo shrugged, embarrassed. A uniformed policeman came up to them.

  ‘He had these banknotes on him, Inspector. They’re counterfeit,’ he said, handing him a few thousand-lira notes.

  ‘Well, well …’ said Bordelli, glancing over at a stony-faced Piras. Romeo took a step forward, pulled the inspector aside, and lowered his voice.

  ‘Don’t let them put me in again, Inspector … I’ve found a wonderful woman.’

  ‘Are you trying to make me sorry for you?’

  ‘It’s true, Inspector … Look how pretty she is.’ Romeo took a badly creased photograph out of his inside pocket, looked around to make sure nobody else could see it, then thrust it under Bordelli’s nose. She was a chubby blonde with a pretty smile.

  ‘Cute, Romeo, very cute. What’s she doing with someone like you?’

  ‘She’s the most beautiful woman in the world,’ said Romeo. He planted a kiss on the photograph and put it safely away again. Bordelli lit a cigarette and blew the smoke skywards.

  ‘Get out of here, Romeo, and stay away from the phoney money. The stuff’s not for you; there are some dangerous people in that circuit.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ said the little thief, tapping Bordelli’s elbow.

  ‘Now get going.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Get out of here …’

  ‘All right, but … what about my money?’

  Bordelli ran a hand over his eyes and heaved a sigh.

  ‘By all means, Romeo … Actually, tell you what: I’ll put them about myself, and we can split the proceeds … What do you say?’

  ‘What was that, Inspector?’

  ‘Make yourself scarce, Romeo. I’m about to change my mind.’

  ‘No need to get angry …’ said Romeo, starting to move away. Bordelli stood there and watched him walk hurriedly away on his toothpick legs. He had always felt sorry for Romeo.

  The rain had stopped. The sky was beginning to clear, and a few stars were already coming out. Bordelli wiped his face with both hands and stopped in front of another old acquaintance.

  ‘Look who we have here,’ he said with a half-smile. The Saint was always well dressed and fragrant with cologne. He pulled everyone’s leg with his claim of noble origins and always tried to speak with refinement, but his brutish face spoke much more clearly.

  ‘Inspector, what a pleasure …’ he said, giving a slight bow.

  ‘Get a good look at this guy, Piras. He’s the biggest liar you’ll ever meet.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Inspector?’ asked the Saint, looking at Piras with an expression of innocence.

  ‘You still robbing churches?’ asked Bordelli.

  ‘No, Inspector, I swear it. I deal in second-hand goods now.’

  ‘You mean stolen property.’

  ‘Never knowingly, Inspector, never.’

  ‘Ever heard of unlawful acquisition?’

  ‘Sounds like robbery, not my sort of thing.’

  ‘I like you, Santo, but don’t push your luck.’

  ‘I promise, Inspector,’ said the Saint, right hand on his heart. Whenever he didn’t know what to say, he promised.

  ‘Get out of here,’ said Bordelli.

  The Saint smiled faintly, nodded his head, and headed off serenely down the street, hands in his pockets, followed by Piras’s amused gaze. It was the first time the youth was taking part in a round-up, and he now understood why Bordelli tried to avert them.

  ‘I can’t wait to be asleep,’ the inspector said, dropping his cigarette butt into the rivulet of water flowing down the pavement. Looking at the poor bastards’ faces he remembered that it was, in fact, during a round-up that he had first met Rosa, right after the war. At the time, three out of every ten women in the poorer quarters practised the profession. Rosa had stopped a few years later. Being one who knew how to economise, she was able to buy herself a nice flat in the centre of town …

  Lost in thoughts of times past, the inspector gave a start when Officer Binazzi came up behind him.

  ‘Inspector, we’ve found some weapons.’

  ‘Oh, really? What kind of weapons?’

  ‘Looks like stuff from the war.’

  ‘In whose place?’

  ‘In the flat of a certain Gaspare Mordacci, Inspector.’

  Bordelli shrugged.

  ‘I know him well,’ he said. ‘Those weapons are souvenirs of his Partisan days.’

  ‘What should I do, Inspéctor?’

  ‘Leave him in peace … It’s thanks to him, too, that you don’t live in a country run by Germans.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Binazzi, and he ran away.

  Bordelli grabbed his packet of cigarettes, then tasted a bitter, disgusting patina on his tongue and put it back in his pocket. Exchanging a glance with Piras, he thought he saw the young man smile.

  ‘What a pain in the arse,’ he said.

  Indeed. He could only guess the pain Inzipone would cause him after that umpteenth round-up with no arrests.

  ‘So, monkey, is your big bad headache going away?’

  Rosa was standing behind him and massaging his face up to the temples. She had spread cream all over his skin, and her fingers seemed magical.

  ‘Yes, it’s going away, but don’t stop,’ said Bordelli. The former prostitute was as pure as a child. After years of hard work in brothels all across the region, she decided to quit when the Merlin law was passed. She didn’t like one bit the idea of spending the whole night pounding the pavement. Luckily she had always been a sort of squirrel and over the years had managed to put away enough to buy herself this little flat with a view of the roofs and Arnolfo’s Tower,3 and to live on her savings until she grew old. She really had earned it all. ‘I’m the only one of the girls who managed to save up my money,’ she often said with a certain pride.

  It was almost three o’clock in the morning. Bordelli lay on the sofa with his shoes off, stroking the head of Gideon, Rosa’s wh
ite cat. The beast had curled up on the inspector’s belly and was purring. After a day like the one he’d just been through, this was exactly what Bordelli needed. The cat had been used a year before as a Trojan horse to kill its owner, and the inspector had given the orphaned animal to Rosa.

  ‘Are you hungry? Shall I make you a tartine?’ she asked.

  ‘No thanks. I don’t feel like eating.’

  ‘You look sad.’

  Bordelli couldn’t get the image of the dead little girl out of his head.

  ‘This isn’t a good time, Rosa … And tonight I had to conduct a round-up,’ he said.

  ‘Poor dear, I know how much you hate that.’ Rosa stopped massaging him and went into the bathroom to wash the greasy cream off her hands. Gideon gave a full-mouthed yawn and, stretching, planted his claws in Bordelli’s belly. Before curling up to go back to sleep, he turned round on himself once, his tail brushing the inspector’s face.

  Rosa returned and collapsed in the armchair.

  ‘Would you like something to drink, monkey?’ she asked.

  ‘If you’ve got some of that cognac …’

  ‘Of course I have.’ Rosa got up again, lithe as a young girl, and went and filled two glasses. Handing one to Bordelli, she went to turn on the gramophone. She put Vecchio frac on the turntable and started to dance wistfully, swaying on the carpet. At a certain point she smiled sadly.

  ‘That poor little girl must have gone straight to heaven,’ she said, still dancing.

  ‘Maybe she didn’t feel like going there so soon,’ said Bordelli.

  Gideon stretched again and slid off him lazily, heading towards the kitchen, tail straight up. The inspector put his feet on the floor and slipped his shoes on.

  ‘I think I’ll go home to bed,’ he said, yawning.

  ‘Go and get some rest, dear. I’m sure you’ll catch that madman.’

  ‘Say a prayer for me,’ he said, feeling discouraged. He downed the rest of his cognac and stood up. Overcoming a slight dizziness, he tucked his shirt into his trousers, then lit a cigarette. It tasted disgusting, but he kept smoking it anyway.

  ‘I’m off,’ he said.

  Rosa accompanied him to the door and stroked his face, which was already rough with a growth of beard. The inspector took Rosa’s hand in his.