The dog yelped again and looked up at the doctor.
Ricciardi whispered into the night: “Save her, if you can. If you can, keep her here, don’t take her away from me too. Because without her I really don’t know how to go on.”
In the silence of the courtyard and the heat of the falling night, Modo realized with a shiver that his friend wasn’t speaking to him.
Ricciardi was praying.
XXXIV
Hot night.
Night when you can’t breathe. Night that tastes of dust and rot, the market rubbish slowly decomposing in the piazza.
Night when you’d like to be anywhere but where you are. And you walk, and you toss and turn in bed, and you go out onto the balcony in search of air, but there is no air, and no one can say if there ever will be.
Night of still air, air that you struggle to pull into your lungs.
Night.
Maione arrived about an hour later, out of breath.
He found Ricciardi sitting, alone, on the outside steps leading into the waiting room. Not far from him, seated on its haunches and still as a statue, was the doctor’s dog.
“Commissa’, what’s happened? I went by headquarters, just to see if there was any news, and they told me that you’d rushed over here to the hospital, that it was an emergency. Are you all right?”
Ricciardi raised his head and looked at him with bland curiosity. He looked terrible. He summarized the situation for his friend, then asked him: “But you, why didn’t you stay at home?”
Maione looked away, embarrassed.
“No, Commissa’, it’s just that . . . it was so hot, and instead of tossing and turning in bed and keeping Lucia and the kids up, I thought it best to get out and see if I could get some air. And my feet only know one route, so they took me straight to police headquarters. That’s all. If you have no objections, I’ll sit with you and keep you company for a while.”
Night without respite.
Night when sleep brings no rest, when it’s wearying to lie flat on your bed, eyes wide open, in the darkness.
Night without a future.
Nelide didn’t take her eyes off Rosa.
She looked like a cardboard silhouette, the ones they put next to stacks of merchandise, depicting a housewife in the process of making a purchase. But unlike an advertising silhouette, Nelide wasn’t smiling, nor could she be described as decorative.
Her solid, stout body was immobile, her arms folded across her chest, her jaws clenched, her forehead furrowed. At the doctor’s suggestion, the nurses had placed a chair next to the bed, but she hadn’t sat down for so much as a second. She was there for a specific reason, and it wasn’t to rest her feet.
She’d immediately realized what was happening to her aunt. She’d already been through similar experiences with her grandfather and another relative. Both of them had died soon after.
Her mind, practical and rigorous, was devoid of imagination, and therefore of any false hopes and illusions. Rosa, too, would die, in spite of the speed with which she had acted, despite the apparent skill of this doctor, whose name had wisely been given to her in advance.
And she, Nelide, what would she do?
When her aunt had arranged for Nelide to come stay in the city, she hadn’t told her parents, or Nelide herself for that matter, much. But everyone had taken for granted that the plan was for her to take Rosa’s place as Ricciardi’s governess. Rosa’s enviable economic condition, and the fact that practically every member of the Vaglio family was working in some capacity on the estate of the Baron of Malomonte, placed Rosa at the summit of society in that town and therefore, as far as Nelide was concerned, in the whole world. For years everyone had speculated as to who would take the tata’s place; the tata managed Ricciardi’s entire patrimony, given the young master’s utter indifference to his considerable worldly wealth.
For years, Nelide knew, the tata had studied all the family’s young women. And she knew that many of her countless female cousins would have had a greater claim, by age and by training, to that position.
But she possessed something that all the other young women lacked: a perfect affinity with Rosa. Just like her aunt, she was determined, loyal, and capable of rapidly adjusting to any and all situations. In just a few days, confirming the soundness of Rosa’s choice, she’d learned all that she needed to keep the Ricciardi household humming along.
But she knew very well that she was still quite young. Would the farmers, the sharecroppers, and the peasants who rented shares of the estate’s farmland recognize the authority of a little girl? Of course, she could count on help from her father and her uncles, who constituted the network that Rosa had relied on over the years, allowing her to build up the Malomonte family estate, instead of presiding over its dispersal; but would that be enough?
Her eyes monitored the slow, regular rise and fall of the sheets over Rosa’s chest. The woman was breathing deeply, as if she were asleep. And yet Nelide knew that that was no normal sleep.
Beneath Nelide’s grim expression was a frightened little girl. It wasn’t Ricciardi who frightened her; in part because she wasn’t thinking about how to understand him, was limiting herself to anticipating his needs. She would look after him because she had been instructed to do so, and she would do as she had been taught. Ricciardi was a task she’d been assigned, and she would perform that task scrupulously and with devotion, as was her nature. What worried her was something very different.
The fact was that Nelide really did love her aunt. She was bound to her by an animal love, without nuance, without selfishness. And when faced with difficulties she’d become accustomed to taking refuge in thoughts of her aunt.
How would she manage, without her? Without a chance to ask her for advice, to rely upon her?
In the darkened hospital ward, the tightly pressed lips of that homely, powerfully built young woman, standing erect in the shadows, quivered slightly.
But no one noticed.
Night of rage and fear.
Night without light, without hope.
Night that seems to possess all things and all thoughts. Night like a lake, that engulfs the city and its thousands of activities.
Night that fears to breathe, night without love.
Night that changes, that leaves no smiles.
Night without caresses.
Lucia was sitting up, eyes wide.
When Raffaele had stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him, Giovanni, the eldest son now that Luca was gone, had emerged from his bedroom and asked why his father was angry. She had explained to him that papà had been right, that children should be careful of their table manners, and that they should show him respect.
Then she’d added that Raffaele was tired, that it was hard work to support a big family like theirs, and now that he was a big boy, he needed to understand his father and help him.
Giovanni had replied that he was hungry, and he’d asked if he could finish his dinner now, with his brothers and sisters. But Lucia had replied that if papà had given an order, that order was to be obeyed, even if papà wasn’t there right now. Especially if he wasn’t. So no dinner for anyone, not even for her.
It hardly mattered, her stomach was tied in knots anyway, she mused as she stared at the ceiling.
Lucia was worried. She couldn’t figure out what was going through her husband’s mind. Could their economic situation really be so serious? What if there was a debt, an obligation that Raffaele had preferred to keep to himself so as not to worry his wife?
Lucia could do no more than she already was doing. Walking miles and miles to shop in the cheapest stores and markets. Stitching and mending with her own hands until articles of clothing were completely worn out. Turning the children’s overcoats inside out a hundred times, painstakingly laundering outfits and rubbing out sweat stains with ammonia or
vinegar, and then washing them again in cold water to make them last.
And now she was doing even more, to try to add a little extra to the family budget, making good use of the gifts that nature had given her. She thought he’d be happy to see the girls in their new shoes, to know that she’d buy new shirts for him. And instead that violent reaction, which had frightened her even more than it had frightened the children, because she, his wife, knew very well how unlike him it was.
Sunk in the scalding air of an infernal night, Lucia wondered where Raffaele was at that moment.
And she prayed that he was all right.
Night of ghosts.
Night of voices and whispers from out of the darkness.
Night of visions, of movements glimpsed out of the corner of the eye. Night of sudden tremors, night of high fever.
Night of ancient words, of lifeless sighs. Night of the world beyond.
Night of spirits of the past, night of memories long thought to be buried.
As she slept a sleep that was not really sleep, Rosa saw that, right near her, sitting lightly at the foot of her bed, was Marta di Malomonte, the young master’s mother.
Dreamily, she wondered to herself what the baroness might be doing there. It wasn’t customary for the baroness to sit on her bed; nor, for that matter, to enter her bedroom. The baroness was very respectful of the domestic help’s personal space: she knocked, she asked permission before entering. Her manners, so different from her mother’s imperious and intrusive ways, had come as a pleasant surprise to everyone. If you added to all that the fact that Marta di Malomonte had been dead for more than fifteen years now, it all seemed pretty strange.
Rosa tried to get up, as she had always done in her mistress’s presence, but she was unable to do so. She lacked the strength; she couldn’t so much as lift a finger. And so she spoke to her instead: “Barone’, what are you doing here? It’s been quite a while since I last saw you.”
Marta was holding her embroidery basket. She placed it on the bed, pulled out needle and thread, and started embroidering what looked to Rosa like an outfit for a newborn.
“Ciao, Rosa. You see? I came to visit you. I’ll keep you company for a while.”
Rosa considered the matter, then asked: “Does that mean I’m dead, Barone’?”
“No, you’re not dead. You’re not well. And you’ll die, like everyone. But you’re not dead. How do you feel, right now?”
Rosa tried in vain to move her hand.
“Well, Barone’, I’m in no pain, but I just can’t seem to move. If I can’t move, as you know, I don’t know what to do with myself.”
The baroness nodded.
“I know, I know. You’ve always been highly judicious and energetic. That’s why we chose you as Luigi Alfredo’s tata, my husband and I. But now, you see, you’re obliged to stay still. And you can rest.”
“Barone’, in that case you’ll forgive me not getting to my feet. It strikes me as such a strange thing to lie here on my back, me, a servant, while you’re sitting there uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.”
Marta smiled at her, with a little smirk of the lips identical to the young master’s.
“Don’t worry. I know you aren’t well, like I told you. What I’m wondering, though, is who’s looking after Luigi Alfredo while you’re here?”
Rosa thought it over for a moment.
“There’s Nelide, my niece, the daughter of my brother Andrea, do you remember him? He’s the one who keeps sheep and farms your land down by Sanza; your ladyship always said he was a good man. When your ladyship . . . when you passed away she was just a little girl, but she’s grown up to become a strong, healthy young woman. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
Marta nodded and went on sewing.
“Nelide, yes, I remember her. So it was Nelide you’ve been training these last few days. You’re quite right, she’s a capable girl, trustworthy. Do you think she’s ready to take your place?”
“Well, she’s certainly young, Barone’. But we’re an unusual clan, young and old we’re all the same. She might make mistakes, after all, who doesn’t? Still, she’s honest and strong, bursting with health and with no foolish ideas in her head. Her one fault is that she doesn’t talk much, and when she does she speaks only in proverbs: maybe she does it to seem wise.”
Marta sighed. Rosa interpreted that as a sign of fear.
“Barone’, understand me. I didn’t have any time left, I had to act quickly. If I’d had, I don’t know, maybe another couple of years, I’d have educated her properly, I’d have kept her with me for longer periods of time, I’d have made her to go over the renters’ accounts to see if she knew how to do it on her own. Forgive me, Barone’. I thought I could get it all done in time.”
Marta caressed her cheek.
“Don’t you worry, Rosa. She’ll do fine, she’ll figure it out. Now you get some rest. I’ll stay here and sit with you. When you like, we can talk again.”
Rosa smiled and fell asleep for a while.
Nelide, who was studying her face, saw her lips wrinkle in a sort of smile. Her respiration was deep and regular.
The girl checked the warm cloths on her aunt’s legs. How long this night was.
Night.
Endless night. Night without light.
Night for the dead, night for the ghosts.
Night without life.
XXXV
Major Manfred von Brauchitsch had awakened very early, even though life on the island moved even more slowly on Sunday than on the other days of the week.
The problem of different speeds had always been an issue during his stays in Italy. It was as if Manfred was a cog in a gear that was spinning very fast, and that was then inserted into a weaker engine. For that matter, he was German: his people were typically a little frantic and maniacally devoted.
He stepped out onto the balcony of his room. Dawn, from the pensione where he usually stayed, imbued the sea and the spit of land that jutted out into it with indescribable hues, colors that he would be incapable of extracting from his palette even in a thousand years. Perhaps, he thought, that’s what makes the people here so slow: how could you stop, even after centuries of being accustomed to it, from pausing to admire such a wonderful landscape? How could you keep from taking it easy, breathing this blossom-scented air, listening to the music that saturates it?
He went back in to do some calisthenics. He was determined to keep in shape: the years passed and his profession demanded absolute efficiency. He had to admit to himself that he was gratified by the frank appreciation he seemed to receive from the island’s women, whenever he crossed paths with them during his evening walks.
While he was doing his second round of deep knee bends, he found himself thinking about that girl, the schoolteacher at the summer colony whom he’d run into for the past several days out at the beach where he went to paint.
There was no doubt that he’d made quite an impression on the other schoolteacher, Carla, that was clear from her attitude and the glances she shot him; but the one he liked was Enrica, who was in charge of the little girls. She offered him no encouragement, which only stimulated his natural competitive spirit.
She wasn’t especially beautiful; at first glance she might in fact appear insignificant. Her legs and arms were too long, she wore eyeglasses and her clothes were mousy. But deep inside, Manfred was first and foremost a painter, and he’d recognized her remarkable figure, lithe and firm, her handsome bosom and her swan’s neck. And the smile that she beamed so frequently at the little girls, luminous and full of tenderness.
Perhaps it was because he was accustomed to capturing particular appearances and intense expressions that he’d been so taken by Enrica. The measured gentleness with which she moved, the womanly way she had of sitting on the beach, with her white skirt gathered beneath her legs and h
er chin resting on her hands as she gazed out at who knows what, in the distance.
He wiped away the sweat with a hand towel and headed off toward the bathroom.
This wasn’t something that happened often, he mused. Since Elsa had died, more than ten years ago, he’d had only a few fleeting affairs, and each woman had been gone from his mind as soon as the moment of their physical intimacy was over. But this time, he found himself counting the hours that separated him from his next painting session on the beach.
Enrica, he understood, was shy and reserved, a delicate blossom, a butterfly; if he moved too quickly he ran the risk of ruining everything. He also sensed a certain insecurity on that woman’s part, or even fear: perhaps there was some sadness or grief in Enrica’s past, as there was in his own, for that matter.
In their infrequent conversations, he’d preferred to stick to unremarkable topics. He’d told her about his hometown, the land he hailed from and where now, perhaps, one of those terrible summer rainstorms was coming down, auguring the onset of autumn. It was too early to tell her about Elsa, of the way he used to be, of how he had changed and why. Of war and serving under arms. Of the fact that he was a soldier.
Times were changing. The aftermath of the postwar sanctions and the burning sense of defeat were gradually being overcome; in Germany there was a new spirit in the air. Alsace and Lorraine had been lost, the German empire’s colonial possessions were lost, most of the army, now shrunk to a hundred thousand men, was lost, the navy, which had preferred to sink the fleet rather than hand it over to England, was lost; nonetheless, the sense of honor, the belief in the nation’s own grandeur, the urge to rise again, were more alive than ever. Nationalism, fomented by the harsh terms of the peace treaty, had engendered a political party that had sunk its roots deep into the populace, and the preceding April it had come tantalizingly close to sweeping the elections, gathering over thirteen million votes. This in spite of the fact that the movement’s leader was a man who nine years earlier had been in prison for spearheading an unsuccessful coup attempt right in his own home state of Bavaria.
The Bottom of Your Heart Page 19