Marco Vichi - Death in Sardinia

‘Shall we make a fire?’ he asked.

‘Do whatever you like.’

A lightning bolt struck very close to the house, the thunder shaking the windows. Bordelli went and knelt down in front of the fireplace. He rolled up a few pages of newspaper, put some wood on top, and set fire to it all. He watched the flames envelop the logs, which were very dry and started burning at once. Then he went and sat down in an armchair in front of the boy.

‘And how’s your friend from last night feeling now? Satisfied?’ he asked. Odoardo stared at the steaming little cup.

‘Are you talking about his conscience and stuff like that?’

‘More or less.’

‘The loan shark had led him to understand that his mother’s death had not been an accident, and he laughed in his face.’

‘Why would he have killed her?’

‘The poor woman was exasperated and had threatened to report him to the police.’

‘She should have.’

‘It’s water under the bridge. My friend has other worries … He feels like he has a mouse gnawing at his head.’

‘The photographs?’

‘He only wants to know whether certain things are true, or rubbish.’ Odoardo looked devastated. It must have been rather unpleasant to learn all those things from a delicate soul like Badalamenti. The fire started crackling loudly, the flames beginning to rise. Bordelli finished his coffee and set his cup down on the table.

‘Tell your friend I can tell him what the truth is,’ he said. Odoardo raised his head and looked him in the eye.

‘You can tell me,’ he said, ‘and I’ll pass it on to him.’ Bordelli pretended to think it over for a minute, then leaned back in the armchair.

‘Those famous photos were shot in Birkenau,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘A Nazi concentration camp in Poland.’ Odoardo’s upper body lurched, as if struck with a club. The inspector continued his lie.

‘Your friend’s mother was of Jewish extraction. She didn’t want her son to know of the humiliations she’d suffered in that camp. She was afraid he’d grow up with too much anger inside. The photos show some horrifying scenes.’

‘What do they show?’

‘If your friend ever saw them, he would understand why his mother wanted to keep them from falling into his hands. By some strange inner mechanism, some survivors of the camps feel ashamed, and your friend’s mother was an extreme case of this, to the point of letting herself be blackmailed by an extortionist. The only remaining mystery is how those photographs ended up in the hands of someone like Badalamenti … But you can’t always know everything in life,’ the inspector concluded.

Odoardo seemed paralysed for several minutes. Then he got up and went over to the window to enjoy the storm. He kept his hands planted firmly in his pockets.

‘And what can you tell me about Ciro?’ he asked.

‘Ciro? … Well, he was your friend’s father.’

‘And how do you know that?’

‘I did some research. It’s easy for us policemen.’

‘Is Ciro alive?’

‘He died right after the war.’

‘How did he die?’ Bordelli made up the first lie that came to mind.

‘Typhoid fever,’ he said.

Odoardo remained immobile and said nothing. The only sounds came from the fire and the rain falling hard outside. Every so often there was a pop in the fireplace, and an ember came flying out. The thunder was beginning to die down, but it was still raining buckets. At last Odoardo turned his head towards the fire, and Bordelli saw him smile for the very first time. It was not a happy smile.

‘Thank you, Inspector. For me, at least, that’s enough. I really don’t give a fuck about any of the rest,’ he said. Then he turned to look outside again.

‘You haven’t drunk your coffee,’ said Bordelli. The youth was staring avidly at the rain-battered landscape.

‘The game is over, Inspector. Now you can go back to being a policeman.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Bordelli.

‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’ Bordelli got up and went over to him, stopping behind him.

‘For a game to be over, all the players have to be in agreement,’ he said. Odoardo turned to look at him. He had dark circles round his eyes.

‘What are you trying to tell me?’

‘Stop playing dumb. You already know,’ said Bordelli.

‘But I don’t understand why.’

‘Because it’s the last day of the year.’

‘Ah …’ said the lad, and he turned to face the window again.

‘There’s one question I can’t answer. Why, when your friend realised I was about to discover the truth, didn’t he run away?’

‘Because he doesn’t give a shit about going to jail, he only wanted to know the truth about his mother.’

‘Well, now he knows everything. Next time you see him, give him my regards.’

‘What about those photographs?’

‘They’ll just rot inside a file in the court archives,’ Bordelli lied. He planned to burn them, along with the promissory notes.

‘Will you be back, Inspector?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Bordelli. He took out the ring the non-existent Ciro had given to Rosaria and dropped it on the table.

‘Don’t forget to give this to your friend,’ he said. Odoardo turned around for a second, to look at the ring.

‘Thanks,’ he said, then turned round again.

Bordelli headed for the stairs, lighting his umpteeth cigarette. It wasn’t yet two o’clock, and he’d already lost count of how many he’d smoked. He would have an easier time of it the next day. As he descended the stairs, he felt light, as if relieved of a burden. He went out, closing the door behind him. It was raining cats and dogs. The Beetle was almost hidden by the curtain of water. He pulled his trench coat tightly around him and, paying no mind to the rain, walked out from under the loggia and towards the car.

Just before supper, Piras told his mother he was going out for a minute, and headed for the door without his crutches.

‘Nino! You’re walking!’ his mother said, hand over her mouth.

‘I used to walk before, too, Mamma.’

‘Are you sure it’s not dangerous?’ Maria asked, running up behind him.

‘I’m taking it slowly, don’t worry.’

‘Where are you going at this hour?’

‘To say hello to Pina and Giovanni.’

‘Ask them if they want to come and watch the television later.’

‘All right.’

‘And don’t be late for supper. You know your father gets upset,’ said Maria.

‘Where is he?’

‘In the shed.’

‘I’ll be right back,’ said Piras. He went out of the house and walked slowly towards the Setzus’ front door. It was the first time he’d gone outside without crutches. He’d been wanting all afternoon to tell Pina what had happened, and in the end he’d made up his mind. She still knew nothing about it, Giovanni likewise. Pintus had appeared in the local newspaper, but they didn’t know how to read, and talk of the arrest hadn’t yet reached their ears. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but Piras wanted Pina to start the new year thinking that Benigno was in heaven, enjoying the view in the company of angels.

‘Ciao, Pina.’

‘Nino, you’re cured! Come in.’ They went into the kitchen. Giovanni was there, too, sitting in his chair.

‘You’ve chucked your sticks,’ he said. A pot of polenta hung from a chain over the fire. Pina took a bottle of wine and filled three glasses.

‘Would you like a biscuit, Nino?’ she asked.

‘No thanks, Pina. Mamma asked if you want to come and watch television later.’

‘What’s showing?’ Giovanni asked.

‘There’s Mina at ten o’clock, then they’re going to replay the best things of the year … It’s supposed to last until past midnight.’