chemistâs ten-year-old daughter, a beautiful little girl. They found her in a straw rick with her throat slit and all bloodied. The madman had even broââ
âYouâre not overcooking my spaghetti, are you, Totò?â said Bordelli, to make him stop talking. The last thing he wanted to hear about was murdered little girls.
âDonât worry, Inspector, Iâve got a clock up here,â said the cook, pointing to his temple.
âYou never know.â
âAs was I was saying, Inspector ⦠the madman had even broken her legs, just snapped them in two, like toothpicks. Poor little thing. I even saw her ⦠she looked like a chicken alla diavola . Her parents seemed dead ⦠they couldnât get a single word out. Thank God they caught the maniac straight away ⦠The whole town gathered in front of the carabinieriâs headquarters â¦âOut with him!â they cried. âWe want the monster!â The women were raving even worse than the men ⦠The sergeant got scared, and he fired a shot in the air and shouted to us all to go home ⦠But nobody budged ⦠Without too much trouble they broke down the door and pulled the madman out of his cell, dragging him by the hair all the way to the church square, where they tore him to pieces ⦠A disgusting scene, Inspector, but not so unusual in my parts â¦â
âTotò, the spaghetti â¦â
âWeâre almost there, Inspector ⦠Just one minute to go ⦠Another time there was a massacre in the town next to mine, and they caught that maniac straight away, too. Heâd cut up two little sisters into pieces, anâ they were found in aââ
âExcuse me, Totò, you wouldnât happen to have a drop of wine, would you?â
âYou might want for water sometimes around here, Inspector, but â¦â said the cook, chuckling. He went off to get a flask, and Bordelli got ready to change the subject. He wanted to enjoy the spaghetti without getting an earful of Totòâs tales of the macabre. They made him feel too sad, especially at a moment like this. It grieved him also to hear that those murderers had been caught, while his was still free ⦠free to kill again. He couldnât stop thinking about it. He was becoming obsessed. The cook returned with the wine and filled his glass to the brim.
âHave a taste of this, Inspector, itâs from my town.â
Bordelli took a sip.
âNice. Is it made by some relative of yours?â
âMy uncle. Heâs the artist.â
âOh, really? So, how does he make it?â asked Bordelli. Totò scratched his brow.
âInspector ⦠donât tell me you donât know how wine is made. Itâd be like saying you donât know what an arsehole is.â
Bordelli threw his hands up and played dumb. He had hit upon a subject that could distract Totò from killers of little girls, and he wanted to exploit it to the utmost.
âI have a vague sense of it, Totò, but Iâm sure there isnât only one way to make wine ⦠How does your uncle do it?â
The cook ran to the back of the kitchen to drain Bordelliâs pasta, then yelled so the inspector could hear him.
âMaking good wine begins with the pruning,â he said. âSome people prune only once a year; my uncle does it twice.â
âAnd does it really make a difference?â
âYou bet it does!â Totò put the spaghetti in a bowl, poured an orange-coloured sauce full of clams over it, and brought it to the inspector.
âSmells good,â said Bordelli, a scent of the sea regaling his nostrils.
âTotòâs own invention ⦠When youâre done you can tell me if you like it.â
The inspector tasted the pasta. It was excellent, of course.
âYouâre a great chef, Totò. And you can tell your mother I said that,â he said, raising another
âYouâre not overcooking my spaghetti, are you, Totò?â said Bordelli, to make him stop talking. The last thing he wanted to hear about was murdered little girls.
âDonât worry, Inspector, Iâve got a clock up here,â said the cook, pointing to his temple.
âYou never know.â
âAs was I was saying, Inspector ⦠the madman had even broken her legs, just snapped them in two, like toothpicks. Poor little thing. I even saw her ⦠she looked like a chicken alla diavola . Her parents seemed dead ⦠they couldnât get a single word out. Thank God they caught the maniac straight away ⦠The whole town gathered in front of the carabinieriâs headquarters â¦âOut with him!â they cried. âWe want the monster!â The women were raving even worse than the men ⦠The sergeant got scared, and he fired a shot in the air and shouted to us all to go home ⦠But nobody budged ⦠Without too much trouble they broke down the door and pulled the madman out of his cell, dragging him by the hair all the way to the church square, where they tore him to pieces ⦠A disgusting scene, Inspector, but not so unusual in my parts â¦â
âTotò, the spaghetti â¦â
âWeâre almost there, Inspector ⦠Just one minute to go ⦠Another time there was a massacre in the town next to mine, and they caught that maniac straight away, too. Heâd cut up two little sisters into pieces, anâ they were found in aââ
âExcuse me, Totò, you wouldnât happen to have a drop of wine, would you?â
âYou might want for water sometimes around here, Inspector, but â¦â said the cook, chuckling. He went off to get a flask, and Bordelli got ready to change the subject. He wanted to enjoy the spaghetti without getting an earful of Totòâs tales of the macabre. They made him feel too sad, especially at a moment like this. It grieved him also to hear that those murderers had been caught, while his was still free ⦠free to kill again. He couldnât stop thinking about it. He was becoming obsessed. The cook returned with the wine and filled his glass to the brim.
âHave a taste of this, Inspector, itâs from my town.â
Bordelli took a sip.
âNice. Is it made by some relative of yours?â
âMy uncle. Heâs the artist.â
âOh, really? So, how does he make it?â asked Bordelli. Totò scratched his brow.
âInspector ⦠donât tell me you donât know how wine is made. Itâd be like saying you donât know what an arsehole is.â
Bordelli threw his hands up and played dumb. He had hit upon a subject that could distract Totò from killers of little girls, and he wanted to exploit it to the utmost.
âI have a vague sense of it, Totò, but Iâm sure there isnât only one way to make wine ⦠How does your uncle do it?â
The cook ran to the back of the kitchen to drain Bordelliâs pasta, then yelled so the inspector could hear him.
âMaking good wine begins with the pruning,â he said. âSome people prune only once a year; my uncle does it twice.â
âAnd does it really make a difference?â
âYou bet it does!â Totò put the spaghetti in a bowl, poured an orange-coloured sauce full of clams over it, and brought it to the inspector.
âSmells good,â said Bordelli, a scent of the sea regaling his nostrils.
âTotòâs own invention ⦠When youâre done you can tell me if you like it.â
The inspector tasted the pasta. It was excellent, of course.
âYouâre a great chef, Totò. And you can tell your mother I said that,â he said, raising another
Similar Books
