Marco Vichi - Death in Sardinia

‘And what would you do if you were me? I have a headache and would really like to sleep, but I’ve got a police inspector standing in front of me wanting to make small talk and stealing my eggs.’ Bordelli smiled.

‘If I were you, I’d invite the inspector into the house, make some coffee, and tell him everything.’

‘Let’s talk right here,’ said Odoardo, eyes feverish.

‘All right.’

‘As luck would have it, I wanted to tell you a story myself. I heard it last night from a poor half-drunken bastard.’ Odoardo went and sat down in a wicker chair. He shivered and then hunched his back. He gestured for Bordelli to sit down in another chair, whose wicker bottom was partly staved in.

‘Please sit down, Inspector. It’s not a long story, but it’s not very short, either. Are you sure you want to hear it?’

Bordelli lit a cigarette and sat down beside Odoardo. The youth was staring at a braid of garlic hanging from a rafter.

‘See that garlic? My mother braided it herself. She’s gone, but the garlic is still there. I can touch with my own hands something my mother touched … But that’s not what I wanted to say … My story’s about something else …’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Bordelli. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by muffled rumbles of thunder. The wind began to pick up, but it still wasn’t raining. Odoardo seemed stuck. He rested his hands on his knees and kept looking at his dirty fingernails.

‘It’s a long story and a short story, I don’t know if you know what I mean.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Bordelli.

‘Between one glass and the next, that drunkard started telling me his mother was beautiful, she was good, she loved him very much, all the usual bullshit people say about their mothers. They lived together, and everything was going nicely, without any problems. But one fine day his mother got run over by a car, a Lancia Flaminia that hit her at the edge of a country road and never even stopped. She didn’t die immediately, but spent a few days in agony. Her son stayed by her side, holding her hand. His mother couldn’t talk. Every so often she would open her eyes, but she didn’t even recognise him. Then she died. And there you have it. End of story. As you see, it doesn’t take long to tell, but the guy told me that it’s actually a long story, a very long story. It lasts a lifetime.’

An acidic burp escaped him involuntarily, and he grimaced. He was pale and trembling slightly.

‘And do you know what the guy’s father was called?’ he asked.

‘Let me guess … Was he called Ciro?’ said Bordelli.

‘Well done, Inspector. But you may not know that there are people going around saying that it’s not true … that that ring is a lie, and he was born in a brothel and his father was one of the many Americans passing through to drain his balls.’

‘The world is full of liars.’

‘And drunks who talk rubbish …’

‘Tell me something, Odoardo. The guy who told you that terrible story, what made him feel worse, the fact that his mother died, or the fact that his mother …’

‘Was a whore?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t think to ask him. What do you think?’

‘I think the kid shouldn’t worry himself too much over the slander of a loan shark.’

‘That what I told him, too,’ said Odoardo, throwing his cigarette butt on the ground.

‘And what did he say?’

‘Nothing. He just said there were some photographs around …’

‘Has he ever seen them?’

‘He can’t. A police inspector keeps them locked in a drawer.’ Odoardo was scowling. He kept sighing repeatedly, as if gasping for air, and biting his nails till they bled. Bordelli looked at his bloodshot eyes and felt terribly sorry for him. The thunderclaps were growing near, and the first drops of rain started to fall.

‘You know what you should have asked this friend of yours, Odoardo?’

‘He’s not my friend …’

‘You should have asked him how a ring can end up in a loan shark’s stomach.’

‘I did ask him.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He told me the whole story. He’d already given a fair amount of money to the guy, basically everything he had, because he wanted his mother to rest in peace and without debts. Then one day he went to see the loan shark and brought the ring with him, to try to persuade him to let him at least see the photos of his mother … Because he didn’t want to believe that story about the brothel. That ring was important to him. It was a cherished memento, a gift from his father to his mother. He wanted to leave it with the man as collateral while he looked for the rest of the money, but only on the condition that he let him see those photos immediately. The shark took the ring in his hand and looked at it up close and started laughing. He started telling him that it was all bollocks, that this Ciro didn’t exist, that the ring had been made by a poor mother who didn’t want her son to know what she used to be: a whore for the Americans. Then he told him that the only thing he should think about was finding a way to pay the debt down to the last lira, and that only then, and only if he felt kind, he might give him the photos. My “friend” swallowed that bitter pill and said that of course he would pay it all in full, but if he couldn’t see the photos now, he wanted the ring back. The shark shook his head and said he would keep it as a guarantee. My “friend” said no, he wanted to leave with his mother’s ring in his pocket. But the guy wouldn’t listen. And so my friend started protesting. He was determined to get that memento back, even by force, but the moment he reached out with his hand, the shark swallowed the ring and said that if he didn’t get the hell out of there immediately, things might take a bad turn …’

‘And then?’

‘And then they started bullfighting. But only the last part, where the torero sticks the sword into the bull’s back, and the bull collapses in the dirt … You know what I’m talking about? It’s a very sad sight.’

Odoardo sneered with disdain. He was paler than ever. He lit another cigarette and took a deep drag. The rain was coming down harder and harder. Bordelli’s legs felt numb, and so he stood up and started walking about under the loggia. Glancing at the braid of garlic, he wondered distractedly how long it would have lasted in Toto’s kitchen.

‘Feel like a coffee?’ he asked, turning towards the lad.

‘Even two, but it’s too much effort to go and make it.’

‘I’ll make it myself,’ said Bordelli.

Odoardo ran his hands over his face, as if to wipe away his weariness, then stood up from the chair with an effort and leaned against the wall. He searched his pockets a long time for the keys, and at last he found them. On the third try, he got the key in the hole and opened the door. They climbed the stairs in silence. Odoardo pointed the inspector to the kitchen and then went and lay down on the couch, in front of the cold fireplace. Bordelli had a little trouble finding things, but he was in no hurry. He liked the silence. Calmly and slowly, he got the espresso pot ready. He found two little cups and set them on the table. While waiting for the water to boil, he went and looked out the window. It was pouring, the thunder growing still louder and more frequent. He stayed there for a spell, watching the raindrops pound the Beetle, thinking about what was happening in that house. Hearing the coffee bubble up, he went and turned off the flame. He put some sugar into the two cups, poured the coffee over it, and went over to Odoardo. The boy seemed to be sleeping, but then he opened his eyes and sat up. He looked unwell. The inspector set the coffee down on the table and put another cigarette in his mouth.