Death in Sardinia (47 page)

‘Stay here and don’t move. Everyone else, too. Out of the room,’ he said. Delia poked her head out from under the covers and watched the whole scene without saying anything. They all left the room and Virdis shut the door and turned the key.

‘What the hell is he doing?’ Michele asked, round eyed.

‘Let him do as he sees fit,’ his wife said, grabbing his elbow. The girl had stopped crying. No sound at all came from the room. Michele put his ear to the door.

‘You can’t hear a thing,’ he whispered. He listened for a few more seconds, then started rattling the door handle.

‘Doctor, please open the door,’ he said. First calmly, then with increasing irritation. Virdis didn’t answer, and Delia wasn’t crying. Michele looked at the others one by one with a worried expression on his face. He jiggled the door handle again several times, then slammed his hand against the door.

‘You’re not a doctor, you’re a butcher!’ he yelled.

‘Don’t say that!’ said Vanda, pulling his hair.

‘Ow!’ Michele cried. And at that moment the door opened. Delia was lying on top of the covers, looking serene. Virdis already had his medical bag in his hand.

‘The butcher is done,’ he said with a cold smile, walking between them and towards the door, followed by Vanda, who begged his pardon and said her husband was an animal. Michele went over to the girl and asked her whether it had hurt. Ettore waited to hear the front door close, then burst out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ his mother asked, coming towards him.

‘Nothing,’ said Ettore. Vanda walked past him and into her daughter’s room.

‘Tonight they’re showing
City Lights
on the telly … It’s probably already started,’ said Piras, looking at his watch.

‘I’m going over to Nino’s to see the movie,’ Ettore said, heading down the hallway.

‘Goodbye. Ciao, Delia,’ said Piras, poking his head into the girl’s room. Delia looked at him without saying anything.

‘Shall I bring a bottle?’ Ettore asked as they headed for the door.

‘No, there’s no need,’ said Piras. Out on the street, they went to get Angelo, who lived right next door. When they all got to Piras’s house, the film had already started.

‘Shhh,’ said Maria. The boys found themselves some chairs and sat down, trying not to make noise. The Setzus were also there, as well as a neighbour’s young son. There was a ritual silence around the television set. All the lights were off, and the glow of the picture tube reflected off their faces. Every so often someone got up to refill his glass. The Christmas log of olive wood was still burning slowly in the fireplace, lightly smoking and filling the air with a pleasant scent. When the film ended, the Setzus and the little boy went home, and Gavino got up and changed to Channel 2 to see what else was on.

‘I’m going over to Angelo’s house,’ said Pietrino, and the three lads all got up and went out on to the street. It was cold and the sky was full of stars.

‘Get a whiff of that air …’ said Angelo.

‘In Campidano they can only dream of such air.’ He never missed an opportunity to point out the difference between life on the plain and life in the hills. He was like everyone else in town, convinced that everything was better in Bonarcado than down there: the wine, the honey, the land, the cheese, the women, the water, the bread … Even the eggs were better when laid by the chickens of Bonarcado. Not to mention that during the hot months the plain was blanketed with mosquitoes. Ettore agreed with Angelo, saying that, though he was forced to work down there, he would never choose to live there. Piras ribbed them about it, saying they talked like a couple of old codgers, but deep down he actually agreed with them.

‘Ettore … I have to ask you to lend me the Five hundred again,’ he said, vapour rising from his mouth.

‘What the fuck!’ said Ettore.

‘It’s important.’

‘Can’t you call Bernardo’s taxi service?’

‘Do you know much that would cost? Come on, don’t be a jerk.’

‘You’re going to bring it back all dented.’

‘Hey, speak for yourself.
I
know how to drive …’ said Piras.

‘What, you saying I don’t?’

‘Hell, Tore … I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.’ Ettore give an irritated smile.

‘Well, this time you have to put in some petrol for me,’ he said.

‘What a skinflint,’ Angelo commented, chuckling.

‘I’ll even top it up …’ said Piras.

‘Gimme the keys.’ Ettore pulled out the keys, let them dangle from one finger for a few seconds, then put them in Nino’s pocket.

‘When’ll you bring it back?’

‘As soon as I’m done,’ said Piras.

‘You’re not really going to fill it up for him, are you?’ asked Angelo. One night in ’43, Bordelli and four of his comrades were forced to take refuge in an abandoned barn near the German lines. They entered through an unhinged door, just before sunset, and found a surprise inside. A living calf. They looked at it in silence, as if they had a Greek goddess before them. They were all hungry, famished in fact, and had seen no meat for months. There was a problem, however. They couldn’t shoot the calf because the Nazis were rather close by and might start firing mortar their way. But neither did they want to wait to bring the animal back to camp with them the following morning. They had to kill it right then and there without making any noise, perhaps with a knife. But nobody could make up his mind. The sun had set completely, and they could hardly see any longer inside the stall. Luckily the only window gave on to the side facing the Allied lines, so they could use their torches without fear.

‘But if we slit his throat, Captain, he might start lowing like the devil,’ said Tonino, who knew about these things.

‘And the bombs’ll start raining down on us,’ Moroni added. Bordelli thought it over for a minute, then pulled out his
iron fist
, a tool he had created for himself from the propellor of a downed English aeroplane. It must have been made of aluminium or something similar. Light and durable. He’d worked on it during his free moments, during the long waits when nothing was happening. It had holes for the fingers and spikes over the knuckles. It was a deadly weapon. He had used it only once, on a Nazi’s face, and the result was not a pretty sight. When he slipped it over his hands, the others started ribbing him.

‘Hey, it’s Dick Fulmine!’
⁴⁰

‘What are you going to do, Captain?’

‘You’ll just comb his hair and he’ll get pissed off …’

‘Get out of the way,’ said Bordelli. By this point it had become a dare between him and the others. He took careful aim, cocked his arm, and struck the animal forcefully between the eyes. The animal collapsed at once, without so much as a cry, as if all four of its legs had been cut from under it.

‘Holy shit!’ said Gennaro.

‘Thanks for the encouragement, guys,’ said Bordelli, putting away his artificial ‘fist’. His comrades slapped him repeatedly on the back and immediately got to work with their knives. The blood poured out in buckets, flooding the brick floor and sticking under their shoes. They cut little strips of meat and roasted them directly over the flame of a portable gas burner. It was as tough as leather and smelled burnt, but they ate it with gusto, tearing it with their teeth. Then they finished cutting the calf up into bits, and the following morning brought the rest of the meat into camp, carrying it in a number of firewood baskets they’d found in the barn. The poor animal hadn’t had much luck, but they thanked it with all their hearts. They filled themselves with meat for two or three days, to the point of nausea. Their only regret was that they couldn’t keep eating it for the rest of the year.

With that story in his head, he was almost asleep, thoughts already blending with dreams … when all at once he opened his eyes. What the hell! He sat up and turned on the light. He stared at the wall for nearly a minute, eyes fixed and mouth half open. He’d remembered something: the strands of hair that De Marchi had found in Badalamenti’s flat. Shit! He got out of bed, grabbed his cigarettes and went into the kitchen in his underpants. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he sat down at the table. His head was still filled with images of the calf collapsing to the ground, blood running down the draining furrows in the floor. He lit a cigarette and started thinking about that hair … Who knew why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He wasn’t ageing gracefully. Perhaps it really was time to retire.

When he turned down Via di Quintole, it wasn’t yet midday. A ray of sunlight managed to pierce the clouds and light up the wet hillsides, but was quickly swallowed back up a few seconds later. Along the roadside a few narrow strips of snow still remained. If Odoardo wasn’t at home, he would wait for him. There was no danger the inspector might feel bored in so beautiful a place. Other dense, black clouds loomed in the western sky.

He got to Le Rose and turned onto Odoardo’s driveway. As he approached the farmstead he saw the Vespa parked under the loggia. Leaving the Beetle on the threshing floor, he got out and knocked on the door.

‘Coming!’ he heard Odoardo cry out. A moment later the lad came out, coat buttoned up to his neck, and slammed the door brusquely behind him.

‘What is it this time?’ he asked.

‘I need a strand of hair from you,’ Bordelli asked bluntly.

‘A what?’

‘A strand of hair,’ Bordelli said again, serious. There was no longer any point in playacting.

‘Am I supposed to laugh?’ Odoardo asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘A strand of hair …’

‘That’s right. One or more.’ Odoardo stared at him as if looking at a two-headed dog. Then he angrily tore out a clump of hair from above his ear and held it in the air, in front of the inspector’s face.

‘Will that be enough, or do you want my whole scalp?’ he asked.

Bordelli opened his wallet, took out a small piece of paper folded in two, and opened it.

‘Please put it in here,’ he said. Odoardo dropped the hair on to the paper. The inspector folded it up and put it back in his wallet.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘What’s it for?’ the boy asked with a slight quaver in his voice.

‘To help me understand some things I don’t yet understand,’ Bordelli said, putting the wallet back into his pocket.

‘You’re always so clear, Inspector. You should be a politician.’

‘I’ll be back to see you soon, Odoardo, probably for the last time.’

‘To bring me a present for Epiphany?’ the youth said with a malicious smile. He seemed to have recovered his sangfroid. Bordelli no longer felt like joking.

‘Good day,’ he said. He shook his hand and went back to his car. While manoeuvring, he noticed Odoardo still standing under the loggia, hands in his pockets and a serious expression on his face. Neither bothered to gesture goodbye. When he reached the end of the lane, Bordelli turned on to the road to Quintole. He dug around in his pockets for the sole cigarette he’d brought with him but was unable to find it. The sky was swelling with clouds, and it didn’t look like a passing thing.

Attilia had been by. His office smelled clean, and the floors were still damp. The inspector left the window open and sat down with his raincoat still on. There were two telexes on his desk; one from the Ministry of Education, the other from Verona Central Police. The list from the Order of Engineers had two people who went by the name of Agostino Pintus:

Giovanni Agostino Pintus, born at Cagliari on 6 February 1896, graduated at Milan in October 1921 with a score of 110 cum laude. Residing in Milan, etc., etc.

A
gostino Maria Pintus, born at Tresnuraghes on 16 April 1939, graduated at Bologna in May 1964 with a score of 110 cum laude. Residing in Bologna, etc., etc.

The Pintus they were interested in couldn’t have been either of these two. One was too old and the other too young. The telex from Verona said:

Pursuant to your request concerning said Agostino Pintus, from research conducted. Archives of parish of Custoza di Sommacampagna, no result. Interrogation of Custoza inhabitants: nobody recalls anyone with surname Pintus. End message.

Grabbing the packet he’d left on the desk, he realised it was empty. He rifled through all the drawers and at last found a crumpled half-cigarette. He carefully straightened it out and lit it. It was his first of the day, and it was already almost half past noon. He was making progress. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. Cold air came in through the window, but he didn’t feel like getting up to close it. He took out his wallet, extracted the paper with Odoardo’s hair inside and, without opening it, set it down on the desk. He looked for an envelope, found one, made sure it was empty and clean, then slipped the hair inside it and stapled it shut. He picked up the in-house telephone.

‘Hello, Mugnai, please send me Tapinassi straight away.’

The cigarette tasted like pencil shavings, and he crushed it in the ashtray. He leaned back in his chair, letting it rock back and forth. Tapinassi knocked, came in and went straight to the window to close it.

‘Don’t you feel cold, Inspector?’

‘Please take this at once to De Marchi,’ Bordelli said, ignoring the question and handing him the envelope.

‘All right, sir.’

Tapinassi realised it was urgent and left at once. Bordelli rang Mugnai again and asked him please to go and buy some cigarettes for him. While waiting he searched his drawers again for another, but came away disappointed. Mugnai’ll be along soon, he thought. He really felt like smoking. Maybe going without cigarettes all morning was too much. One was supposed to do it more gradually.

He phoned De Marchi to tell him Tapinassi was on his way with an envelope containing hair that he should compare with the samples found in Totuccio Badalamenti’s flat.

‘How long are you going to make me wait?’ Bordelli asked.

‘I’m right in the middle of some things, Inspector. If I abandon them halfway it’ll be a disaster.’

‘When do you think you can do it?’

‘I’ll have a look at it as soon as I can.’

‘When you’ve got the results, forget the typewriter and call me at once.’