A glass of red wine, then another: after each new death he found it hard to sleep. The image stayed with him like a flutter in his chest, an expectancy. Maybe it was transmitting the fear of death to him, fear of the final moment. Fear of what? He thought about it. As long as you’re alive, death doesn’t exist; once death comes, you no longer exist. Still, you’ll meet death, he had said to the Jesuit at the boarding school, at the age of seventeen. But afterwards you’ll meet God, the Jesuit had replied.
Is there a God? Sipping his wine, Ricciardi thought about the strange priest he had met at the theater; his shrewd replies, sparkling eyes. He seemed like a good man. Another one who thought there was a God. Where was God for him, when he saw the image of sorrow and felt its reverberation? Was it up to him alone to relieve that sorrow?
Ricciardi got up from the table, otherwise his tata would stand there all night watching him drink, without clearing the dishes. He kissed her tenderly on the forehead and went to his bedroom to keep his appointment.
XI
The blonde woman was walking along the walls of Piazza Carolina, heading up towards Via Gennaro Serra. The cold wind from the sea drove her along, but her steps were dragging. In contrast to the rare passers-by scurrying to reach the warmth of their homes, she had no desire to face those eyes that bore into her, searching out her hidden feelings.
She had become good at dissembling, at concealing. She had to prevent anyone from knowing, had to keep what had happened from becoming common knowledge. In the uncertain light of the street lamps, walking more and more slowly, she felt her lover’s hands on her body; she recalled his face, his voice, the shallow breathing. She thought about the words that were said, the promises, the plans. How could it have happened? she wondered. And now, how could she hide it from her man’s eyes, that she loved another man, that she dreamed of leaving with him?
She ran her hand over her face, under the hat that hid her beautiful eyes. Tears. She was crying. She had to compose herself, she wasn’t far from home. She glimpsed the dark shape of the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, at the top of Pizzofalcone hill. Soon she would have to face the man who loved her so much that he could read her thoughts. She was remorseful. She felt bad for him, for having betrayed him. She had to make sure no one found out, she had to protect him from scandal.
Quickening her pace, she wondered again what would happen.
Like every night, Ricciardi closed the door of his room behind him. Before going to bed he would open it a crack to hear his tata Rosa’s heavy breathing and be reassured by its regularity. He changed into his robe, and put a hairnet over his hair. With the lights turned off, he went to the window and parted the curtains. The patch of sky, swept clear and cloudless by the strong north wind, displayed four bright stars; Ricciardi wanted to be illuminated, but not by the stars.
The light that mattered to him was that of a dim lamp on a small table, behind the window across from his in the building opposite. The table was beside an armchair in which a young woman sat, embroidering. A cosy corner in the large room that was the kitchen. Ricciardi knew that her name was Enrica and that she was the eldest of five children: a large family. The father was a hat merchant. One of Enrica’s sisters, married and the mother of a young child, lived with her husband in the same apartment. The young woman was embroidering with her left hand, lost in thought. She wore tortoiseshell glasses. Ricciardi also knew that she bent her head a little when she was focusing; that her gestures were fluid and graceful, though she didn’t know what to do with her hands when she talked; that she was left-handed; that she would suddenly laugh when playing with her siblings or her little nephew; and that sometimes she cried, when she was alone and thought no one could see her.
There wasn’t a single night when he didn’t spend some time at the window, experiencing Enrica’s life vicariously. It was the only time he granted his tormented spirit a brief respite. He watched her at supper, serene and amiable with her family, seated to her mother’s left. Listening to the radio, her expression intent and engrossed, or to a recording on the monumental gramophone, spellbound, with a hint of a smile. Reading with her head bowed, moistening a finger to turn the page. Arguing, softly but stubbornly speaking up for herself. He had never spoken to her, but there was no one, surely, who knew her better than he did.
Indeed, he had never exchanged a word with her, nor did he think that would ever happen. One Sunday, when his tata wasn’t able to, he had gone to buy vegetables from the street vendor who came down from Capodimonte. He had paid, turned around with a bunch of broccoli under his arm, and there she was in front of him, face to face. He still shuddered at the memory of the extraordinary mixture of pleasure, awkwardness, joy and terror he had felt. Afterwards, in the drowsy state that preceded sleep, or at the moments when he woke up, he would see those deep, dark eyes hundreds of times. That day he had fled, his heart leaping in his chest, a loud pounding in his ears. Not turning around, dropping bits of broccoli along the way, his eyes half-closed to retain the image of those long legs and that faint smile that he had perhaps glimpsed. How could I speak to you? What could I offer you, except the distress of seeing me perpetually worn out?
In the small cone of lamplight, Enrica went on embroidering, unaware.
Before giving in to sleep, Ricciardi thought again about the clown and his desperate last song.
“Io sangue voglio, all’ira m’abbandono, in odio tutto l’amor mio finì . . . ” I will have vengeance . . . , and all my love shall end in hate.
What makes a man at the point of death sing? Was he getting ready to go onstage? Rehearsing his role? Why was he crying? Ricciardi clearly recalled the streak the tear had left on the white greasepaint. Or maybe the tears expressed an emotion related to the opera? And if so, what? What was unique about this performance? Why was the protagonist still in his dressing room putting on make-up while they had been singing for over an hour onstage? He had to learn more about it. He had to enter Vezzi’s life and his curious profession made up of fiction and make-believe. He would ask the priest for help.
And as the wind rattled the shutters, Ricciardi drifted into a muddled dream in which a left-handed girl embroidered in front of a weeping clown.
XII
The following morning, the wintry wind had not lost its intensity. Heavy dark clouds raced across the sky, allowing the sun’s rays to light up bits of the city at intervals, as if they were spotlights focused haphazardly to capture even the most insignificant details. On his way to the Questura, Ricciardi saw men chasing their hats, barefoot children racing in the wind, their hand-me-down shirts billowing like sails, heedless of the cold, and beggars huddling in tattered rags, seeking refuge in building doorways only to be chased away by intolerant porters.
Ricciardi thought about how much the city might change, as times themselves changed. In the frigid wind and fickle light, the old buildings teeming with life became dark caves and new construction sites seemed like monuments to loneliness and neglect.
When he got to the office, he found Vice Questore Garzo’s clerk waiting for him at the door; Garzo was Ricciardi’s boss. The small man, partly because of the cold, and partly because of his obvious state of anxiety, was stamping his feet softly on the ground and rubbing his hands together.
“Ah, Commissario Ricciardi. Finally, I’ve been freezing, such a wind . . . The Vice Questore would like to see you in his office, immediately.”
The clerk’s name was Ponte. He was one of those who felt uneasy in the Commissario’s presence and had a superstitious dread of him. He always avoided making eye contact with him or getting in his way. Even on this occasion his eyes kept shifting, looking down at the floor a little, then up at the ceiling, a little to the side, with an occasional darting glance at his interlocutor. Ricciardi was annoyed with him, both because he suspected the reason for the man’s agitation, and because he found it hard to tell from his expression what it was all about.
“At this hour? Usually I’m the only one up here on this floor until ten. All right. I’ll take off my coat and I’m on my way.”
“No, sir, please: the Vice Questore said, ‘I want him in my office immediately.’ He’s been here since seven thirty! Please, sir. He’ll take it out on me!”
“I said I want to take off my coat first. You’ll just have to wait, you and the Vice Questore. Please step aside.”
Given that biting tone and harsh look, Ponte moved aside with a little leap, although it was clear he was acutely uneasy. Ricciardi went into the office, taking his time, hung his coat in the dark wood armoire, smoothed his hair back and followed the agitated clerk down the hall.
Angelo Garzo was an ambitious hustler. His entire life, not just his career, was marked by a driving ambition. About to turn forty, he was champing at the bit to have a Questura assigned to him, even a minor one.
He felt he had all the requirements: good looks, excellent people skills, a perfect family, dedication to his work, Party membership and participation in political activities, an aptitude for pleasing his superiors and a firm hand with his subordinates. He considered himself endowed with excellent organizational abilities, he conscientiously and constantly showed his face everywhere, he was moderately social and, in his opinion, likable enough. But in reality he was inept.
The climb to his present position had from time to time been marked by betrayal, cunning, and servility towards his superiors. And above all by the skilful exploitation of his subordinates’ capacities.
So it was in this spirit that he welcomed Ricciardi when the latter appeared at his door, accompanied by the clerk.
“My dear, dear Ricciardi! I was waiting anxiously for you! Please, come in.” He had stepped around the desk, perfectly clear of any clutter except for a single sheet of paper, placed squarely in the centre. He glared at Ponte, hissing, “I told you immediately! Get out of here.”
Ricciardi went in, taking a quick look around. Although similar in size to his own, Garzo’s office had a very different appearance. It was very neat, and there were no stacks of reports or old file folders; a large bookcase behind the desk was full of austere volumes on laws and statutes, obviously never opened. On the wide back of the brown leather chair, where the head would rest, was a soft green cloth. In front of the desk, two dark red leather chairs, each with a small cushion. A large vase sat atop a low open cabinet, in which a crystal bottle and four rosolio glasses could be seen. On the walls, in addition to the two regulation portraits of Mussolini and the King, a standard letter of commendation given to the Questura of Avellino, which Garzo had unduly appropriated. On the desktop, as a final touch to the green leather desk pad and letter opener, the photograph of a woman, not beautiful but smiling, with two serious children dressed in sailor suits.
Of all that ostentatious display, Ricciardi envied only the photograph.
In the corridors it was whispered that Garzo’s wife was the granddaughter of the Prefect of Salerno, and that much of his career depended on that marriage. Still, Ricciardi thought, in your life there’s a smile. In mine, only a hand that embroiders, seen from too far away.
Garzo, with his persuasive, well-pitched voice, accompanied his words with fluid gestures.
“Please, come in. Have a seat. You see, Ricciardi, I’m well aware of what you may be thinking: that you lack the explicit praise of your superior, that your work is not always appreciated enough, that you don’t get the recognition that you would like. I also know that, at the time of the splendid, swift resolution of the Carosino crime, you would have expected a commendation from the Questore, who instead chose the occasion to direct his applause to the entire mobile unit, speaking through my humble person. But, and this should always be kept firmly in mind, my esteem and my regard for you are never lacking. And if a positive situation were to develop, I would be able to prove to you with actions how much I appreciate your cooperation.”
Ricciardi listened grimly, his hands in constant motion. He was aware of how false Garzo’s words were, since the man considered him a threat to his position. The Vice Questore would gladly have gotten rid of that strange, silent man, his eyes like daggers: not a friend, never a familiar overture, and according to what they said he had no attachments or particular sexual inclinations that might make him more vulnerable. Unfortunately, he was very capable. Cases that seemed extremely complex, that he couldn’t even read in their entirety, were solved by that individual with almost supernatural ability. As if what was whispered around were true: that he conversed with the devil himself, who told him about his transgressions. Garzo thought that, in order to understand crime so well, you had to be something of a criminal yourself. That was why he, a good person, could never figure it out.
“Why did you send for me?” Ricciardi cut him off.
Garzo seemed almost offended by the Commissario’s brusque manner, but only for a moment. He quickly resumed his blandishments, in a conciliatory tone.
“Right, right, we have no time to lose. We’re men of action. So then, last night at the San Carlo . . . I wasn’t there, a work commitment that couldn’t be put off. I too never have a moment to enjoy myself. I heard about your timely intervention. My compliments, you too at work at such a late hour. With your officer, Brigadier, what’s his name . . . Maione, yes. How did it go? I heard you were a little . . . curt, as they say. Not that it isn’t necessary at times, as I well know. But, damn it, the signor Prefect was there, Prince d’Avalos, the Colonnas, the Santa Severinas . . . Wasn’t there some way to avoid taking their information? You, Ricciardi, are sometimes too . . . direct. I say this for your own good. You’re very capable, you should be more diplomatic, at least with those who count. There have been complaints. Even from the theater director, Spinelli. A bit of a queen, but with important contacts.”
Ricciardi hadn’t moved a muscle. He had listened in silence, without batting an eye.
“Feel free to assign the case to someone else, sir. That’s the way I work. In accordance with procedures, I believe.”
“Oh, but of course! And I wouldn’t even dream of handing over the case to anyone else. There is no one better able to solve this case. That’s exactly why I sent for you so early. Where are we with it?”
“We’ll begin this morning. We’ll do another inspection of the crime scene, take the witnesses’ testimony. We’ll work non-stop.”
“There, that’s good: non-stop. I’ll be frank with you, Ricciardi. This is something big, bigger than we can imagine. This singer . . . Vezzi . . . he was the best in his field, apparently. The fans adored him, a real source of national pride. And in times like these, when national pride is of absolute importance . . . It seems that Il Duce himself admired him and went to hear him, when he sang in Rome. They say he was as good and even better than Caruso himself. And the fact that what happened took place here in our city has filled the authorities with dismay. But let’s be clear about it, it’s also an opportunity. If we were to find the perpetrator with our usual speed and thoroughness, as you so often do, well, this would bring me . . . would bring us directly to the attention of the highest offices in the nation, Ricciardi. Do you understand that?”
“I understand that there’s a man dead, sir. A murdered man; and a murderer who is walking freely about the city. As always, it will take whatever time it takes. And as always, we will do everything that can and must be done. Without losing any time. If we don’t lose any time, that is.”
This time Garzo could not help noticing the cold sarcasm in the Commissario’s words.
“Look, Ricciardi,” he said, frowning, “I have no intention of standing here and being disrespected. I called you in to tell you how important this investigation is, for your own good, first of all. As you know, I would not hesitate to ascribe the failure to you, if you should fail. I will not risk my career because of your mistakes. Do well and it will go well for everyone. Fall
short and you will pay. You see this?” he said, pointing to the sheet of paper on his desk. “This transcribed phone message comes from the Minister of the Interior. It directs us to disclose every bit of progress in the investigation. The least bit of progress, do I make myself clear, Ricciardi? Keep me apprised, step by step. The signor Questore will in turn report to Rome. Anything else you’re working on is on hold.”
At last, Ricciardi recognized the real Garzo.
“As usual, sir. I will handle the matter as usual. With all due attention.”
“I have no doubt, Ricciardi. I have no doubt. You can go.”
Outside the door, the clerk Ponte carefully avoided looking at him.
XIII
Don Pierino had said Mass at seven. He liked the early hour. The eyes of people who sought God before beginning another day’s battle. At that hour there was no social distinction amid the pews; men and women dressed differently but shared the same impulse.
That morning, moreover, the weather was strange and beautiful: the wind howled fiercely through the narrow central nave and the light from the tall windows was sporadic, as if to say that it should not be considered a given, but something to be earned through effort, like the fruits of the earth and one’s daily bread.
When the Mass was over, don Pierino put on his threadbare overcoat and, holding on to his hat with one hand, headed towards the nearby questura for his appointment with the Commissario. Since the night before, he had been thinking about that intense gaze and what he had seen in it.
I Will Have Vengeance Page 5