Marco Vichi - Death in Sardinia

But enough memories, old fart, or you’re liable to start crying and loosening your dentures …

He still felt strange. He thought again of Raffaele’s and Guido’s lair and had the sensation that he’d just returned from a faraway city. He needed to recover his bearings. To distract himself and not think about anything. He felt like drinking with a friend and making light conversation, but he was too tired. He drove over the railway lines and turned up Viale Don Minzoni … When he wasn’t careful, he still called it Viale Principessa Clotilde, which was what oldies called it. He instinctively looked up at the windows of the Montigiani flat. They were lit up. He imagined Marisa holed up in her bedroom, talking with a girlfriend on the phone as her parents dozed off in front of Mike Bongiorno on the telly. He shook his head and stepped on the accelerator. All those kids seemed to belong to another race — a strong race destined to survive. They moved through the world, as light as young colts and as heavy as donkeys laden with burdens …

Go home, old man, put on your longjohns and woollen nightcap and cover up. You’re fifty-five years old. Prehistoric. A Methuselah .

After spending the whole day at the office, the inspector left the station without a hint of appetite but a strong desire to go and see a movie. Rosa absolutely could not join him, since she was still busy rehearsing Doralice. The premiere was the following evening.

Bordelli parked the Beetle in Via Pacinotti, next to the Cinema Aurora. It was starting to rain. The cinema’s sign was made of neon tubes. One letter had burnt out and the others flickered as if about to blow, but they’d been doing that for years now.

That evening they were showing a Western, For a Few Dollars More . He’d already seen a couple of Sergio Leone’s films and found them amusing. He bought a ticket and went into the dark theatre. The newsreel was still playing, showing a feature on the latest Paris fashions. The models wore extremely short skirts and their legs did wonders for the eyes. Clouds of smoke and comments on the fashion models rose up from the seats.

The film began. The protagonist was a tough guy with a remarkable face. Rosa would certainly have liked him. Bordelli succeeded in not smoking for most of the film, but when the final duel started, he found himself with a cigarette between his lips. They were all shooting their guns like madmen, and the bad guys were dropping like flies. Finally, the last remaining heavy fell to the ground, and the hero rode away alone on his horse, accompanied by music to fit the occasion.

When Bordelli left the cinema, it was drizzling outside.With a shudder, he headed off at a fast pace towards his car. He felt hungry. He got in the car, turned on the heat, and drove off. As sequences of images from the film ran through his head, Odoardo’s face kept appearing. He would pay a call on him soon, but had to find the right moment.

When passing in front of Cesare’s trattoria, he slowed down nearly to a stop and glanced inside. Although it was already half past ten, there were still a lot of people. He parked the Beetle between two trees and slipped into Toto’s kitchen, hungry as a wolf. The cook greeted him with a glass of wine. After a succession of dishes, they arrived at last at the grappa.

By the time the inspector crawled out of that dangerous place with Toto at his side, it was almost three o’clock in the morning. The restaurant had closed a good while earlier. They had both drunk a great deal during their supper and, as usual, had talked about many things. Toto had not spared him the customary blood-curdling stories of his ancestral lands, and Bordelli had suddenly found himself drunk. As he was downing his umpteenth glass of grappa, he’d heard an alarm go off in his head. One more sip and he wouldn’t be able to drive home.

Toto pulled down the rolling metal gate and after a few failed attempts managed to stick the key in the hole. His little eyes were bloodshot and he could barely stand up, and he laughed at every idiotic comment he made. He wanted to drive home in his souped-up Fiat 600, but Bordelli wouldn’t hear of it and forced him to get into the Beetle. The German engine whirred quietly, at minimum speed, as they glided down the deserted streets. It was still drizzling, the gleaming festoons reflecting off the wet asphalt. Toto’s laughter resounded inside the car as he carried on with silly remarks that he alone found funny. A few long minutes later, the inspector dropped him off in Via Pisana and waited to see him go inside before driving off towards San Frediano, trying very hard to bring the road into focus.

Once at home, he undressed and collapsed in bed. The room was spinning round with all its furniture. He closed his eyes and was asleep in minutes.

At 7 a.m. his alarm clock woke him up unceremoniously. He turned it off and stood up, staggering, went into the bathroom, stuck his head in the sink and ran cold water over it. Then he sat down in the kitchen and, one cup after another, ended up drinking a whole pot of coffee. He thought of Odoardo, of course, and immediately felt like smoking. Unable to resist, he lit a cigarette. Odoardo was the one. He did it … He killed Badalamenti. The inspector was increasingly convinced of it. But the realisation gave him no satisfaction. He sat a while longer, ruminating, then got up and went into the bathroom to take a hot shower.

The day passed slowly, and at no point was Bordelli able to get in the right mood to go and have his little chat with Odoardo. He kept on putting it off, even if he didn’t quite know why.

The national news programme that evening broadcast the photograph of Agostino Pintus, as Piras had promised. All they could do now was wait, hoping that someone would recognise him. His comrades from Salo certainly wouldn’t talk, and nobody he’d paid a visit to was still on this earth … But perhaps there was someone who might remember him just the same. One had to hope for a little luck, following Piras’s example. And secondarily, as they liked to say in the courts, there was always the charge of premeditated murder. There were some serious obstacles between Mr Frigolin and freedom, Bordelli thought … Even though, if the guy walked, it wouldn’t be the first time someone of his ilk had got away with murder. He rang Rosa to wish her a final ‘break a leg’ before the performance. Tonight was opening night.

‘So you really can’t come?’

‘No, Rosa, I’m so sorry …’

‘Oh, come on! What could be so important?’

‘I have to go to … There’s going to be a big meeting with people from the ministry …’

‘At night?’

‘When they come from Rome they always arrive late, you have no idea what a ball-ache it is … and these things usually last late into the night,’ said Bordelli.

‘Oh, go on …’

‘Really, sometimes till three, four o’clock … You’ll see.’

‘Poor monkey …’ said Rosa, touched. She’d swallowed it whole.

‘Break a leg,’ said Bordelli.

‘Thanks.’ Rosa blew her usual barrage of kisses and hung up. Bordelli felt a little guilty, but the thought of going to Rosa’s and finding the place full of people made him feel strange. For him, going to Rosa’s was … well … how would you call it …

He lit a cigarette and went back to the television. The National channel was showing some sort of serial drama, so he switched to Channel 2 and started watching a Donald Duck cartoon. He thought of the president’s arrival that morning from Rome. Saragat had met the mayor at Palazzo Vecchio, done a tour of the city, and then returned home …

‘I really have to go and see Odoardo,’ he muttered to himself. Tomorrow. He would go tomorrow. Or maybe the day after tomorrow.