The Bottom of Your Heart

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  It was wide open. There was no wind, and clearly there had been none during the night, because there were no signs of disarray on the desktop, which was piled with papers. Ricciardi walked over to the window. The sill was low, but still it seemed unlikely that the doctor had accidentally tripped over it and fallen out because he was himself so short. He’d have had to climb onto the sill intentionally, and it would have taken some effort, because there were no step stools; unless someone had moved the step stool after using it.

  Maione went over to the desk; Ricciardi walked toward him with a quizzical glance.

  “No, Commissa’. Unless I’m mistaken, I don’t see any letters of farewell. But he might have left them somewhere else.”

  Ricciardi noticed that at one corner of the table sat an object that seemed out of place amongst the papers, folders, and books. A small, closed case. He picked it up and opened it. Inside was a gold ring, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, with a large diamond in the center. The commissario moved over to the sunlight pouring in through the window and looked down: the drop had to be more than sixty-five feet. The morgue attendants were loading the pine crate containing the remains of Tullio Iovine del Castello, director of the chair of gynecology at the royal university, into the van. All that remained of him now was a dark stain on the ground and, for Ricciardi’s exclusive personal use, a dolorous image that kept repeating a phrase, in all likelihood senseless.

  Riccardi lifted the ring into the light and saw that there was something engraved on the interior, but the writing was too small. He looked around and, as Maione continued searching for notes that might contain a suicide’s last thoughts, he spotted a magnifying glass next to a roll of blotting paper.

  He picked up the lens and was finally able to read: “Maria Carmela.” He turned to Rispoli: “What is the director’s wife’s name? Her given name, I mean.”

  Rispoli seemed uneasy. Perhaps he didn’t like seeing people rummaging through his boss’s office, or maybe it was something else.

  “Signora Iovine del Castello’s first name is Maria Carmela.”

  “In that case,” Maione added, as he went on opening desk drawers, “in a few days it will be her name day. Today is the 8th; the feast of the Madonna del Carmine, Our Lady of Mount Carmel, is the 16th.”

  Ricciardi said: “And this is her name day gift. Her name is engraved in it.”

  Maione, who had just pulled open the last drawer, said: “And here’s another one, Commissa’.”

  He pulled out a case identical to the first. Ricciardi opened it and found an identical ring, with a slightly larger diamond. He held it up to the light and with the aid of the lens, read: “Sisinella.” Bingo, he said to himself. So that’s who you were thinking about when you hit the ground, Mr. Director.

  He turned to look at Rispoli, who was staring at the floor, displaying an incipient bald spot on the top of his head. Nurse Zupo was blushing like a schoolgirl caught smoking in a school bathroom.

  “Signorina,” said Ricciardi, “go ahead back to your desk and close the door behind you. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Once the woman had left, he turned to the physician: “Doctor, spare us some pointless effort. Were you aware of some . . . particular friendship on the director’s part?”

  “No, Commissario. I didn’t know anything about any of the director’s friendships. I only spent time with him in his working environment, here at the institute, and I know nothing about his life outside of here.”

  Maione was done searching the desk and had moved on to the bookshelves; the temperature was rising by the minute, and the brigadier huffed and puffed, occasionally mopping his brow.

  “Do you know of anyone who might have held any grudges against him? Any reasons to want to do him harm?”

  Rispoli hesitated. His mustache quivered, as if the doctor were about to reply, but then he said nothing.

  Ricciardi said: “I beg of you, Doctor. If we were to discover that you were hiding something from us, we’d have no choice but to report you for failure to cooperate with the law.”

  Rispoli thought quickly. Then he said: “The work we do here is strange, you know, Commissario. We’re physicians and we’re teachers, we have to work with sick people, and what we try to do doesn’t always work out the way we hope. It’s hard to explain to others. People think that, because we’re at a university, everything’s always going to turn out all right, but in fact . . .”

  Ricciardi waited. Rispoli went on: “I’m not telling you anything that isn’t public knowledge, nothing that didn’t happen in front of witnesses. Last month the director had to perform a particularly challenging operation, because of complications that ensued following a primiparous—a first—childbirth. I was present during the operation, and I can assure you that every step was taken to save the newborn’s life as well as the mother’s but . . . I’m sorry to say that the woman didn’t survive. We did save the life of the baby, a little girl. The husband . . . From time to time, faced with great grief and sorrow, people say things that they’d otherwise never even think. The man tried to attack the director. He told him that . . .”

  Ricciardi pressed him: “What did he tell him?”

  Rispoli finished his sentence all in a rush: “He swore that he’d kill him.”

  IX

  You swore to me, Rosine’. You swore an oath to me. And an oath is something you can never break. When you swear an oath, that’s a promise you have to keep.

  You swore to me, swore you’d never leave me. Do you remember the first time you said it? No? Because I do. We were in Posillipo, on that narrow little beach. It was hot, just like it is now. So, so hot. But who ever noticed the temperature, hot or cold, when the two of us were together?

  And the moon was out, that night. I come from a family of fishermen so I know it, when the moon is out. When the moon makes that highway of silver down the middle of the sea, and the city lights seem like so many stars fallen to earth, and it doesn’t matter that they’ve fallen because there are so many, many more in the sky above. That night, Rosine’, there was no one on that beach but you and me. I remember every single one of our kisses. My heart was banging away in my chest like windows swinging in a high wind, like waves slapping against the hulls of the boats, thump thump thump. Do you remember, Rosine’? Of course you remember. You were thirteen years old. And I was fourteen.

  I never let my hands wander down between your legs. You weren’t just some girl to have a good time with. You were the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. And you knew that, you knew that what was between us would never end. Everyone in the neighborhood understood that you belonged to me and I belonged to you. Even though my power and my strength grew as I grew older; even though people came to me, little by little, more and more, in search of justice and respect, and you became more and more beautiful. Yes, everyone understood that you were my woman and I was your man, and no one even thought of laying eyes on either one of us.

  Do you remember the time, Rosine’, when some guy from another neighborhood saw you coming back from the fountain with your girlfriends, loaded down with freshly washed laundry, laughing that laugh of yours that always turned my insides upside down and inside out? Do you remember how, since he didn’t know who you were, he walked right up to you, and your girlfriends looked at him, terror on their faces, because they knew exactly what was happening? Do you remember that a scugnizzo who was playing nearby came running to get me, and not five minutes later I was there with ten of my friends? And how he ran, I can still see it, with his shirt untucked, and the blood from where I’d stabbed him dripping from his hand. And if he hadn’t run for his life he would have been lying dead on the ground, even though you were begging me not to hurt him, because he hadn’t done a thing to you. And before nightfall that very day his father, his uncles, and he himself with a bandaged hand had all come to me, to beg for forgiveness and mercy. Do you remem
ber that, Rosine’?

  Everything, everything I’ve ever done in my life I did for you, Rosine’. The business, the apartment, the respect of my friends. Everything. For the dreams we dreamed together, side by side overlooking the water, that night I tasted the flavor of your mouth for the first time, the flavor that poisons me tonight, with the same moon in the sky, and the same mute stars gathering to weep with me. All of this, because of the oath you swore that night. We were children, but your voice was a woman’s voice. I’m not going to leave you, Peppi’. I’ll never leave you.

  Oaths are meant to be kept, Rosine’. Oaths are serious business. If you fail to keep an oath, you make a mockery of respect. And respect is the basis of life.

  Do you remember the day of our wedding, Rosine’? You were twenty years old. The sun, the sea, and the green of the hills rising before my eyes—none of these are enough to say how beautiful you were that day. It would take the sky reflected in the water, shattering into glittering sparks so they do harm to the eyes and good to the heart, it would take the calm mountain, resting and watching, it would take the trees tossing their branches in the breeze as if to applaud, and the waves breaking white on the rocks to say just how beautiful you were. The neighborhood girls insisted on being your ladies-in-waiting, you were the princess about to become a queen, and they walked one step behind you. And they were laughing in the sunshine when they arrived at the little church of Mergellina, by the sea, the one with the painting of the dragon with a woman’s head, the place you had chosen to tell me yes. I was waiting, uncomfortable in a suit I’d never worn, and I was thinking about my father who I’d never met, my father who died at sea, and I was also thinking that I would never, never again be as happy as I was then.

  I’ll tell you today, Rosine’, that you broke the oath you swore that night by the sea: I’d never seen anything as beautiful as your eyes and your smile, as you arrived with the court of your girlfriends at the little church with the woman-headed dragon. And we swore once more, before God, that we’d never leave each other.

  An oath is something you never break, Rosine’.

  And that night, do you remember that night? I thought I knew everything. My father’s brother had taken me up to that place where they teach you. But I didn’t know a thing. Your hands, my hands, our skin. With the moonlight pouring in through the window, the moon that had stood by us as our godmother, the same moon. You gave me life, smiling even through the pain, life, and tears of joy. And I wept too, Rosine’. Me, Peppino the Wolf, the boss of the quarter at just twenty-five; Peppino the Wolf, the man who incited respect and terror; Peppino the Wolf wept that night into his pillow, while you slept, happy in my embrace, your lips curving into the half smile of the woman you had become. And while you slept, I chased after the fears of the future. When a man is too happy, he cries, Rosine’. Now that you’re gone, now that you’ve broken your oath, I can tell you.

  What good is love, Rosine’? Can you tell me what good love is? Why be happy, if after happiness comes despair? What is a year worth, a miserable year of light, if after that you have to spend the rest of your life in darkness?

  Do you remember when you told me, Rosine’? Do you remember how long it had been since the day at the church with the woman-headed dragon and the sun that shone in your face, since the night with the moonlight and tears of happiness? Two months, that’s how long. Two months exactly.

  And one night, when I came home from a day of hard work, so tired I could barely stand, you took my hand and you put it on your belly. And then you told me: this is what love’s good for. I looked heaven right in the face. And I could hear my heart in my ears, thump thump thump, like I had that night by the sea when I was fourteen, and that day in front of the church. But I’ll never hear it again, my heart. My blood, yes.

  Those months flew by. I felt like a god, and I said to myself: I can never die. I can never, ever die. Because I have to take care of my flesh and blood, and if I’m dead I can’t do that. I can’t do what my father did, when he went to sea one night to keep me from starving and never returned, and I, just a year old, never saw him and can’t even remember him stroking my head, and I look at the one yellowing picture of him that I possess, with a round hat and a long mustache, standing next to the chair in which my mammà is sitting, no more than a girl, with me in her arms. I’ve devoured it, that portrait. I can never die, I told myself in those months.

  Your labor pains began early, too early, a full month before your time had come. Your fear, my despair; I ran back and forth, I went to get the doctor, the one who comes down into the vicoli with his black bag in hand, and I took him by the collar: Dotto’, tell me who the best one is, the best doctor in town. Tell me, or I swear as God is my witness I’ll gut you like a fish. He saw in my eyes that I meant what I said. And quick as a flash, without taking a breath, he gave me the name of the doctor who was better than all the others, none other than the boss of all the doctors who teach at the university.

  I waited outside his gate for two days. Two days, then I saw him, driving a black-and-cream car, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. I stopped him. I talked to him. At first he snorted impatiently, he told me he didn’t have the time. Then he too looked in my eyes and understood. Professo’, I told him, there are no problems, no problems with money or anything else. But if you tell me no, then there are going to be problems, and they’re all going to be yours.

  Do you remember when he came to our home, Rosine’? All the people standing in silence outside our basso. His car could barely even make it through the vicolo. He said: everyone out, and I left the apartment and only my mamma and yours stayed behind with you. Then they called me, and I went back in.

  He told me that the situation was difficult, but that it could be solved. He told me that he’d take care of things, but that it wouldn’t be cheap. He gave me a figure, and it was a year’s salary, but what the hell did I care? All right Professo’, I told him. Do what you need to do.

  I took you every day, Rosine’, do you remember? Every day. I’d filled the inside of the van with straw and cotton, because the professor said it was important for you to lie down, that you should never get up. And then I carried you up the stairs in my arms; I’m strong, you know it, and you were light, even with the baby in your body you were light, Rosine’, and pale, and still you smiled, and when you smiled you were like that time on the beach at Posillipo, and you made the sun come out, even in the middle of the night, Rosine’.

  The professor would examine you in his office, on that reclining chair with stirrups. That room was the antechamber to hell, as far as I was concerned. He never said a word, he just shook his head no and said nothing. Nothing ever scared me in my life, Rosine’, I’m Peppino the Wolf. But that white face, with the double chin and the spectacles—it terrified me.

  Then one night, Rosine’, the blood began to flow. Your blood, and so much of it, it seemed like liter after liter to me, and the bed was dripping blood onto the floor. I took you straight to the general hospital. I didn’t want to leave you, so I sent two of my boys to get him, but the professor wasn’t home. No one knew where he was. Your blood kept flowing, pouring down, and my boys turned the city upside down, and this worthless man was nowhere to be found. You were white as a sheet. You said to me: Peppi’, my baby girl. Because you knew it was a girl. And you fell asleep.

  They found the car up in Vomero, no less. Near the new apartment houses. It had been five hours since I took you there, to the general hospital. Five hours, and the doctor on duty, just a kid, didn’t know what to do; he was sobbing with fear, because he could see my face, and he ran back and forth with armfuls of bandages.

  He showed up in the end, his collar buttoned all askew, his double chin trembling. He was with his whore while you were falling asleep, you understand that, Rosine’? With his whore. If not for his new car, we’d never have found him at all.

  After two hours he came out of the operat
ing room, dripping with your blood. He looked down at the floor. He said nothing.

  And behind him came the nurse, and she had the baby in her arms.

  You know when you’re losing your mind, Rosine’. You know it because the future vanishes from your head. You look ahead, and where there were once days and nights and months and years, now you see nothing. All it takes is an instant, and suddenly there’s nothing. They say it’s like dying, and maybe that’s right. After all, what’s death, if not when they take away your future?

  For me it was like waking up in hell. And again I heard my heart in my ears, thump thump thump. Then it stopped. And it hasn’t beaten since.

  I don’t remember what I did. Or what I said either, for that matter. They had to take her out of my arms, that much they told me, and it took two male nurses, an assistant, the custodian, and three of my own men to do it. I remember the little baby wailing. God, how I hated that baby. The baby and he, the professor, had taken my future away. They were in on it together, the devil himself had sent them both to carry me down to hell.

  I went into the operating room.

  The place looked like a slaughterhouse, there was blood everywhere. On the operating table were your flesh, your bones, but not you. If the moon had been out, maybe you would have stood up and smiled at me. But there was no moon that night, and there never will be again.

  I swore an oath, Rosine’. I swore an oath. Foaming at the mouth, my eyes bulging out of their sockets, the veins standing out on my neck. I swore an oath, with all my body and all my soul, but without the heart that you’d taken away with you. You broke your oath, Rosine’. You swore that you would stay with me for the rest of our lives, that we’d grow old together. And you broke that promise.

  I spent two days locked indoors. Not sleeping, not eating, not even thinking. Two days, because the Wolf doesn’t sleep or eat when he’s thirsty for blood. And after two days I came out.