‘Yes, yes, a bit strange, very strange, in fact,’ he said with a giggle.
Bordelli could no longer bear to listen to them or to see their faces.
‘Strange in what sense?’ he asked, looking at them with malice. Anselmo shrugged.
‘He stays shut up in a great big room all day, mixing chemicals and building gadgets that are totally useless,’ he said with a certain disdain. Bordelli remembered Dante’s broad, unruly face and felt great compassion for the whimsical giant who jumped from one subject to another when he spoke. Talking to him was like entering another world, where imagination, play and intellectual freedom were more important than anything else. It irked the inspector to hear others refer to him as mad.
‘Dr Morozzi, how long has it been since you last saw your Uncle Dante?’
‘Maybe three months, maybe four,’ said Anselmo.
Bordelli looked at Giulio.
‘And you?’
‘Me too, yes. We always go there together, to see my uncle.’
Bordelli gestured as if to conclude.
‘Piras, could you read the transcript back to us, please?’ he said. Piras stopped his clattering, pulled the sheet from the typewriter and stood up, scraping the legs of his chair on the floor. Planting himself next to the Morozzis, he read the questions and answers in an indifferent voice, gave the report to the inspector, and returned to his post. Bordelli handed the transcript to the two brothers and leaned back in his chair.
‘If everything’s all right with you, please sign at the bottom.’ The Morozzis hesitated for a moment, then signed, wetting the document with sweat. Bordelli looked first at Anselmo, and then at Giulio, staring long and hard at them.
‘Good. Now we’re all done,’ he said. At the sound of these words, Anselmo’s flabby face relaxed. But after a calculated pause, Bordelli added:
‘… for the moment, that is.’
Both brothers gave a start. Giulio looked at Anselmo as if awaiting a reply.
‘What do you mean, for the moment?’ Anselmo asked.
The inspector tried to seem as polite and contrite as possible, as if wanting to apologise for the inescapable annoyances of bureaucracy.
‘I’m sorry about your holiday, but unfortunately I must ask you not to leave the city until the investigation is over.’
‘What investigation, Inspector?’
‘You want to tell them, Piras?’
Piras stood up and planted himself beside the desk.
‘The post-mortem results clearly show that Signora Pedretti-Strassen was murdered,’ he said with great gusto.
Giulio grabbed hold of his brother’s elbow, lower lip dangling like a ripe fig. Anselmo squirmed in his chair, and when he spoke his voice came out hoarse.
‘No, I’m sorry, Inspector, perhaps I’ve misunderstood … First you said you didn’t know anything yet … and that, actually, it was almost certain that … Aunt …’
Bordelli hunched his shoulders and made the face of someone who had to suffer the whims of fate.
‘It’s a nasty job, being a policeman. Sometimes we’re forced to tell lies … though always with the best of intentions, of course.’
Both brothers stammered some half-formed words, opening and closing their sweaty hands like two newborns.
‘But does that mean … we’re considered suspects?’ asked Anselmo, eyes popping.
‘I’d say so,’ Bordelli said serenely, fiddling with his pen. Anselmo made a weary gesture of rebellion.
‘That doesn’t seem right to me, Inspector. Why didn’t you tell us that to start with? It just doesn’t seem right. We’re honest people. We work like slaves year round … And now you come and tell us that … we’re suspects! This is really … unacceptable!’
Carried away and perhaps fascinated by his own voice and courage, he was about to slam his hand down on the desk when he looked at Bordelli and froze, hand in the air. Wiping away a drop of sweat from one eye, he said again, in falsetto:
‘We’re honest people …’
Piras intervened of his own accord.
‘We merely need to confirm your alibis, nothing more. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear,’ he said, exchanging a complicitous glance with Bordelli. In the dead silence someone’s stomach gurgled audibly. Giulio blushed and pressed a hand to his belly. Bordelli smiled coldly.
‘You can go now,’ he said, crossing his arms. Anselmo loosened his tie and stood up, gasping for air, lips moving like a fish’s. He had left a sweaty imprint on the chair. He took Giulio by the arm and made him stand up.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, looking deeply offended.
‘Piras, see them out for me, if you would,’ said Bordelli, lighting the cigarette he had kept unlit in his mouth for God knows how long.
The two brothers turned their backs and went out, escorted by Piras. Although the windows in the corridor were all open, the air was stagnant and stifling. Anselmo took laboured steps, dragging his feet, his brother panting behind him, staring at the back of his head. Their wives were waiting for them in the street, both blonde, in high heels and dressed for the beach, ready to return to the coast. Their stylish, oversized sunglasses made them look like two giant insects. They all climbed into a blazing Fiat 600 Multipla without saying a word, and drove off. All of Anselmo’s rage could be heard in the way he shifted the gears.
Piras returned and, seeing the smoke rising to the ceiling, waved his hand to dispel it.
‘So, Piras, what do you make of the dear brothers?’
Piras shrugged.
‘Not exactly the most likeable pair I’ve ever met,’ he said.
Bordelli started drumming his fingers on the transcript.
‘Tomorrow dress in civvies. We’re going to the beach.’
It was hotter than hell in Toto’s kitchen. The oily, burning smoke stuck to the skin like glue, but the baccala alla livornese was sublime, and the cool white wine went down without effort. Bordelli had rolled his sleeves up past the elbow. Toto was cleaning squid in the sink. He was in the middle of a monologue, telling another of his blood-curdling stories about home. It was difficult to stop him.
‘… and so, next day, pardon the language, they found him in a straw hut with a fish shoved up his arse, one of those fishes with prickles on its back, the kind that go in easy but come out hard, if you get the picture …’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a little more baccala, Toto, would you?’
‘Certainly, Inspector.
‘Just a little bit.’ Toto went to get the pan and dished out another whole serving, with lots of sauce. It was like starting lunch all over again, wine and all. Bordelli didn’t even try to protest; he knew it was no use. The only way to spare himself would have been not to ask for anything. Toto went back to skinning his squid and resumed his story.