Death and the Olive Grove (24 page)

‘What is your point?' Levi asked, staring at him.

Bordelli gave a roguish smile.

‘If you don't let me have Strüffen, I will spread the news that the White Dove is on his tail, which should make a pretty fair mess of things for you.'

Levi's eyes flashed with fear, but he quickly recovered and returned the inspector's smile. He filled the glasses yet again, and took a sip of cognac.

‘All right, then, you'll have your Strüffen … but on one condition,' he said.

‘And what would that be?'

‘Let us work in peace until we find him … It won't take long.'

‘Do I have your word that you will turn him over to me?'

‘You have my word.'

In his half-sleep the mutterings of the television sounded to him like the shouts of the SS during round-ups, and he started awake, looking for his machine gun. He was greeted by a western starring Gary Cooper and collapsed against the back of the sofa, head swimming with memories. Still groggy with sleep, he started thinking about the monstrosities he'd seen with his own eyes during the war. Old images passed before him like colour slides. They showed not only blood but humiliation and despair. He remembered the moment he'd heard the radio announce the Armistice; he felt the same sense of liberation in his breast he had back then. From the very start of the conflict, a hatred of his Nazi ‘comrades' had grown within him, inescapably, and only after the 8 September armistice had he felt he was fighting a just and unavoidable war against a sort of disease.

A spectacle he'd witnessed in a southern village, a few months after the Armistice, came back to him. One morning he and his men had stopped at the top of a hill to spy on the town with their binoculars, and with their own eyes they saw women being raped, children massacred, houses burnt, entire rows of unarmed civilians executed. ‘As soon as it gets dark, we're going down there,' Bordelli said to his men. There were ten of them, and they were all in agreement. Counting the hours and minutes, they began to make their way down towards the village the moment the sun set. They descended the slope in silence, faces smeared with mud, Bordelli at the head. His eyes were still full of the things he'd seen that morning, and his arms twitched with a desire to shoot. When they entered the village, they surrounded the elementary school in which the Germans were barricaded. An endless gun battle ensued, and a good number of hand grenades were thrown into the building. Eventually the San Marco squadron managed to enter the school and had to fight with daggers and bare fists to eliminate the last Nazis. When the battle was over, they realised there were no officers among the dead. And yet that morning they had clearly seen them ordering the massacres. They decided to inspect all the classrooms with the utmost caution. Kicking the doors in, one by one, they entered, machine-gun barrels first. At last they found them, huddling in the darkness of a broom closet. There were eight of them, in black uniforms with decorations gleaming. They immediately raised their hands, shading their eyes against the sudden blinding light. Muttering between their teeth, faces drawn from fear, they spoke in that accursed tongue of theirs, asking perhaps for fair treatment … Then one of them whispered in terror: ‘
Sammarko
!' The inspector could still see them all before him, eyes dilated and trained on him as if he were a beacon, Commander Bordelli, a San Marco officer with a machine gun in his hand and a bleeding ear. His sleepy memory lined them up for him again like so many Strüffens, all with white hair and a black mark on the neck. He remembered those moments well … The Nazis before him, innocuous as babies, hands on their heads and terror in their faces … He exchanged a look of understanding with his men and, after a few tension-packed moments, he nodded ever so slightly to say: Yes. They didn't even let them out of the closet. They merely took a step back and fired all at once on that mass of flesh in uniform, firing far more shots than was necessary, thinking of the babies tossed in the air and machine-gunned, looking straight in the faces of those smartly dressed men dancing disjointedly under the impact of the bullets. Blood very quickly covered the floor of the closet, spilled out over the threshold and started dripping down the stairs. The hardest thing was carrying the dead outside; not just the officers, but everyone else. They put them round the public fountain, forming a star. From the spout they hung a sign that said:
A GIFT FROM THE SAN MARCO
. They left the town at a slow pace, walking down the main street. Behind closed shutters burned the eyes of the few survivors. Peering out from under cover had become a habit for them. Bordelli tried to meet their glances between the slats of the blinds, hoping at least to hear a word. But not so much as a fly moved. At bottom only one thing mattered. The town was now free.

The western had ended some time ago, and the hum accompanying the test card rang as sad as a lament in his ears. It was only eleven o'clock. He'd collapsed on the couch without even having eaten. But he wasn't hungry. He lit a cigarette and poured himself a glass of wine. A couple of minutes later the signal went off and the snow appeared. The accompanying static got on his nerves. He got up to turn off the television, then sat there glassy eyed, staring at the shrinking little point of light on the picture tube until it disappeared. Mouth all pasty, he snuffed out the cigarette and shuffled to the bathroom to brush his teeth. But he couldn't find the toothbrush. He looked everywhere for it, then remembered that it had fallen into the toilet bowl that morning. He brought his face to the mirror to look at his wrinkles from up close. They seemed to increase with each passing day. He felt like a wreck. Rinsing his mouth out with water, he went and lay down in bed. He lit another cigarette, felt disgusted, and crushed it in the ashtray. As he was trying to fall asleep, Botta's face appeared to him, at the moment he'd suggested he go and work for a few days at Da Cesare in the place of a Pugliese called Totò.

He'd gone to see him around eight o'clock that evening at his lair in Via del Campuccio, and for a brief moment Botta had thought Bordelli's visit meant that he'd caught and arrested the child-killer.

‘Not yet, Ennio, but I'll catch him soon,' the inspector had said. By this point he was always repeating the same phrase, to ward off bad luck.

‘Stay for dinner, Inspector? I could whip up a
spaghetti alla carrettiera
, nice and spicy.'

‘Thanks, Ennio, but I'm a wreck. I think I'll just go home.'

Looking around, Bordelli had noticed that the modest room seemed different from the last time he'd been there.

‘Am I mistaken, Botta, or have you changed something in here?'

‘The lights, Inspector. I bought a new light fixture.'

‘That's new, too,' said Bordelli, pointing at a nice big cooker with six burners.

‘Beautiful, eh?'

‘I guess things went well for you in Greece.'

‘I can't complain … And now I even know how to make moussaka.'

‘So the clink's not your only cooking school.'

‘Botta's never going back to jail, Inspector … Never.'

‘Does that mean you're going to stop picking locks?' Bordelli asked, almost worried.

‘No, Inspector, I'm just going to stop getting caught.'

‘Listen, Ennio, I need to ask a favour of you …'

As Botta was putting the water for the pasta on the stove, the inspector told him about Totò and the trattoria Da Cesare.

‘Of course I'm interested!' Botta replied, eyes popping.

‘Then go and talk to Totò as soon as you can. I have the feeling he wants to give you some sort of test. But you'll understand each other, I'm sure of it.'

‘As a lockpicking artist, I'm not so sure, Inspector, but as a cook, nobody can touch me.'

All cooks are the same, thought Bordelli. They always want to be the best.

‘I have to go now, Botta. I can feel a nasty headache coming on.'

‘Thanks, Inspector. Who knows? Maybe in my old age I'll open a trattoria with an international menu,' the thief said, shaking his hand firmly at the door.

‘I'd give that some serious thought … Ciao, Ennio. Next time, if things are a little calmer, I want to hear about Greece.'

‘G'night, Inspector.'

He spent the following morning rereading the reports of the murders, without results. He'd slept badly, as was nearly always the case of late. For lunch he ate a panino at the bar in Via di San Gallo and went immediately back to the office, which stank of cigarettes. He opened the window, and a gust of tepid air, heady with spring, wafted in, along with a few large flies. He thought about dinner with Milena, and despite everything that was happening, he felt a pang of emotion in his chest. It had been centuries since he had felt so intrigued by a woman. He looked at his watch: barely two o'clock. Seven more long hours before their appointment. He sat down and lit a cigarette. Casimiro's little skeleton was still in its place, hanging from the pen-holder. He tried to imagine the moment when the little dwarf drank the poisoned cognac. He clenched his teeth. The feeling of guilt was still gnawing at his stomach. He should have prevented Casimiro from playing spy.

But at least
that
murder seemed solved. He needed only to wait until the White Dove found Karl Strüffen. He hoped Levi would keep his word, even though this was far from a foregone conclusion. For the Nazi hunter, the White Dove came before anything else. At the moment, all the inspector could do was wait.

Three or four fat flies were flying a few centimetres below the ceiling, crashing into each other every so often. They made a terrible racket; it was impossible to concentrate. All he could do was watch them … Were there four or five? Suddenly one of them veered towards the window and went out, and the others followed like sheep. There must have been five of them. Or maybe not; just four. At any rate, they were gone, and Bordelli heaved a sigh of relief. He put out his fag-end and distractedly withdrew the last cigarette from the packet. He saw that it was broken, lit it anyway, but couldn't get any draw on it. He blew the smoke up towards the ceiling and started thinking about Davide Rivalta.

There was something fishy about the man. Something strange, and not just unpleasant. He was a cultured, intelligent man who wanted at all costs to be disagreeable … But there was more than this. There was something strange in his eyes, a destructive gleam, but at the same time a sort of wild joy. And he had been seen in the area of Sara Bini's corpse just minutes after the murder. It might be coincidence, of course, but …

Bordelli opened a bottle of beer, and as he was taking his first gulp, the phone rang. It was the commissioner.

‘Good day, Bordelli. Any new developments in those murder cases?' Inzipone sounded nervous.

‘I've made some progress on Casimiro Robetti,' said Bordelli.

‘What kind of progress?'

‘I'll tell you when it all becomes clear.'

‘Tell me now.'

‘I'd rather not.'

‘And what have you got to tell me about the little girls?' Inzipone sighed, resigning himself to Bordelli's methods.

‘Nothing serious yet, unfortunately.'

‘And what about that man you've got under surveillance?'

‘Davide Rivalta? We're still keeping an eye on him.'

‘We've got to stop that killer, Bordelli, and we've got to do it soon … before anything else happens.'

‘We'll catch him.'

‘Well, keep me informed on this matter, at least. All right?'

‘I'll get back to you soon, Dr Inzipone.'

The inspector hung up and leaned back in his chair. This case was turning into a nightmare. Every time the phone rang or there was a knock at the door, he expected the worst. He ran a hand through his hair, and it felt dirty. He felt beaten down, and didn't know which way to turn. He spent the afternoon in a state of shameful apathy.

It was already seven o'clock. He had to go home and get ready for dinner with Milena, and the thought made him shudder. He really needed to clear his head. Rushing out of the station, he waved goodbye to Mugnai.

After stopping first to buy a toothbrush, he went quickly home. He spent a long time cooking himself in a hot bathtub, eyes closed. He thought again about his journey through space, and it seemed almost like the memory of something he had actually done, which was, in a way, the truth. When he reopened his eyes, he realised it was already half past eight. He quickly got out of the water, dried his hair, and splashed on some aftershave lotion without having bothered to shave, just to smell nice. At ten minutes to nine, he got into the Beetle, stomach rumbling, and stepped on the accelerator so as not to be late. He felt as excited as a small child.

‘I feel good with you,' said Milena, snuggling close to him. They were in Bordelli's bed, and had just finished making love for the second time. The room was in penumbra, lit only by the glow of a street lamp shining through the open window. Their clothes lay scattered helter-skelter on the floor. Bordelli kept his eyes closed, stroking Milena's back. He felt a sense of peace all through his body, only slightly disturbed by the usual obsessive thoughts.

They had gone to eat at a trattoria in the Sant'Ambrogio quarter, and had knocked back two bottles of wine. They had used the formal address through most of the meal, looking into each other's eyes like two teenagers. When Bordelli had asked her point-blank about the White Dove, Milena said she didn't feel like talking about work, and the subject didn't come up again. They had chatted about a great many things, jumping from one topic to another, as their desire to get to know each other kept growing. They had even joked and laughed a lot, enabling Bordelli to forget about all those murders for a while. When they left the restaurant, Milena said she felt like walking a bit. It was almost midnight. A few leftover scraps of cloud moved slowly across a star-filled sky. Along the river, Bordelli had lit a cigarette, feeling a strong urge to kiss the mouth of the woman walking beside him. Although it wasn't cold out, every so often a gust of wind ruffled their hair.