‘There are certain circumstances in which-’
‘Swear it,’ Diotivede interrupted him.
‘You know perfectly well that it also depends on the cause of death.’
‘I don’t give a damn. Swear it.’
‘And what if I’m unable?’
‘Just swear to it. At any rate, I’ll never know.’
‘I swear,’ said Bordelli, sighing. Diotivede finally seemed satisfied and returned to the corpse. He sank the tip of his scalpel into the hollow of the dead man’s stomach, going deeper and deeper. They heard a snap, then a burst of air. Smelly gas came pouring out as the stomach deflated. The blade slowly continued along its path, without so much as a single drop of blood oozing from the lips of the cut. Setting down the scalpel, Diotivede widened the aperture with his hands.
‘Who is he?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Some poor bloke they found dead in the middle of the street.’
‘Murder?’
‘Looks more like a heart attack.’
‘I hate those words.’
‘I could call it cardiac arrest, if you prefer.’
‘You’re a true friend.’
‘Would you hand me that basin, please?’ Diotivede had extracted the liver and held it in his hands, waiting to set it down.
The moment had come to pay a call on Rodrigo. Driving through the streets, Bordelli started quibbling with himself: Why was he going to see Rodrigo? And for whose sake? For Zia Camilla’s? For Rodrigo’s? Or for his own? And if he was doing it for his own sake, what was the reason? So as not to feel guilty in his auntie’s eyes? To do his moral duty? Or was it merely for curiosity’s sake? There was no question that he found Rodrigo’s spinsterish bitterness terribly amusing. Maybe, all things considered, that was the real reason.
He parked his Beetle a couple of streets away from his cousin’s flat and continued on foot. It was always best to get a breath of air before visiting Rodrigo. When he got to the main entrance, he instinctively looked up to the fourth floor. The building was not very pleasant to look at, overloaded with monumental motifs as it was. Rodrigo’s shutters were closed. Bordelli rang the intercom, but no one answered. He rang again, repeatedly, with no result. Finally he squashed the button and held it down a long time, and suddenly the lock started clicking frantically. Bordelli climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Finding Rodrigo’s door closed, he knocked.
‘Who the fuck is it?’ he heard someone call from behind the door. Strange. Normally Rodrigo never used certain words.
‘Is that you, Rodrigo?’
‘No, it’s the big bad wolf.’
‘Could you open the door?’
‘What do you want?’
‘To have a little chat.’
‘I really don’t feel like it.’
‘All right, I’ll go. But I’m going to come back tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day-’
He heard a click, and the door slowly opened. Rodrigo was in his underpants, a week’s growth of beard on his face. He stood in the doorway, as if guarding the flat.
‘It’s nice to see you finally dirty and debased like the rest of humanity,’ said Bordelli, genuinely pleased.
‘What do you want?’
‘Would you let me inside?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Shall we have a drink?’
‘I hate it when people answer a question with a question.’
‘Then let me in.’
‘Mamma sent you, didn’t she?’
‘I haven’t seen Zia Camilla for a month. Anyway, why would she send me to see you?’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘I’m a policeman.’
Rodrigo sighed with irritation, stepped aside, and flung open the door.
‘Come in.’
The flat was dirty. On the floor near the entrance were some strange shards pushed up against the skirting board and, high up on the wall, a large, sticky-looking stain. The air smelled musty. The telephone was unplugged. Bordelli followed his cousin inside, eyeing his naked legs. Rodrigo looked good for fifty: no fat, no hanging skin. They entered the study, and Rodrigo went over to the window, opened it brusquely, and stood in front of it in his underpants. He started watching the few cars passing along the avenue below.
‘Find yourself a place to sit down,’ he said. What had once been his study now looked like a chicken coop. Bordelli took off his shirt and tossed it joyfully on to a chair. He really liked this situation; it was like finding a friend who had fallen into the hands of the Germans. He managed to find a spot on an armchair by removing a tray covered with leftovers. The sofa was nearly invisible under a layer of dirty clothes.
‘Nice little mess you’ve got here,’ said Bordelli, looking around. Rodrigo made a guttural sound, lingered for another minute in front of the window, looking out, then closed it and left the room. When he returned he had a pair of trousers on and a glass in his hand.
‘What are you drinking?’ asked Bordelli.
Rodrigo looked into the glass.
‘I don’t know. Want some?’
‘Just a drop, thanks.’
Rodrigo shuffled off and returned with a bottle he dropped between Bordelli’s legs.
‘Find yourself a glass,’ he said. Bordelli glanced at the label. Triple Sec, a sweet liqueur they used to get drunk on in childhood. So as not to seem unfriendly, he went into the kitchen to wash a glass. Returning to the chicken coop, he poured himself some of the sugary glue.
‘Tell me something, Rodrigo. Do you remember the last time I dropped by to see you?’