‘How did she die?’ he asked.
‘At first glance, it looks like a violent asthma attack; but we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem to be certain.’
‘So why are the police involved?’
‘Because there’s something fishy about it.’
Dante spread his legs and crossed his arms over his belly.
‘Well, I can tell you now, I don’t want to see her,’ he said.
‘You’re under no obligation.’
‘It’s not that I would be shocked or upset. I am old, and I’ve seen my share of dead bodies. But I have no desire to see my sister for the last time on a slab at the morgue, sewn back up like a stuffed fish. I wouldn’t like that. Another coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’
Dante went and poured himself another cup, then continued.
‘Life’s funny, don’t you think? I spoke with my sister by telephone just a few hours ago. She seemed rather well, in good spirits.’
He knocked back the coffee the way Russians do vodka. Then he tossed the empty cup on to the workbench and took a long, slow walk round the room, hands thrust deep into his pockets, making the floorboards suffer with each step. Slowly he came back to the inspector, eyes staring at an imaginary horizon.
‘We are like the leaves on the trees in autumn … Who wrote that? Quasimodo or the other one … Ungaretti? Yes, it must be Ungaretti.’
Dante’s voice was soothing, and his white, vaporous hair gave one a sense of peace, like the hair of the angels in heaven. Bordelli felt good, relaxed. The only thing missing was a bed. Dante stopped directly in front of him, looking bewildered, lips jutting out like Mussolini’s.
‘Dead … from an asthma attack …’ he said softly. He stood for a moment in silence, head hanging on his chest. Then he raised it slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to remember something.
‘Dead,’ he repeated. Then he walked round the room again, making the floorboards groan. He came to a stop again in front of Bordelli, who was practically falling asleep to the rhythm of Dante’s footfalls.
‘I know it’s of no interest, but the same thing could have happened to me, you know. I think it was about a month ago, perhaps two, or maybe even last year-’
‘Do you also suffer from asthma?’
‘It’s nothing to do with asthma. Do you want me to tell you about it?’
‘Please.’
All of a sudden they heard a rustling noise. Dante opened his eyes wide and put his forefinger over his nose and lips.
‘Shhh! Come,’ he said very softly. Taking Bordelli’s arm, he led him to the middle of the room, then brought his mouth to the inspector’s ear.
‘Close your eyes, Inspector, it’ll be another few seconds.’
‘Then what?’
‘Shhh! Close your eyes.’ The inspector obeyed, shuddering with excitement. Dante squeezed his arm.
‘Now, Inspector! Keep your eyes closed and tell me what you feel.’
Bordelli sniffed the air and pricked his ears.
‘What am I supposed to feel?’
‘Shhh! Speak softly. Just tell me what you feel.’
Bordelli waited some more. He forced himself to feel something, but there was nothing. So he gave up.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t feel anything,’ he said.
Dante was very pleased.
‘Precisely. You feel nothing. And yet there is someone in this room, flying around us.’ Bordelli thought Dante really was insane, and opened his eyes. All he saw were shadows chasing one another high up the walls and on the ceiling, and he instinctively lowered his head. Dante squeezed his arm again.
‘Look over there, Inspector,’ he said, pointing at a moving shape. A large bird was flying silently along the walls, without flapping its wings, creating as many shadows as there were candles in the room.
‘What is it?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Isn’t that a marvellous spectacle?’
‘What is it?’ Bordelli repeated, himself fascinated. Dante let go of his arm, still watching the animal, and raised his voice.
‘That’s Agostino, a barn owl full of gratitude. Three years ago, I put his broken leg in a splint and fed him for nearly a month. From time to time he comes to see me.’
Bordelli continued to follow the perfectly silent flight of the owl, which, after circling endlessly round the room, began to approach them. Dante raised his forearm, and the bird alighted on it. The owl wiped its beak two or three times on Dante’s shoulder, then took flight again, circling the room once more before veering into the stairwell and leaving.
‘Rebecca also loved animals,’ said Dante, heading back to the workbench. Bordelli followed behind him and collapsed in the chair again. He felt a bit dazed. Dante relit his cigar on the nearest candle and put two fingers to his forehead.
‘Now, what was I saying?’
‘You were telling me about something that had happened to you.’
‘Ah, yes. I had been working for several days on a revolutionary new detergent that would allow you to wash dishes without rubbing them, simply by immersing them in water. It’s been an obsession of mine for many years. The challenge is to create a product that isn’t poisonous, unlike DDT.’
Bordelli leaned forward.
‘DDT is poisonous?’ he asked, worried.
‘Extremely poisonous.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Now you are the second to know, I being the first. Who knows when everyone else will be told?’
Bordelli thought of the aerosol bomb he had on his bedside table, and how often he had inhaled its contents. Resigned, he lit a cigarette.