‘It’s too much, Inspector. Take back the two thousand,’ he said, putting the two notes back into Bordelli’s hand. The inspector put them back on the table.
‘You’ll see, there won’t be any change,’ he said.
‘You can tell a good cook by the way he shops, Inspector.’
‘Well, if there’s any left over, you can buy more wine.’
‘Sooner or later, I’m going to buy you a fine dinner, I swear.’
Bordelli lowered his eyes.
‘Never mind, Botta, you’ve already paid enough.’ He patted him on the shoulder and left him to his watches with Swiss faces and Neapolitan hearts.
The heat in the street was ghastly. And there was no hint of rain. Bordelli tried to distract himself by thinking about the dinner and the guests. Was Dr Fabiani in town? He was an old, melancholy psychoanalyst who had made a strong impression on him. Bordelli had met him a year before, during the course of an investigation, and invited him to Christmas dinner with Botta and Diotivede. It was a quiet, pleasant evening. Late into the night, each had told an old story from his past as they sipped cognac.
On his desk Bordelli found a handwritten note: I must speak to you. I’ll be back shortly. Zia Camilla. Zia Camilla was Rodrigo’s mother. Strange. She never called on him at headquarters. Bordelli expedited a couple of matters by telephone and finished reading the report of an arrest for murder. An unambiguous affair: a row, a knife, many witnesses. The killer was a young Calabrian male whose mother’s virtue had been slandered. He had been in town for only a few days and didn’t know that, in this part of Italy, slandering someone’s mother was almost as common as saying ‘Ciao’. A sad story of cultural misunderstanding. Bordelli got to the last lines: ‘… after which Bruno Pratesi addressed Salvatore Loporco with the words “son of a whore”, whereupon Loporco took out a cutting instrument with a five-inch blade and set upon Pratesi, stabbing him repeatedly in the chest and abdomen, saying in dialect, “I’ll teach you to talk about my dear mother that way”. All witnesses concur in saying that Loporco etc …’
At that moment somebody knocked, and Mugnai’s head popped inside the half-open door.
‘Your aunt is here,’ he said.
‘Show her in.’
Zia Camilla was fat only from the waist down. She always wore a stunned expression and a hint of alarm in her eyes, but today more than usual. Bordelli got up to greet her.
‘Zia, what’s wrong?’
The woman set her shopping bags down on the chair in front of the desk and remained standing.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Rodrigo. Lately he’s been sort of strange,’ she said in a worried tone.
‘I saw him a couple of weeks ago, and he seemed fine … In the sense that he seemed normal.’
‘It’s only been these last few days …’
‘In what way has he been strange?’
‘He’s just strange … A mother can feel these sorts of things.’ Bordelli sat down on a corner of the desk, thinking that Rodrigo had always been a bit of a pill.
‘Tell me more,’ he said. Zia Camilla threw up her hands.
‘He never goes outside any more, he doesn’t shave, he hardly ever answers the telephone, and when I call on him he keeps me standing at the door and can’t wait for me to leave.’
‘Wasn’t it the same four years ago, when you gave his old shoes to Father Cubattoli?’
‘This time it’s worse.’
‘Really?’
‘Why don’t you pay him a call? Talk to him a little. Maybe he’ll confide in you.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘You’re his cousin … and you’re a detective.’
‘For him those are points against me.’
‘Just pay him a little visit. Do it for me. I’m worried.’
‘All right, Zia, I’ll try ringing him later.’
‘And what if he doesn’t answer?’
‘Then I’ll go and see him at home.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Thank you, dear. God bless you.’ She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him and stroked his cheek with her fingers. Bordelli saw her out, carrying her shopping bags for her.
‘Ciao, Zia, give my best to Zio Franco.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve got any news.’
From the window the inspector watched Zia Camilla walk briskly across the courtyard’s flagstones. At seventy-three, she was still strong and healthy. She was his father’s sister, which gave him hope for the Bordelli line. It would take an accident to make him die young. Which was, in fact, what happened with his father, Amedeo Bordelli, a big, burly man with the broad, handsome face of a good-hearted boxer, who fell from a window while painting the shutter-latches.
The inspector returned to his office and saw that it was almost eight o’clock. His appointment with Piras was for half past nine. As he didn’t have much appetite, he went out for a bite in the bar across the street and then bought a couple of cold beers. He put one in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and then uncapped the other with his house key. During the fifteen years he’d been working in that office, not once had he ever remembered to bring a bottle opener from home. Lighting a cigarette, he dialled Rodrigo’s number. He let it ring for a long time, but there was no reply. He redialled the number half an hour later, with the same result. What a pain in the arse. Now he would actually have to go there. He had no desire to talk to Rodrigo, but since he’d promised Zia Camilla, he couldn’t back out. Well, there were worse things in life than a peevish, pedantic cousin. Anyway, he was curious to find out what was behind this business of not shaving … He had never seen Rodrigo unshaven.
Round about nine o’clock the heat in his office became unbearable. It was like being caught between the fingers of a gigantic hot and sweaty hand. Bordelli didn’t feel like going home. He lit another cigarette, his fourth or fifth, he couldn’t remember. Not a bad tally, he thought. A few months ago, by that hour he would already have smoked a good thirty. There was still a little light outside. Clouds were still gathering, every so often you could hear some distant thunder, but still no rain. A good downpour would have made the night a little less asphyxiating.
Bordelli picked up the receiver and dialled Fabiani’s number. The psychoanalyst was very pleased to be invited to dinner. He, too, always stayed put in August. He seemed in good spirits, though there was, as always, a note of deep sadness in his voice. When Bordelli had first met him, Fabiani was still tormented by remorse over a work-related incident that had ended tragically. It gave him no peace. They agreed on dinner and said goodbye.
Bordelli sat in silence, staring into space. Without knowing how, he found himself thinking about the woman of his life, the one he had never found. He tried to picture her, to imagine what she might look like, but he couldn’t see anything. He had no precise idea of her, but he was certain that if she stood right in front of him, he would know at once that she was the one. And it would be a triumph. Then he realised that by now it was getting late. If he found her now, at fifty-three, it would only be a defeat. Maybe he’d done everything wrong. He had always been waiting for something special, the way little girls believe in Prince Charming, languishing in their illusions. Falling in love with the wrong women had only reinforced his desire to find the right one, making him more and more rigid and hard to please. Sometimes, just to escape the loneliness, he would throw himself into brief, sordid relationships with women who didn’t understand him and only left him wanting to be alone. And now here he was, fifty-three years old, his only satisfaction that of having the same dream in his head, but with no hope of fulfilling it. He took comfort in the thought that he could never have done otherwise, and if he were reborn he would do the very same things. A heroic melancholy enveloped his head like a hot rag … Bordelli, the solitary knight, beloved of all women …
At 9.30 sharp, there was a knock at the door. Rousing himself, Bordelli felt ashamed of his silly dreams.
‘Come in.’
It was Piras. He walked in and remained standing in front of the desk.
‘Any news, Inspector?’
‘One thing. But don’t just stand there, sit down.’