The Bottom of Your Heart

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Heat, this real heat, sneaks in through the pores and ransacks the rooms of the soul where memories are kept, and old people have more of those than anyone else. Events from long-ago summers will appear before their eyes, smiling faces and forgotten love songs, strolls along the shore of a sea that was even bluer than it is now. Toothless old women with drool on their chins will, in this heat, turn back into tarantella dancers at long-ago parties, waiting for their beloveds to invite them into the shadows of an apartment house doorway, as cozy as any sheltered bower; and old men forced to sit idle for years will once again be sun-bronzed young fishermen, speaking of love to their fair companions in a boat rocking on the water by night, under a moon hotter than the noonday sun. Heat, the real heat, knows how to be treacherous and cowardly, and it takes it out on the weakest members of society, preying on their melancholy.

  There are only a few days of heat, real heat. But in those few days the atmosphere changes, and the city becomes another place. It tastes like ice and smells like the sea, but it can also have the black color of death.

  Heat, real heat, comes straight from hell.

  V

  Another twenty steps and he’d see him. Not even thirty yards, as soon as he turned the corner. He drew a breath and quickened his gait.

  When he could, he’d take another route, unless that meant unacceptable delays; and if it was absolutely inevitable, then at least he tried to pass by as quickly as he could, to shorten the moment. The moment in which the chilly fingers of suffering would run through his skin and clutch at his heart.

  Once he reached the spot he lowered his gaze; his hands in his trouser pockets, a light jacket unbuttoned over a white shirt, the narrow strip of dark fabric secured over his belly with a gold tie clip, his sole concession to an offhand sartorial elegance. If he’d been wearing a hat, he’d have looked exactly like the other young office clerks or businessmen walking the streets of central Naples, forced by work to go out into the terrible heat of that season. But Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi was no office clerk, nor was he a lawyer, though he had studied the law. He was a commissario, an officer of public safety, and he was heading for his office at police headquarters, as he did early every morning.

  Along the way, though, someone was waiting for him. Someone who had, at least in his physical form, been taken away some time ago by two overheated city morgue attendants before the sorrowful eyes of a small crowd sadly accustomed to events of this sort: a little boy run over by a trolley. Unfortunately, it happened frequently; orphans arguing over a heel of stale bread, a scugnizzo chasing after a rag ball, a child escaping the grasp of a distracted mother. Or any of the countless children who traveled, dangerously and illegally, clinging to some projecting part of the streetcars themselves, until they lost their grip and fell, to be cut in half by the heavy wheels.

  And that was exactly what had become of the little boy who was waiting for Ricciardi just inches from the spot where he died. Though he didn’t look up, the commissario’s doleful eyes received the horrible image of an unharmed face, a head shaved bald to ward off lice, shoulders covered by an oversized smock of a shirt, and arms lopped off clean at the elbows.

  The black mouth emitted a gush of blood and the words came, mumbled but still quite clear: I’m falling, I’m falling, I can’t hold on any longer. A handhold that had failed, arms that lacked strength. The torso, cut in two, was floating in midair and telling Ricciardi that the poor creature hadn’t died instantly, that the boy hadn’t been spared any suffering.

  With a knot in his stomach, Ricciardi broke into what was almost a run, lifting his handkerchief to cover his mouth. God, how unbearable this was. An old tramp, half-asleep in the shade of an apartment building, raised his bleary eyes at the sound of the commissario’s quick steps and watched him with unfriendly curiosity; something about that young man in a hurry upset him, and he recoiled against the wall. There are people who can see it in my face, they can see my curse as I go by, thought Ricciardi.

  Lately, his misery had been more intense than usual. He couldn’t even count on the sweet relief of looking at Enrica through the window. She had vanished, and the only fleeting images that appeared behind the panes of glass in the apartment across the way were those of her family. He couldn’t blame her; if anything, rationally, he was happy for her. What could a man like him possibly offer her? Perhaps she’d met someone, or she’d made up her mind not to grant the pleasure of seeing her to a man who lacked the courage to take the initiative. If you only knew, my love, if you only knew the inferno I have in my heart, how much I wish I could be at your side like any ordinary man, and love you and smile at you and embrace you and make love to you the rest of my life. If only you knew how badly I want to be normal, and have the thousands of worries and petty concerns that everyone else has, and not have to listen to the severed torso of a young boy as it vomits blood onto a street corner.

  The young woman’s absence left a much bigger hole in Ricciardi’s life than he ever would have expected. Even Rosa, who up until Easter had referred to Enrica as a newfound acquaintance in a way that almost seemed to hint at an invitation to the apartment, had stopped talking about her for some time now. Ricciardi had been tempted to ask her why, but now Rosa herself was a source of growing and increasingly urgent concern.

  Rosa was not well. More than once he’d caught her leaning against something or other, suffering from a dizzy spell that she stoutly denied, or else opening and closing her right hand as if it had gone to sleep. Now and then she’d sit down and remain seated even when he walked into the room, breaking a habit she’d maintained since Ricciardi was just a child. She dropped things, even light things like a fork, and sometimes she’d just stop in the middle of a sentence, having lost the thread. He had tried to persuade her to go see Bruno Modo, the doctor at Pellegrini Hospital who also served as the medical examiner, one of the very few people the commissario trusted, but she had refused the suggestion so vehemently that Ricciardi was discouraged from pressing the matter. It’s completely out of the question, she had told him. Why don’t you worry about yourself, you’re getting skinnier and paler every day. Sit down right here and make sure you eat every last bite.

  It had never occurred to him that he might someday lose Rosa. As far back as he could remember, and even before that, the woman had always been by his side. Much more than his own mother, who had often been sick and had died young. And he couldn’t imagine no longer hearing the usual string of complaints, the litany of worries, and scoldings, that his old tata unleashed concerning the way he lived and the loneliness he imposed on himself, a loneliness she found absurd. Still, if she was unwilling to see a doctor, there was no way to force her to.

  The night before, Rosa had told him that she had sent for her niece Nelide to come help her, as he had so often asked her to do. At least he had gotten her to do that. Perhaps if she could just get some rest she’d get back on her feet and everything would go back to normal.

  The temperature was turning red-hot, though it was still early. Out an open window came a woman’s well-modulated singing voice. His thoughts jerked him suddenly to Livia, who had once been a singer and had more than once obliged him to take her to the opera. He didn’t dislike going out with her; if nothing else, those carefree evenings helped him get his mind off his work, his worries about Rosa and, most of all, Enrica’s absence.

  He knew that Livia cared for him. She herself had confessed that fact. And Ricciardi wondered why she should choose him, with all the men she could have, wealthy and attractive as she was. Perhaps, he thought to himself as he faced the last stretch of road, it was precisely because he was so uninterested in courting her that she found him intriguing; this trait must have offered a welcome change of pace.

  For that matter, he had a clear understanding with Livia: their friendship entailed only evenings at the theater or the movies. No social occasions, no dinners, no aperitifs, no get-togethers. They weren’t a
couple, nor would they ever be. They shared a few pleasant hours, discussed the show they’d just seen, and made a little light conversation as she accompanied him home in her car; all this, one night every couple of weeks. She asked for nothing more, and he would have been unwilling to offer any more even if she had. The ritual never varied: her chauffeur would come to police headquarters and hand-deliver an envelope containing the tickets, the time and the date of the show; if he agreed, on the scheduled day the car would come by to pick him up at his office.

  He suspected that Rosa disliked Livia, so he avoided mentioning her. As for him, he was well aware of her allure and knew how difficult it was to take his eyes off her magnificent body sheathed in the very latest fashions, off her perfect face, and her eyes, which glittered gleefully; and there was also a certain satisfaction to walking into the theater with Livia on his arm and noticing how his companion attracted the adoring attention of the men and the sullen glares of the women. But if he were ever going to bestow his heart on anyone, if the curse of madness hadn’t been laid on him, he would have chosen sweet Enrica, whose beauty was unparalleled, at least in his eyes.

  While, in spite of himself, he shuttled, in his mind, from one woman to the other, he fetched up at the entrance to police headquarters, where he found an imposing and familiar bulk dressed in a brigadier’s uniform waiting for him in the shade.

  “Maione? What are you doing here?”

  The man touched the visor of his cap in a rapid salute: “What can you do about it, Commissa’? The holidays have played havoc with the shifts, and I don’t mind a little overtime with the way things are these days. I traded shifts with Cozzolino, he’s a bachelor and he needs his vacation time to find a girlfriend, though who’s going to take him I can’t imagine, with that face of his, like a snarling guard dog’s. Anyway, it was a good thing, because something happened at the general hospital, a phone call came in just a few minutes ago. I sent Camarda and Cesarano on ahead; and I stayed here to wait for you, because I knew you’d get here early. What do you say, shall we get going?”

  VI

  The general hospital of the royal university of Naples was at the center of a dense welter of narrow vicoli. It had been built on the grounds of an ancient monastery, on the same grid, and it occupied a fairly vast area.

  It loomed up unexpectedly, with its high gates, right after a tight curve that, like all the others, seemed to lead into an innocuous little piazzetta which was no doubt going to lead to another narrow lane which would run until it hit another piazzetta and so on, ad infinitum. Ricciardi thought to himself that that’s just the way the city had been planned, senselessly, one vicolo after another and one piazza after another, as construction spread from the sea toward the hills; then he would find himself face-to-face with one of those aristocratic palazzos, with flower beds arrayed behind an imposing front gate. As he did, it dawned on him that everything had a purpose after all.

  Outside the gate stood a small, silent knot of people held back by two custodians. Maione’s stature and uniform ensured that the assembly parted widely enough to allow them to pass. The older custodian, a heavyset man with a large mustache and a work shirt a couple of sizes too small, greeted them and without another word turned and started off, waving for them to follow.

  They walked down a tree-lined lane that was relatively cool. The flower beds were well tended and the grass had recently been mown. Ricciardi and Maione looked around: the structure consisted of a number of buildings all the same height, four stories plus a mezzanine, in good shape. There were people looking out the windows, some men in white lab coats, several female nurses with white caps. There was a distinctly expectant air, the kind that could only be shattered by the arrival of the police. It was as if their irruption were the signal for the beginning of a theatrical production of sorts, to the enormous relief of the spectators.

  Near one of the pavilions, several people were gathered in a circle. Not far away, a single automobile with a black-and-cream paint job stood parked sideways. Maione recognized the officers he’d sent ahead, and summoned one of them over.

  “Well, Cesara’, here we are. So, what have we got?”

  The man walked toward him and snapped a sharp salute: “Someone seems to have fallen. From up there, apparently.”

  He waved vaguely in the direction of the building. Maione snorted in disgust and said, parroting his subordinate: “Someone seems to have fallen. From up there, apparently. Always sharp as a steel trap, aren’t you? Get out of here, go on. Let me find out who I need to talk to if I want any information around here.”

  They drew closer and saw what lay at the center of the small knot of people. The corpse, facedown, of a man no longer young, to judge from what was possible to see at a glance. He didn’t have a jacket on, his shirt was torn at the bottom, and one of his suspenders was unclipped. One of his shoes had come off, and a slightly hiked-up pant leg revealed a beige sock held up by a black garter. Ricciardi nodded his head toward Maione, and the brigadier told Camarda, the other officer, to phone headquarters immediately and tell them to send over the photographer, and to have Dr. Modo come over, if he was on duty, from Pellegrini Hospital.

  The people closest to the corpse were two female nurses, one of them in tears, a laborer with a rake in one hand and boots on his feet, a custodian wearing the same kind of work shirt as the man who had walked them over, and a man in a white lab coat. Maione asked them to step back, and moved away with them a short distance: he knew that in the first phase of the on-site investigation, Ricciardi always wanted to be left alone at the scene of the death.

  The commissario noted that the position of the corpse was compatible with a fall, probably from the highest possible elevation: the window on the top floor was open and at least seventy feet from the ground. The man must have also taken a bit of a running start, because he’d sailed out past the bushes that lined the edge of the path directly beneath the building’s wall. He’d jumped or he’d been thrown. Ricciardi concentrated, then swiveled around sharply.

  Off to one side with respect to the location of the corpse from which it had originated, sheltered by the scanty shade thrown by the trees on the far side of the narrow lane, Ricciardi recognized the image of the dead man, standing upright. The torso was askew, twisted away from the pelvis, as if the body had been cut in two; the same impression of a split prevailed as he examined the figure vertically, because one half of the head was virtually intact, while the other half was ravaged by its impact with the ground. The commissario did a preliminary physical inspection of his own, prior to the arrival of the medical examiner. He noted the fractured spinal cord and skull. On the phantom’s forehead there was a large wound from which gushed a fountain of bright red blood, bathing the right side of the face, which was crumpled and deformed: the cheekbone was stove in, and instead of a mouth there was a black hole. There was no trace of the eye. The left side of the face, however, displayed a dreamy, almost tender expression: the eyelids were half-closed, the lips parted in a half smile. The incongruity of the thing made for a ghastly effect.

  Ricciardi noted that the head was pressed against the ground on its right side; that was caused by the direction of the fall. He shifted his attention back to the image, and for the thousandth time was wounded by the pain of others. The corpse was repeating gently, in a voice little more than a whisper: Sisinella and love, love and Sisinella, Sisinella and love, love and Sisinella. The absurd last thought at the end of his fall and the beginning of his death. The commissario ran a hand over his face, which was covered in a veil of sweat, and in spite of the heat was unable to control a shiver.

  He went back to Maione, who had in the meantime collected the particulars of the people who had been standing around the corpse a moment earlier. The brigadier made the introductions: “This is Commissario Ricciardi, officer of public safety, and I’m Brigadier Raffaele Maione.”

  The man with the rake snapped to at
tention, holding the rake straight at his side as if it were a rifle: “Corporal Vitale Pollio, Signor Commissario. Reporting for duty!”

  Maione looked him up and down with a smile: “At ease, corporal! That’s just crazy, this guy thinks he’s still at the front! Signor Pollio, here, is the gardener. He’s the one who found the body.”

  Pollio turned to the brigadier with a look of confusion.

  “Forgive me, Brigadie’, but once you’ve been a soldier, a part of you stays one. I went to war, you know, and life at the front weighs on you like an overcoat. Yes, I was tending to the flower beds over there. I saw what at first I took for a heap of rags. I thought to myself: what are they doing in the middle of the lane, those dirty clothes? Then I went over, and I had my rake with me, just to see if it was something I needed to pick up and haul away. That’s when I saw it was a corpse. You know, Commissa’, when I was at the front, I had to climb out of the trench to recover them, the dead bodies, so I’ve seen plenty. I remember one time, after an Austrian attack, at . . .”

  Maione broke in firmly: “Yes, Pollio, that’s fine, we understand. And once you’d deduced that it wasn’t a pile of dirty rags, what did you do?”

  The gardener blinked.

  “Excuse me, Brigadie’. I called the custodian immediately, Signor Gustavo, here. And I didn’t touch a thing.”

  Ricciardi spoke to the man in the workshirt, a lean and wiry fellow who kept looking around him, as if he feared the imminent arrival of the enemy troops evoked by Pollio.