His heart shrank as if it were clutched in an iron fist. No, he couldn’t do that. Livia had a right to sincerity, to the honesty of true love. She’d already had enough pain in her life. Including the unnatural sorrow of losing a child.
The thought of that lost child took his thoughts to Maione and Lucia. Together, they’d managed to overcome a tragedy and rebuild their wonderful family on a foundation of love. He remembered the money worries that were tormenting the brigadier, and wondered how he could help him without wounding his pride. Still, money problems or not, he said to himself, Maione was a lucky man: his soul mate trusted him, and he trusted her.
And when you have trust, he reflected, picking up the autopsy report that had just arrived from the hospital, you don’t need anything else.
XXV
Maione didn’t trust his wife.
He felt guilty about it. In nearly twenty-five years of marriage, he’d never found himself doubting her word, and he’d never lied to her. They’d had their period of distance, from Luca’s tragic death until roughly a year ago when, convinced that her silence was irreversible, he’d started to think he had feelings for another woman. Luckily, though, that spring had awakened Lucia from the apathy of her grief, and they’d rediscovered each other, more united and in love than ever.
Almost without being aware of it, he’d strayed from the route that led to Bambinella’s apartment, and now he found himself standing outside the entrance to the apartment building he’d seen his wife emerge from the day before. Via Roma according to the official city registry of street names, Via Toledo to the populace at large; number 270. A building like many others: a tall, arched front entrance, topped by the carved stone coat of arms of who knows what long extinct family line; a dark red façade, which badly needed restoration; an atrium with a wooden concierge’s booth, behind which were the small rooms occupied by the doorman; a broad flight of stairs leading up to the second floor, and a narrower flight from there up to the higher stories; an interior courtyard with a flower bed in the middle and a tall shade tree.
Maione didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, he would have liked to overcome his doubts and convince himself that the woman he’d seen hastily leaving the apartment house and turning into the nearby vicolo hadn’t been Lucia at all, as she had assured him; on the other hand, he thought, he was a policeman. And a policeman, by his very nature, investigates and goes in search of evidence.
An irritating part of his brain commanded him not to kid himself, his profession had nothing to do with any of this: he was a jealous husband who wanted to find out why his wife had lied to him. Whatever the case, his feet had brought him here, and he might as well take one more step in that direction.
In the atrium the air was cool and damp. The doorman was dousing a hydrangea bush with pails full of water; it was a laborious job, because it meant shuttling between a spigot in the far corner and the flower bed at the center of the courtyard, and the man was rather elderly.
Maione walked over to him. The awareness that he was using his police uniform to further a private investigation, combined with a sense of defeat over the fact that he’d been unable to trust Lucia, made his manner fairly abrupt.
“Listen, you. What’s your name?”
The man stopped midway, holding the pail full of water with both hands.
“Oh, buongiorno. I’m the building’s doorman.”
“I didn’t ask you what job you do. I asked you your name.”
The man blinked, as if he’d been slapped in the face. He set down the pail and stood up, fearful: “Fanelli, Giovambattista Fanelli. At your orders, Brigadier . . .”
Maione chose not to introduce himself. The uniform alone authorized him to ask questions. And after all, he didn’t want to leave any trace of his identity in that interview. He coughed sharply. He should never have started this, but now here he was.
“This is a police investigation. I need to ask you some questions about the residents of this building.”
“But why, Brigadie’, what’s happened? There’s no trouble here, all the tenants are respectable citizens, and I . . .”
Maione grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward his little booth.
“You have nothing to worry about. I just want to ask you a couple of questions, but it’s important, extremely important, that no one knows we’ve spoken. No one, understood?”
The man, slight and fearful, docilely followed the brigadier, stammering all the while: “But . . . but I don’t know anything, Brigadie’. I assure you that, whatever it is that’s happened, I know nothing.”
Maione cocked his head: “Let’s step into your place.”
Inside the glass door there was a tiny apartment consisting of a room with a table and two chairs and an even smaller bedroom with a bed pushed against the wall and a twin-door armoire.
In a conspiratorial tone, Maione whispered: “Are you all alone here? Is this where you live?”
Fanelli nodded, eyes wide with fright. The fact that Maione had lowered his voice had terrified him.
“Yes, Brigadie’. I’ve been a widower for many years now, and my children are married and live on their own. But can you tell me what’s happened? Something political, perhaps?”
Maione seized the opportunity.
“That’s right. Something political, you understood right off the bat. You’re an intelligent man. And seeing that you’re intelligent, you understand that these are highly confidential matters, things that must be kept secret. If someone, anyone, learns that you and I have had this conversation, then we’d be forced to arrest you and send you . . . send you somewhere far away, and who knows when you’d ever be able to see your children again.”
Fanelli’s lower lip began to tremble. Sweat streamed off his forehead.
“But why, Brigadie’? I haven’t done anything, I’ve never had the slightest interest in politics, which is why I never bothered to join the Fascist Party. But I’ll take care of that immediately, I’ll do it today, I swear. I’ve always been a loyal Fascist, right from the start, and . . .”
Maione raised his hand: “That’s enough. We know that you’re a respectable citizen, we have our sources. But we need information about the people who live in this building, and you’re going to have to give it to us . . .” The longer this thing dragged out, the more the policemen felt like a dirty impostor. He decided to cut things short: “So tell me: who lives in this building?”
Fanelli wet his lips and lowered his voice.
“Well, you see, Brigadie’, this whole building is the property of Count Morrone di Visaglia, who keeps the top floor for himself.”
“Describe this count for me.”
“He’s old, he’s sick, he’s pushing ninety, and he lives with two housekeepers who tend to him. He never gets out of bed and he no longer receives visitors. I doubt he’s the person you’re looking for.”
By now Fanelli had entered fully into his role as political informant. Maione wanted to get out of there as quick as he could.
“Who else lives here?”
“Well, let’s see: on the second floor is Signora Clelia’s dressmaker’s shop. She’s a renowned seamstress, and customers come from all over.”
Maione dismissed the information with a brusque gesture: “I don’t care about that. I’m only interested in the people who live in the building. People who’d be at home around seven in the evening.”
A cunning expression came over the doorman’s face: “Oh, I see what you mean. This is something that happens in the evening, is it? Maybe some exchange of information. Now, there are two families that live on the third floor: the Frezzas—the husband, who’s a clerk at city hall, his wife, and their eight children who make a tremendous ruckus from morning till night—and then a young married couple, the Marontis; he works in a factory, she stays home, and they have two children.”
Maione scratched his chin, listening intently. Two families with lots of small children. He was beginning to feel reassured.
“What about the fourth floor?”
“On the fourth floor are two unoccupied apartments, and on the fifth floor lives Dottor Pianese.”
Maione was suddenly alert: “Dottor Pianese? Does he live alone?”
“That’s right, Brigadie’. The man’s about forty; he’s a lawyer, but he must have plenty of money because I never see any clients. On the other hand, there are always plenty of friends who come and go, and every so often even a lovely lady.”
Maione felt his heart stop.
“What do you mean, a lovely lady? What lovely ladies? Why on earth would lovely ladies come call on him?”
The sudden change in the policeman’s complexion and expression frightened the doorman, who took a step back: “Are you all right, Brigadie’? Can I get you a glass of water? Can I make you a cup of ersatz coffee?”
“Fane’, talk! I asked you for information about this Pianese, now answer my questions, damn it! What’s his first name? And what does he do?”
Fanelli was terrified. He backed up until he was against the wall and said: “For the love of God, Brigadie’, I haven’t done a thing, remember? Don’t get mad at me! Pianese lives alone; he has a housekeeper, but at night she goes home. His name is Ferdinando. Everyone addresses him as Dottore and like I told you, he’s a lawyer, but I don’t know how he makes a living. He’s rich, he has a good time, and I couldn’t tell you whether there are foreign spies among the people who come to call on him. I can keep a close eye on him, if you like.”
Maione took a step forward and grabbed the doorman by both arms, practically lifting him off the floor. The man squeaked in fear.
“Fane’, I’ll tell you one last time: we never had this conversation, understood? Never! Keep an eye on Pianese; and in particular I want you to let me know if a blonde lady comes to call on him, very pretty, about forty years old. Blonde, you understand? Blonde hair, blue eyes. I’ll come back when you least expect me to get your report. And you’ll need to be ready when I come.”
Fanelli nodded vigorously, doing his best to break free of the policeman’s grip, and intoned dramatically: “At your orders, Brigadie’. If this is for the fatherland, never fear, I won’t let anything escape me.”
Maione gave him one last furious glare and then dropped him, letting him sag against a wall as if somebody had let all the air out of him. Then he left, but only after checking to make sure that there was no one in the atrium.
Outside, the city resounded with the cries of its thousands of busy inhabitants.
XXVI
Keeping an eye on the girls to make sure they were walking in line, Enrica thought to herself just how green that island was. She had occasionally gone to the woods around the Palace of Capodimonte and sat embroidering on one of the benches, especially in late spring or summer, but she’d never felt so completely immersed in nature as she did on Ischia.
Of course, at Capodimonte there was a constant awareness of the endlessly teeming city just outside the walls, while here what lay close at hand was the beach and a calm blue sea awaiting the children’s cheerful shouts, but Enrica was inclined to believe that the earth itself was somehow different, more innocent and authentic, less a product of happenstance: even the countryside must have a vocation, must not be limited to a scattering of green between buildings.
Green were the grapevines, stretching out over acres and acres of land, heavy with bunches of still-ripening grapes and broad velvety leaves. Green were the broom plants and the tamarisks, growing thickly even along the sides of the roads. Green were the leaves of the geraniums on the balconies, and green were the hydrangeas in the gardens of the villas inhabited by vacationing aristocrats. Even the small, new oranges and lemons tangled among the leaves were green, still waiting to assume their bright colors, and yet sweeter smelling now than they would be once they ripened.
The birds sang free in the sky, the canaries sang back from their cages on terraces and balconies; the air was rife with the smell of sulfur and powdered copper scattered by the peasants to ward off pests.
The summer colony where Enrica was working was housed in a large aristocratic villa not far from Casamicciola. Like many other buildings in the area, it wasn’t very old. In July 1883 an earthquake had razed nearly all the houses on the island, killing more than two thousand; it had been such an overwhelming catastrophe that it had become proverbial as a point of reference for unprecedented disasters. The memory of the earthquake, as Enrica had had an opportunity to learn for herself in the few conversations she’d had with locals, was vivid and painful. There was no one on the island who hadn’t lost a relative or a friend.
The villa belonged to an old woman who’d been widowed many years ago and was lonely in a home that was far too big for her. She had been favorably impressed by the directives issued by the Fascist Party concerning temporary stays in summer resorts, especially as a means of preventing tuberculosis. She had therefore decided to make the building available, and had even paid for the necessary renovations out of her own pocket. She had given herself the title of director of the summer colony, but she mostly kept to herself: she spent her days on the terrace, lying on a beautiful chaise longue, reading under a sunshade that billowed and fluttered in the sea breeze, while her housekeeper brought her endless cups of tea.
The rest of the colony’s staff consisted of two female teachers, one for the twenty-five boys and the other for the twenty-five girls; a rosy-cheeked Franciscan tertiary nun with enormous arms and an explosive laugh who served as the cook; a young and tireless female nurse; and two male attendants. Except for Enrica, who was in charge of the girls, they were all locals.
Since the little girls were easier to control than the boys, Enrica had some time to herself to read and tend to her two-sided correspondence: her official letters home, to satisfy her mother’s ravenous curiosity, and the other, secret letters that she sent to her father, confiding her actual thoughts.
By now she’d been on the island for almost twenty days and she’d become used to the rhythms of work: awake at seven, ablutions and, if necessary, medical examinations for the girls with serious health problems; breakfast, and then down to the beach. The walk to the water, with the little ones in their white caps chattering away, was one of the nicest parts of the day. Enrica’s heart seemed to be finding peace. At least as much as was possible, she thought to herself that morning, because that heart was nevertheless still wounded.
Her father had written to tell her to not think about it, to throw herself heart and soul into what she was doing; he urged her to focus only on the present day, then on the coming night and the next morning, without looking any further into the future; he had written her that time is the best medicine for all troubles, and time will pass if we let it. All very true, my dear papà, Enrica had written back, but every time I hope my heart is healed, it starts bleeding again.
In the meantime they’d reached the beach where the most daring boys, indifferent to the shouts of their elders, had already leapt into the waves that lazily slapped the sand. Enrica got the girls situated, warning the frailest ones to say in the shade of the rock cliff.
She looked up and noticed that not far off, on the nearby carriage road, someone was sitting on a stool and painting. Her nearsightedness, not entirely corrected by her spectacles, kept her from making out his features, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was a man. He wore a white, broad-brimmed hat from which his blond hair peeked, and a white jacket over an open-necked shirt. He seemed to be wearing a dark-red silk scarf around his neck. There was a canvas on the easel in front of him, and he was painting with rapid brushstrokes, dabbing pigments from a palette he held in his other hand.
Enrica studied the landscape and tried to imagine exactly what the man might be painting: the view really was magnificen
t here, with the pine grove sloping down to the sea, here and there white houses with red roofs punctuating the greenery, and the clean white sails of pleasure boats standing out against the pristine blue sky. She turned again toward the painter, and he stood up and tipped his hat in greeting. A blast of heat shot up to her face as she blushed for being caught in such an open display of indiscretion; instead of waving back, she pretended to be busy fastening one of the little girls’ outfits. Disappointed, the man went back to his painting.
The morning progressed. The sun grew hotter and hotter and the children began to show signs of weariness. The other schoolteacher, a dark-haired sociable young woman named Carla, did her best to keep the boys in line by shouting louder than they; Enrica turned her attention to her little girls, and her heart skipped a beat when she noticed that one was missing. She turned to look out to sea and saw a tiny head bobbing in the water. How could she have failed to notice that Bettina, the biggest troublemaker of the group, hadn’t come back from her swim?
She called her at the top of her lungs, but all Bettina did was wave back. Enrica waved for her to come to shore, backed up by her colleague Carla, who had come over; once again, Bettina waved back. Enrica begged her and threatened her, but to no avail. She was about to resign herself to the necessity of swimming out to get her when a white shape shot past her, dove in, and, with just a few powerful strokes, swam out to the little girl.
A short time later a colossus clad in shirt and trousers emerged from the water, with a laughing Bettina in his arms. It was the painter who had waved at Enrica from the road.
The Bottom of Your Heart Page 14