Death in Sardinia (18 page)

Then he thought again of Odoardo. He could see the young man’s grim face, his nervousness at the mention of Badalamenti’s name. It might mean nothing, of course, but why indeed had he given a start? If he’d never before heard of the man, why did he have that expression? True, he might never have met him. His mother would certainly have had no good reason to tell him about the man blackmailing her with those scandalous photos. Still, the boy gave him something to think about. That afternoon the inspector had checked the phone book and found Giampiero Balducci, architect, at Via Timoteo Bertelli 29. He’d felt tempted to call him then and there, but on second thought had decided not to. Given where the case stood at that moment, what point would there have been in talking to the architect? What more could the man have told him about Odoardo? The inspector rolled on to his side, head full of vague impressions and useless questions. He kept coming back to the same point: Odoardo wasn’t left-handed. He even reviewed Diotivede’s explanations again, and found nothing to object to. The doctor had been quite clear about things. Asking him to confirm them yet again might make him turn nasty.

Bordelli changed position again, thinking he had to be very patient. Sooner or later something would turn up. But his brain kept on whirring. At supper time he’d gone back to call on the three men on the list who hadn’t been there in the morning, and he’d returned the promissory notes to all three, unbeknownst to mothers and wives. Each had thanked him in his way. One with tears in his eyes, another with a hearty laugh. Mario Cambi had given him a bottle of farm-fresh olive oil and a jar of home-made tomato sauce … None, however, was left-handed. It was as if there were no left-handed people left in the world …

The inspector sighed deeply and buried his head under the pillow. For the moment the list was the only lead he had. He turned on to his other side, thinking he had to stop obsessing about his job. He was always turning something or another over in his head. He swept it all away, but a second later the shadowy face of Odoardo returned. The boy had a hardness in his eyes that certain sensitive people sometimes have, as if always leery, always careful to probe the world around them to avoid being tricked. He seemed quite emotional, yet able to pull himself back together in a hurry. When Bordelli told him that Badalamenti had been killed, his lips had hardened like a fist, but only for a second. But Odoardo wasn’t left-handed …

He was woken up by a dull thud. It must have been a rubbish bin crashing against the truck while unloading. He remained in bed a little longer with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the morning. He heard the creaking of some vendors’ carts on their way to the small open-air market in Piazza Tasso and realised that it was seven o’clock.

He took a long hot shower. After making coffee, he sat in the kitchen and drank it while leafing through the previous day’s newspaper. He stopped on the cinema page. Perhaps one of these evenings he could take Rosa to see a film.

They hadn’t been to the pictures for several months. The last time they’d gone to see a James Bond film replete with shoot-outs and corpses painted gold like church candelabra, but the main attraction was Sean Connery, who was able to elicit a sigh even from the finicky Rosa.

‘Did you know he looks like you?’ she’d whispered in his ear in the packed cinema, during a close-up of Connery. The people seated closest to them heard everything and turned round to stare at them, to Bordelli’s great embarrassment. Good thing it was dark.

‘Talk softly, Rosa,’ he’d whispered back, face burning red.

‘What did I say?’

‘Easy now …You’re supposed to be quiet at the cinema …’

‘Shhh!’ enjoined a number of people all around.

‘See, it’s you they’re upset at!’ Rosa had said in all innocence. She’d liked the film immensely, not least because of the handsome actor. Another time he’d taken her to see a Western with endless shoot-outs and dead men who didn’t bleed. She’d had great fun anyway, because one of the bandits was a blond guy with long hair and a face wicked enough to make you quiver. But Rosa’s favorite films were the ones with Totò.

Bordelli went out at eight and got into his Beetle. The streets were still wet with the night’s rain, but at that moment the sky was clear, and the sun shining through the car windows almost managed to warm him up. He crossed the Arno and minutes later turned on to the Viali. There was already a bit of traffic. When he got to Le Cure he turned down Via Volta and drove past the house where he’d grown up. As always he turned his head to look at the ground-floor windows. The shutters were open and some light shone through the living-room windows. He remembered every detail of that room the way it used to be. There was a large walnut cabinet with a glass front, full of antique glasses, a Flemish painting with sheep and clouds, and decorative floor tiles. It always gave him a weird feeling to know that another family now lived in that house.

The day he’d returned from the war was etched in his memory. He’d got back one morning, after a long train ride, holding a large German shepherd dog on a leash. He’d found the dog a few months earlier, lying down in a hole carved out by a mortar shell, with a serious wound in its side and breathing with difficulty. It was almost as big as a calf, and if anyone approached, it started growling. It had fangs as long as Focke-Wulf bullets. It was a Nazi dog, seemed fatally injured, and war was raging all around it. Too much trouble to bother with. Bordelli had pulled out his pistol to finish it off, taken aim, and was about to shoot … when it occurred to him that the dog wasn’t guilty of anything and that he could try to save it. With some cunning he had managed to bring it back to camp without getting bitten and had decided to try to win its friendship. A week went by and he still was unable to approach it to attend to its wound. Once a day he would throw it something to eat, but the dog wouldn’t touch anything, leaving it all to the flies. The animal was weak and had lost a great deal of blood. At moments it lay on its side with eyes closed, immobile, and looked dead. But if anyone approached it would start growling again. Then one morning Bordelli noticed that the beast had eaten everything around it, even the biscuits, and seemed much calmer. He managed to put a rope muzzle on it and treat its wound. After another week, it had turned into a big puppy. It was called Blisk, according to the tag on its collar, and he continued to call it Blisk. Then the war ended and it seemed only natural to bring the dog home with him. When, a year later, he moved out of his parents’ house to the San Frediano quarter, his mother was almost happy. She couldn’t stand having the great beast about the house any longer, leaving fur everywhere and practically knocking her down when it wanted to express affection.

Blisk was used to sleeping at the foot of its master’s bed and following him wherever he went. Bordelli usually took the dog around with him, but when he couldn’t, he needed only to say,

‘Wait here,’ and the ferocious beast of legend would sit down in front of the door with expectant eyes. When Bordelli returned, he would always find it in the same position.

Blisk eventually got old and tired, and Bordelli stopped taking the dog everywhere with him. One evening about ten years ago, when returning home, he’d found it lying in front of the door. It was weak and could hardly move. Blisk died with his muzzle in Bordelli’s hands, after a long sort of whimper. It was almost as if the dog had waited for him to come home before dying. That same night, Bordelli had gone into his mother’s garden in Via Volta, dug a deep grave, and buried the animal …

Thinking about that night, he realised he’d slowed down too much, and so he downshifted and stepped on the accelerator. In that area the streets were almost deserted. Just before the avenue started its ascent to San Domenico, he turned on to Via di Barbacane and climbed up that equally steep, old street. After a few curves, he pulled up in front of Fabiani’s house and got out. The laurel hedge that ran along the iron grille had been trimmed. Bordelli went up on tiptoe to look into the garden. Fabiani was pruning the rose bushes in front of the glass door of the living room and wearing a blue work smock and rubber gloves. There was a bit of wind, and the doctor’s white hair rose from his head like flames. Bordelli rapped on the gate to get his attention. Fabiani turned round, waved hello, and went to open the gate.

‘You read my mind, Inspector. I was going to ring you tomorrow to wish you a happy Christmas,’ he said, inviting him in. Fabiani had a beautiful voice, deep and warm, and eyes as clear as certain animals’.

‘Telepathy,’ said Bordelli, shaking his hand. Remembering what he had in his pocket, he felt a little uneasy, and perhaps it showed. It was different with the other people on his list, since he didn’t know them or anything about them but was only a sort of postman delivering a letter.

‘My dear Bordelli, you didn’t come here to wish me a happy Christmas,’ said Fabiani, half smiling and lightly shaking his head.

‘Why do you think I’ve come, then?’ Bordelli asked in a mutter.

‘Perhaps to tell me the tale of the big bad wolf.’

Fabiani closed the gate and headed towards the house, with Bordelli following behind. The garden looked the way it always did, well tended but not too much so. Trees and plants were arranged in such a way as to create hidden nooks and shady corners. It seemed like the ideal place for seeking solitude, which was probably exactly what old Fabiani wanted.

‘What can I get you, Inspector?’

‘Nothing, thank you, I’ve just had some coffee.’

Before going inside, the psychoanalyst took off his dirtcovered boots, and they went and sat down in the living room in front of the closed glass door. At a distance of about ten yards from the house was an iron pagoda, overwhelmed by an age-old wisteria that was completely bare at that time of year. In the middle of the pagoda was a round marble table with four wrought-iron chairs around it. Bordelli had taken tea there several times.

Fabiani looked expectantly at the inspector without saying anything. His face was as small as a child’s and covered with very fine wrinkles. Bordelli reached into his pocket and took out the photo of Fabiani’s house and a stack of promissory notes, held together with a clip, and laid them down on the table. Fabiani adjusted his glasses on his nose, took the notes, looked at them, then set them back down without saying a word. He looked again at Bordelli, as though waiting for him to speak. The inspector put a cigarette between his lips but didn’t light it.

‘As you’ve probably read in the papers, Badalamenti was killed,’ he said.

Fabiani took his glasses off and ran a hand over his head to tame his unruly white hair.

‘I imagine you were surprised about me, Inspector,’ he said, smiling faintly.

‘Well …’

‘You wouldn’t have expected it, would you?’

‘I’m sorry, Dr Fabiani – you don’t have to tell me anything,’ Bordelli said, feeling awkward. He then rose to his feet, to leave the doctor to his thoughts. He didn’t want to give the impression he had come there expecting an explanation.

‘Are you in such a hurry?’ the old man asked in a sad tone.

‘I just didn’t want to attach too much importance to the matter.’

‘You act as if I should be ashamed.’

‘You’re wrong …’

‘Inspector, do you know exactly what the work of a psychoanalyst involves?’ asked Fabiani, gesturing for him to sit back down.

‘I’d like to say yes, but I’d probably be wrong,’ Bordelli replied, obediently sitting down.

‘Do you feel like listening to a rather sad story?’

‘Only if you feel like telling me one.’

Fabiani remained silent for a moment, then began to speak calmly.

‘In two words, the psychoanalyst has to bring into contact, so to speak, the different levels of the patient’s inner life, which for some obscure reason remain divided or are even at war with one another.’

‘What exactly do you mean by “levels”?’

‘Or the different planes, if you prefer – that is, emotion, sentiment, reason, and so on. Some individuals experience tremendous inner conflict precisely because of this disharmony. What can happen is that reason will condemn the emotion, and thus the sentiment is broken in two, or else for some unknown reason these three levels live separately from one another out of mutual fear. There might be a whole range of causes: mistaken ideals, groundless fears, traumatic experiences, or a thousand other reasons related to the personal life of whoever is in that unpleasant condition. And that’s where the psychoanalyst comes in. With the patient’s help, which is absolutely essential, he will try to liberate him or her from the invisible illness that prevents him from living in peace. He will try to re-establish a certain harmony inside him. Even though, in the final analysis, it’s an adventure in which both doctor and patient run a certain risk. This must never be forgotten.’

‘It seems to me a fine profession,’ said Bordelli.

‘It’s wonderful, even though it’s based on entirely hypothetical assumptions. You’re forced to proceed by trial and error, pretty much in total darkness. It requires a great deal of sensitivity, even delicacy. But tremendous detachment above all … Because it’s perfectly normal, and beautiful, to grow fond of people; it happens to everyone. But it
must never
happen to a psychoanalyst … Vis-à-vis his patients, that is. Otherwise he risks contaminating the therapy with personal feelings and problems. It’s even possible that the doctor will live out his own conflicts through the patient, and when that happens …’

The old man shrugged and shook his head, smiling with resignation.

‘And when that happens?’ Bordelli asked, curious.

‘When it happens, things can go very badly. Do you remember when I told you some time ago that I had stopped practising because of a sort of work-related accident?’

Bordelli nodded. He had a strong hankering for a cigarette but decided to resist. Fabiani got up, went towards the glass door, and started looking outside. The sun was out, and a few blackbirds were hopping about on the lawn in search of worms.