‘It’s no longer a game, Piras. Signora Pedretti was murdered.’ And he told him in minute detail what he had learned from Diotivede. Piras’s mouth tightened.
‘Interesting,’ he said.
Bordelli denied himself another cigarette, pleased at such willpower, and reclined in his chair, bending the springy back.
‘Are you free Wednesday evening?’
‘I get off work at eight.’
‘I’m having a dinner party at my place, a little thing among friends. Care to join us? I should warn you I’m the youngest of the lot.’
Piras looked visibly pleased.
‘That’s fine with me, Inspector. I’ll bring some Sardinian pastries.’
‘I’ll bet they’re papassinos.’
‘How did you know?’
Bordelli smiled and recalled a cold morning in ’44.
‘Once, during a mortar attack, your father explained to me in great detail how those biscuits are made, and I’ve been wanting to taste one ever since. But I wanted to tell you another thing. Tomorrow at noon, Signora Pedretti’s two nephews are coming to see me. I want you to be there, too. You can man the typewriter and write the report, but mostly I want you to try to figure out what’s going through their heads.’
‘That’s fine with me.’
Piras left. After a few minutes of listless reflection, Bordelli slapped himself on the forehead.
‘Rodrigo,’ he said. He immediately dialled his cousin’s number and let the phone ring for a long time, but it was no use. Bordelli hung up and promised himself he would drop by his cousin’s place the following day. He was becoming seriously intrigued by this business of not shaving.
A little rain fell around midnight, so sparse you could count the drops. They were as big as eggs and splatted on the road with a slapping sound, evaporating in seconds on the still-hot asphalt. Bordelli had lain down in bed with a book by Fenoglio on his belly. Even immobile, he still sweated. A moribund fly kept going from one end of the room to the other, ceaselessly crashing against the walls in search of a way out. The mosquitoes were having a ball in the only apartment in town without DDT. Reading was impossible. It was easier to sink into the usual unwholesome melancholy. Warm gusts of wind blew through the wide-open windows, and still more mosquitoes, and the creaking sounds of old bicycles. Now and then a lone automobile, or a faraway train. Vito, known as Vinaccia, also passed by. He was an old alcoholic who talked to himself. He never left the San Frediano quarter. Bordelli recognised his stumbling, wine-sodden step. The drunk was muttering to himself, in the usual angry tone. The inspector set aside Fenoglio and turned off the light. He heard Vito stop to catch his breath. Then he suddenly raised his voice.
‘They’re all whores, the lot of ’em … nothin’ you can do about it … all whores …’
Poor Vito. Bordelli heard him set off again with difficulty, cursing through clenched teeth. Then he stopped at the end of the street and started yelling the same things as before. He even banged on the steel shutters of a few shops, choked on his own voice, coughed to the point of fainting, and then, after spitting theatrically, resumed his grumbling. In the penumbra of the bedroom, Bordelli remembered another old madman from many years before, also an alcoholic who talked to himself. People called him Villoresi, but nobody knew his real name. Nor did anyone know how old he was. He had a monstrous nose exploding in the middle of his face like dripping wax, dilated pores as red as open wounds, two pale blue imbecilic eyes popping out of his death’s-head as though blown out from within by force, and a rotten, perpetually open mouth. He dragged himself about, holding up walls with one hand, taking short little steps, like Vito, always speaking aloud to someone who wasn’t there, question and answer in quick repartee, almost always angry, head dangling to one side. He would spit out insults at an invisible enemy and curse him for eternity. Whenever any women saw him approach, they would cross to the other side of the street, avoiding his gaze. Realising this, he would start yelling.
‘Fucking whores! Yeah, you wish! Fucking whores is what you are!..’
He had a deep, hoarse voice, and the more he yelled, the more his imprecations stuck in his throat, his face turning red from the effort. Children were a little afraid of him and used to taunt him for the thrill of it. They would hide round street corners and shout a name at him — ‘Bertolaniiiii!’ — which functioned as a sort of magic word that, for obscure reasons, made him fly into a rage. ‘Bertolani! Bertolaniiii!’ Villoresi would straighten himself with a start and look all around to stare down the culprit, screaming a litany of curses against the whole world: ‘Damned pigs … sons of whoring sows … I’ll kick your arses one by one …’ The children would take to their heels, pursued by his oaths.
Almost everyone in the neighbourhood was fond of the old man. If a day went by without any sign of him, they would ask one another: ‘Where’s Villoresi?’
Bordelli swatted at a mosquito humming in his ear. It was even hotter than before. The weary buzzing of the fly had not ceased for a single moment. He closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep, and before drifting off he saw a medieval village from the Marches region whose name he couldn’t remember. To enable the Allies’ tanks to pass through, they’d had to widen the streets by chiselling away the stones of the houses.
Anselmo was utterly unlike how Bordelli had imagined him: chubby, with beady, suffering eyes, a tuft of greasy hair atop his head. He had a troubled air about him and an oily face, and looked about thirty years old or a little less. He sat on the chair as if he was forever about to get up. He folded his sweaty hands, then wiped them on his trousers. He kept sticking his forefinger inside his shirt collar, as if he needed air. He genuinely seemed the anxious type, the kind who flush the toilet before they’ve finished pissing. One felt nervous just looking at him. Yet his voice was strangely calm and even. He was well dressed and wore a very serious-looking tie.
His brother Giulio was younger, also fat, also a ‘doctor’. The same flabby face as Anselmo, the same pain-filled eyes, but a lot more hair and a more colourful tie.
The heat had reached dangerous levels. Anselmo was having difficulty breathing.
‘Well, here we are, Inspector. Why did you want to see us?’ he said with a cold smile. Bordelli looked over at Piras, seated at the typewriter across the room.
‘Just a few questions,’ he said.
‘Very well.’
Bordelli sighed wearily and looked Anselmo straight in the eye.
‘Signor Morozzi, where were you on Thursday evening between eight and ten o’clock?’
The sweat was dripping from Anselmo’s chin. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
‘In what sense, Inspector?… I mean, why are you asking me this?’
‘You’re not the only one I’m asking. I also want an answer from your brother.’ Giulio shuffled his feet on the floor.
‘Me? On Thursday?’ he said in a falsetto. Anselmo cut him off.
‘We were at the beach,’ he said.
‘Where, exactly?’
‘Cinquale.’
‘Did you stay in or go out?’
‘We ate out, then went dancing late into the night, at a club on the waterfront.’
Giulio confirmed the story with a nod. Anselmo rested one hand on the edge of the desk, leaving a wet imprint behind. He was panting softly.
‘But, if I may ask, what has this to do with the matter of …’ He didn’t finish his sentence, but just stared at the inspector, face shiny with sweat. Bordelli decided not to beat about the bush and to get straight to the point. He turned to Giulio, who was also sweating profusely.
‘Your aunt was very wealthy, as you know. In cases such as these, it’s always best to check whether any of the heirs tried to force the hand of fate.’
‘The hand of fate?’ said Giulio, eyes narrowing. He seemed weaker than his brother. Of the two, he was clearly the one who followed; he looked at Anselmo with admiration, under the sway of a charisma that he alone could see. Bordelli observed him carefully.
‘You’re direct heirs, aren’t you?’ he said.
The two brothers exchanged a quick glance. They moved about in their chairs, as if stalling. Giulio turned round to look at the inscrutable Piras, for only a second. Anselmo wiped his face again.
‘There’s also our uncle, Zia Rebecca’s brother,’ he said.
‘Well, a good part would go to you. At least half, I believe.’
Giulio looked shocked.
‘That’s certainly not our fault,’ he said.