‘What a beautiful story,’ said Canapini. Dante raised a glass and invited the guests to toast the women of the world, all of them, those who wait and those who leave.
‘To women, the true salt of the earth,’ he said. Seven glasses of grappa rose over their heads. To women.
The following morning Bordelli woke up with the backs of both hands massacred by mosquitoes and a name spinning round in his head. Simonetta. He too had had a Simonetta. He lay there in the dark, trying to picture her face again, but couldn’t remember it. It must have been around ‘35. She was the only child of a Roman aristocrat. Her family had villas and estates almost everywhere. The last time he had seen her was at a dinner party with her parents, in a villa by the sea. It was a fine Fascist summer. There were many guests, almost all relatives of hers, important people. Bordelli arrived in his bathing suit, but this was taken merely as summer extravagance. Simonetta’s mother absolutely wanted him to sit next to her. She was never done telling him how handsome he was and caressing his arm. Midway through the dinner she started making plans for the future husband and wife, describing to her guests the villa in which they would live, the sort of life they would lead — he would do this, she would do that, and so on. Bordelli waited for the woman to finish talking, then wiped his lips with his napkin and stood up.
‘I think I have other plans,’ he said. He politely said goodbye to the guests, and then left. He never saw Simonetta again. Had he married her, today he might be Count Bordelli, idle rich landowner, father of a few children, and well respected in high society. He would never have known the innocence of an old prostitute like Rosa, nor the cooking of Botta, learned while in prison, and he would never have met that old curmudgeon Diotivede. His life would have been completely different, and perhaps this very day he would have strolled through the park thinking that if he hadn’t married Simonetta, he might be another man, perhaps a policeman, an inspector who dines at home with thieves who teach him how to pick locks with a hairpin, and who, when he’s sad, seeks comfort from an ex-hooker with a heart of gold.
He felt the sweet taste of grappa at the back of his throat. When he moved his head, a sharp pain travelled up from the nape of his neck to the base of his nose, running over his skull like a cog. He took a deep breath and heard a whistle in his chest. He had smoked too much. His lungs burned. He vowed that he would smoke only three or four that day, five at the most, definitely not more than six. Seeing the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, he batted it away in rage. He remained in bed, staring at the blood-swollen mosquitoes hanging from the ceiling asleep. In a little while Botta would come to wash the dishes and put the kitchen back in order. That was the agreement: Bordelli the money, Botta the labour. Spotting a mosquito within reach on the wall and feeling his skin burn, he crushed it, staining the wall red.
He heard some footsteps inside the front door.
‘Is that you, Ennio?’
The steps arrived as far as the bedroom door, which opened partly. Dante’s leonine head appeared.
‘Good morning, Inspector. Shall we have some coffee?’ he said cheerfully.
Only then did Bordelli remember that Dante had slept on the sofa.
‘Go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute,’ he said.
‘Sleep well?’
‘Yes, and yourself?’
The inventor smiled majestically.
‘Marvellous nightmares.’
The inspector sat up, put his feet on the floor and his hands on his hips.
‘The coffee pot must be in the sink. Do you know how to use a napoletana?’ he asked. Dante assured him he did and disappeared into the kitchen. The inspector went barefooted into the bathroom, feet slapping the hard floor much less delicately than Elvira’s. Beautiful, young Elvira … He was unable to forget her; she returned to his thoughts at the most unexpected moments, and each time he felt older, heavier. He pissed painfully and with effort, the burning finish speaking eloquently of grappa. He rearranged his hair with his fingers and washed his face. The cold water felt good on his skin, but then the towel got snagged on his hard, short stubble. He stood there looking at himself in the mirror, hands resting on the sink, counting his wrinkles and thinking of Signora Pedretti-Strassen stiff in her bed, hands round her throat. After the pause of the night, his mind was filling again with a swirl of ideas and questions. Especially one, the usuaclass="underline" how did they do it? He thought of the Morozzi brothers, sweaty and hysterical, and saw their blonde, made-up wives, who had left that nauseating smell behind in the office.
How the hell had they done it? And which of the four did it? Or was it all four? Or perhaps only two? The brothers or the wives? Or maybe only one couple. Or perhaps none of them. Perhaps it was all a mistake, time to start over …
He thought of Dante struggling with the napoletana and went into the kitchen. The inventor was trying to assemble the machine upside down.
‘What an odd contraption,’ he said.
‘Give it to me.’
‘I was almost there, you know.’
Bordelli took the pieces out of Dante’s hands.
‘See? This goes here.’
‘I’d thought of that, but it seemed too banal.’
‘Not everyone has your imagination.’
‘Compliment accepted. I am very vain.’
Ennio arrived, and all three went into the dining room. They took their coffee on the tablecloth of the night before, which was covered with exotic stains and crumbs. There was still a scent of spices and grappa in the air. Botta was about to open the shutters, but Bordelli raised his hand.
‘Just the windows, Ennio. I’m having a little trouble with the light this morning.’
‘Whatever you say.’
The temperature was rising by the minute. It was going to be another muggy, sweaty day. Dante lit one of his pestilential cigars and tossed the match into his empty espresso cup. Feeling the smoke in his nostrils, Bordelli had to make an effort not to light a cigarette.
‘I’ve got a riddle for you,’ he said to his friends. ‘Interested?’
‘What sort of riddle?’ asked Botta, amused. Dante went and sat down in an armchair and stretched his legs across the floor, awaiting the question. The inspector downed his last drop of coffee and started toying with the empty cup.
‘Pretend you want to murder someone with a powdered poison, powerful enough to kill the person who inhales it. Obviously you don’t want to end up in jail, so, when the victim breathes the stuff, you have to make sure you’re far from the scene of the crime. How do you do it?’
Botta scratched his head.
‘Well, I’d put the poison in the soup, or in the toothpaste.’
‘The poison is deadly only when inhaled.’
‘Oh, right. Well, then … How should I know? I don’t. I give up.’
Dante was contemplating, eyes half closed and lips pursed. Bordelli looked at him.
‘What about you, Dante? What would an inventor do?’
‘Easy. A time-release mechanism.’
‘Easy to say, but to make one?’
‘Oh, it wouldn’t take much. You could make one at home in no time.’
Bordelli really felt like lighting up, but managed to resist the temptation.
‘Give me an example,’ he said.
‘Easy: I take a test tube, put three dry beans in it, fill it halfway with water, take two little cork discs joined in the middle by a wire, put the first disc into the test tube halfway down, put in the powder, then insert the second disk until it seals the test tube, place the device horizontally on the lamp over the victim’s bed, and go on my merry way. The dry beans will slowly swell with water, pushing out the cork. And voila. It’s done. The poison will gently flutter down towards the victim’s nose.’