Besides a natural concern for one’s fellow man, the practice of the priesthood had added the ability to recognize the feelings that lay hidden behind expressions, behind the words dictated by circumstances; so that the little priest had learned to carry on two dialogues simultaneously, one with the mouth and one with the eyes. Offering help to those who needed it and could not find the strength to ask for it.
The Commissario’s gaze, those formidable green eyes, were a window on the tempest within.
Don Pierino recalled that, just after taking his vows, he had attended to patients in an old hospital in Irpinia, where children suffering from contagious diseases were shut away in a separate room. The door to this ward had a window, and a child suffering from cholera was always glued to it. He had read a similar despair in the eyes of that child as he watched his more fortunate peers able to be together, playing. The small mark his breath left on the glass conveyed a sense of exclusion, of immense loneliness: being condemned to remain at the margins of other peoples’ lives, without ever sharing them.
As he walked against the wind, the priest realized that all in all he didn’t mind meeting the policeman, intrigued as he was by that desperate mind.
Ricciardi went to meet don Pierino at the door to his office. He shook the priest’s hand—a brief, firm grip—making no attempt to kiss it. He had him sit down in front of the desk which, the Assistant Pastor noticed, held no photographs or any objects that might say something about the life of the man who worked there. Only a strange paperweight, a lump of blackened, half-melted iron, from which a stylized metal pen stuck out, as to pretty up the unsightly object.
“How strange,” the priest said, stroking it briefly.
“A piece of shrapnel; it dates back to the war.”
“Were you in the war?”
“No, I was too young. I was born in 1900. An old friend gave it to me. The grenade almost killed him and he wanted to preserve the memory. That’s what they say, isn’t it? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
“So they say, yes. But help also strengthens you. The help of others, of God.”
“When it’s there, Father. When it’s there. So then, what can you tell me about yesterday? Have you given it some thought? Do you have any idea of what might have happened? Who might have done it?”
“No, Commissario. I could never come up with an idea like that, not even if I wanted to identify with the individual and, believe me, I don’t. Then, too, a voice like that! How can one even think of snuffing it out forever? A gift to us all, straight from God Almighty.”
“Why, Father? Was this Vezzi all that great?”
“Not great. Celestial. I like to think that the angels have voices like Vezzi’s, to sing the praises of the Lord in heaven. If that were so, no one would be afraid of dying. I heard him twice, in Verdi’s Il Trovatore and Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor; he, of course, was Manrico in the first and Edgardo in the second. You should have heard him, Commissario. He plucked your heart out of your chest, took it to heaven, bathed it in the moon and stars, and returned it to you shining and renewed. When he finished singing I saw that my face was wet with tears; and I hadn’t realized I was crying. Seeing him up close, yesterday, made my heart tremble.”
Ricciardi listened to the priest, staring at him over hands joined together in front of his mouth. He sensed his childlike enthusiasm and wondered how opera, mere make-believe, could produce such emotion. He also felt a little envious, because he himself had never experienced such a profound, indulgent frame of mind.
“And this time, how did he sing?”
“No, Commissario, this time he had not yet sung. It was opening night, yesterday: the night of the première. And he hadn’t been onstage yet.”
“So how come the performance was already underway? Who was singing, at the time?”
“Oh, I understand your confusion. I should explain. Well then, generally only one opera is performed, in three or more acts. In this case, however, since these are short works, two of them are performed: Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana and Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci. They are two operas that date back to the same period, the first is from 1890 and the second from 1892, I believe.”
“And Vezzi only sang in one of the two?”
“That’s right, in Pagliacci. He plays . . . he would have played Canio, the lead role. A difficult part, I read that he was even greater than usual in it.”
“It was the second opera, then.”
“Yes, very good, the second. That’s how they are usually performed: first Cavalleria and then Pagliacci, which is more compelling and vivid, so the audience’s attention is more easily captured. Personally, from a musical standpoint I prefer Cavalleria, which has an extraordinary intermezzo. But there are several beautiful arias in Pagliacci, specifically in Canio’s role. Vezzi would never have played Turiddu in Cavalleria, for example.”
Ricciardi listened very carefully. He absorbed the information voraciously, reflecting on the situations that might have arisen the night of the murder.
“But aside from the principal roles, the singers are the same?”
“They could be, but generally that’s not the case. In this instance, Vezzi had a cast put together specifically for him; whereas Cavalleria was performed by a troupe that appears frequently at the San Carlo. Normally they are so-so, middling to average, but this time they were really very good. It was a splendid surprise. Even though this aspect later became of secondary importance, unfortunately. The evening will certainly not be remembered for the performance.”
“So the rehearsals are separate? The troupes never come into contact with one another?”
“No, apart from some orchestra rehearsals, in which individual openings and a few scenes are practised and repeated, it is unlikely that the two companies will overlap. Even during the shows, like last night, there is sufficient time between the two performances for the turnover to occur without contact. Naturally, many of the singers know one another. They work in the same theater, after all.”
“And the orchestra. The orchestra is shared, isn’t it?”
“Of course, the orchestra is the same. It’s associated with the theater, along with its conductor, Maestro Mariano Pelosi: a gentleman, as well as a professional. In his day it seemed he would have a brilliant career, that he would be another Toscanini. Then it stalled. But he’s a more than reputable conductor and the San Carlo is one of the greatest opera houses in the world.”
“And the two operas? Tell me something about their story lines.”
“Well, the two operas . . . Their themes are similar, though treated differently. Cavalleria Rusticana is based on Verga, set in Sicily on Easter morning. It has only one act, with the intermezzo I mentioned. There is a young man, Turiddu, a tenor, who is engaged to Santuzza but still loves Lola, his former girlfriend. She, however, is married to the wagoner Alfio, a baritone. In short, two couples, one old love story and two new ones. Santuzza, distraught and jealous, tells Alfio about Turiddu and Lola and, in a final duel, Alfio kills Turiddu. The female roles in this opera are the best parts, in my opinion: Lola, Santuzza and Lucia, Turiddu’s mother.
‘Pagliacci, on the other hand, takes place in Calabria. It runs as long as Cavalleria, more or less. A troupe of actors arrive in a little village: the head of the company is Canio, the tenor, who was to be played by Vezzi. He is a man who is anything but jovial, despite his role as a clown; in reality he is poisoned by jealousy over his wife Nedda, who plays Colombina, when they perform. In fact, Nedda cheats on him with Silvio, a wealthy young man who lives in the village. In the end, in a very beautiful, dramatic scene, we go from fiction to reality and Canio, Pagliaccio, tearing off his costume, kills both Nedda and her lover. The beauty of the opera, aside from the music, is the mingling of reality and performance: the audience can’t tell if the singers are playacting or acting for real, until blood flows.
/> “As you can see, Commissario, the themes are the same: jealousy, love and death. Just as, unfortunately, we often find in everyday life as well, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe, Father. But perhaps everyday life has other complications. There’s hunger, for example. Is hunger ever found in your operas? If you knew how much hunger there is, in crimes, Father. But let’s get back to Vezzi. As far as you know, what was Vezzi like in real life? Was he well liked?”
“I couldn’t say. Generally, when I can—thanks to the kindness of my parishioner Patrisso who is the caretaker at the gardens entrance—I like to attend the rehearsals, especially the dress rehearsals, which are in costume. But this time, for Pagliacci, they held the rehearsal behind tightly closed doors. There’s a great deal of attention surrounding Vezzi: they say he’s actually Mussolini’s favourite tenor.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard. All right, Father. Thank you very much. If I need any further information, may I trouble you again? As I said before, you know I don’t know much about these things.”
“Certainly, Commissario. But let me say one thing: it wouldn’t hurt, maybe, if you were to listen to some opera. It would do you good to see how beautiful a feeling, its expression, can be.”
Surprisingly, don Pierino saw a shadow of immense sorrow in Ricciardi’s green eyes. Not a recollection but rather a condition. As if, just for a moment, the policeman had opened a window on the mysterious territory of his soul.
“I know about feelings, Father. And one can also have too much of them. Thank you. You may go.”
At the door, don Pierino ran into Maione who was on his way in.
“Good morning, Father. Have you already given your opera lesson?”
“Good morning to you, Brigadier. I provided some information, yes. But I don’t think the Commissario will ever be a regular attendee at the San Carlo. If you need me, I’ll be at the church.”
Maione sat down after giving Ricciardi a sketchy military salute.
“So then, Commissa’: we picked up last night’s depositions. This is the list of those who were onstage for Cavalleria Rusticana as well as members of the orchestra. Dr. Modo, who is expecting us at the hospital this morning but not before noon, has already said that Vezzi could not have died prior to an hour before he was found, therefore the first opera was already underway. This would exclude both the singers of Cavalleria and the musicians, wouldn’t it? How could they have moved during the opera? This instead is a list of the cast of Pagliacci, whom I think we should check carefully.”
“Everything should be checked carefully. The staff?”
“As we’ve seen, there weren’t very many of them who had access to the dressing rooms. It’s generally a restricted area to begin with, then when Vezzi comes, the doorman told me, the place is treated like a deluxe hotel. It seems that when anyone appeared at the doorman’s station, Vezzi demanded that he personally be asked whether the individual could be let in. So we can eliminate from consideration the staff who would normally be admitted.”
Ricciardi knew that Maione had thoroughly verified the information before presenting it to him, and that he could trust the report.
“Who will we find this morning at the San Carlo?”
“The theater director, for sure. The man seems to have lost his senses, yesterday he was hopping up and down, snivelling and whining, making a huge pest of himself. He was angry with you, he said he’d have them take you off the investigation. Then, the orchestra members: I’ve been told they have to rehearse every day, it’s a contractual matter. We only closed off the area of the dressing rooms, the section of the Royal Palace gardens under the windows and the side entrance, so they can work between the stage and the concert hall. Also, Vezzi’s people phoned, his manager, a certain Marelli, from up north, calling on behalf of his wife, a former singer from Pesaro, Livia Lucani. They wanted to know when they could reclaim the corpse for the funeral. I told them to call back later. However, they are coming to Naples, they’ve been travelling since last night, and they’ll arrive at the station this evening.”
“As soon as they get here I want to talk to them. Now, let’s get to the theater.”
XIV
Garzo’s clerk, Ponte, stood in the office corridor, chilly as usual. He stepped forward as soon as he saw Ricciardi and Maione.
“Sir, the Vice Questore wanted . . . if you could stop by a moment . . . ”
“No, I can’t. When I get back, maybe. I’m pursuing the investigation, without losing any time: according to his orders. Give him my regards.”
They hurried off down the stairs, leaving the little man frozen in more ways than one since he would now have to face the Vice Questore’s wrath by himself.
Ricciardi had no intention of wasting precious hours. He was well aware that solutions resulting from the investigations were a race against time, where the odds of success diminished with the passing of just a few minutes. An old commissario with whom he had worked maintained that forty-eight hours after the crime the murderer will no longer be found, unless he turns himself in. And this only happened on the rare occasions when the voice of conscience became deafening and plunged the killer’s soul straight to hell. More often, much more often, what prevailed was the desire to avoid hell on earth, namely the punishment of men.
He recalled a prior offender arrested for theft a couple of years ago: after submitting to being held and remaining silent until then, the man had seized the gun of one of the two policemen who were escorting him and, without hesitation, right there in the courtyard of the Questura, fired a shot at his temple, killing the guard on his opposite side with the same bullet.
For months, Ricciardi had seen the two of them in the corner of the courtyard: the prisoner kept yelling that he would not go back to that hellhole of a prison, the policeman called out to his wife and son. Both men had a big hole in the right temple, and brain matter mixed with black blood oozed from the bullet wound.
Outside, the city was a whirlwind. Violent gusts kept pedestrians from crossing the exposed spaces of streets or piazzas, so everyone made their way along by hugging the walls. The heavy trams seemed to sway on the rails, shaken by the strong blasts, and the coachmen of the few carriages were bent over the seat, the whip gripped tightly in their hands. In the air, the scent of wood smoke from stoves and the smell of horse manure was revived with every gust. The foliage of the trees that lined the streets tossed and swirled, broken branches and broad green leaves rose and fell, in imitation of an autumn that was still far off.
Ricciardi and Maione reached the San Carlo in a maelstrom of scraps of newspaper and hats torn from their owners’ heads. As always, the Brigadier insisted on walking a step behind the Commissario, who strode along bareheaded, his eyes fixed on the ground. He was thinking about what he had learned from the priest regarding the operas’ plots. You like your fictional feelings masquerading onstage so much, Father? What’s so great about people stabbing each other as they sing? I’d show you, if I could. Do you know how long the echo of a stabbing lasts? There’s nothing pretty about a man screaming out his hatred every day for months, his guts spilling out endlessly from a gash in his belly.
In the theater, the mood was very different from that of the previous evening. The lights were off, the clean-up completed. The opulent entrance was chilly and silent. A young reporter, ensconced in an easy chair and bundled up in a heavy overcoat, sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Good morning. Are you Commissario Ricciardi? I’m Luise from Il Mattino. May I ask you a few questions?”
“No. But you can go to the Questura, where Vice Questore Garzo will be happy to answer them.”
“Actually my editor-in-chief, Signor Capece, told me that I had to speak with you, since you are directly conducting the investigation.”
“Young man, please: don’t make me waste time. I’m busy, so I will not answer any questions. Kindly be on your w
ay.”
Vezzi’s dressing room, aside from the fact that the body had been removed, was the same as the previous evening. The blood had now caked and formed dark stains on the carpet, the sofa, the walls. In the corner, Ricciardi saw the image of the tenor who kept repeating his song, tears lining his face, his hand outstretched.
As he stood there, arms folded, his green gaze sombre, the strand of hair falling over his sharp nose, the Commissario wondered what the tenor could have wanted to ward off with that hand. And why he had then ended up seated, with his face in the mirror and a long glass shard in his artery. He walked over to the sofa, studied the coat. Assuming it had been placed there after the tenor’s death, he thought, who had brought it back and why? A murderer who manages to flee the scene of the crime doesn’t soon return, unless he’s forced to. And with all those people around, who would be able to move freely about the dressing rooms? Sighing, Ricciardi called Maione over. It was time to take a closer look at the man singing in the corner, blood gushing from his throat.
Vezzi’s secretary, Stefano Bassi, was a man who was visibly upset. He couldn’t imagine his life without the Maestro.
“You have no idea, Commissario. You have no idea what the Maestro meant to me. I can’t believe all this is real. And in such an atrocious way!”
He spoke in a trembling voice, incoherently, wringing his hands. A neat, pleasant-looking man, with a dapper style and slender build, Bassi had always been the image of efficiency; but now, robbed of his point of reference, he didn’t know where to turn. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose.
“There wasn’t a moment when I left his side. But this damned habit of putting on his make-up and getting dressed by himself . . . It was a kind of superstition, an obsession, to ward off bad luck. Vezzi’s vezzo, his fixation, he always said. I’ll never hear him laugh again, or sing with that angelic voice. I can’t believe it.”
I Will Have Vengeance Page 6