Free Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence by Marco Vichi Page B
Authors: Marco Vichi
past the Gusmano bar, which as usual was full of elderly people playing cards with a flask on the table, some of them still in their overalls. Some youngsters had formed a circle round a pinball machine, spellbound as they watched the little steel ball bounce around.
He went down Via di Santo Spirito, and a woman surfaced in his memory: Milena, a beautiful young Jewess who had turned his brain to mush. She was a member of the White Dove, an organisation that hunted down Nazi war criminals who had escaped trial at Nuremberg, and she’d gone away to continue her work elsewhere. Who knew where she was now, what she was doing, or whether she thought every so often of the old inspector who’d lost his head over her? Without realising it he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He didn’t want to think about the women he’d lost, but about those who had yet to appear … if any. At his age it was no longer easy to charm a woman. Being born in 1910 wasn’t so lucky. When he was a kid it was very hard to have a real relationship, unless one happened to find an open-minded girl or to get married, and now that there was more freedom he was pushing sixty.
From high up in one of the buildings he heard the scratchy bars of an old tango, and his heart gave a tug. He’d first heard the song in the days of Mussolini, and it felt as if a century had passed since then. At that moment even the war seemed far away, almost like a dream. At other times it weighed so heavy on him that it felt as if it had all happened yesterday. But he didn’t want to think about the war just now …
He crossed the Ponte Santa Trinita, hoping to find a film to suit his mood. There was a great deal of bustle in the centre of town. People walking, on bicycles, on motorcycles, in cars, groups of youngsters, couples, husbands and wives … There they all were, in the city’s convivial drawing room. In Via degli Strozzi there was a queue of traffic that advanced at a walking pace, and the air reeked of exhaust fumes. The multitude in ferment evoked no sense of joy in him, but merely made him feel lonely. Maybe it was just his black mood nipping at his heels, but he couldn’t lie to himself: he didn’t like Italy. He loved it in his way, in spite of everything, but he didn’t like it. An Italy decayed first by war and now by dreams of wealth. The Italy of the throngs at Piazza Venezia and the throngs in Piazzale Loreto … 10 The grumblings of an old man, he thought, throwing away his cigarette butt with a sigh.
He came into Piazza della Repubblica with its pompous buildings. It was full of parked cars, well-dressed men and women in little hats. He went to see what movies were playing in the two cinemas under the arches. The Edison was showing
The Battle of Algiers
, the Gambrinus
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
. He needed to relax, and so chose the western. Before entering the cinema he went to the Giubbe Rosse café to ring the station and had another coffee while he was at it. He asked Tapinassi whether there was any news of Panerai. All normal. The butcher had gone home at 8.40 and hadn’t come back out since.
Bordelli headed for the cinema, fiddling with the cigarette packet in his jacket pocket. In the middle of the piazza, he saw an old flame of his walking towards him like a vision. At least ten years had passed, but she still looked quite young. She was laughing, arms around a tall, pale, distinguished-looking man. Their eyes met for an instant, and she gave a barely perceptible start and kept on walking, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Bordelli turned round to watch her walk away, wondering, with an unexpected twinge of jealousy, how a woman could choose two men so utterly different.
He slipped into the cinema and went up to the balcony, hoping it would be less crowded. The lights had just gone down and he had a little trouble finding a place to sit, groping around in the dark. Smelling some feminine perfume in the air, he turned and saw a
He went down Via di Santo Spirito, and a woman surfaced in his memory: Milena, a beautiful young Jewess who had turned his brain to mush. She was a member of the White Dove, an organisation that hunted down Nazi war criminals who had escaped trial at Nuremberg, and she’d gone away to continue her work elsewhere. Who knew where she was now, what she was doing, or whether she thought every so often of the old inspector who’d lost his head over her? Without realising it he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He didn’t want to think about the women he’d lost, but about those who had yet to appear … if any. At his age it was no longer easy to charm a woman. Being born in 1910 wasn’t so lucky. When he was a kid it was very hard to have a real relationship, unless one happened to find an open-minded girl or to get married, and now that there was more freedom he was pushing sixty.
From high up in one of the buildings he heard the scratchy bars of an old tango, and his heart gave a tug. He’d first heard the song in the days of Mussolini, and it felt as if a century had passed since then. At that moment even the war seemed far away, almost like a dream. At other times it weighed so heavy on him that it felt as if it had all happened yesterday. But he didn’t want to think about the war just now …
He crossed the Ponte Santa Trinita, hoping to find a film to suit his mood. There was a great deal of bustle in the centre of town. People walking, on bicycles, on motorcycles, in cars, groups of youngsters, couples, husbands and wives … There they all were, in the city’s convivial drawing room. In Via degli Strozzi there was a queue of traffic that advanced at a walking pace, and the air reeked of exhaust fumes. The multitude in ferment evoked no sense of joy in him, but merely made him feel lonely. Maybe it was just his black mood nipping at his heels, but he couldn’t lie to himself: he didn’t like Italy. He loved it in his way, in spite of everything, but he didn’t like it. An Italy decayed first by war and now by dreams of wealth. The Italy of the throngs at Piazza Venezia and the throngs in Piazzale Loreto … 10 The grumblings of an old man, he thought, throwing away his cigarette butt with a sigh.
He came into Piazza della Repubblica with its pompous buildings. It was full of parked cars, well-dressed men and women in little hats. He went to see what movies were playing in the two cinemas under the arches. The Edison was showing
The Battle of Algiers
, the Gambrinus
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
. He needed to relax, and so chose the western. Before entering the cinema he went to the Giubbe Rosse café to ring the station and had another coffee while he was at it. He asked Tapinassi whether there was any news of Panerai. All normal. The butcher had gone home at 8.40 and hadn’t come back out since.
Bordelli headed for the cinema, fiddling with the cigarette packet in his jacket pocket. In the middle of the piazza, he saw an old flame of his walking towards him like a vision. At least ten years had passed, but she still looked quite young. She was laughing, arms around a tall, pale, distinguished-looking man. Their eyes met for an instant, and she gave a barely perceptible start and kept on walking, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Bordelli turned round to watch her walk away, wondering, with an unexpected twinge of jealousy, how a woman could choose two men so utterly different.
He slipped into the cinema and went up to the balcony, hoping it would be less crowded. The lights had just gone down and he had a little trouble finding a place to sit, groping around in the dark. Smelling some feminine perfume in the air, he turned and saw a