The Bottom of Your Heart

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  How she managed to get inside police headquarters and all the way up to the landing outside his office, evading the checkpoints manned by police officers and clerks of the court that were placed every ten feet.

  How she managed to know with such precision when he would be returning to work, since that never happened at any fixed time.

  How she managed, in that heat, to be dressed, made up, and bejeweled as if she were about to attend a gala banquet without displaying the least sign of discomfort.

  From the top of the stairs, she smiled down at him, cheerful and captivating: “Ciao, Commissario. You’re back, at last. Come on up, I have something important to tell you.”

  Ricciardi sighed. He had extensive experience of the considerable difference between their concepts of what was important.

  Not that Livia wasn’t an intelligent woman, and not that she hadn’t suffered enough in her lifetime to develop a certain emotional depth, but still, she had never had any direct experience of real need, of want, in anything from food to medicine. She had no knowledge of the kind of desperation that was linked to survival. The kind of experience that Ricciardi, on the other hand, dealt with, painfully, from sunrise to sunset. It was inevitable that the scales on which they measured importance were not the same.

  The end of the main daytime shift was approaching, and the corridor lined with office doors was emptying out. The police officers, lawyers, clerks, and even magistrates who happened to be passing by slowed down, pretending they’d forgotten a document, a sudden appointment, or else rummaged through their pockets in search of a cigarette: anything to prolong the sight of Livia or to allow them to catch her eye. It was a scene that Ricciardi was becoming accustomed to, now that they were seeing each other more frequently.

  That evening she was dressed in white. Her dress hung to mid-calf and left her arms bare; over her belly button hung a composition of artificial flowers. She wore a silk shawl over her shoulders and on her head was perched a cunning little cap garnished with small stalks of wheat; her hair hung over her neck in soft curls. A court clerk attempted an acrobatic walk along the wall in order to observe her from behind, and came perilously close to tripping over a step.

  “Come into my office, Livia. Otherwise we’re going to a cause a traffic jam here.”

  Livia accepted Ricciardi’s invitation, took a seat and crossed her legs, then lit a cigarette. She looked like a little girl about to be given a present.

  “Are you tired? Have you had a hard day? You look exhausted.”

  He sat down at his desk with a shrug.

  “The usual. There’s no work for anyone in this city, except for us. Unfortunately.”

  She tilted her head to one side: “Yes, you look tense. Would you like to take in a show tonight? At the Botanical Gardens they’re offering open-air entertainment; I’ve heard the orchestra is first rate. What do you say? Would you care to take me out?”

  “No, Livia, I’m afraid I’m in no mood for it. I’ve told you about Rosa and how worried I am about her health. Just think, she sent for one of her nieces to come up from our hometown to give her some help. That really must mean she’s not well. I want to get home and see how she’s doing; I don’t want to come back when she’s already asleep.”

  Livia gave him a cunning smile: “One of her nieces, you say? A pretty country girl, young and strong. I bet that’s the reason you’re so eager to get home early.”

  Ricciardi snorted: “I’d be glad to let you have a look at her, this Nelide. I’ve seen more attractive chests of drawers and shapelier armoires. Don’t make me laugh. But she’s an excellent housekeeper and I’m glad that Rosa can get some rest. Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

  “Yes, and it’s something very important to me. I’m going to throw a party. A wonderful party at my apartment, with the living room doors thrown open onto the terrace. You see what I mean, yes? I want there to be tables with food of every assortment, these wonderful dishes that only you Neapolitans know how to make, all local delicacies. And I want an orchestra, not a big one, let’s be clear: six or seven musicians who can keep us dancing into the wee hours, until our feet are so swollen that we won’t be able to pry our shoes off.”

  Ricciardi lifted both hands into the air to halt that chaotic flood of words.

  “All right, all right. But why are you throwing this party? Is there some special occasion coming up?”

  Livia exhaled a stream of smoke in her annoyance: “Does there necessarily have to be some special occasion to justify a party? Don’t be so backward and old-fashioned, Ricciardi! In the time I’ve been here, as you know, I’ve never once been able to host a party. Once, as you’ll recall, I tried but . . . let’s not bring it up, let’s just say that it put me off parties for awhile. But now I’ve made up my mind. We ought to celebrate this summer. The summer and its scents, its songs.”

  “It will most certainly be a success.”

  Livia clapped her hands: “It will be unforgettable! You know, I have to repay all the invitations I’ve received, and I want the city authorities to attend, as well as people from Rome. I’m not sure, but some very important guests might be attending. I have a dear girlfriend who’s not having a particularly easy time at the moment, and I’d like to see that she has some fun.”

  “All the way from Rome, no less. For a party. Quite an event.”

  “That’s right, an event! And it’s going to be a masquerade party, with a maritime theme. The guests will have a choice of dressing up as fishermen, sailors, or gods of the deep. And the food, too, will be made to match. I have a housekeeper who’s a wonderful cook, I’ll make sure she has at least two assistants. Isn’t that a fantastic idea?”

  Ricciardi looked at her, baffled: “A masquerade party? But aren’t masquerade parties supposed to be for Carnevale?”

  “You see what a Neanderthal you are? Masquerade parties are extremely fashionable, and they have them all year long. Disguising yourself is fun and it stimulates people’s creativity! You, for example, what costume would you choose?”

  Ricciardi decided it was time to make things very clear: “Livia, please, I fight against disguises every day of my life. People are constantly trying to seem different from what they actually are, and to do so they do ridiculous things you couldn’t even begin to imagine. I haven’t the slightest intention of donning a mask, even for fun.”

  Livia shrugged.

  “As you prefer. You’ll feel out of place, but that’s not my problem. All I care about is that you come. You have to promise me that you’ll be there, because you know that you . . . you were a very important part of my decision to come live here, in this city.”

  Such an explicit declaration stirred something approaching pity in Ricciardi’s heart.

  “Livia, don’t start, you know I’ve never asked you for anything. If you’re here it’s because you choose to be, and I believe that you made a good choice, because from what you tell me, in Rome you were always and only Vezzi’s wife. But I don’t want you to put the responsibility for that choice on me.”

  The happiness in the woman’s eyes misted over, leaving in its place a veil of sadness.

  “Don’t worry, Ricciardi. I know that you don’t want to be at all emotionally responsible for me. But you can’t deny that I’ve never concealed my feelings for you. And even though you aren’t willing to admit it even to yourself—actually, especially to yourself—you like being with me. It relaxes you, you even smile sometimes, without realizing it. And you’ll have a great time the night of the party, too. If you promise me you’ll come, I’ll tell you something else. Well? Will you promise?”

  Ricciardi’s expression was almost a gentle one.

  “All right then, I promise. I’ll do my best to be there, unless circumstances beyond my control prevent me, of course. I told you about Rosa, and the work I do, as you know, makes it impossible to plan some
times . . .”

  Livia waved her hand dismissively: “Yes, yes, of course. That’s all I want: that, unless forces beyond your control prevent you, you’ll attend. And now do you want to know the other thing? The surprise?”

  “No, I don’t. If you told me, what kind of surprise would it be?”

  Livia thought it over, then stood up: “You’re right. I’m not going to tell anyone, it’s going to be a surprise for everyone. I’d better run. If you won’t come to the show at the Botanical Gardens, I’m not going either. I’ll stay home and plan my party, there isn’t much time. I want to have it next week, the night of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, so we’ll be able to watch the fireworks from my terrace. Ciao, Ricciardi.”

  And in a cloud of white, she left his office.

  Ricciardi went over to the open window. Night was falling and the lights were flickering on all over the city.

  In spite of the heat, the commissario felt a shiver of obscure premonition run down his spine.

  XXII

  Climbing slowly uphill toward his home, Maione continued to ask himself whether the woman he had seen come out of the apartment house on Via Toledo had really been his Lucia.

  In all those years, his wife had never ventured so close to police headquarters without stopping in to say hello. He’d dropped by the front guardroom and asked if anyone had come by looking for him, but they’d told him no. Not satisfied, he’d gone up into the offices, on the off chance that Lucia had come at a time when there was no one at the front entrance, but once again he came up empty. No one had asked for him. Certainly not his wife.

  There was no way he had been wrong. Lucia—with her golden blonde hair, so unusual in that part of the country, her brisk confident gait, her handsome body clad in black, the color she’d worn since Luca’s death. And then he could sense her in the air, Lucia. He could feel her on his skin like a breath of wind, in his nostrils like a delicate perfume, in his ears like a snatch of sweet music. He didn’t need to look her in the eyes or hear her voice. Yes, the woman who had left that building was Lucia.

  But why, he wondered, as he trudged up the last stretch of road, why had she gone there? Had something happened? Did she need help? A doctor for one of the children? No, impossible. She would have turned to Modo, and before doing that she would have let him know.

  He walked into the apartment and was overwhelmed by the hugs of his three youngest: the two boys leaping onto him in a pretend ambush, and the little girl who began laughing the minute she laid eyes on him. He stopped to play with them, tousling their hair and pretending to be a big baboon. Then he went into the kitchen.

  The first thing he ought to have said was: Ciao, my love, why were you in Via Toledo a couple of hours ago? Why didn’t you stop by to say hello? Of course that’s what he ought to have said. But, he thought, I’m a cop.

  And so he played the cop.

  “Mmm, what an appetizing smell,” he said. “What delicious treats are we cooking today, my fair ladies?”

  At the table, Maria and Benedetta were mixing flour and water into a dough as carefully as a couple of elderly housewives. They even look alike, thought Maione, they really could be sisters.

  Lucia raised her face, reddened from the steaming cookpots, and blew him a kiss.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t throw a single morsel away. Go get changed and let us work in peace.”

  Was he mistaken or had she been a little brusque? Wasn’t she a little behind schedule today?

  He feigned disappointment: “What, dinner isn’t ready yet? I’m so hungry . . .”

  “Don’t worry. Dinner will be served at eight, like always. Go get changed like I told you to, you’re dripping with sweat, worse than your children. Get going!”

  Raffaele headed for his bedroom roiled by an unpleasant sensation. The dress, he thought. The dress that the person he’d seen was wearing. The black dress embroidered with roses of the same color.

  He pulled open the armoire: there it was, in its place, on a hanger. But not on the usual hanger, in the middle of the curtain rod, where his wife kept her best dresses. Instead, it hung on the first hanger, the one closest to the bedroom door. As if it had been put away in a hurry.

  He tried to distract himself by stopping for a chat with his oldest boy, Giovanni, who wanted to hear all about his work. The boy’s mother worried about the fact that her son wanted to be a cop like his father and his murdered brother, so certain conversations were better held far from Lucia’s ears, in undertones, like a couple of conspirators.

  Maione told him about the professor who’d fallen out the window, without lingering on the more macabre details. He didn’t want to encourage the boy, but he was pleased that he wanted to carry on the family tradition. And after all, becoming a policeman was better than becoming a criminal like so many other young men from the neighborhood, who chased after rewards both easier and much more dangerous to come by.

  The dinner table was cheerful and loud, and Maione joined in the confusion; he didn’t want to give his wife the impression that anything was bothering him. He waited until the kids were in bed and the dishes and pots and pans were in the drying rack, and when Lucia, exhausted, finally let herself drop into the chair next to his, he said to her in a neutral tone of voice: “Mamma mia, this heat makes everything so laborious. Just walking a few feet in the street outside is torture. Lucky you, that the only reason you have to go out is to buy groceries; and this evening it was hotter than it was in the middle of the day. But here at home there’s a bit of a breeze, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, with the windows open on both sides of the apartment there’s a slight draft. Anyway, it was hot this morning at the market too, believe me.”

  Raffaele nodded. He stared at a point outside on the balcony because he knew all too well his wife’s ability to read his thoughts in his eyes, and he didn’t want to give anything away.

  “I really wouldn’t want to have to make that uphill climb home more than once a day. I think I’d die of a heart attack.”

  Lucia was convinced that he wasn’t looking at her because he was distracted by his worries. My poor love, she thought to herself, if only you could make up your mind to set aside this absurd pride of yours and confide in me. I’d reassure you, because I know there’s always a solution to be found. But if you won’t talk to me, then how can I talk to you?

  “What are you talking about! Don’t even joke about a thing like that. No one dies of a heart attack because of a little heat. Don’t worry.”

  “Sure,” responded Maione laconically. Then, after a pause: “Still, it really is hot, and tomorrow Mistrangelo—he’s the one who takes the crime reports—tells me it’s going to be hotter still. Don’t ask me how he knows, but he always seems to get it right. You don’t have to go out tomorrow, do you?”

  “No, this morning I did the grocery shopping for tomorrow as well. You won’t even have to leave me money. We don’t need a thing.”

  Maione nodded.

  “And today? You only went out this morning, right?”

  Lucia stared at him, surprised: “Say, what are all these questions for? Of course I went out this morning, I told you that I went to the market. And yes, it was hot. You keep asking me the same things. But do you even listen to me, when I answer?”

  Maione raised one hand in apology: “Of course I listen, why wouldn’t I? I was just worried that the heat was too much for you, the way it gets you down.”

  “Truth be told, the one who suffers when it’s hot out is you, what I hate is the cold. And in fact I’m not minding the heat all that much.”

  “No, it’s just that you always dress in black, don’t you?” Maione went on, as if pursuing a train of thought. “And black attracts the heat. It’s not a good idea to go out in bright sunlight if you’re wearing black. So really there’d be nothing wrong with doing your shopping in the late afternoon, or e
ven in the evening, when the sun isn’t straight overhead, in other words.”

  Lucia didn’t know whether to laugh or to ignore him and just drop the subject: “Raffae’, have you gone out of your mind? Now you’re saying that because I wear black, I should do my grocery shopping in the evening? Then when would I do the cooking, at night? And then you’ll have to go tell the people who sell groceries at the market to change their hours, have them open up in the evening. You can tell them: Excuse me, I’m Police Brigadier Raffaele Maione, would you be so kind as to put out your stalls in the evening instead of the morning, otherwise I’m afraid my wife might break a sweat?”

  “No, I wasn’t saying that, just . . .”

  “Or else,” Lucia went on, continuing to imitate him, “would you do me the favor of simply bringing the groceries to my home, so my wife doesn’t even have to use the stairs? Sure, that would be great, thanks, just choose the finest fruit and fish, that way she doesn’t have to tire out her little hands by squeezing them.”

  Maione sighed: “So now it’s a crime if somebody worries about his wife. It doesn’t matter, tire yourself out, sweat yourself silly, you can even faint in the street, just don’t come crying to me about it. Today, for example, you went out in the morning, didn’t you? So too bad for you.”

  “I went out this morning, and I’m fit as a fiddle. Now let’s go to bed. Tomorrow, you’ll see, I won’t go out at all, that way you’ll be happy.”

  XXIII

  The dialect of this city, a city that sings songs of love and tells tales of passions, has a special word to describe a gust of wind.

  The word resembles another in the mother tongue, in Italian: but it’s feminine, not masculine, so its meaning is profoundly different. And the word doesn’t describe gusts of wind in general, but one gust of wind. A very special one.

  Rèfola.

  Not the Italian word refolo, which is just a silly drizzle of air, a draft that can last for a while, bringing you nothing more than a brief sensation, the feeling on the skin scarcely registering in the mind. Nothing like that at all.