Death in Sardinia (39 page)

‘If you’re a policeman, why don’t you wear a uniform?’ asked Nino. Rabbit-teeth slapped him on the shoulder.

‘I
know
he’s a copper,’ he said with the air of an expert.

‘Not all policemen wear uniforms,’ said Bordelli.

‘And what about your gun?’ asked Pippo.

‘It’s doing fine, thanks.’

‘Could we see it?’

‘I left it at the office.’ Rabbit-teeth started sniggering.

‘He’s pulling our leg! He’s pulling our leg!’ Bordelli tried to change the subject.

‘Aren’t you going to go home and wait for Father Christmas?’

‘Not now! He’s not coming till midnight!’ they all said. They heard a window open over their heads, and Bordelli made a gesture of resignation.

‘I think it’s time you all went home, boys. Your mamma’s calling you.’ But the voice that spoke sounded quite masculine.

‘Is that you, Inspector?’ Bordelli looked up and saw Botta’s face. He looked worried.

‘What is it, Ennio?’

‘Come up here at once, Inspector, I’ve got a problem.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

‘Hurry, Inspector, it’s urgent!’ Ennio shut the window with a thud, and the little boys all broke out laughing.

‘Hurry up, now, Mamma’s calling!’ they started saying in turn. Bordelli threw his hands up in defeat, waved goodbye, and went into his block. A second later he heard the boys kicking the ball around again. He climbed the stairs calmly, thinking what it might be like to have a son, see him grow, talk to him … But he didn’t have time to imagine anything, because Ennio was waiting for him on the landing with a big carving fork in his hand. The sweet smell of cooked onions wafted down the staircase.

‘What’s going on, Botta?’ Ennio’s wide eyes burned a hole in him.

‘There’s no nutmeg!’ he said.

‘That’s not possible. I bought some last year.’

‘Maybe you’re confusing it with coconut,’ Botta said nervously.

‘I know I bought some, I’m sure of it,’ Bordelli insisted. They walked shoulder to shoulder all the way to the kitchen. On the table were several platters ready to be eaten, covered with yellow paper. Ennio’s fists were clenched.

‘How could I have forgotten to bring nutmeg? Bloody hell!’

‘I’ve got some, I tell you. We only have to find it.’

‘I’ve gone through everything, Inspector, looked everywhere. There’s everything, there’s even Idrolitina
³³
… there’s just no nutmeg.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘Very serious, Inspector. It would be like making
spaghetti alla carrettiera
without parsley.’

‘Will we go to hell …?’

‘You can joke because you don’t know anything about cooking, but I can assure you, it’s not the least bit amusing.’

Bordelli felt more implicated in this drama than he would have liked. He opened every drawer and cupboard in search of the precious nuggets, but almost immediately closed them without even looking. Something told him he would never find them. He clearly remembered the little glass jar with a red cap, with three nuggets inside, along with a little grater. He’d bought it a year ago, he was absolutely sure of it. He even had the impression he saw it rather often.

‘You’re going to have to go out at once and buy me some,’ Botta said impatiently.

‘At this hour on Christmas Eve?’

‘It’s not even eight o’clock yet. If you hurry, you’ll find something open.’

‘Wait, I think I know where it is,’ Bordelli said, brightening. He went out of the kitchen in long strides and came back immediately with a smile on his face.

‘O ye of little faith,’ he said.

Ennio snatched the tiny jar from his hands, looked inside to make sure it had what he needed, and kissed it. Then he went over to a large pot gently simmering, raised the lid, sniffed … and grated a hint of nutmeg into it. And that was it. All that pandemonium for three grains of nutmeg, thought Bordelli. But he didn’t dare say anything. He’d realised that cooks are even touchier than corpse-cutters.

‘Where was it, Inspector?’ Ennio asked.

‘Where was what?’

‘The nutmeg …’

‘Over there,’ Bordelli said vaguely. He was a little embarrassed by the disorder in his flat.

‘Where over there?’

‘Over there … in the bathroom.’

Ennio turned to look at him.

‘And what were you keeping it there for?’

‘I don’t know. I must have mistaken it for something else.’

‘When it comes to cooking, Inspector, you’re hopeless,’ said Ennio, shaking his head. He lifted a lid and a ball of steam came out and rose to the ceiling.

‘Have you opened the wine yet?’ Bordelli asked, to change the subject.

‘I opened all the bottles this morning.’

‘This morning? What kind of bloody wines did you get?’ Botta kept shuffling from one pot to another.

‘Let’s just say that the youngest is from ’58,’ he said proudly.

‘French?’

‘From first to last.’ Botta lifted a dishtowel. Under it were the still-empty vol-au-vents.

‘Now please go into the living room, Inspector. Someone like you can ruin things just by looking at them.’

‘Let’s not exaggerate …’

‘I’m not exaggerating. I actually believe it.’

‘I’ll go and watch the evening news,’ said Bordelli. He was still in time to see the national report. When he went into the living room, he found it transformed. Everything served as background for the round table that Ennio had put in the middle of the room. A snow-white tablecloth, dishes and glasses he’d never seen before, embroidered napkins. Bordelli wondered where all that stuff had come from. Atop the radio cabinet were all the wines, resting on a clean dishcloth. The bottles were individually wrapped in newspaper so as not to reveal the surprise.

Bordelli turned on his Majestic television set, plopped into the armchair and patiently waited for the screen to come to life. He felt he had just the right amount of appetite for a dinner like this and could hardly wait to sit down at table.

The news report showed how people spent their Christmas in other countries, then broadcast the Pope’s speech, a few items of political news, some sport, and other curiosities … Then came
Carosello
, the advert sequence. Maybe Virna would be on today, he thought. During the
Dindondero
jingle, Botta rushed in with the tray of vol-au-vents all ready.

‘Do you like the way I’ve arranged the table, Inspector?’

‘Magnificent … Where’d you get all these things, Botta?’

‘All this stuff is yours, Inspector.’

‘Mine? Where’d you find it?’

‘I dunno, here and there,’ Botta said a little impatiently. He didn’t have time for small talk. He disappeared again into the kitchen, and the inspector went back to watching
Carosello
. Calimero turning white,
Carmencita amore mio
, Mulè with his nightmare belly-ache … but no Virna … In her place was Odoardo with a pair of scissors in his hand … raising them high and lowering them forcefully into Badalamenti’s neck … Shit, what a bore … There was no point in rehearsing that little bit of theatre. One step at a time, all in due course. For the moment it was best to get that murder out of his head and enjoy the Christmas dinner in peace … He could think about Odoardo tomorrow. The blonde in the Peroni spot wasn’t bad, but not worth a fingernail of Virna Lisi. He waited for ‘
du du du du du du Dufour
’ to end, then went into the bathroom to wash his face.

At 9.20, the doorbell rang. It was Fabiani. He crossed the threshold timidly, sniffing the air.

‘Good evening, Inspector, this is for you,’ he said, handing him a small wrapped parcel with a ribbon on top.

‘You shouldn’t have.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’

Fabiani took off his coat and, with hands trembling, hung it on the coat rack. Bordelli opened his present immediately. It was Primo Levi’s new book,
The Truce
.

‘You read my mind,’ said Bordelli. After the war he’d bought Levi’s first and found it very moving. He thanked Fabiani and led him into the living-dining room. The television had lost reception and was crackling. Bordelli turned it off. Fabiani noticed the beautifully laid table and made a gesture of appreciation. Ennio came in with a dish full of grated Gruyère and set it down on the table. Fabiani held out his hand to him.

‘Not a good idea,’ said Ennio.

‘My hands smell like onion.’ And he wiped his hands on his apron. Bordelli glanced at his watch, and at that moment the doorbell rang again. It was 9.26, so it couldn’t be Diotivede. He said he would come at 9.30, as agreed.

‘I’m going back into the kitchen,’ said Ennio, running out of the room. Bordelli went to open the door. It was Dante with an unlit cigar in his mouth. He looked taller and fatter than usual. From his coat pocket he extracted a small package about the size of a bar of kitchen soap and rather sloppily wrapped.

‘This is a little present for you, but if you don’t mind, I’ll open it myself after dinner,’ he said, putting it back in his pocket.

‘As you wish.’

They went into the living-dining room. Dante and Fabiani greeted each other, and the inventor immediately began to explain to his fellow guest how to stop the electrical meter at his home from advancing. He’d recently invented a simple, sure method for this and was spreading the good news. He said that electricity had long been an indispensable necessity of life and therefore cost too much. Self-defence was a right.

At 9.30 sharp the doorbell rang, and Bordelli went to open the door for Diotivede. He waited for him in the doorway, listening to his regular footsteps in the stairwell. When the doctor arrived he wasn’t the least bit winded. He was very smartly dressed in light grey. Seventy-two years old, thought Bordelli.

‘Hello, Inspector,’ said Diotivede, with the usual frowning face. He sniffed the oniony air and gave a sort of half-smile. He too had a little present for Bordelli, handing it over to him with the air of someone getting rid of something. Bordelli unwrapped it. It was a fossilised seashell.

‘I didn’t buy it; I had it in the house,’ the doctor said.

‘Such delicacy,’ said Bordelli.

‘I hope you won’t use it to put out your foul cigarette butts,’ Diotivede said in all seriousness, hanging up his coat.

‘Let’s eat,’ said Bordelli.

Dante’s booming voice could be heard all the way from the entrance. They went into the living-dining room, and Bordelli set the seashell down on the television. After shaking hands, everyone sat down at the table. Botta had worked out the lighting arrangement and was now checking the results. The white tablecloth was bathed in restful light, while a lamp in a corner served to give depth to the room. Everything else was in penumbra … Yes, that would do.

As Diotivede studied the table settings, his eyes gleamed with curiosity behind his round lenses. Fabiani gazed pensively at some invisible horizon. Ennio reached out for the first bottle, removed the sheet of newspaper in which it was wrapped, and showed everyone the label: Saint-Emilion, 1958. Then he served everyone.

‘Let us thank God for this French dinner,’ said Dante, proposing a toast. They clinked glasses and took a sip. Bordelli then asked Botta the names of all the dishes they would eat that evening. Ennio couldn’t have asked for more. He stood up and presented the menu in the original language.

‘
Pahté de fwah grah
,
volovahn de freedemair
,
soupallonyònh
,
dendo mahronh
. And for wine, we have three different vintages of
San Temillion
. I’ll tell you the pudding later …
Ehwahlàh!
’
³⁴

‘Aside from your French, this all seems very serious,’ said Bordelli, stealthily loosening his belt a notch. Botta served the starters, and they all began eating in total silence, except for Dante, who was able to talk even when swallowing. Drinking the Saint-Emilion, Fabiani raised his eyebrows in pleasure. Very soon all trace of the pâté was gone from their plates, and when the last vol-au-vent disappeared from the tray, Dante proposed a round of applause for the cook. To avoid the embarrassment, Botta started removing the dirty plates and slipped into the kitchen to prepare the famous onion soup.

The mood became increasingly more relaxed as the meal continued with a great deal of wine and no more neckties. Bordelli loosened his belt another notch. Diotivede was very pleased with the soup and did not turn down a second ladleful, or even a third.

‘Like it?’ asked Ennio, fishing for compliments.

‘Magnificent,’ said the doctor, rubbing his steamed-up spectacles with his napkin.

Bordelli looked at him in amazement. ‘Diotivede, what is happening to you? This is the first time I’ve ever heard you say the word “magnificent” – except, of course, when talking about corpses.’

‘It may not look like it, but I
am
laughing, I assure you,’ the doctor said with a serious face. More dishes arrived, each more delicious than the last. When the third bottle was unveiled, Bordelli proposed a toast to all the years Botta had spent in the ‘hotel management schools’ of half the world. Dante stood up and went and kissed the cook on the head. Ennio downplayed his glory, saying that, all things considered, it was all pretty easy, though one could tell he was fibbing.

By the end of the meal, they were all a bit light headed from the wine. The voices had increased in volume. The tablecloth was covered with stains and crumbs. There had been a great variety of toasts – to life, to psychoanalysis, to all the world’s prisons, to women …

Ennio changed everyone’s drinking glass and brought two bottles of Sauternes to the table. Then he quickly left the room and returned with a great dome of savoy biscuits steeped in a white cream streaked with chocolate.

‘
Sharlò o shocolah
,’
³⁵
he said, and then filled the dessert plates. Everyone set to, mooing with pleasure. The cream melted in the mouth and left behind flavours that were probably even beneficial to the mind.

‘Ennio, you’re a disgrace,’ said Bordelli. The Sauternes needed no comment, but unfortunately was finished almost at once. The empty bottles – the corpses, as Ennio called them – were taken away, and in their place came the Calvados. Ennio was the drunkest of all of them, but held it pretty well.