The Art of Killing Well (15 page)

“Oh, no, come on. The cook must be sixty if she's a day.”

And what about you? said Ciceri's eyebrows.

“I mentioned to the baronessa that I know the recipe for a special soup for the sick, substantial and nutritious but not heavy on the stomach, and she asked me to teach it to the cook so that she could make it for her son.”

“Oh, these Italian mothers,” replied Ciceri distractedly. “They're
all the same, baronessas or not. Their first concern is that their son eats enough for three people. Everything else is of lesser importance.”

“How right you are. Well, goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Goodnight to you.”

“We need a way to mark the score,” said the inspector after Artusi had left the room, applying chalk to the tip of his cue.

“Isn't there a movable scoreboard?”

“I don't see any. Never mind, we'll use a sheet of paper. There are some over there, behind you.”

Turning, Ciceri took a sheet from a writing desk of rare ugliness and divided it into two columns with a stroke of the pen. On the right he wrote
Ispettore
and on the left
Ciceri
.

“Perfect,” said the inspector. “Shall we begin?”

Halfway through the game, by which time various numbers had already been written in the columns on both sides of the sheet, the inspector took off his jacket (it isn't easy to play billiards with your jacket on) and as he did so he uncovered a sheet of paper sticking out from his inside pocket. Noticing it, he took it out with an innocent air.

“Ah, I almost forgot. Do you know anything about this letter, Signor Ciceri?”

The sheet of paper glided from the inspector's hand onto the billiard table.

Signor Ciceri picked it up. And turned pale.

“Signor Ciceri?”

Silence.

“I have the feeling you recognise it. In fact, I'd even hazard a guess that you wrote it. You see, the figures on the date are written in a very particular way. They look rather like the ones you've put down on the score sheet.”

Putting the paper down, Ciceri looked at the inspector. “Alright. What can I say? Yes, I know this letter. In fact, I wrote it myself.”

“I see. Given that you are being so reasonable, perhaps you could tell me the whole story.”

With regained calm, Signor Ciceri put down his cue and began. “It's quite simple. One day this fellow comes into my studio and tells me he's the Barone di Roccapendente and that he got my address from his dear friend Barone Caradonna. He tells me that he needs money for some urgent business of his and that he doesn't have a large enough sum at his disposal. I reassure him that I may be able to lend him, out of friendship obviously, the sum he's looking for, and I ask him to come back the following morning.”

“Of course. You needed to find out something about him. Guarantees. Isn't that so?”

Signor Ciceri smiled, with a smile that the inspector knew well: that of the bastard who is telling you you have understood perfectly well but can't prove a damn thing.

“The following day I get him the money, and he swears to me that within a month he'll be back in Florence to honour his commitment. That happened on the tenth of April, in other words, about two and a half months ago. Obviously, friendship is
all very well, but ten thousand lire isn't chicken feed.”

“Obviously. So how much is your friendship worth, fifteen per cent?”

“Come on, Ispettore, do I strike you as someone who'd squeeze his customers?”

Bold as brass, this Ciceri. And they talk about Southerners! This fellow could give points to the worst
camorristi
I've ever met.

“In any case, the baron was as good as his word. Yesterday, when we got to the village, we made a little detour to the office of Signor Corradini, the gentleman who keeps the betting book at the local racecourse. The baron withdrew his winnings and was finally able to unburden his conscience of this debt of his.”

“A genuine act of charity on your part. And what about the whole photography story?”

“Come on, Ispettore, you wouldn't expect me to present myself at my friend's house and ask for money? That wouldn't be delicate. It can be difficult, though, to get an invitation. You know, some of these noblemen who are down on their luck have families, and often these families don't look kindly on the invitation of a nobody without even a quarter noble blood. But if the guest in question is an artist, things change, don't you think?”

“And don't you think the baron will have no difficulty in telling me that you came here to demand money from him?”

“Why should he do that? He's already had a lot of unpleasant things happen to him this weekend. Are you so sure he'd tell you something like that, now or later?”

No, you bastard. You're right. The baron won't say a word, like
all those who end up dealing with usurers. For now I can't do anything to you, but I'm damned if I'm going to forget your name and where you live.

Sunday, 18 June, 1895

So many unexpected things have befallen me today that I would find it hard to write them all down. I find myself the guest in a manor house where the butlers are murdered, which does not usually happen to me. This morning the master of the house was shot, and that was followed by a tremendous hubbub; this afternoon the culprit was apprehended, and turned out to be none other than the young Juno from whom I received confidences
.

If it is true that diversion comes from
divertire,
to change direction, to do or experience things to which we are not accustomed, I must admit that this weekend has been genuinely diverting
.

This evening, after dinner, I went to find the cook in her realm, to show her how to make soup for convalescents; I found her in a state of great agitation. Immediately she assailed me with a stream of the most indecent abuse, which offended me more than a little. But then, listening more carefully, I realised that the stranger on whom she wished various intestinal pathologies was not myself, but Ispettore Artistico. Brandishing a ladle like a weapon, she asked me if I too happened to be one of those who were saying that Agatina was a murderess and should be hanged; to which I replied that I did not think that at all
.

This appeased her somewhat: I told her why I was there, and after five minutes we were chatting away like two old friends, so much so that I took the liberty of asking her a favour. If I prepare the soup, I said, and you prepare your gypsy pie (such is the name of the tuna-based delicacy I could not get out of my mind), each of us, by observing, will learn from the other what to do, and in the meantime you can tell me about Agatina – since I had understood that this was her prime concern
.

So we got to work; she began by peeling a yellow pepper over the fire, and then went and put in a pan some celery cut into large pieces, to which she added the pepper in little strips and olives without the stones. In the meantime, she brought about two decilitres of milk to the boil and soaked some slices of stale bread in it
.

After putting some tuna in oil into the pan, crumbling it with her hands, she mixed it until the concoction had absorbed all the fat. Then she added the soaked bread and two eggs, mixed everything together and put it in the oven
.

While she was doing this, she told me how this dish had been taught to her by actual gypsies, years earlier, when her father was a horse trader who had dealings with these nomads. Such dealings were intense, and often, being a matter of business and moreover with people of a fiery nature, the negotiations led to quarrels, which died down as easily as they had flared up, and it was then necessary to make peace: and ever since the world began peace has been made at the table
.

Seeing that stew of so many different things, I found it hard to believe that the delicate and yet flavoursome dish I had been served
two days earlier could emerge from such a hotchpotch; but I was prepared to wait and see. While we waited, I learned many things about Agatina and Teodoro. I learned that the two of them had been due to marry, and as a matter of some urgency, indeed, given that they had found themselves in that situation that often occurs when one is young and impatient
.

All these things the cook told me in that sad tone the common people often use to talk about matters of life, almost as if telling them in a heart-breaking manner ennobles them in some way; she told me, for example, that on the day of his passing Teodoro had been going around beating his chest with his hand and telling everyone that he had over his heart something that would change his life. When the poor fellow was found dead, over his heart he had a worn wallet, in which the only thing found was a portrait of Agatina
.

Now that I am writing, I realise that Agatina's guilt, even though proved, torments me; almost as if, having seen that young beauty and having received her smiles and her confidences, I had become convinced that I had to be her protector in some way, unable as I was to be anything else for reasons of age. I suppose it is true that the older we get the more foolish we become and yet, without these instincts, it is likely that the human race would not have lasted as long as it has. The instinct for nutrition and the sexual instinct are necessary to us, since without them we wouldn't last long: and yet they are thought of as vile subjects, and when we talk about them in drawing rooms there is the risk we will be considered depraved
.

Anyway, the time passed and the dish emerged: which, in spite of the ingredients that had seemed to me an unlikely patchwork, was just as I remembered it, and perhaps even better. I served myself just enough of it not to have stomach problems in the course of the night, and I wrapped a little of it to give to my furry friends, who are appreciating it greatly as I write
.

Well, tomorrow at last we will return to Florence, our good friend and sweet companion, and will leave this unfortunate affair behind us, these corpses and these rampant old maids; and I hope to read about murders only in books, and nothing more
.

The rhythm of his steps on the pavement left no room for doubt.

Gaddo was beside himself.

Usually, Gaddo walked with slow, irregular steps, stopping often to think, to listen, to fantasise. Now, instead, he was almost marching, at a regular, quite rapid pace, with his feet sinking into the ground and making the paving stones grate beneath his soles.

And to think that the evening had started well. The servant girl who had tried to kill his father had been arrested, partly due to his own intervention, or at least so he thought. And he had found the inspiration for a new poem as he lay between the ears of corn, trying to catch his breath, having frittered away his whole capital of oxygen in the thirty-six metres he had run after Agatina.

Just as he was trying to regain his breath, Gaddo had found himself looking up at the sky.

A clear, cloudless sky.

A very high sky, without points of reference.

A measureless sky, and yet so real.

My God, what an idea.

He and his brother had decided to give themselves a free evening in Bolgheri, and while Lapo went to his usual tavern, Gaddo had
begun wandering the back alleys of the village, thinking about his new poem.

A measureless sky. A sky so real. What else rhymes with real?

Steel, of course. But the sky isn't like steel. Never mind.
Where the sky seems so real, and turquoise turns to steel …
Not bad, eh? Yes, but it isn't true. The higher you look in the sky, the clearer the sky is. What a bore, when poetry has to take reality into account. It would be so good otherwise.

And, lost in his verses, he had continued to walk. Until, at a certain point, his heart (already sensitive on its own account and now overexcited by the new poem) had begun beating even louder. Because a few metres away, at the end of the alley, a majestic figure had appeared. A leonine head, a thick beard, a heavy, alert gait that everyone in these parts knew well.

Giosue Carducci.

Gaddo had almost frozen as the poet advanced slowly and majestically along the narrow alley, calmly looking about him. Furtively, Gaddo had let the imposing figure go by, wondering if he should greet him or not, if he should show him that he had recognised him or not, if it might not be best to come right out with it and say good evening, Senator, forgive my boldness but …

But …

What is he doing?

While Gaddo stood there motionless, watching, the poet had stopped outside a door and studied it sternly for a few seconds. Then, having found it well suited, he had unbuttoned his trousers with some difficulty and begun calmly to empty his bladder, with
his head up in the indifferent manner that characterises those accustomed to peeing in the open air.

Gaddo had remained transfixed.

After some ten seconds, the noble scion had approached the urinating poet and looked at him in astonishment.

Carducci did not react in any way.

At this point, Gaddo had exploded. “What on earth are you doing?” he had said, his voice trembling with anger and surprise.

Completely undisturbed, the poet had uttered the following lines:

And, having finished this verse pronouncement, he had buttoned himself up and turned imperturbably on his heels, leaving poor Gaddo motionless and stunned.

And so, when he had recovered, Gaddo had set off for home.

Four kilometres on foot, but then anger is a fuel not to be underestimated. Anger at having made a complete fool of himself in front of his own idol. Anger at realising that, of the two, he was
certainly not the one who had behaved badly, but rather that disgusting old man who had started peeing in a doorway without batting an eyelid, and yet he himself, the guiltless young man, was the one who had felt embarrassed.

Anger, above all, at having discovered that his idol was, at bottom, a man like any other. And this anger, as happens with feelings to which we cannot give vent, had accumulated as he approached home, rising and swelling in expectation of a target on which to take it out.

As we are in a novel, it would seem strange at this point if the poor disillusioned nobleman did not find an innocent element on which to pour out the above-mentioned anger. It will therefore come as no surprise to learn that, as soon as he got home, the first thing Gaddo did was to trip over the dog Briciola.

“What's going on?”

“How should I know?”

Sounds of running footsteps, canine growls, heavy breathing.

“Who's there?”

“Oh my God, it isn't thieves, is it?”

Sudden silence, the sound of a plate breaking, a dog barking, a man's voice saying something like “bloody animal”.

“Cecilia, what's going on?”

“I don't know, Nonna. It's quite dark. Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“It's alright, Signorina. We need a candle.”

No sooner said than done. From the room at the end of the corridor emerged a figure in a white nightshirt and a cotton cap
with a pompom, holding a candlestick with a lighted candle, kept cautiously at a distance from his bushy beard.

In the flickering light it was now possible to make out:

a) Cecilia in a cotton nightdress and a dressing gown, barefoot and sleepy-eyed.

b) Cosima Bonaiuti Ferro in what looked like a coat of chain mail, weighing about fifteen kilos, with matching cotton socks, clearly bought from the spring–summer catalogue of the well-bred old maid.

c) Signorina Barbarici dressed God knows how, because from the door of her room only her head and haggard neck were visible, like a postmodern tortoise.

d) Pellegrino Artusi in a silk dressing gown and leather slippers in the Moorish style.

While the doctor approached the rest of the company, the two adversaries, in other words, Gaddo and the dog Briciola, had come up the stairs. The dog, highly menacing in demeanour however small in bulk, was barking and growling and backing away from Gaddo, who bounced back a few centimetres with every bark because of the displacement of air.

A candelabra in hand, shoeless, sweaty, hair dishevelled, and as angry as a pig in January, Gaddo was advancing inexorably towards the animal.

“Oh, Gadduccio, what are you doing?”

Surprised by the light and the number of people present, Gaddo looked at his aunt for a moment as if weighing up whether to change target, then threw the candelabra furiously on the floor.

“What am I doing? I'm coming back to my own home, God Almighty, and the first thing I do is trip over this cur of yours, this poor excuse for a dog! No sooner have I got back on my feet when this beast bites my ankle!”

“But you frightened the poor thing. He was asleep, and you stepped on him. Poor Briciola, what are these bad people doing to you? Bad, yes, Gaddo was really bad, come, Briciola, come …”

And Signorina Cosima walked lovingly towards her pet, which was continuing to show its teeth and gums to Gaddo.

Unfortunately, on coming out, Artusi had left open the door of his room, inside which were not just one but two cats, which, woken by all that commotion, had reacted in different ways. Timorous by nature, Sibillone had taken shelter under the bed, while Bianchino, being more enterprising, had come out into the corridor and had immediately identified the enemy.

As the signorina approached, the cat swelled like a ball and started to puff, then, estimating that the enemy weighed less than it did and did not have sharp claws, launched its attack.

The moments that followed were convulsive.

In the middle of the corridor, the two animals formed a growling and miaowing ball of fur, while the onlookers watched powerless.

As Artusi tried to call his own animal to order in Romagnol dialect, Signorina Bonaiuti Ferro went straight to the furry spheroid and tried to resolve the situation by kicking the cat, which was on top of the dog and brutalising it. But, as the signorina aimed the kick, the two animals reversed their positions, so that
Signorina Cosima's foot impacted with vigour against her own pet, bending it like a horseshoe and projecting it against the wall, which it hit with a yelp.

Gaddo had stood there transfixed during this scene, but now he let out a strangled snort and began to laugh.

After a moment, they all laughed.

All of them, including Signorina Barbarici with her tortoise-like neck, Artusi with his military whiskers and the doctor with his solemn beard.

All of them, except Signorina Cosima, who had turned, red in the face, to look at Artusi.

“You … You …”

“Forgive me, Signorina Cosima, but—”

Signorina Cosima pointed at the cat, which was running back into his room. “You and your animals! It's all your fault! And here was I, imagining that …”

“Signorina, I'm speechless,” said Artusi laughing, “but you see—”

“Don't you dare come near me! And don't you ever say another word to me, you savage, you disgusting fat man! I never want to see you or speak to you again, do you understand? Never! Briciola, come here, my darling …”