Marco Vichi: Death in August

Florence, Summer 1963

Inspector Bordelli entered his office at eight o’clock in the morning after an almost sleepless night, spent tossing and turning between sweat-soaked sheets. These were the first days of August, hot and muggy, without a breath of wind. And the nights were even more humid and unhealthy. But at least the city was deserted, the cars few and far between, the silence almost total. The beaches, on the other hand, were noisy and full of peeling bodies. Every umbrella had its transistor radio, every child a little bucket.

Before even sitting down, Bordelli spotted a typewritten sheet of paper on his desk and craned his neck to see what it was about. He noticed that it was typed very neatly, clean and precise, the lines nice and even, with nothing crossed out. He was astonished to see that it was a routine report. There was nobody he knew at police headquarters capable of drafting a report like that. Just as he started reading it, somebody knocked at the door. Mugnai’s round head appeared.

‘Dr Inzipone wants you, Inspector,’ he said.

‘Oh, shit …’ said Bordelli, squirming. Inzipone was Commissioner of Police. He always sent for Bordelli at the worst moments. It was a good thing the commissioner was about to go on holiday too. The inspector stood up from his chair with a wheeze and went and knocked at the commissioner’s door. Inzipone greeted him with an odd smile.

‘Sit down, Bordelli, I’ve got something to tell you.’ The inspector sat down listlessly and made himself comfortable. The commissioner himself stood up and started walking about, hands clasped behind his back.

‘I wanted to have a chat about last Friday’s dragnet,’ he said.

‘I had the report drawn up yesterday.’

‘Yes, I know, I’ve already read it. I just wanted to tell you a couple of things.’

‘All right.’

‘I’ll be clear about this, Bordelli. As I’ve always said, you are an excellent policeman, but your concept of justice is, well, a bit peculiar.’

‘What do you mean?’

Inzipone paused for a moment, to find the right words, and looked out of the window, turning his back to the inspector.

‘I mean … there are laws, my dear Bordelli, and we are paid by our citizens to make sure they are respected. We can’t take matters into our own hands; we can’t decide when to enforce the law and when not to.’

‘I know,’ Bordelli said calmly. He couldn’t stand all this beating about the bush, this false way of saying things. Inzipone turned round and looked at him.

‘During Friday’s dragnet, you let a number of offenders get away,’ he said drily.

‘Nobody’s perfect.’

‘No, no, Bordelli, you haven’t understood what I said — or rather, you’ve understood all too well. They didn’t escape from you; you deliberately set them free, after you’d arrested them.’

‘I must be getting old …’

Inzipone sighed and resumed pacing about the room.

‘A thief is always a thief, Bordelli. The courts will decide on the punishment. Don’t you think Robin Hood is a little out of date?’

Bordelli started feeling a strange tingling in his hands.

‘Dr Inzipone, we’re here to enforce the law, that much is clear. But so far I’ve come across no law that ensures everyone’s survival.’

‘This has nothing to with politics.’

‘Politics? A man who needs to eat wipes his arse with politics.’

‘Must you always be so vulgar, Bordelli?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought vulgarity was something else.’

‘This is a simple matter of either doing or not doing your duty.’

‘I have a duty to myself, too.’

‘I realise that. But it’s not yours to decide whether thieves go free!’

‘I didn’t let any thieves go free. I simply released a few poor bastards.’

‘That is precisely what I’m trying to say. It is not your decision to-’

‘Let me tell you something, Dr Inzipone. When I returned from the war, I hoped I had done my small part to liberate Italy from the shit we were in; but now all I see is mountains of shit, everywhere …’

‘We all know about your great valour during the war, Bordelli.’

‘Cut the crap. You know as well as I do that we’re worse off now.’

‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration …’

‘I hate dragnets, Dr Inzipone, they remind me of the Fascists’ round-ups. But if I have to take part in them, I’m certainly not going to put hungry people in jail.’

Inzipone threw up his hands, resigned.

‘I’ve turned a blind eye to you many times, Bordelli. But this is happening a little too often.’

‘What am I supposed to say? That I’ll be a good boy? Which means, I’ll get tough with the poor?’

‘You have a way, Bordelli, of always saying the most irritating things.’

‘Believe me, I don’t mean to. Can I go now? I’ve got a couple of beggars to hang.’

Inzipone eyed him, clenching his teeth. He knew there was little he could do about Bordelli’s methods, because he was, after all, an excellent inspector, he was loved by the entire department, and everybody knew that, in the end, he was right. There was too much poverty about.

Bordelli returned to his office. A few minutes later, Mugnai knocked again.

‘Coffee, Inspector?’

‘Yes, thanks. Listen, who wrote this?’ he asked, waving in the air the stellar report he had found on his desk.

‘A new guy, Inspector. Piras is the name.’

‘Sardinian?’

‘From head to toe.’

‘Send him in to me, if you would.’

‘Immediately, or with the coffee?’

‘With the coffee.’

‘All right, Inspector.’

Mugnai disappeared. Before returning to the report, Bordelli got up, opened the windows and half closed the shutters. As he did every summer, he thought it would be nice if all the holidaymakers decided en masse never to return to town. There would be everlasting peace.

He sat back down and picked up the report. He read it all in one go, quickly scanning the lines. It was about a car accident. Normally such matters were assigned to Vaccarezza, but in August the department was half empty. Bordelli took care not to take any time off during this period. He preferred battling the mosquitoes in the deserted city to finding himself alone as a dog on a crowded holiday beach wanting nothing more than to go home, where he might find a little peace. And this was why the report of an ordinary car accident had been put on his desk.

Somebody knocked again, and the door opened. On the threshold stood a lad Bordelli had never seen before, holding an espresso cup and saucer.

‘You sent for me, Inspector?’ The intonation was typically Sardinian: bouncy, proud, almost aggressive.

‘Are you Piras?’

‘In person.’

‘Come in …’

He was young and handsome, with a bony face, two dark, intense eyes, short but well built. On the whole, a likable sort.

‘Mugnai told me to bring you this,’ he said, indicating the coffee.

‘Thanks,’ said Bordelli, still looking at him. Piras set the little cup on the desk and remained standing.

‘Where are you from, Piras? I mean, what part of Sardinia?’

‘A little town near Oristano.’

‘But what’s it called? Come on, don’t keep standing, have a seat.’

‘Thanks, Inspector. I’m from Bonacardo.’

Bordelli leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye.

‘Piras, from Bonacardo … Don’t tell me your father’s name is Gavino.’

‘That’s exactly right, Inspector. His name is Gavino.’

The inspector ran a hand over his face, shaking his head.