Death and the Olive Grove (20 page)

Round about seven o'clock he tried phoning Rivalta again, and after the third ring, somebody picked up.

‘Yes, hello?' It was a man, with a nasal, cultured voice.

‘Giacomo?' said Bordelli, masking his voice.

‘Wrong number,' said the man, hanging up.

Bordelli put on his jacket and went to look for Piras. He found him in the radio room, reading Fantini's short story.

‘I rang Rivalta again. There's somebody there now,' he said, sticking a cigarette between his lips. Piras grabbed his jacket on the run and they left. They got into the car and went up the Viali all the way to Porta Romana without saying a word. Then they took the Via Senese for a short distance and finally parked in Via delle Campora, in front of Rivalta's villa. Piras was glad to get out of the smoke-filled car, muttering between his teeth about that stupid vice.

‘The windows were down, Piras.'

‘You can smell it just the same,' said the Sardinian.

The lights on the first floor of the villa were on. A black Lancia Flavia, sparkling clean, was parked in the garden. They rang the bell. A few moments later a window opened and a man appeared. Seeing the two men outside the gate, he closed the window. Seconds later the lights in the garden came on. The villa's front door opened and a man came out. He was tall and thin, with very short black hair. The appearance fitted the description given them by Simone. The man walked towards the gate and stopped about a metre away. He had a long face and a big, hooked nose.

‘Yes?' he said.

‘Are you Dr Rivalta?' asked Bordelli.

‘Yes. Who are you?'

The inspector recognised the nasal voice that had answered the telephone.

‘I'm Inspector Bordelli, he's Piras. Could we come in for a moment?' he asked, flashing his badge. Rivalta didn't budge. He had his hands in his pockets, and it was impossible to see whether he was missing a finger.

‘Do you mind telling me what this is about?' he said.

‘We just want to ask you a few questions. Would you please open the gate?'

Rivalta didn't answer. He had two very dark, deep eyes that shone with intelligence. At last he took a step forward and opened the gate.

‘I hope this won't take up too much of my time,' he said.

‘Just a few minutes,' said the inspector.

Rivalta turned and headed towards the villa, with the two intruders following behind. Both Bordelli and Piras instinctively looked at his left hand, saw only four fingers, and exchanged a glance. After they had entered the house, Rivalta led them into a large room full of bookcases and carpets, a large fireplace in
pietra serena
and a fine eighteenth-century pendulum clock. Four identical sofas formed a square around a small round crystal table cluttered with useless but expensive objects.

‘Please make yourselves comfortable,' Rivalta said calmly, sitting down. The inspector and Piras settled into the sofa across from him. A few seconds of silence passed. Bordelli and Rivalta looked each other in the eye like two animals trying to establish which is the stronger.

‘Dr Rivalta, do you often go for walks in the Parco delle Casine?' Bordelli asked, still staring at him.

‘Why, has it become a crime?' replied Rivalta with a smile.

Piras sighed with irritation. The man's manner was already getting on his nerves.

‘It depends on what one goes there for,' said Bordelli.

‘I go there to walk, not to kill little girls.'

‘I see you're already abreast of the situation.'

‘I read the newspapers,' said Rivalta, looking away for a second.

‘At what time did you get to the park yesterday morning?'

‘I have the vague impression you consider me a suspect, Inspector … Or am I mistaken?'

‘Would you like to call a lawyer?'

‘I don't need one, but if I'm suspected of something I'd like it to be clear.'

Bordelli nodded.

‘Yesterday, you were at the scene of the crime shortly after the girl was killed, and I'm a policeman.'

‘I'll forgive you for that, but nothing else,' said Rivalta, crossing his legs with an untroubled air.

‘Thanks for being so understanding. Now answer my question.'

‘I got there about nine o'clock and strolled for about an hour. But I didn't see or hear anything that might be relevant to your case,' Rivalta said wearily.

‘What were you doing before that?'

Rivalta joined his hands behind his head and sighed as though bored.

‘I woke up, took a shower, got dressed, went out in the car, bought the newspaper at the kiosk at Porta Romana, got back in my car and went and had breakfast like every other day. And then I went to the Parco delle Cascine … Would you like to know anything else?' he asked in the tone of an obedient child.

‘What time did you leave the park?' Bordelli asked calmly, ignoring the provocation.

‘As I said, about ten o'clock.'

‘And what did you do after your walk?'

‘I bought bread, some fruit, a steak, and then I went home. Thrilling, isn't it?'

Piras stared hard at the man, trying to figure out what he might be hiding behind his ironic, jaded expression.

‘What do you do for a living, Dr Rivalta?' Bordelli continued.

‘I live on a private income and study the Middle Ages.'

‘Do you live alone?'

“‘
If you are alone, you shall be all your own; if you are in company, you shall be half your own
,” a certain Leonardo once said.'

Bordelli looked around; the place was sparkling clean.

‘Who keeps house for you?' he asked.

‘I do everything myself. I'm used to getting by alone.'

‘Have you ever been married?'

‘My wife is dead,' Rivalta said curtly, looking out the window.

‘Do you have any children?' Bordelli asked. A wicked flash seemed to light up Rivalta's eyes.

‘No,' he said, glaring at the inspector.

For a few seconds, no one spoke. In the silence, the rhythmical sound of the pendulum was clearly audible.

‘How did you spend the afternoon of the ninth?' Bordelli resumed.

‘How much longer is this charade going to last?' Rivalta asked, sighing calmly. He leaned forward and took a cigarette from a silver box lying on the crystal table without offering one to the others. Piras stared at him with hostility, clenching his jaw.

‘You can answer my questions now, or, if you prefer, we could take a little trip down to the police station. What will it be?' said Bordelli.

Rivalta calmly lit his cigarette with a gigantic chrome lighter, then blew the smoke up towards the ceiling.

‘Are you always so touchy, Inspector?' he asked with a friendly smile.

‘Only when I'm hungry,' said Bordelli.

‘The boy must be hungry, too,' said Rivalta, casting an amused glance at Piras.

The Sardinian kept on glaring at him with his nuragic face,
¹⁵
immobile as a rock.

‘Answer the question: where were you on the afternoon of the ninth?' asked Bordelli, fed up with his antics.

‘I was here at home. I spent the whole day rereading the poems of Hrotsvitha. They are magnificent,' Rivalta said, smiling.

‘Is there anyone who can attest to that?'

‘The woodworms in the rafters. Ask them,' said Rivalta, looking up towards the ceiling. Every so often his eyes contracted with disdain.

‘I see you like to ingratiate yourself with others,' said Bordelli.

‘Life is a rather nasty affair, and for consolation I try to amuse myself as best I can,' said Rivalta, snuffing out his half-smoked cigarette in a large red-glass ashtray.

‘Have you ever been to the park of Villa Ventaglio?'

‘I don't even know where it is.'

‘Then I'll tell you: in Via Aldini.'

‘I don't know that street.'

There was a creaking of mechanical gears, and at once the pendulum clock began ringing the hour. All three of them remained silent, counting the chimes resounding in the room as in a church. It was eight o'clock.

‘How did you lose your finger?' Bordelli asked as the last chime continued to resonate in the air.

‘During the war. A piece of shrapnel,' said Rivalta, wiggling his four remaining fingers in the air.

‘Why do you wear gloves in springtime?' asked Piras.

‘Is that a serious question, Inspector?' said Rivalta, ignoring the young Sardinian.

‘Fairly,' said Bordelli.

‘Pretty soon you'll be asking me how many times I went to the loo last Sunday …'

‘Possibly. In the meantime tell us why you wear gloves in springtime.'

‘Bad circulation. I often have cold hands,' said Rivalta, half-closing his eyes as if bored.

Bordelli pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Piras couldn't stand all the smoke any longer.

‘That'll be all for now, Dr Rivalta. But I would ask you not to leave the city until I say,' said the inspector.

‘I hadn't planned to go anywhere.'

‘I'm glad.' Bordelli gestured to Piras and they all stood up.

Rivalta accompanied them to the gate, walking in front of them without saying a word. As he opened it, he smiled coldly.

‘Pleased to have met you,' he said in a clearly ironic tone.

‘I'd wait before saying that,' said Bordelli, returning his smile.

“‘Never call a man happy until you've seen him dead
…” Who said that?' asked Rivalta, searching his memory.

‘Seneca,' said Piras, looking him straight in the eye.

‘Ah, well, I'm very impressed. It's not often one meets a cultured policeman,' said Rivalta, bowing slightly towards Piras.

‘We'll be seeing you soon, Dr Rivalta,' said Bordelli, leaving the garden without turning round. Piras followed him in silence.

‘It'll be a pleasure, Inspector. Perhaps we'll have a chance to talk about the Abbot Suger … or Mary of Aquitaine,' Rivalta said loudly from behind the bars. He then closed the gate and walked back towards the house, whistling the theme of Schubert's
Unfinished Symphony
.

Once they were in the car, Piras gave vent to his feelings.

‘That prick really gets on my nerves,' he said, staring through the window as if he wanted to shatter it with his gaze.

‘Don't get upset, Piras.'

Bordelli started up the car and they rolled at a snail's pace up to the corner of Via Metastasio. He looked around, then did a U-turn and went back. Driving slowly past Rivalta's gate, he took another good look at it. The garden lights were already out, and only one window on the first floor was illuminated.

‘I want two fully equipped vans to keep watch over this villa, Piras: one here in front, which can also keep an eye on Via Prati, and another in Via Metastasio, as well as three unmarked cars in the general neighbourhood, in radio communication with the vans. We mustn't let Rivalta out of our sight for even a second, and when he goes out on foot he must be followed by continually different people. I want in-depth reports, down to the tiniest detail. And I want you to get down to work as soon as we get back to headquarters.'

‘Okay,' said Piras, still pissed off, staring darkly at the street.

‘Organise long shifts. I want very little movement. Rivalta must remain completely unaware,' said Bordelli, turning on to Via Senese.

‘What about the telephone, Inspector?'

‘Let's have it tapped … though I don't think it'll be of any help.'

‘You look tired, monkey.'

‘It's been a long day, Rosa.'

The fifty-year-old girl had finished giving him a back massage and filling him with tartines. It was almost midnight. Bordelli lay on the couch with his shoes off, a glass of cognac resting on his chest. From time to time he raised his head and took a sip. As usual, he asked about Gideon.

‘He's out on the rooftops, the little Don Juan,' said Rosa, batting her eyelashes.

They started making small talk, about past loves, old friends they'd lost track of, the war. Bordelli told how, in September 1943, he'd seen the battleship
Roma
sink to the bottom of the sea. Two very modern, radio-controlled German bombs struck the ship a few minutes apart. Less than half an hour later, the dreadnought broke in two like a nutshell and sank with over a thousand men aboard. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed it. It really seemed like the end … but then, little by little, the Germans were thrown out of Italy.

Rosa, still working on her sweater for Bordelli, started talking about the time she used to ply her trade in little flophouses round the region. Sometimes funny things would happen, she said. Like the time a rich, fat Milanese gave her ten thousand lire just for massaging his ears.

‘You have no idea how disgusting it was – his ears were full of hair,' she said, grimacing. Then there was that really skinny bloke with rabbit-teeth and sad eyes, who every Sunday at midnight would arrive at the house on his bicycle, just to bring her a bouquet of red roses. He wouldn't say a word, just handed her the flowers and ran away. Looking out the window, she would see him pedalling hard.

‘You men are very strange sometimes,' said Rosa, sniggering.

‘You women are too, I assure you.'

They kept on drinking and talking for a while, as Rosa knitted away. Round about one o'clock Bordelli started yawning. Finishing his cognac in a single gulp, he sat up and put on his shoes.

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

‘Ouf!' huffed Rosa.

She accompanied him to the door, and they stopped outside, on the landing. As usual, Bordelli kissed her hand. She seized him by the neck and starting kissing his face repeatedly.

‘Sweet dreams, monkey,' she said.

“Bye, Rosa, thanks for everything.'

‘My big sad bear … Come on, don't make that face.'