Free Death and the Olive Grove by Marco Vichi Page B
Authors: Marco Vichi
disappointed and resigned, or melancholy, depending on the day. And he was curled up in bed, clutching the pillow, as he himself often did. If he lived in Florence, he breathed the same air as Bordelli, walked the same streets, saw the same buildings, the same churches, was one of the many on whom he happened to rest his gaze for a second. Perhaps they had even looked each other in the eye once or twice in the street, or brushed shoulders, as so often happened with so many people.
He sat up to look at the alarm clock. Quarter to seven. He switched off the light and turned on to his side. It was almost dawn. His head felt heavy, enveloped in the vapours of a sleepiness that clouded his vision without ever delivering the coup de grâce . A cold breeze blew in through the open window. He didnât feel like getting up, and wrapped the covers round himself, clutching the pillow tightly to his chest. His bronchial tubes were inflamed from the cigarettes. He felt more numb than ever, but couldnât stop thinking. It was as though someone were ceaselessly turning a crank connected to his brain. He thought about the war, childhood, the fact of being fifty-four years old, Rosaâs massages, Casimiro balled up inside the suitcase ⦠He thought about the absurd, wrongful death of Valentina, and her mother sleeping in a hospital, pumped full of sedatives ⦠He thought about the time thatâ
The telephone rang, and in the darkness his hand found the receiver.
âYeah?â
âIs that you, Marshal?â
âWhat is it, Signora Capecchi?â
The old lady seemed quite agitated.
âThings are going from bad to worse here. Zillo has disappeared!â she said.
âWho is Zillo?â
âMy canary ⦠Heâs gone! The cage is empty! Heâs been kidnapped! And I think I know who did it â¦â
âNocentini?â
âThat hooligan wants to frighten me! He wants to make me die ⦠Ohhh!â
âWhatâs happening, signora?â
âBuricchio ⦠heâs got feathers in his mouth â¦â
âWho is Buricchio?â
âMy cat â¦â
âAh, I see.â
âBuricchio, come here!⦠you naughty, wicked cat ⦠What have you done with Zillo?â
He got to the office at about ten oâclock, pumped full of coffee, after leaving the Beetle at the police departmentâs garage for a check-up. He had slept barely two hours. His ears were ringing. He put out the cigarette he had just lit and went to see Porcinai in Archives.
The archivist raised his powerful head and rubbed his eyes, two big, round, gentle eyes like a sheepâs.
âHello, Bordelli.â
âWhat are you eating?â
â Sommommoli . 8 Want one?â
âNo, thanks.â
Porcinai lived in the darkness of the archive from morning to evening, always sitting. He didnât even get up to eat. It was too much of an effort. He would bring mysterious packages from home, stick them in a drawer and then nibble a bit of everything all day long, getting his fingers greasy and wiping them on his trousers. A bright white lamp lit up the desktop, which was littered with papers and folders. The rest of the large room remained almost always in darkness.
âWhat do you need, Bordelli?â
âI can manage by myself, thanks. Just turn on the light for me.â
Porcinai flipped a switch heâd had installed under the desk, and the fluorescent tubes came on, one after another. The inspector made his way through the stacks, which stretched to the ceiling, looking for the records of criminal offenders. He pulled out a folder from the shelf marked ABA-CES . It was full to bursting. He brought it over to a table and started thumbing through it listlessly. It was just a way for him to feel as if he was doing something. He was thinking about the man at the villa with the bloody black spot on his neck. He read the names and looked at the faces:
He sat up to look at the alarm clock. Quarter to seven. He switched off the light and turned on to his side. It was almost dawn. His head felt heavy, enveloped in the vapours of a sleepiness that clouded his vision without ever delivering the coup de grâce . A cold breeze blew in through the open window. He didnât feel like getting up, and wrapped the covers round himself, clutching the pillow tightly to his chest. His bronchial tubes were inflamed from the cigarettes. He felt more numb than ever, but couldnât stop thinking. It was as though someone were ceaselessly turning a crank connected to his brain. He thought about the war, childhood, the fact of being fifty-four years old, Rosaâs massages, Casimiro balled up inside the suitcase ⦠He thought about the absurd, wrongful death of Valentina, and her mother sleeping in a hospital, pumped full of sedatives ⦠He thought about the time thatâ
The telephone rang, and in the darkness his hand found the receiver.
âYeah?â
âIs that you, Marshal?â
âWhat is it, Signora Capecchi?â
The old lady seemed quite agitated.
âThings are going from bad to worse here. Zillo has disappeared!â she said.
âWho is Zillo?â
âMy canary ⦠Heâs gone! The cage is empty! Heâs been kidnapped! And I think I know who did it â¦â
âNocentini?â
âThat hooligan wants to frighten me! He wants to make me die ⦠Ohhh!â
âWhatâs happening, signora?â
âBuricchio ⦠heâs got feathers in his mouth â¦â
âWho is Buricchio?â
âMy cat â¦â
âAh, I see.â
âBuricchio, come here!⦠you naughty, wicked cat ⦠What have you done with Zillo?â
He got to the office at about ten oâclock, pumped full of coffee, after leaving the Beetle at the police departmentâs garage for a check-up. He had slept barely two hours. His ears were ringing. He put out the cigarette he had just lit and went to see Porcinai in Archives.
The archivist raised his powerful head and rubbed his eyes, two big, round, gentle eyes like a sheepâs.
âHello, Bordelli.â
âWhat are you eating?â
â Sommommoli . 8 Want one?â
âNo, thanks.â
Porcinai lived in the darkness of the archive from morning to evening, always sitting. He didnât even get up to eat. It was too much of an effort. He would bring mysterious packages from home, stick them in a drawer and then nibble a bit of everything all day long, getting his fingers greasy and wiping them on his trousers. A bright white lamp lit up the desktop, which was littered with papers and folders. The rest of the large room remained almost always in darkness.
âWhat do you need, Bordelli?â
âI can manage by myself, thanks. Just turn on the light for me.â
Porcinai flipped a switch heâd had installed under the desk, and the fluorescent tubes came on, one after another. The inspector made his way through the stacks, which stretched to the ceiling, looking for the records of criminal offenders. He pulled out a folder from the shelf marked ABA-CES . It was full to bursting. He brought it over to a table and started thumbing through it listlessly. It was just a way for him to feel as if he was doing something. He was thinking about the man at the villa with the bloody black spot on his neck. He read the names and looked at the faces: