‘And then they made him eat it, just like that, raw. He had to swallow the whole thing.’
Bordelli swallowed his last bite of baccala.
‘Don’t you know any nice love stories, Toto?’
‘Of course I do, Inspector.’ And while removing the bone from the squid, he told the story of a certain Antonino, some poor bloke who wanted to marry the daughter of a rich landowner. Naturally they told him to keep away and slammed the door in his face, and so one night, Antonino sneaked on to the landowner’s property and set fire to the wheat.
‘I was just a little kid, but I can still see it, Inspector. The smoke was visible for twenty miles around. People came from all the neighbouring towns to watch. There was a good sea breeze and the fire charged ahead like a stampede of horses. Not one grain of wheat was spared.’
Not waiting to hear what kind of end poor Antonino came to, Bordelli got up to leave.
‘Duty calls, Toto.’
‘You won’t have a coffee?’
‘I’ll have it at the office.’
‘Come back soon, Inspector.’
‘Where else would I go?’
‘I say it for your sake, Inspector. In the coming days I’m going to make swordfish my own special way.’
‘I’ll be sure not to miss it.’
Walking out on to the street, Bordelli ran into a wall of heat. It was half past two. The air quivered incandescently above the asphalt. A large yellow cat was sleeping open-mouthed on the seat of a Lambretta, undone by the heat.
Before getting into his Volkswagen, Bordelli opened all the windows. The plastic covering of the seats was soft and emitted a noxious, sickly-sweet smell. Down the street came a Motobecane racing bicycle, ridden by a man wearing only underpants and singing. Bordelli envied him with all his heart. Then he summoned his courage and got into his Beetle. The side vents, opened all the way, deflected the wind on to him, but it made little difference. The steering wheel was so hot he could only manoeuvre it with one finger. The white wine he had drunk was behaving in the usual fashion: it goes down easily, but then suddenly your ears start ringing. It was impossible to visit Toto without endangering one’s health. All the same, it was fun to sit down in his kitchen to eat and chat, watching the greasiest cook in the world at work, four foot eleven inches of peasant joy. Bordelli would definitely have included him in the hypothetical, impossible family he sometimes imagined for himself in his old age: a farmhouse in the vineyards, six or seven faithful friends, walks in the country, endless dinners and an avalanche of memories, listening to or telling stories of the past by the fire in winter, or under the pergola in summer, with the crickets filling your ears. And every so often — why not? — a round of bocce behind the kitchen garden. Diotivede, by then pushing a hundred, could care for wounded animals, Botta and Toto would be fixtures in the kitchen, Fabiani the shrink could attend to bouts of depression, and Rosa could brighten the cloistered life with her immaculate naivety. He could even imagine the visionary Dante there, who would charm everyone with gadgets for cutting mozzarella or peeling bananas.
Before going back to the office he decided to drop in on old Gastone in Borgo Tegolaio. He wanted him to hear the VW backfire a couple of times. Gastone’s garage was where Tenaglia worked, a great big lad who couldn’t buy a lucky break and for whom Bordelli had found a job at the garage to keep him out of jail. He still hadn’t gone to see him at work, but he’d heard that things were going pretty well. Tenaglia wanted nothing so much as to get his hands on automobile engines. It was almost a disease for him. He loved plunging into the entrails of cars to find the illness to cure, it had always been his dream. But usually nobody wanted to take on a guy like him; a gigantic ex-convict usually inspired fear. And so he had kept on stealing cars and driving them down to Naples. Old Gastone, however, had faith in Bordelli. He hired the kid and every so often would phone the inspector to thank him for sending the big lug his way.
Bordelli turned on to Borgo Tegolaio and pulled up in front of the garage. He immediately spotted Tenaglia’s silhouette struggling with a Fiat 1005. Gastone was in a corner, cleaning something with a rag. Seeing the inspector walk in, they both dropped everything and came towards him, greasy hands extended.
‘So, Inspector, what are you doing still in town while everyone else is roasting their bum on the beach?’ said Gastone.
‘And what about you two?’
Gastone gave a half-nod and smiled.
‘We’re crazy, Inspector,’ he said. And he pulled out a bottle of port and three tavern glasses. There was no way to say no; they would have felt offended. Tenaglia’s forehead was dripping sweat like a fountain, but he looked happy.
‘Any problem with your armoured car, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘It keeps backfiring, as if it’s got digestive problems.’
‘Lemme have a listen; noises are my speciality,’ said the giant.
‘That’s all I’m asking.’
‘Get in and we’ll give her a whirl.’
Gastone intervened.
‘Just go alone, Tenaglia. You don’t mind, do you, Inspector?’
‘Of course not.’
That’s funny, thought Bordelli. A car thief driving a policeman’s car. Tenaglia went and scrubbed his hands so as not to dirty the steering wheel, then hopped into the VW and pushed the seat as far back as it could go, though he still had his knees in his mouth. Then he drove off in a manner quite unlike Bordelli’s, as if pulling out from the starting gate at a racetrack. The roar of the engine at high throttle could be heard fading down the narrow, hazy streets. At the first downshift, a kind of shot rang out, as the Beetle continued down the road towards diagnosis.
Gastone took Bordelli by the elbow and led him into what he called his office: two square metres of linoleum and a small table strewn with incomprehensible sheets of paper. Gastone seemed in a confidential mood.
‘Don’t tell him, Inspector … but I’ve got no relatives, I have nobody. I’ve already been to see the solicitor … I’m going to leave the garage to him.’
‘You always did say you wanted to leave it to someone who knew the ropes.’
Suddenly they heard the German rumble of the Beetle returning to base. An entirely new rumble, generated by Tenaglia’s driving. The giant pulled the car into the garage, gunning the engine one last time and stepping out of the car with a smile on his lips.
‘It’s the spark ignition, Inspector. The petrol’s not burning up completely in the cylinders, and so it pops in the pipes.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘We just gotta fix the carburation; I can do it in a jiffy.’ He went to get a screwdriver and lifted the bonnet. Bordelli watched him open a small, mysterious box and delicately stick the screwdriver inside. A minute later Tenaglia raised his head.
‘Start ’er up, Inspector.’
Bordelli obeyed and, at the giant’s orders, revved the engine for a good minute. Tenaglia then lowered the bonnet with a thud.
‘All taken care of, Inspector. If it happens again, I’ll eat my hat.’
Bordelli turned off the engine and got out of the car.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Any time.’
‘How much do I owe you, Gastone?’
The old mechanic raised his hands.
‘Don’t even mention it, Inspector.’
Bordelli went up to Tenaglia.
‘How much do I owe you?’ he said, pulling out a thousand-lira note. The young man spread his arms, as if to move them away from the money.
‘I don’t want anything,’ he said.