‘You want my chickens, do you? Well, no chickens for you, my friend, the Germans gunned them all down, too, hee hee hee! Ah, no chickens, no rabbits, all kaput, heeheehee! Sprechen deutsch, ja? Hee hee hee! Traitor rabbits, up against the wall, all of ’em, kaput!’
He goggled his eyes and burst into laughter. Bordelli heard Gavino panting behind him.
‘And who is this?’ asked the Sardinian. Without taking his eyes off the old man, Bordelli tapped his temple twice with his finger.
Piras came forward with a great rustling of leaves and branches.
‘He may be crazy, but he was ready to make us bleed,’ he said, gesturing as if to say that his cartridges were harmless, filled only with birdshot.
The old man was no longer smiling, but staring at the double barrel of the shotgun in wonder. He remained that way for a few seconds, brow wrinkled as if listening for a faraway sound. Then he set down his rifle, lowered his eyes, and sobbed three or four times, chest heaving.
‘Animals!’ he said, rubbing his nose and stamping his feet on the ground so hard he seemed to want to break through the earth’s crust. At last he spat to one side and raised the rifle again, pointing it at Bordelli.
‘No chickens, mein general, they’re all kaput. Heeheehee! Sprechen deutsch? All kaput.’
Bordelli and Piras exchanged glances. They took the mad old peasant by the arm and walked back towards the field, as the man kept muttering ‘kaput, kaput’ without cease. Back at the infirmary they coddled him like a child. He scarfed down some American junk food and got so drunk he finally threw up. The following day they sent him along with a couple of wounded to a hospital behind the front lines. Bordelli continued to wonder whether he had done the right thing to take the old man away from his little house and not simply leave him there alone to live out his crazy life in peace.
* * *
A fly landed on his nose. He opened his eyes to look at the alarm clock. He was sure he had slept hardly at all, but in fact it was almost six o’clock. He lay in bed for a while longer, trying to revive his sluggish muscles. The stink of cigarette butts bothered him, so he covered the ashtray with a book. Stretching his legs over the hot sheets, he stared at the ceiling and turned his thoughts to Signora Pedretti-Strassen. He saw again her gnarled hands clutching at her throat, her blue-veined white feet, her sharp, slightly hooked nose, her open eyes, full of horror and almost alive, her body stiff on the great bed, alone in her large villa on the hill, high over the deserted city, surrounded by age-old trees … At once he felt like going back there, to breathe that air again, see that room again, look at those floors again.
He put on his shoes and poked his head into the kitchen. Botta was dicing meat, engrossed in his labours, while a white, spice-scented smoke rose up from a skillet.
‘I’m going out, Ennio. I’ll see you at nine.’
Botta muttered something without looking up. The inspector left him there and went out into the street, mouth still pasty with sleep. As the Volkswagen was parked in the shade, he could get in without trauma. Reaching the Lungarno, he crossed the Ponte alle Grazie and turned, as always, to look up at the church of San Miniato al Monte, his favourite. Its white facade always had the same effect, whether from up close or far away.
A few minutes later he turned up the sloping street that led to the villa. A warm, sticky wind blew in through the window. He could already see the villa’s roof from afar, with the great cedar towering over it. He took the last curves with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He would smoke it later, perhaps seated on a sofa in front of some beautiful painting.
He stopped the Beetle in the usual spot and got out of the car. Crossing the street, he looked down at the city below. A maze of red roofs bristling with the churches’ belfries. He felt a great urge to scream at the top of his lungs, to stop thinking about Elvira’s eyes, the slap of her bare little feet on the tiled floor. He wanted to forget he was fifty-three years old, a melancholy grump with no more desire to dream, an old man fond of solitude, unable to open up to others.
Lighting the cigarette, he headed towards the villa. He entered the garden somewhat tentatively, as if violating someone’s privacy. The cicadas hummed, high in the trees. All was calm. Entering the house, he went straight up to the first floor. In Rebecca’s room the window had been left ajar. Bordelli opened it wide, pulled up a chair, and sat in front of it. The wind gently rustled the trees’ great boughs, and soon he was asleep, chin on his chest, lulled by the cicadas.
A gust whistled through the trees, waking him up. It was almost dark outside. His cigarette had fallen to the floor and burnt down, leaving a brown streak on a floor tile. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was almost nine o’clock.
‘Shit,’ he said. Dinner must be almost ready. He tried to get up out of the chair, but his legs were unsteady. Bending down to pick up the butt, he looked around for an ashtray. Spotting a wastebasket in the corner, he tossed the cigarette and missed. Rising with a sigh, he walked past the bed and noticed something moving on it. Turning round with a start, he smiled: a huge white cat was lying on one of the pillows, paws in the air and eyes half open.
‘And what are you doing here?’ he said.
He went up to the animal and patted it. The cat opened its eyes and meowed. Its fur was soft. Bordelli ran his hand all along its belly.
‘Got to go now, pretty boy. Ciao.’
He turned to leave, but stopped in his tracks in the doorway. Perplexed, he looked back at the cat, then went downstairs and started inspecting the windows and doors. They were all tightly shut. He couldn’t work out how the cat had entered. Clearly the animal hadn’t been shut up indoors all this time, and it obviously wasn’t dying of hunger. Why he was taxing his brain to uncover a cat’s secrets, he couldn’t say, but at the end of the day he was a policeman, and there was no helping the fact that strange phenomena aroused his curiosity. Thus there must be an opening somewhere. Ten past nine. His guests must already be seated at table. As he was about to leave, the cat walked past him, towards the kitchen. Bordelli followed. It headed straight towards the French door as if about to run into it, but, as though by magic, the moment its head touched the wood, a little hatch opened up and the cat disappeared outside, tail stroking the edge of the cat door. Bordelli got down on his knees for a better look. He’d never seen anything like it. The little door was hinged on top, and when at rest, it filled the opening, completely concealing it. It opened with ease from either side, like saloon doors. Brilliant. Nine fifteen. Now he had better fly. No more playing cop. The others had probably already started eating. He ran out of the villa and raced back into town, driving like a madman. When he slipped the key into his front door, it was 9.25.
‘Inspector, we said nine o’clock!’ said Ennio, offended. Bordelli put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Sorry. Is everyone here?’
‘Everyone but you. I’ve already served some wine.’
‘Well done, Ennio.’
‘Who’s the guy in the doctor’s smock?’
‘That must be Dante. He’s an inventor and mouse-tamer.’
‘Mouse-tamer?’
‘He calls them each by name. You ought to see it.’
Dante’s voice, soaring in a baritone solo, boomed from the dining room. Botta lost interest in the mice and gestured impatiently to Bordelli.
‘Now please go into the dining room, Inspector. The antipasti are on their way.’