‘I can’t wait.’
Going in, Bordelli saw Dante waving an empty glass in the air. He was wearing his usual work-smock with its usual stains. His white, unruly air shone in the light of the chandelier.
‘… anyone who can grasp the world as a whole can see intolerable realities unworthy of even the simplest animal communities … Don’t you agree, Inspector?’
‘I do.’
Bordelli excused himself for arriving late, blaming some pressing matters that could not be put off. The guests all rose to shake his hand, with the exception of Diotivede, who greeted him with a nod. The inspector hurriedly made his way to the table.
‘No, no, don’t get up. Hello, Piras. Please remain seated, everyone. How’s it going, Dr Fabiani?’
An emotional Canapini came up to him and pulled him into a corner.
‘Thank you, Inspector, thank you … I … I …’
Bordelli put his arms round the thief’s neck and shook him affectionately.
‘That’s enough of that, Canapini … And Rosa’s flowers?’
Canapini sniffled and gave the saddest of smiles.
‘Fine, Inspector, just fine.’
‘Good. Now let’s see what we can do about stuffing ourselves.’
‘Thank you, Inspector, thank you.’
They went and sat down, as Dante resumed his argument.
‘If you think about it, the vast majority of humanity has always worked for the benefit of a few — a gigantic mechanism creaking and churning for the amusement of a few thousand people. Something’s not right. Think of a train, for example. One single engine transports thousands of people. Now reverse the mechanism: a train with a thousand engines transporting one man. Sheer folly. So one must ask oneself: how can this continue without the slightest sign of ever ending? I have never found a satisfactory answer.’
Canapini was looking at Dante with the expression of someone who doesn’t quite understand the concepts but instinctively grasps the meaning of things. Dante was about to continue, but then Botta came in with two trays straight out of the Arabian Nights. He set them down at the centre of the table.
‘Welcome to Istanbul. I can’t remember the Turkish name of this dish, but I’ll tell you later what’s in it.’ On one tray were seven dark little domes that looked as hard as cement, adorned with lettuce leaves. On the other was a quivering snow-white timbale speckled with tiny red dots and surrounded by thin slices of raw carrot. Ennio started serving.
‘Naturally the ingredients are not quite the same, since you can’t get them here, but the effect is the same. Be sure to pour yourselves some wine, because it’s spicy.’
The dark domes turned out to be creamy, velvety, incredibly delicious and scorching with hot pepper. The timbale had a strong taste of cheese and onion and was equally piquant. The first three bottles of red were quickly dispatched. Ennio declared that Chianti was a good match for Turkish cuisine.
‘It almost seems made for it,’ he said with an amicable jab of the elbow at Canapini, whose sadness seemed to be slowly lifting. Dante proposed a toast to the chef, and glasses tinkled merrily. Botta blushed from the praise, raising his own glass, then removed the small plates and dashed into the kitchen to fetch the first course.
He returned with a great big pot.
‘This has nothing to do with Turkey, but was requested by Dr Diotivede. Zuppa lombarda.’
The doctor shrugged and threw up his hands, excusing himself for the digression. Botta passed around a basket full of toasted bread and then served the soup, giving precise instructions as to the olive oil and Parmesan cheese to be added. Piras rather hesitantly sampled the transparent broth with little yellow beans floating in it, but then continued with enthusiasm after the first spoonful. Diotivede declared it perfect.
They all took second helpings, even Canapini, who held his tablespoon as if it were a screwdriver. Diotivede served himself another ladleful, then a third, slowing down the rhythm of the meal.
‘Sorry, but I’ve been wanting this for years,’ he said.
The second course took them back to Turkey: spicy beef stew. They had no trouble emptying another four bottles. After a while, all that remained in the pot was the ring left behind by the boiled liquid. Then it was time for pudding, also Turkish, for which Botta uncorked three bottles of sweet raisin wine from Pantelleria.
‘Pantelleria is more or less at the same latitude as Turkey, isn’t it?’ he said, gesturing horizontally with his hand. He filled their cups with an amber-coloured cream, sweet and fragrant, smelling of roses. It melted in one’s mouth like gelatin, and had a thousand flavours. Nobody had ever tasted anything like it, and naturally it was all gone in a matter of minutes. The inspector proposed another toast to Botta. Then he turned towards Piras.
‘Did you remember to bring those Sardinian biscuits?’
‘Of course, Inspector. They’re in the kitchen.’ He stood up to get them, but Botta pushed him back down into his chair.
‘I’ll go,’ he said. He returned with a paper bag that he emptied on to the table. After twenty years, Bordelli finally saw with his own two eyes what Gavino Piras had described a thousand times: little rhomboid biscuits covered with coloured sprinkles. Nobody present was familiar with them except, of course, for Ennio, who even knew how to make them.
‘I learned how at Asinara. Mine are as good as any Sardinian’s,’ he said. And so, after their journey to Turkey, they all found themselves in Sardinia. The dinner party was getting louder and louder. When they’d finished the raisin wine, out came the grappa, three bottles of it: one white, another flavoured with rue, a third with juniper, all rigorously without labels. Bordelli pointed this out, smiling.
‘That stuff’s all illegal, Ennio. Where the hell did you get it?’
‘From Bolla, Inspector. He sends you his regards.’
Bordelli poured himself a glass of the juniper grappa. Then the coffee arrived, and the smokers got down to business. Fabiani and Diotivede, who didn’t smoke, kept refilling their glasses. Piras, hating smoke, pushed his chair back a bit, remaining nevertheless unruffled by the fools breathing smoke instead of air. Dante, who was seated beside him, lit a cigar as fat as a sausage, blowing great puffs of dense, acrid smoke between yellow teeth. Bordelli saw Piras’s distress and got up and opened the other window. A gust of hot air immediately blew in, and the fog of smoke began to dissipate.
Dante began to talk about Rebecca’s funeral, and all fell silent, including Fabiani, Canapini and Botta, who knew nothing about her death …
The basilica of Santa Croce felt bigger than ever, as it was almost empty. It was August, after all, everyone was on holiday, and hardly anyone knew that Rebecca had died. The Morozzi brothers and their wives stood motionless in front of the coffin, dressed in mourning, tiny under the gaze of Christ and the saints. Signora Maria was whimpering in a corner, nearly hidden behind the funerary monument of some illustrious poet; every so often she let out a sob that echoed throughout the church. Sitting in a central pew were three of Rebecca’s lady friends. Dante knew them and greeted them from afar with a nod. All three were widows. They returned his greeting and whispered intensely among themselves, shaking their heads. There were some six or seven unknown old ladies scattered about, kneeling with hands folded, their jawbones trembling with prayer and Parkinson’s. They weren’t there for Rebecca, but for the mass. In the last pew was a man of about sixty, tall and rather good looking, whom Dante didn’t know. Despite the heat, he wore a jacket and tie. He stared at the casket from a distance, sweating and weeping. He left just before the Ite Missa Est, hastily crossing himself and walking out.
‘I am sure that handsome gentleman was my sister’s lover,’ said Dante. ‘He looks like a professor, no?’
The priest was a fat, likeable little man who spoke with the accent of the Romagna. During the homily he launched into a fine speech on the serenity of the immortal soul and the resurrection of the flesh, and at that point Dante interrupted him, approaching the altar, voice booming in the empty church. The priest gave him a dirty look.