Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence by Marco Vichi Page A
Authors: Marco Vichi
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don’t think so,’ Bordelli lied, happy to relive yet again the travails of Zia Asmara, painful to the one who had lived them but most amusing to listen to.
‘Zia Asmara was my mother’s little sister. At twenty she was the prettiest girl in Cerbaia, and all the men in the area would have given their right hands for her. Not just boys, old men, too. But she fell in love with a young village priest who’d just arrived from Bologna, and she used to go to all the masses, at all the different times of day, just to see him …’
After two hours of torrential downpour only an insistent drizzle remained, as streams of dirty water flowed down the pavements. It was well past midnight. Aside from the occasional passing car, there was nobody about. Bordelli hugged the walls of the buildings as he walked, huddling under the small pink umbrella Rosa had lent him. He’d nearly fallen asleep in her miracle-working hands, and had to yank himself violently out of that limbo.
He passed under the Uffizi arcade, just to avoid returning by the same route he had come by. His feet were cold and wet. Leaving the Ponte Vecchio to his left, he continued along the Lungarno. The rainfall was letting up by the minute, but he still needed the umbrella. Without stopping, he cast a glance over the parapet. The Arno was more swollen than ever, heaving in great muddy splashes and flowing fast with a dark murmuring sound. It would not have been much fun to fall in just then. When he got to the corner of Via de’ Tornabuoni, the rain suddenly stopped, and he closed the absurd umbrella with a sense of relief. The moon was smothered by a thick mattress of clouds, looking like a torch trying to make its way through the fog.
Crossing the Ponte Santa Trinità, he noticed some youths on Vespas and Lambrettas proceeding slowly alongside the Via Maggio pavement across the river, gesticulating at a man who was walking peacefully along. Then they put their scooters up on their kickstands, got off and surrounded the man. Bordelli quickened his pace, and as he approached he heard the youths’ mocking voices. There were five of them, all about twenty years old.
‘Homo …’ one of them yelled, running his hand over his crotch. ‘You wish, eh?’
‘Pan-sy, pan-sy, pan-sy,’ chanted another.
‘When d’ya last take it up the arse, eh?’
‘Tomorrow,’ answered another, guffawing.
‘So you like little kids, do you? Pervert!’ said the one who seemed like the ringleader, and he dealt the man a slap that resounded in the quiet street. At that point the other four started slapping him around as well, and the poor man fell to the ground. The insults grew more violent, and they started kicking him in the face. The youths didn’t even notice the burly man approaching at a quick pace.
‘Hey, bed-wetters …’ said Bordelli, drawing up behind them. They all turned round at once, all with the same surprised sneer on their faces.
‘Ah, what a pretty little umbrella,’ said the ringleader.
‘One fairy draws another,’ said another, as the others laughed.
‘There’s plenty for you too, Gramps.’
‘Show us how you bugger each other,’ said the leader, swaggering towards Bordelli. ‘Gramps’ dropped his little umbrella and punched him square in the face, sending him rolling on the ground. The other four hesitated, full of rage. Bordelli looked each one of them in the eye. They were well dressed, with clean faces. Rich kids.
The ringleader got up slowly, trembling, his jacket covered with blood and a hand over his mouth. The inspector thrust his hands into his pockets with self-assurance. He felt like the good-looking hero of the film he’d seen at the Gambrinus. He was well aware that if they all jumped on him at once, he was screwed. He had to play the fear card, but he wanted to do so without pulling out his badge.
‘I’ll give you guys two seconds to disappear, and then we start counting teeth,’ he said, pulling his fists out of his
‘Zia Asmara was my mother’s little sister. At twenty she was the prettiest girl in Cerbaia, and all the men in the area would have given their right hands for her. Not just boys, old men, too. But she fell in love with a young village priest who’d just arrived from Bologna, and she used to go to all the masses, at all the different times of day, just to see him …’
After two hours of torrential downpour only an insistent drizzle remained, as streams of dirty water flowed down the pavements. It was well past midnight. Aside from the occasional passing car, there was nobody about. Bordelli hugged the walls of the buildings as he walked, huddling under the small pink umbrella Rosa had lent him. He’d nearly fallen asleep in her miracle-working hands, and had to yank himself violently out of that limbo.
He passed under the Uffizi arcade, just to avoid returning by the same route he had come by. His feet were cold and wet. Leaving the Ponte Vecchio to his left, he continued along the Lungarno. The rainfall was letting up by the minute, but he still needed the umbrella. Without stopping, he cast a glance over the parapet. The Arno was more swollen than ever, heaving in great muddy splashes and flowing fast with a dark murmuring sound. It would not have been much fun to fall in just then. When he got to the corner of Via de’ Tornabuoni, the rain suddenly stopped, and he closed the absurd umbrella with a sense of relief. The moon was smothered by a thick mattress of clouds, looking like a torch trying to make its way through the fog.
Crossing the Ponte Santa Trinità, he noticed some youths on Vespas and Lambrettas proceeding slowly alongside the Via Maggio pavement across the river, gesticulating at a man who was walking peacefully along. Then they put their scooters up on their kickstands, got off and surrounded the man. Bordelli quickened his pace, and as he approached he heard the youths’ mocking voices. There were five of them, all about twenty years old.
‘Homo …’ one of them yelled, running his hand over his crotch. ‘You wish, eh?’
‘Pan-sy, pan-sy, pan-sy,’ chanted another.
‘When d’ya last take it up the arse, eh?’
‘Tomorrow,’ answered another, guffawing.
‘So you like little kids, do you? Pervert!’ said the one who seemed like the ringleader, and he dealt the man a slap that resounded in the quiet street. At that point the other four started slapping him around as well, and the poor man fell to the ground. The insults grew more violent, and they started kicking him in the face. The youths didn’t even notice the burly man approaching at a quick pace.
‘Hey, bed-wetters …’ said Bordelli, drawing up behind them. They all turned round at once, all with the same surprised sneer on their faces.
‘Ah, what a pretty little umbrella,’ said the ringleader.
‘One fairy draws another,’ said another, as the others laughed.
‘There’s plenty for you too, Gramps.’
‘Show us how you bugger each other,’ said the leader, swaggering towards Bordelli. ‘Gramps’ dropped his little umbrella and punched him square in the face, sending him rolling on the ground. The other four hesitated, full of rage. Bordelli looked each one of them in the eye. They were well dressed, with clean faces. Rich kids.
The ringleader got up slowly, trembling, his jacket covered with blood and a hand over his mouth. The inspector thrust his hands into his pockets with self-assurance. He felt like the good-looking hero of the film he’d seen at the Gambrinus. He was well aware that if they all jumped on him at once, he was screwed. He had to play the fear card, but he wanted to do so without pulling out his badge.
‘I’ll give you guys two seconds to disappear, and then we start counting teeth,’ he said, pulling his fists out of his
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