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into the Beetle and drove off. It was just eleven o’clock, and almost all the people on the streets were women, shopping. After the viaduct of Le Cure, they turned on to Viale dei Mille. The inspector kept an unlit cigarette between his lips, puffing on it as if it were lit. Not far away, in Viale Volta, was the house he’d grown up in. He didn’t know the Panerai butcher shop. Maybe in his day it didn’t exist yet, or he’d simply never noticed it. His mother had always bought meat in Via Passavanti.
    They went the entire length of the Viale, keeping their eyes on the numbers of the buildings. They’d gone almost all the way to the municipal stadium when at last they saw number 11/r,
Panerai Butcher Shop – Chicken, Rabbits, Game
. They drove past it and parked in front of Scheggi’s, the most famous grocer in the area.
    ‘Shall we have a panino, afterwards?’ said Bordelli.
    ‘Sure, why not?’ said Piras.
    ‘Wait for me here.’
    The inspector got out and walked towards the butcher’s shop. On the pavement he crossed paths with a good-looking chestnut-haired girl in a decidedly short skirt and a face somewhere between cute and haughty. He forced himself not to turn to look at her. It didn’t seem like the right moment. But the call of the forest came anyway, and in the end he turned round … Only for a second, but it was enough to make him suffer. Shaking off the vision, he slipped into the butcher’s. It was a clean, brightly lit shop, with a crucifix hanging on one wall and a lot of beautiful, bleeding meat. The butcher himself looked to be a little over forty. Fat, square face, blue eyes, and a merchant’s smile. His head was bald and shiny but for two tufts of hair at the temples, and he ran his tongue continuously over his lips. The inspector felt an instinctive antipathy for the tubby hulk and his blustery manner, but this certainly wasn’t proof of his guilt. Indeed, over the years he’d met more than a few charming murderers and unbearable innocents.
    There were two customers there, a rich lady in a fur coat weighted down with bracelets and a stout man with a huge nose and deep-set eyes. The woman was very demanding and just as indecisive. She took a very long time to choose. The butcher had the patience of a spider and didn’t miss a chance to let drop a couple of double entendres. The lady smiled with bourgeois detachment, visibly amused.
    The inspector observed the butcher, trying to figure out who he looked like. At last it came to him: he looked exactly like Goering. If he’d had more hair, he could have been his twin. He continued studying Panerai, his movements, his eyes, his facial expressions … He seemed like the perfect sex maniac, capable of rape and murder. But Bordelli was well familiar with the power of suggestion. To free himself of all prejudice he tried imagining that someone of authority had told him that Panerai was a scientist. And the butcher turned into a scientist. He imagined someone had told him he was mentally ill, and the butcher was transformed into a madman making incomprehensible gestures. He continued the game, transforming him into a do-gooder, a loan shark, an accountant, an orchestra conductor … A useless exercise that could go on for ever.
    The fur-clad lady at last overcame her reservations and declared to the world what she wanted. The butcher threw a large piece of meat on the chopping board, as if it were an enemy he’d just killed, and started working on it with his knife.
    ‘
Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona
…’ 7 he declaimed, pursing his lips like a rose. The lady shuddered with vanity. Then she paid a considerable sum without batting an eyelid and left, carrying the meat-filled package almost with disgust.
    ‘What can I get for you?’ the butcher asked, turning to Bordelli.
    ‘Wasn’t the gentleman ahead of me?’ asked the inspector, gesturing to the customer beside him.
    ‘Go ahead, thanks, I’m in no hurry,’ said the