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heaven,’ she said, still dancing.
    â€˜Maybe she didn’t feel like going there so soon,’ said Bordelli.
    Gideon stretched again and slid off him lazily, heading towards the kitchen, tail straight up. The inspector put his feet on the floor and slipped his shoes on.
    â€˜I think I’ll go home to bed,’ he said, yawning.
    â€˜Go and get some rest, dear. I’m sure you’ll catch that madman.’
    â€˜Say a prayer for me,’ he said, feeling discouraged. He downed the rest of his cognac and stood up. Overcoming a slight dizziness, he tucked his shirt into his trousers, then lit a cigarette. It tasted disgusting, but he kept smoking it anyway.
    â€˜I’m off,’ he said.
    Rosa accompanied him to the door and stroked his face, which was already rough with a growth of beard. The inspector took Rosa’s hand in his.
    â€˜Sweet dreams, beautiful,’ he said, kissing her fingers, and he started to go down the stairs, followed by Rosa’s kisses, which echoed in the stairwell.
    It was cold outside, and a fine, dense rain was falling. The light of the street lamps shone bright on the wet asphalt. A few illuminated windows could be seen here and there. An old man smoked on his balcony, watching the drops fall from the sky. It really did feel like November. No sign of spring in sight. Feeling a chill down his spine, Bordelli turned up the collar of his jacket. As he was unlocking his car, a raindrop fell square on the burning end of his cigarette and extinguished it. So much the better, he thought. He flicked the butt away and got into the car. He felt a great weariness in his legs, as if he had been walking all day. He couldn’t wait to get into bed.
    The Beetle whistled more than usual as he started it up, and coughed out a lot of smoke. The streets were deserted. He crossed the Ponte dell Grazie and turned on to the Lungarno, yawning all the while. A few minutes later he parked the car right outside his front door and dragged himself up the stairs.
    As he entered his bedroom he heard some yelling in the street and went over and looked out the window. Two drunkards were quarrelling and cursing each other. Nothing serious. A rather normal occurrence in that part of town. He closed the window, turned out the lights, and threw himself down on the bed. He lit what was supposed to be his last cigarette, smoking it with eyes open, staring into the darkness. He thought of Valentina’s mother. How old could she be? Twenty-five, thirty at most. No, not even thirty. Maybe twenty-eight. Whatever the case, she was very beautiful. He snuffed out the cigarette and turned on to his side. Just a minute before, he had felt sleepy, but no longer. Groping through the confused memories spinning round in his head, he remembered the time he had got trapped in German crossfire with ten of his men. They didn’t know what to do and could only look at one another, wondering how they might ever get out of that bloody fix. They were lying belly down on the ground, faces in the tall grass, as the bullets flew a few centimetres over their heads. All at once Commander Bordelli started rolling down the slope like a log, arms folded over his face. The others all followed behind him as the German bullets ripped the grass from the ground. They all got away, but Bordelli never told anyone how afraid he had been at that moment, thinking they weren’t going to make it that time.
    That night he had a dream. Nonna Argia had tied his hands to the sink so she could wash his face, and as she rubbed the soap over his mouth and nose she nearly suffocated him. He opened his eyes and sighed with relief. He couldn’t remember his grandmother ever tying him to the bathroom sink, but as a little boy he had always been a bit afraid of that gaunt, bony woman, her skull sharply outlined under her brownish skin. She walked with a cane and wore black shoes laced up to the calf. She died when he was eight years