‘A thousand lire is too much, Inspector.’
‘It’s not a thousand lire. It’s a way to say thanks.’
He entered his office, pulled the shutters to, and lay back in his chair as best he could. His intention was to reread the transcript of the Morozzi interview. But, as usual, it was too hot. He sent Mugnai for coffee and a couple of beers. While waiting he started thinking about his fifty-three years of life, how brief they had been and yet how full. A very long time ago he had asked himself how and when one realises one is old. Now, perhaps, he knew. One day he had happened to think about the past, and in so doing, he had felt very melancholy. That must have been the exact moment when he turned old. Before that, memories had only been faraway images, more or less faded, a weightless train of events; but after that day they had become something entirely different, something hard to define, part consolation, part resignation.
Mugnai knocked. He had two puddles of sweat under his armpits.
‘Here you are, Inspector. Coffee and beer.’
‘Thanks. Just put it right down here.’
‘Need anything else?’
‘No, thanks.’
Mugnai wiped his brow with the sleeve of his uniform.
‘Half an hour ago a man called for you, sir, a certain Dante.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he’d call back later.’
‘Good.’
Mugnai went out and Bordelli lit what he defined as his second cigarette of the day. But perhaps he was cheating. He smoked it while drinking his coffee and thinking about the war. He was unable to forget those years; they were still with him, as present and real as his own hands. August 1944 had been hot; and their dirty uniforms stank of sweat. He had gone out on patrol with Piras Sr, machine gun slung over his shoulder, finger on the trigger. The Germans were in the vicinity, as always, just over the hill, quartered in small villages abandoned by all but a few old, terrorised peasants. Piras and he walked along shoulder to shoulder, scanning the horizon with their eyes. The countryside lay fallow; mines had taken root in place of grain, but the wild flowers didn’t give a damn about the war and still blossomed everywhere, filling the valleys with colour. In an abandoned farmhouse they found an almost whole ham of prosciutto hidden under some straw. It was like a vision. They ate it in big hunks, cutting it with their daggers, then put it back in its place. When they returned to base after dark, their throats burned from the salted meat. Next day the thought of the prosciutto drove them back to the abandoned house, this time with a piece of stale bread. Crawling through the high grass all the way to the door, they entered carefully, preceded by the machine-gun barrel. There was nobody there. But they quickly discovered that the prosciutto had been partly eaten, almost certainly by some Nazi patrol. A good chunk of it was gone. They sat down, backs to the wall, and pulled out the bread. It seemed like a dream to be able to eat the stuff. It reminded them of the snacks their mothers used to make for them, centuries before.
As they chewed their last morsel, he and Piras looked at one another. They had to decide what to do with the remaining ham. They now knew not only that they were not the only ones eating it, but that the others were Nazis. In the end they quietly smiled and put the prosciutto back under the straw. When they returned the following day, again the ham had been eaten. By this point it became clear that the Germans had caught on. It went on this way for several days: one Italian bite, one German bite, down to the bone. It was almost touching, but mostly it was absurd. Tomorrow they might shoot a Kraut and dispatch him to the next world, though he might be one of those with whom they had shared the prosciutto.
Bordelli crushed the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray and remained pensive for a few minutes. Then he stood up with a sigh, got in the car and went to Forensic Medicine to see Diotivede. The heat didn’t reach the lab. Aside from the stink of disinfectants, it was a kind of paradise.
The doctor was preparing some slides for the microscope, humming through his nose, which was rather unusual. Diotivede never sang. Bordelli went up to him, hands in his pockets.
‘You in a good mood?’ he asked.
Diotivede looked at him askance.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You’re singing.’
‘I don’t see the connection. Black slaves used to sing, too.’
‘Well, I’ve never heard you singing before.’
‘Actually, I wasn’t singing.’
Bordelli realised the conversation was going nowhere and therefore changed the subject.
‘So, the dinner’s all set for Wednesday,’ he said.
‘Have you asked your friend about bean soup alla lombarda?’
‘He said it’s one of his specialities. He must have spent a holiday in San Vittore.’
‘And they say you never learn anything in prison.’
‘It’s a question of character, dear doctor. There are those who go to university and remain ignorant, and there are those who become cultured behind bars.’
The doctor put his slides in place and began his magical journey through the world of living microorganisms. He started droning again as before. It must have been an operatic aria, but it remained unrecognisable.
‘It that Carmen? asked Bordelli.
‘Barber’, said the doctor, still humming.
The inspector felt like arguing.
‘So you are singing …’
‘Call it whatever you like,’ said Diotivede, who kept on humming. When he was focused on his microscope, he was able to stand as still as a statue. If Bordelli ever sculpted a monument to him, he would portray him like that, hunched over his microscope.
All at once Diotivede tore himself away from the microscope and went up to a slab, raising the sheet, exposing a stocky body with a bloated belly. It was a man of about fifty whose skin had turned grey. Round his dry, nearly blackened lips was a layer of coagulated, yellowish saliva.
‘What are you going to do?’ Bordelli asked. Diotivede had rubber gloves on his hands and was poking the corpse’s belly, seeking the right point to begin cutting. Fascinated, the inspector followed those expert hands as they traced a path from the navel to the ribs. ‘You going to open him now?’ he asked the doctor.
‘I’m running late. They wanted it done this morning.’
‘Why don’t you request a helper?’
‘I’ve tried. The ministry said that when yours truly checks out, they’ll send a new doctor,’ Diotivede said bitterly.
‘How thoughtful of them.’
‘It’s probably better that way. Who knows what kind of person they would send?’
‘Such faith …’
Diotivede interrupted his work, turning serious.
‘When I die, make sure nobody opens me up, all right?’ he said.
‘Maybe I’ll die first.’
‘Don’t change the subject. Will you prevent them from cutting me in two? I want an answer.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’