Death in Sardinia by Marco Vichi Read Free Book Online Page A

his life as the walls of the house or the small picture of Santa Bonacatu hanging over the fireplace.
    ‘I made this cabbage with my own hands,’ Gavino said, dipping his spoon into the polenta.
    ‘You have only one hand, Gavino, and only God can make living things,’ said Maria, ribbing him. Her husband ignored her and looked at his son.
    ‘Eat. Taste that? It’s good because there’s hard work in it,’ he said, squeezing Pietrino’s arm.
    ‘You say that every day, Dad,’ said Nino, smiling.
    ‘And you eat every day,’ said Gavino, entirely serious.
    Pietrino continued eating in silence. After lunch he went and rested in the armchair next to the fireplace and in front of the television, a fine twenty-one-inch Sylvania on the plastic stand he’d given to his parents for their last anniversary. Maria didn’t like having the antenna on the rooftop. That metal contraption would attract lightning, she said. The Piras family owned one of the few television sets in town, and often friends and relatives would come by to watch a programme or two, especially on Saturday nights and Sundays.
    As his mother was washing the dishes, Pietrino distractedly watched the end of a programme on natural science, and then the test card came up. He leaned forward and, without getting up, extended a crutch and turned the set off with the tip. He tried to read a few lines of Simenon, but his full stomach and the warmth of the fire put him to sleep.
    He woke up around three o’clock and sat there in a daze, staring at the lifeless television. He yawned, feeling tired from so much leisure.
    Gavino was doubtless already out in the field, while his mother had gone to see to her bees. Sometimes Piras would go with her, but he never got close to the hives. He was always amazed to see hundreds of bees land on his mother’s arms and face without ever stinging her.
    Reaching down, he picked up the Simenon novel again. He’d brought a whole suitcase full of books with him from Florence, lent to him by Simone, a close friend of Sonia’s who he was a little jealous of at first. Partly because he lived right across the landing from her, but mostly because he was very good looking.
    Piras was only a few pages from the end of the novel. He read them in a few minutes, then closed the book and tapped it with his hand. He always did that when finishing a novel he liked.
    Feeling a little groggy, he stretched and some of his joints cracked. To avoid falling back to sleep, he stood up, leaned on his crutches, and went out into the street. Staying indoors too long made him restless. There was never anything for him to do besides reading, and in his present condition he couldn’t even give his parents a hand in the field or in the stables. He would have been glad to do so, if only to help the time go by faster.
    The inspector left Totò’s kitchen feeling as if he wanted to sleep. When all was said and done, he realised he had drunk nearly a whole bottle of wine by himself. The avenue was full of Christmas traffic. He headed towards Via Zara, repressing the urge to light another cigarette. It wasn’t raining, but the sky had turned into a slab of lead, and he could feel the humidity in his bones. He preferred snow, but it hardly ever snowed in Florence. He’d once slept in snow, on a night in Umbria in 1944, and it was one of the few times sleeping out in the open when he hadn’t felt cold.
    Sotto la neve c’è il pane, sotta la pioggia c’è la fame , the peasant saying went. Under the snow there’s bread, under the rain there’s hunger. He and his comrades had spent the night in their sleeping bags and woken up the following morning covered in sweat, under a ten-inch layer of snow …
    There was no getting around it. No matter what he thought of, it always brought back memories of the bloody war. As he entered the courtyard of police headquarters, he greeted Mugnai with a nod and went to look for Rinaldi and Tapinassi. He wanted to give them