The kitchen. I smile back:
“But so are you, from what I’ve heard. You often make dinner for the family, don’t you?”
She nods, with a hint of pride.
“That’s what they tell me. My father, for instance, says that my genovese is even better than the one my mother makes. I don’t know if that’s true, but I can tell you that I like to cook. It’s just one more way of embracing the ones you love, don’t you think?”
I most assuredly agree, just as I know that if I had the time, I’d happily eat a heaping bowl of traditional genovese, the kind you never find these days.
“In your family, there’s a militant member of the Fascist Party, isn’t there? Your brother-in-law, your sister’s husband, if I’m not mistaken.”
She shrugs her shoulders.
“People are free to think what they like, is the way I see it. He’s a good kid, he’s very young and he really believes every word that Mussolini says. He and my father, who’s a liberal, have endless arguments, they raise their voices, they pound their fists on the table, and in the end each of them sticks to his own convictions. My mother and my sister get upset every time, but I just feel like laughing. Besides, Fascists or no Fascists, nothing will ever change. Life will go on like always, right? What could ever really happen?”
Nothing will ever change. I try to conceal a shiver by asking another question.
“You say that nothing will change, but according to your mother the years are passing for you, just as they do for everyone else. How do you see the future?”
A simple, all-too-ordinary question. But Enrica blushes and looks away.
“The future,” she murmurs. “Impossible to predict the future, impossible to plan for it. Still, you can dream. If hearing my dream is enough for you, I can tell you that the future is simple and wonderful, just like the present, but with me in my mother’s place. A modest apartment, nothing grand, in a new neighborhood, like Vomero or Posillipo, where they’re building all the new apartment buildings. At least two children, or as many as happen to come; I like to think of them as angels flying over my head even now, eager to come into the world. A man who loves them. Who loves me. And then joys and sorrows, as many as are needed so that when it’s all over I can say that I lived. And moments of melancholy, and of happiness, the joy of seeing my grandchildren grow up. I dream of living, you see. That’s all, just living. And that’s the most ambitious dream there is.”
The wind underscores the silence that follows, with a short howl that rattles the windowpanes.
“A man who loves you, you say. And yet, I know that you’ve been asked out by more than one young man, that you’ve received letters and flowers, and that, a few months ago, your parents even introduced you to someone they wanted you to see more of; but you chose to let the matter drop.”
She smiles and says nothing, looking off into the distance. Then:
“So you know that, too. Yes, it’s true. There have been signs of interest, and one or two of them might even have been worthy of consideration. But I, I don’t feel that I can . . . I don’t feel that I’m free, you understand. It’s as if I were suspended, waiting for something. For someone. A woman knows when the moment has come, don’t you think? And perhaps, when mine comes, I’ll know it.”
Now it’s my turn to smile.
“Signorina, nice try, but you can’t hide anything from me. I know all about you. And I know that when you refer to a man, you don’t mean just any man. And that your moment arrived some time ago.”
She looks at me, unruffled. Her eyes are deep and dark, and they glisten like the eyes of a doe. I believe that certain beauties swim just under the surface, emerging now and then, only to dive back into the depths.
“Ah, then you know. You know about the eyes that I felt watching me for months, every time I sat down by the window in the kitchen to do my needlepoint at night. You know about my encounter with those eyes, the desperate appeal for help that came out of them, at the fruit stand in the street, at police headquarters when the old fortune-teller was murdered, at Gambrinus. You know about the emotions that I sense, that I can see in the gestures, in the expressions. And you know about my apprehensions, the uncertainty that I feel. Perhaps you even know things I don’t know, things I don’t understand.”
“You see, Signorina, I . . .”
She raises her hand, as if to silence me.
“You can’t tell me anything; I understand. I don’t really want you to, either. I want him to decide on his own that he wants me, or rather I want him to realize it, because I know that he loves me. I know it, I can feel it. And I can also tell that there’s something stopping him, keeping him away, and that this something has nothing to do with the power of what he feels for me. Something dark, something outside of him. An obstacle, which must be removed or overcome. And I’m sure that he’ll do it. He’ll do it for me.”
Determination: I can feel it, strong and calm as a tide.
“But you know how to wait. You have the right character for it. In the meantime, you’ve already met Signora Rosa, haven’t you? And it seems to me that she’s an important ally.”
She laughs graciously.
“An ally, you say? What an odd word, as if there were a war in progress. Signora Rosa is a lovely person, who even welcomed me into her home, of course it was when . . . when she was alone, that is. We speak, certainly; she’s very concerned about what will become of her ‘young master,’ as she calls him. He’s like a son to her, or perhaps something more. And she wants to see him happy, or at least less troubled than he is now, because his welfare has been the prime consideration of her life. She wanted to meet me, to see if I was the right person, and I believe that she thinks I am. Which makes me happy. Let’s hope she’s right.”
I nod, with conviction.
“It’s true, she thinks you are. And you are certainly much closer to her idea of a wife and a mother. Much closer than . . . Well, let’s just say that she’s very convinced of it.”
She watches me in silence. She’s suddenly become sad.
“Thank you for your concern, but you needn’t worry: I already know about . . . I know about that other woman. I’ve seen her, on more than one occasion. An extraordinarily beautiful woman, wealthy, charming. She wears all the latest fashions, a different outfit for every occasion, and she’s always the height of elegance. She has a luxury automobile, with a chauffeur who drives her all around town. Yes, I’ve seen her. And I’ve seen her adoring eyes, the way she looks at him. And I’ve seen the way men look at her: when she walked into Gambrinus, that time last summer, everyone was left open-mouthed. I know that she’s not from Naples, that she has close friends in high places, and that she’s a widow, unattached and childless.”
Livia. I haven’t met her yet, but I know her, and the description jibes perfectly.
“A formidable adversary, from what you say. What do you think of her?”
Her hands grip her handbag tight.
“I’m jealous; of course I am. I’m a human being, I’m made of flesh and blood, too. And I understand that for most men a woman like that constitutes everything that can be desired: beauty, luxury, social advancement. There’s no comparison between a woman like her and an average girl like me. Still, there’s something. Something I know, something that makes me think that matters are at least still up in the air.”
“Something, Signorina? What exactly, if I may ask?”
The wind shakes the window.
“A man doesn’t look at a woman the way he looks at me if he has feelings for another. There are certain looks you don’t give a woman if you want to anchor your ship in another harbor. I’ve seen those longing green eyes, Signore. I’ve seen them and I’ve felt them on me, night after night, day after day; and I know what’s in those eyes. And so I must cherish that feeling, I must cultivate it. And wait for it to emerge, because emerge
it will. I know it will. And I know how to wait.”
Her voice quavered at the end. Only a little, but it was unmistakable. She’s a determined young woman, and she knows how to wait, but she’s afraid. Who knows what fate awaits her.
Outside the window, the wind howls. As if it knew.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The reason that Ricciardi exists at all is because Francesco Pinto wanted him to, so the first thank-you goes to him, as always; and Ricciardi walks down the streets conceived by Antonio Formicola and Michele Antonielli, as always. The atmosphere around him, the people he meets, and the air that he breathes were built with the fundamental, loving assistance of Dr. Annamaria Torroncelli and Dr. Stefania Negro.
For information about the magical world of the Neapolitan manger scene, Ricciardi owes a debt of gratitude to the extraordinary expertise of Michele Nevola, who spoke to him through Don Pierino. For Rosa’s Cilento cooking, gratitude is owed to the clear and rigorous information provided by the magnificent Sabrina Prisco, of the Osteria Canali in Salerno.
A heartfelt thanks to the magnificent De Filippo siblings, and I hope they’ll forgive me for moving the premiere of their play Natale in casa Cupiello by a few days for considerations of plot.
The author must also express his thanks, once again, to the wonderful group of the Corpi Freddi, who turn solitary activities like writing and reading into a fantastic collective experience. Ricciardi’s heart beats for these young people and, through them, echoes back, amplified and more profound.
My last thank-you goes to a little girl who, at the end of the 1930s, told her stories to a little rag doll, imagining that it was her child.
And those are the stories, Mamma, that I tell here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maurizio de Giovanni lives and works in Naples. His Commissario Ricciardi series, including I Will Have Vengeance (Europa 2013), Blood Curse (Europa 2013), Everyone in Their Place (Europa 2013), and The Day of the Dead (Europa 2014) are bestsellers in Italy and have been published to great acclaim in French, Spanish, and German, in addition to English. He is also the author of The Crocodile (Europa 2013), a noir thriller set in contemporary Naples.
The Commissario Ricciardi Series
“Superb.”—The New York Times
Naples, 1931: When one of the world’s greatest tenors is brutally murdered in his dressing room, the enigmatic and aloof Commissario Ricciardi, who is cursed with the ability to see and hear the last seconds in the lives of those who have died a violent death, is called in to investigate.
$16.00 - 9781609450946 – January 2013
Read more on Europa Editions website
An elderly woman moonlighting as a fortuneteller is beaten to death in her working-class apartment. Among the many suspects are some of the city’s rich and powerful, and even with his dubious gift for seeing the last minutes of the dead, Commissario Ricciardi will have his work cut out for him.
$17.00 - 9781609451134 – May 2013
Read more on Europa Editions website
Together with his indefatigable partner, Brigadier Maione, Ricciardi, is conducting an investigation into the death of the beautiful and mysterious Duchess of Camparino, whose connections to Neapolitan privileged social circles and the local fascist elite make the case a powder keg waiting to blow.
$16.00 - 9781609451431 – November 2013
Read more on Europa Editions website
The Commissario is investigating the death of one of the many street urchins who live hand-to-mouth in the dark alleys of the city. Unfortunately, his sixth sense is no help to him this time. Has his unwelcome gift finally faded? Or is something more sinister at work?
$17.00 - 9781609451875 – March 2014
Read more on Europa Editions website
Naples, 1932. At the high-class brothel in the center of town known as Paradiso, Viper, the most famous prostitute in Naples, is found smothered with a pillow. Ricciardi must untangle a complex knot of greed, frustration, jealousy, and rancor in order to solve the riddle of Viper’s death.
Coming March 2015
Read more on Europa Editions website
“De Giovanni has created one of the most interesting and well-drawn detectives in fiction”—The Daily Beast
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