Read Online A Florentine Death by Michele Giuttari - Free Book Online
Authors: Michele Giuttari
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mixed up in something,' a man said. 'It happens all the time in that line of business.'
'A small thief shouldn't steal, because the big thief makes sure he swings for it,' the barman said, quoting an old Tuscan proverb.
A beer and a roll,' Ferrara ordered. 'Ham and cheese okay?'
'That's fine. Did you know the young man who was murdered?'
'He had a bite to eat here a few times, like everyone.' 'What kind of man was he?'
'Fairly average. Quiet, kept himself to himself. I don't think he had any friends around here, I never saw him with anyone.'
'Did you notice anything unusual lately? Any strangers lurking around?'
'Everyone here's a stranger. Foreigners, Italians, they're all tourists. Are you a journalist?'
'No, just curious.'
He went to the cash desk, asked for two boxes of Antico Toscano cigars, paid and left.
As it was not raining, he decided to go back to Headquarters on foot, by way of the Via Tornabuoni, San Lorenzo, the Piazza del Mercato and the Via Santa Reparata. A half-hour's walk would do him good.
Halfway across the Ponte Santa Trinita he stopped to look at the Arno, swollen by the recent rains. The water swept along, as if trying to wash away every remnant of nature. But it could not wash away the mysteries that continued to shroud Florence as they had always done.
A strange city, Florence, he reflected. One of the most beautiful, most beloved cities in the world, steeped in history and full of art treasures, it offers itself to visitors like a generous courtesan. But if on the one hand it flaunts itself, on the other it shuts itself up behind the heavy doors of its palatial houses, jealously guarding a privacy that has to remain inviolable, and leaving us to wonder what is concealed within those walls, what memories of past plots and betrayals.
These were the two faces of Florence. They had cast a spell on him as soon as he had arrived, and he knew they would keep him here to the end of his days - an event someone had decided to bring about sooner than anticipated.
Perhaps, he thought, if the Latin warning turned out to be accurate, his death, too, would be ascribed to the vortex of mysteries that seethe beneath the city and only occasionally bubble to the surface, almost as if to remind the world that evil, and only evil, is immortal and never fades. Not even if you cover it with the pure, virginal grace of a Botticelli Venus or try to crush it beneath the weight of Michelangelo's David.
When he got back to Headquarters he sent for Rizzo.
'Welcome back, chief,' Rizzo said, coming into the office. 'How was Vienna?'
'Like a dream. But now it's over. Nice way to start the new millennium, eh?'
'We certainly finished the old one in style,' Rizzo commented laconically. His mood seemed even grimmer than Ferrara's.
'So, nothing new on the Micali case, I gather.' 'Nothing at all. We checked everything we could. His friends, his bank account, even his relations with suppliers.
We turned his apartment upside down, examined every address book, notebook, every piece of paper. We questioned his neighbours - nobody has the faintest idea about anything.'
'What about the priest? Does his alibi still hold?'
'The parish priest confirmed that from one o'clock to just after two they went through the accounts together, then Don Sergio went off to get candles for the altar. We haven't found anything to contradict that. As for whether Don Sergio is gay, nobody's saying anything, and there's no way of proving it. If you want the truth, chief, I'm just about ready to throw in the towel. With everything else on my plate, I can't keep putting resources into this. When you get down to it, the man was a queer, pardon my language, and nobody except the priest seems at all sorry he died.'
'That's the curse of our profession, Rizzo. There's never time to concentrate on one thing, there's always something else to do. But we don't give up. Unsolved cases should never be closed. They should always stay with you,
'A small thief shouldn't steal, because the big thief makes sure he swings for it,' the barman said, quoting an old Tuscan proverb.
A beer and a roll,' Ferrara ordered. 'Ham and cheese okay?'
'That's fine. Did you know the young man who was murdered?'
'He had a bite to eat here a few times, like everyone.' 'What kind of man was he?'
'Fairly average. Quiet, kept himself to himself. I don't think he had any friends around here, I never saw him with anyone.'
'Did you notice anything unusual lately? Any strangers lurking around?'
'Everyone here's a stranger. Foreigners, Italians, they're all tourists. Are you a journalist?'
'No, just curious.'
He went to the cash desk, asked for two boxes of Antico Toscano cigars, paid and left.
As it was not raining, he decided to go back to Headquarters on foot, by way of the Via Tornabuoni, San Lorenzo, the Piazza del Mercato and the Via Santa Reparata. A half-hour's walk would do him good.
Halfway across the Ponte Santa Trinita he stopped to look at the Arno, swollen by the recent rains. The water swept along, as if trying to wash away every remnant of nature. But it could not wash away the mysteries that continued to shroud Florence as they had always done.
A strange city, Florence, he reflected. One of the most beautiful, most beloved cities in the world, steeped in history and full of art treasures, it offers itself to visitors like a generous courtesan. But if on the one hand it flaunts itself, on the other it shuts itself up behind the heavy doors of its palatial houses, jealously guarding a privacy that has to remain inviolable, and leaving us to wonder what is concealed within those walls, what memories of past plots and betrayals.
These were the two faces of Florence. They had cast a spell on him as soon as he had arrived, and he knew they would keep him here to the end of his days - an event someone had decided to bring about sooner than anticipated.
Perhaps, he thought, if the Latin warning turned out to be accurate, his death, too, would be ascribed to the vortex of mysteries that seethe beneath the city and only occasionally bubble to the surface, almost as if to remind the world that evil, and only evil, is immortal and never fades. Not even if you cover it with the pure, virginal grace of a Botticelli Venus or try to crush it beneath the weight of Michelangelo's David.
When he got back to Headquarters he sent for Rizzo.
'Welcome back, chief,' Rizzo said, coming into the office. 'How was Vienna?'
'Like a dream. But now it's over. Nice way to start the new millennium, eh?'
'We certainly finished the old one in style,' Rizzo commented laconically. His mood seemed even grimmer than Ferrara's.
'So, nothing new on the Micali case, I gather.' 'Nothing at all. We checked everything we could. His friends, his bank account, even his relations with suppliers.
We turned his apartment upside down, examined every address book, notebook, every piece of paper. We questioned his neighbours - nobody has the faintest idea about anything.'
'What about the priest? Does his alibi still hold?'
'The parish priest confirmed that from one o'clock to just after two they went through the accounts together, then Don Sergio went off to get candles for the altar. We haven't found anything to contradict that. As for whether Don Sergio is gay, nobody's saying anything, and there's no way of proving it. If you want the truth, chief, I'm just about ready to throw in the towel. With everything else on my plate, I can't keep putting resources into this. When you get down to it, the man was a queer, pardon my language, and nobody except the priest seems at all sorry he died.'
'That's the curse of our profession, Rizzo. There's never time to concentrate on one thing, there's always something else to do. But we don't give up. Unsolved cases should never be closed. They should always stay with you,
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