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Authors: Marco Vichi
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man.
‘You’re very kind … I would like a steak for the grill,’ Bordelli said to the butcher, looking at the slabs of meat spread out in the refrigerated display case. He was thinking he would bring the steak to Totò and eat it that same evening.
‘This is Chianina,’ 8 said the butcher, putting a gorgeous block of meat on the chopping board. He took two large knives, rubbed them together with the grace of habit, and thrust the blades in.
‘So, it’s mushroom season again,’ the inspector let drop, the way people do in shops while waiting to be served. He wanted to find out whether the butcher went up into the hills for reasons other than for burying a corpse.
‘For those who know how to find them,’ said the butcher, picking up a cleaver to break the bone. At that moment a transparent little old man popped out from the back room, looking as if he was breathing his last. He had a submissive gaze and the manner of a fairy-tale grandfather, which clashed with his bloodstained apron. The butcher changed expression and looked at him harshly.
‘You already done?’
‘Yes,’ the old man whispered, intimidated.
‘Don’t just stand around twiddling your thumbs, go and take care of the pig … What, you’re still here?’ he said, proud of his power. The little old man vanished without a word, silent as a cat. The inspector imagined the miserable life he must lead, spending his days cutting up animal carcasses, hands covered with blood … He felt sorry for him.
‘A few days ago I found a lot of porcini at Poggio alla Croce,’ he boasted, resuming the conversation.
‘You’re either not really a mushroom hunter, or you’re fibbing,’ said the butcher, smiling again, lowering the cleaver to the bone and breaking it with one blow. The man knew what to do with knives.
‘I swear I found some,’ Bordelli insisted, trying to get him to open up.
‘Whoever finds mushrooms never tells where he found them,’ said the butcher, shaking his head in a friendly way.
‘There were so many I decided to be generous,’ the inspector explained, realising his mistake.
‘There are never enough,’ the butcher grumbled.
‘You found some?’
‘Very few.’
‘Where?’
‘Up in the woods …’ said the butcher with a grin, glancing at the customer, who was in no hurry.
‘I’ve learned my lesson. From now on I’ll keep my secret to myself,’ said Bordelli, throwing his hands up.
‘A sacred vow …’ said the butcher. He clearly was a mushroom hunter, and there was nothing odd about his going around in the woods. He could easily have lost his phone bill bending down to pick a porcino.
‘Have a look at this thing of beauty,’ the butcher said, holding up the steak, which he then dropped on to the scale.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘A thousand seven hundred … well spent,’ replied Panerai, wrapping the meat up. Bordelli paid and returned to the car.
‘Still feel like that panino, Piras?’
‘What was the butcher like?’ the Sardinian asked.
‘A fat guy with a bald head who looks like Goering,’ said the inspector, tossing the steak on the back seat.
‘A likeable sort, in other words,’ said Piras.
‘And a mushroom hunter …’ muttered the inspector, shaking his head as though disappointed.
They went into Scheggi’s. There was a bit of a queue and they had to wait. When their turn came, they ordered two stuffed panini, Bordelli’s with
finocchiona
salami and Piras’s with mortadella. They set to them straight away, with gusto. The moment they got back in the car, the inspector saw the man who had let him go first walk by on the pavement. He had a slight, rather comical limp, head bobbing lightly every two steps. Bordelli followed him distractedly with his eyes, with the strange feeling that something had escaped him.
‘What is it, Inspector?’ asked Piras.
‘Nothing …’
‘Don’t tell me I limp like him.’
‘No, no, compared to him you move like a dancer,’ said
‘You’re very kind … I would like a steak for the grill,’ Bordelli said to the butcher, looking at the slabs of meat spread out in the refrigerated display case. He was thinking he would bring the steak to Totò and eat it that same evening.
‘This is Chianina,’ 8 said the butcher, putting a gorgeous block of meat on the chopping board. He took two large knives, rubbed them together with the grace of habit, and thrust the blades in.
‘So, it’s mushroom season again,’ the inspector let drop, the way people do in shops while waiting to be served. He wanted to find out whether the butcher went up into the hills for reasons other than for burying a corpse.
‘For those who know how to find them,’ said the butcher, picking up a cleaver to break the bone. At that moment a transparent little old man popped out from the back room, looking as if he was breathing his last. He had a submissive gaze and the manner of a fairy-tale grandfather, which clashed with his bloodstained apron. The butcher changed expression and looked at him harshly.
‘You already done?’
‘Yes,’ the old man whispered, intimidated.
‘Don’t just stand around twiddling your thumbs, go and take care of the pig … What, you’re still here?’ he said, proud of his power. The little old man vanished without a word, silent as a cat. The inspector imagined the miserable life he must lead, spending his days cutting up animal carcasses, hands covered with blood … He felt sorry for him.
‘A few days ago I found a lot of porcini at Poggio alla Croce,’ he boasted, resuming the conversation.
‘You’re either not really a mushroom hunter, or you’re fibbing,’ said the butcher, smiling again, lowering the cleaver to the bone and breaking it with one blow. The man knew what to do with knives.
‘I swear I found some,’ Bordelli insisted, trying to get him to open up.
‘Whoever finds mushrooms never tells where he found them,’ said the butcher, shaking his head in a friendly way.
‘There were so many I decided to be generous,’ the inspector explained, realising his mistake.
‘There are never enough,’ the butcher grumbled.
‘You found some?’
‘Very few.’
‘Where?’
‘Up in the woods …’ said the butcher with a grin, glancing at the customer, who was in no hurry.
‘I’ve learned my lesson. From now on I’ll keep my secret to myself,’ said Bordelli, throwing his hands up.
‘A sacred vow …’ said the butcher. He clearly was a mushroom hunter, and there was nothing odd about his going around in the woods. He could easily have lost his phone bill bending down to pick a porcino.
‘Have a look at this thing of beauty,’ the butcher said, holding up the steak, which he then dropped on to the scale.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘A thousand seven hundred … well spent,’ replied Panerai, wrapping the meat up. Bordelli paid and returned to the car.
‘Still feel like that panino, Piras?’
‘What was the butcher like?’ the Sardinian asked.
‘A fat guy with a bald head who looks like Goering,’ said the inspector, tossing the steak on the back seat.
‘A likeable sort, in other words,’ said Piras.
‘And a mushroom hunter …’ muttered the inspector, shaking his head as though disappointed.
They went into Scheggi’s. There was a bit of a queue and they had to wait. When their turn came, they ordered two stuffed panini, Bordelli’s with
finocchiona
salami and Piras’s with mortadella. They set to them straight away, with gusto. The moment they got back in the car, the inspector saw the man who had let him go first walk by on the pavement. He had a slight, rather comical limp, head bobbing lightly every two steps. Bordelli followed him distractedly with his eyes, with the strange feeling that something had escaped him.
‘What is it, Inspector?’ asked Piras.
‘Nothing …’
‘Don’t tell me I limp like him.’
‘No, no, compared to him you move like a dancer,’ said
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