‘What exactly do you think about?’
Bordelli took a sip of grappa and suddenly felt all the weight of the day on his shoulders.
‘They’re rather vague thoughts,’ he said.
The inventor waved his index finger in the air.
‘I often think about it myself, and I don’t like it one bit. Death is unacceptable, disgustingly unacceptable … unless there really is such a thing as an immortal soul, an eternal consciousness of oneself.’
‘I agree.’
Dante dropped his hands into the pockets of his smock. A deep furrow formed in his brow.
‘And what about the resurrection of the flesh? What do you think about that?’ he said.
If it hadn’t been so hot, Bordelli might have tried to reflect on this. Dante chewed his spent cigar and began to pace in silence through his ingenious debris. The rhythmical sound of his footsteps very nearly managed to put Bordelli to sleep. A few minutes later, Dante was standing in front of him again.
‘The great themes, Inspector … It’s the great themes that drive me mad. Death, consciousness, life … Take life, for instance. A spermatozoon plunges headlong into an ovum, and immediately a long-term project is set in motion. The cells proliferate at a dizzying rate, clustering, diversifying. Out of that initial, infinitesimal particle will grow a beating heart, hands, fingernails, hair, glands, and a brain with the power to think of itself … And it’s already all written down, from the position of the liver to the composition of the cartilage. But from time to time nature, too, gets things wrong, and so you’ll have six fingers on one hand or one leg shorter than the other, or else she may construct a brain incapable of understanding the simplest things … And the reason for this? A simple mistake? Or is there a design? And why, if I know I can’t answer these questions, do I continue to ask them?… A little more grappa, Inspector?’
There was no point in answering. Dante was already headed towards the bottle. He returned, clutching it by the neck, and filled the two little glasses to the brim again. Emptying his own, he dropped his head, chin resting on his chest.
‘Always the same questions: Why does God allow evil? Is history the work of man, or does it have an independent force of its own? And what about time? What is time?’
‘Before I forget, would you like to come to my place for dinner on Wednesday?’
They left early in the morning to avoid the heat, car windows open all the way. Bordelli was in shirtsleeves, driving with one hand and enjoying the air blowing over him. He could still smell the nauseating odour of Dante’s grappa in his nose. He hadn’t shaved, and every so often ran his hand over his stubbly face. He wondered where Rodrigo might be at that hour. Maybe he was walking about naked in his flat, declaiming Byron to his woman, also naked, in a smoke-filled room, both drunk and happy after a night of sex. At any rate, his disagreeable cousin was becoming much more agreeable to him.
Piras was in civilian dress and looked rather like a penniless student. Bordelli turned to face him and raised his voice to make himself heard above the German growl of the car.
‘Got any cousins, Piras?’ he asked.
‘Dozens.’
‘Do you get on all right with them all?’
‘I don’t even know them.’
They sat in silence for a while, hypnotised by the Beetle’s noise, a dull rumble with a sort of whistle inside. Piras sighed.
‘Aren’t we going to interrogate these Morozzis? I mean seriously interrogate them,’ he said.
‘Of course, Piras, but not right away. I would like first to have something more definite in hand.’ Piras nodded and rested an elbow on the window rim. Bordelli took his hands off the steering wheel, holding it steady with his knees as he lit his first cigarette of the day. He blew out the first puff without inhaling it, since it tasted like sulphur.
‘So, what do you think, Piras? Have you managed to solve the riddle?’
‘Theoretically, yes, but the facts still elude me.’
‘Explain.’
‘It’s a question of mathematics. You gave me a problem to solve, an equation with an unknown. It’s all very easy on paper; the hard part comes later, when you try to apply theory to practice, you know what I mean?’
Bordelli pressed his lips together.
‘Go on.’
‘Let me think it over a little longer. Sooner or later something will come to me.’
It seemed to Bordelli that Piras hadn’t explained a thing, but he let it drop.
By the time they got to the coast, the sun was high in the sky. The heat was more bearable than in the city. Bordelli parked the car along the seafront.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked the Sardinian.
‘It’s been so long since I last saw the sea, Piras.’
The beach at Marina di Massa was covered with people. Too many people. The countless rows of deckchairs ended just a few feet from the water. There was something unpleasant about the constant movement of all those half-naked bodies on the sand. Under the grating music of the radios one could hear the distant chirruping of children playing in the surf. As they made their way through the countless umbrellas, Bordelli tried to imagine a deserted beach, going swimming in the nude and then lying down at the water’s edge with eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the sea, the cries of the gulls, without a thought in his head.
He stopped to wait for Piras, who had fallen behind while removing his shoes and socks. He walked towards Bordelli over the scorching sand, shiny black shoes dangling from his hooked fingers. His bony face gleamed in the sun like a copper pot. The inspector resumed walking towards the sea, and Piras picked up his pace until he was at his side again.
‘You should take off your shoes, too, Inspector. It makes it much easier to walk.’
Bordelli took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.
‘Never mind, we’re only staying a minute.’
When they reached the water’s edge, Bordelli heaved a melancholy sigh. His head was full of memories. He saw himself as a toddler again, playing in the wet sand, his mother playing cards and gabbing with her friends, his dad never losing sight of him, his old aunts from Mantua sitting next to one another with shoes on their feet and purses in their laps, coconut vendors walking quickly by, kicking up sand with their heels. It was all a very long time ago, when women’s bathing suits started at the neck and went all the way down to the knees.
* * *
The waiter at the Coccodrillo remembered the Morozzis well. They had arrived at half past eight and stayed until 10.30.
‘Good people,’ he said in a serious tone, which led Bordelli to think that they left generous tips. Piras had pulled out a notebook and was writing everything down. It was almost noon and there was a great deal of commotion in the kitchen. The dining room was still empty, however. As he answered Bordelli’s questions, the waiter continued slowly setting the tables, stretching across them to arrange glasses with the ease of habit. He was short and slightly hunchbacked. Despite an oversized nose, his face looked empty. He called to mind the comic books of Signor Bonaventura. He circled round the larger tables, exasperatingly slow, making endless adjustments as he lined up the cutlery. Bordelli and Piras followed him around with the feeling that they were bothering him.
‘Do they eat here often, the Morozzis?’ the inspector asked.
‘Yes, they do. They’ve been coming here for many years.’ A bit farther away, a little girl with bruises on her knees was spreading out the last tablecloths, smoothing out the wrinkles with her open palms. Bordelli glanced at the fake fish hanging on the wall and felt a great weariness come over him.
‘So you’re sure they left here at half past ten.’
The waiter stopped, a fork in his hand.
‘Absolutely sure, Inspector. But has something happened to these gentlemen? Some misfortune?’
A fat woman with a thick fringe of blonde hair over her forehead came out of a door. She had to be the restaurant’s owner.
‘Gigi! Haven’t you finished yet?’ she said.