“Oh, really? So tell me, why have you been forced to intervene this time? And then, answer me this: why on earth have you chosen to summon me here with a written note? You’ve always simply materialized as if by some magic spell in my living room, without even being announced. This time, instead, you’ve actually written to make a date.”
“A date, you say? Far too bold for my style, I’m afraid. The loveliest and most alluring woman in the city is far above anything I could hope for. I’ve told you before, just think of me as a sort of guardian angel. If I reach out, it’s only to help you.”
Livia leaned forward and spoke harshly: “Falco, let’s not kid each other. Guardian angel, my foot. What I am for you, and for your governmental structure, or section, or department, or whatever the devil you choose to call it, is a tremendous pain in the neck. That’s what I’ve been for you since the day I decided to move down here. May I ask why you insist on taking such good care of me even though I never asked you to? Would you please just let me live my life in peace?”
The man sipped his espresso, gazing lazily out at the people strolling past in the street outside, though the intense heat had winnowed down the usual crowds. Then he set down his demitasse and spoke.
“That’s very good. The coffee is one of the best things about this city. I’ve been around and believe me, if there’s one thing I always miss when I travel it’s the coffee here at Gambrinus. I believe that its distinctive aroma was the deciding factor in my choice of this café as our meeting place. A pity you don’t drink espresso.”
Livia had no intention of going along with that digression.
“I’ll drink what I please, Falco. And I don’t have to account for my tastes to you. Now, if you’d be so good, will you answer my question? Why won’t you stop spying on me?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry to hear you use this tone with me, and most of all I’m sorry that I must be the target of your ill will. You want to know why we keep spying on you? I’ll answer your question.” He took a drink of water. “You, see, we do surveillance on a great many people. You’d be surprised to know the number. These aren’t always prominent individuals, they aren’t necessarily troublemakers or subversives. There are a variety of reasons we might decide to put someone under surveillance. And believe me, my dear lady, it’s not an easy task or a particularly enjoyable one. We make use of a network of informants who do not belong directly to my . . . structure, in fact, I’d say that in our surveillance we rely for the most part on ordinary people. Tradesmen, strolling vendors, even priests. Everyone spies on everyone else. And they report back to us. The most complex part of the work we do, Signora, has to do with separating the chaff from the wheat in these reports, lest we take seriously warnings that are actually just people settling scores, avenging old grudges, working out their envy or jealousy, or simply slandering their fellow men.”
Livia recoiled in disgust: “My God, what a filthy mess this country’s become. I’m almost ashamed to belong to . . .”
Falco raised a hand: “Please, Signora. Don’t say things that I’d be forced to remember from this day forth. Please. It’s hard enough already.”
The man at the entrance was leaning against the doorjamb, making a great show of indifference. Falco went on: “In any case, with you it’s different, and you know that. We don’t watch over you, to use the terminology we prefer, because we suspect you of any significant activity, though I have to say that some of your indirect acqaintances, as you well know, are of some concern to us. Our care as far as you’re concerned . . .”
Livia snapped: “Your care, is that what you call it?”
“. . . stems from other issues. You, Signora, are very, very dear to someone in Rome who is very, very important. This matter was communicated to us the day you arrived in this city, and we are still held responsible for anything that happens to you or even anything that might happen to you.”
“Which means that if I want to rid myself of this obsessive surveillance all I need to do is make a phone call to . . . to some girlfriend of mine? Would it really be that simple?”
“No, Signora. It wouldn’t be that simple. Certainly, you’d never see me again; and you’d hear nothing more from me, or from my . . . colleagues. But if anything, our observation would become even more strict. For example, you rightly asked why we’re meeting here and not in your home.”
“Well, why are we?”
“I thought it best in order to protect you from the person whose job it is to keep an eye on your apartment, a person who doesn’t know me and might well take me for someone else entirely.”
Livia restrained an impulse to laugh: “Really? You’re telling me that you don’t even know each other? Incredible, quite a show of efficiency . . .”
“No, Signora. You’re wrong. Our decision not to introduce those performing surveillance to each other makes it possible to cross-check the honesty and accuracy of their reports.”
At this point she really did laugh out loud: “Honesty, you say! What an interesting choice of language, my compliments. Let’s get to the point, Falco, why did you want to see me?”
“As you wish. Now, then, you’ve decided to host a party, am I right? Quite a party indeed, with a great many guests. So . . .”
Livia interrupted him, aghast: “But . . . but how could you know that? I’ve hardly mentioned it to anyone! Then that means my housekeeper, Clara . . .”
Falco shook his head: “No, no. The domestic servant Clara Fenizia, twenty-two years of age, is not in contact with us. Let’s just say that the orders you placed with your suppliers, as well as a few phone calls and one or two meetings, are what alerted us. I must ask you for your guest list, Signora. We need it so we can deploy the appropriate security measures.”
Livia shot to her feet, her lips white with fury: “I won’t give you a single thing, Falco. Not a thing! I’m a free woman, until proven otherwise, and in my own home I’ll do as I please with anyone I like.”
She’d raised her voice; a few people outside turned their heads to look. The man at the threshold took a step in their direction, clearly worried, but Falco stopped him with a wave of his hand, without bothering to look up.
“You know, Signora, like all truly beautiful women you become even lovelier when you’re angry. Please, sit down, and listen to what I have to say.”
Livia sat back down, reluctantly, her hands, clad in black gloves, clenched into fists.
“We’d get that list in any case, you realize that, don’t you? Only it would cost us more effort and we’d run the risk of leaving off a few names. We are quite sure that you plan to invite people who are very important to us. And I’d never dream of trying to cause you any difficulties. It’s just that there might be some . . . incompatibilities among your guests. What we’d like to do is spare you any potential awkwardness that might result from unwished-for meetings. That is the reason for my request.”
Falco’s heartfelt tone made it clear to Livia that she’d been needlessly rude and excessively aggressive. That was the political situation: what was the point of taking it out on someone who had only tried to be kind, however odd a form that kindness might take? Perhaps even at his own risk and peril.
“Please forgive me, Falco. I went too far. You understand, I’d given up on this idea of a party, then things changed and now it seems like it would be a nice thing to introduce myself, and introduce someone I care about, to the better sort of people in this city. And on that occasion, I’d like to do something that I haven’t done in too long. Far too long.”
Falco had never betrayed any signs of emotion in any of their intermittent meetings. He resembled one of those butlers you see in movies and novels from across the Channel, unfailingly phlegmatic, never batting an eye. He was always obsessively neat in his old-fashioned, nondescript gray suits, his thinning hair neatly combed, his hat in his hands. That was why the sudden change of express
ion and the powerful burst of emotion that showed on his face were such a stunning surprise for Livia.
Falco’s eyes were glistening like those of a child who’d just been promised a longed-for gift. He extended his hand across the table and laid it on Livia’s begloved one: “Don’t toy with me, Signora! You’re going to sing! You’re going to sing again, at long last!”
Livia stared at him in astonishment: “Yes . . . I thought . . . but what . . . why are looking at me like that, Falco? I don’t understand.”
Falco shook himself, as if emerging from a brief trance. He pulled back his hand, leaned against the backrest, and looked around, confused. The man at the door put on a show of indifference, but his ears were bright red.
“Please excuse me. I beg of you, Signora, excuse me. You see, I . . . that is to say, singing, opera, it’s a weakness of mine. I had the fortune, as I’ve told you, to hear you sing once, at the opera house, and since then I’ve followed your career with great interest. I own your five recordings, various magazines . . . and so, when we learned that you would be coming to this city, I asked to be assigned to you. And I couldn’t resist the temptation to meet you in person, even though that’s something that’s frowned upon in my organization’s tradecraft. I’ve always regretted your decision to retire, an overhasty one if you’ll forgive my boldness. You have a gift, you know. An important gift.”
Livia didn’t know what to think.
“You know, my husband, while he was still alive . . . the fact is, he didn’t much care for my singing.”
Falco nodded seriously.
“Yes, naturally. Perhaps, if I were in his place, I’d have been jealous of your bravura. Even if he was a genius himself.”
“Yes, well . . . in short, I’ve decided to sing again, at least among friends. Perhaps a song, just one. Written by a composer from this city. It only seems right.”
“You’ll be magnificent, Signora. Magnificent. I’ve been assigned to dissuade you from hosting this party. It’s not a simple moment, as I’m sure you’ll understand, with the upcoming elections in Germany . . . We’ll have extra work on our hands. But if you’re going to sing, that changes everything. I’ll make sure to be there, and I assure you that you won’t see me. But I’ll be there. The chance to hear you sing again is an experience that I wouldn’t miss for the world.”
Livia couldn’t help but be flattered by such intense admiration on the part of a man who, she suspected, wasn’t much given to expressing it.
“I thank you, Falco. It will be a pleasure for me to know that you’re out there, somewhere. It will be a fancy dress party, with a maritime theme. I’ll let you have the guest list, of course. You’ll have no difficulty guessing most of the names in advance, for that matter: clubbable society in this city is a fairly restricted circle. I’ll add a few other names, just to repay debts of courtesy. For instance, I was thinking of Garzo, the deputy police chief, who’s always been so nice to me and who has on several occasions agreed to let Ricciardi take me out to the theater, in spite of the fact that the commissario ought to have been on duty instead.”
“Certainly, I understand. And let me take this opportunity to tell you how sorry I am to hear about the lady, the commissario’s governess. It’s not easy when someone you’re so fond of . . .”
Livia stood up abruptly: “Are you talking about Rosa? What’s happened to her? I haven’t heard anything!”
Falco stood up in his turn: “What do you mean? He hasn’t told you? Why, I thought . . . The governess didn’t feel well yesterday and was taken to Pellegrini Hospital, where she was put under the care of Dr. Modo, whom you, unfortunately, know all too well. She’s in fairly grave condition, from what I’ve been able to learn.”
“What about him? He must be with her, at the hospital. She’s the only person that he’s close to. I must go to him, I need . . . I need to be with him, right away!”
The man’s face took on a look of consternation: “Signora, please. It’s not necessary. I’ve already told you on more than one occasion that the doctor . . . oh, no question about it, a good man and an extraordinary physician, but his political views . . . could cause you some serious problems, both you and your commissario. I really have to urge you . . .”
Livia had already grabbed her handbag. She spoke to him in a chilly voice: “Falco, do me a favor, don’t waste my time telling me the usual things. You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, but right now I have somewhere to be. Buonasera.”
And she left, striding briskly.
XLII
At midnight Ricciardi went to listen to the Deed.
It was something he hadn’t done in years. There was a time, when he first decided to become a policeman, that he considered it important. At the time of day or night at which the death had occurred, the Deed was strongest and most direct. It clearly narrated the emotions of the victim, almost amplified them.
Then he had realized that all too often the thought that reached him, slicing into the spine of his soul like a whip, was merely empty pain and sorrow; that if anything it distracted him more than it helped him to untangle the mystery.
It was the Deed that first drove him toward his chosen profession. Perceiving the suffering that went along with a violent departure from this life, the awareness of the absurdity of a non-natural death, these factors had been crucial elements of the process, had made it impossible for him to abandon the urge to try to put things back in order, if only after the fact. Moreover Ricciardi had neither the personality nor the disposition to loll about in cafés, theaters, and opera houses, squandering the family fortune, with a university degree hanging on the wall.
This time, though, he felt called upon to listen to the professor on the cobblestones of the polyclinic’s lane, on the spot where he landed three days earlier, at the same time of night when the murder had presumably taken place.
After Nelide had returned to the hospital from a trip home, where she had changed into clean clothes, Modo had evicted Ricciardi from Rosa’s hospital room. Livia, breathless, her face twisted with heartfelt grief, had also come by in the late afternoon. Ricciardi had asked her how she’d known, but the woman had been vague, mentioning a visit she’d made to police headquarters. Ricciardi had reassured her and convinced her to leave quickly: for some odd reason, she’d seemed incongruous to him there, in a hospital room with Rosa in the bed. He’d even wondered, with a twinge of sadness, how he would have felt if it had been Enrica. But she hadn’t come. Who knew where she was.
Instead of taking him home, his feet had taken him to the general hospital, as if of their own accord. He was tired, and he knew it; but weariness was fertile ground for the Deed. When he was tired, his instinctive defenses tended to come down, and his special inner ear, the one that heard the dead, grew more attentive.
He spoke to the night watchman, who let him in without a second thought and without even getting up from the chair in which he’d been nodding off. He walked the length of the lane, lined by the menacingly dark silhouettes of trees, until he reached the point that was still marked by a dark stain on the ground. The professor’s blood.
Even if he hadn’t remembered the exact spot, he’d have found it all the same. The figure of Iovine, his spine shattered, his cranium fractured, the small red cascade oozing from his face like lava from an erupting volcano, stood grimly before him, translucent in the darkness, visible to his heart as if illuminated by a spotlight.
Sisinella and love, love and Sisinella, Sisinella and love, love and Sisinella. A murmured litany. He remembered the words, but now he wanted to capture their shadings, their nuances.
He looked up at the office window. It was dark and very high, more than sixty-five feet above him. How long did you take, Professor? He made a quick calculation: at least a couple of seconds. Time enough to shift his thoughts from one subject to another.
He stared at the image. Love. What came to your min
d was love. It was love that bobbed to the surface. It’s not necessarily linked to whoever threw you out that window, in revenge, for self-interest, out of cold calculation, or out of regret. But it was love that shut your eyes once and for all. Love for a girl who was young enough to be your daughter, a girl who gifted you moments of illusory happiness.
He stood there a while longer, observing the phantom, and then turned to head home. He’d try to get a few hours of sleep now, then he’d swing by the hospital to see Rosa, and after that he’d do his best to put things right. Because death comes far too soon, even left to its own devices. It’s not right to wake it up so far before its time.
It’s not right.
Dear Papà,
The festival of Our Lady of Mount Carmel is drawing near and my thoughts go to you with even greater tenderness. Every year you took us to see the burning of the bell tower, and before that the release of the balloons, the fireworks, the decorated balconies. I can still taste the hazelnuts, the ice cream you bought for us, and I can still hear the shrieks of joy of my siblings. I think back to it with happiness and a twist of homesickness.
Here at the summer colony life goes on as usual. The girls have wholeheartedly embraced the task of making the embroidered panel for the festival of St. Anne (do you remember, dear papà? I wrote you about it in one of my previous letters), and we have sound hopes of finishing it in time. The little boys are busy making the wooden structure to support it, though from what I can see, they’re behind schedule. My colleague Carla is certain they’ll make it. Let’s hope so.
I ought to tell you, dear papà, that my relations with Carla have suffered recently, and not due to any fault of mine. We’ve never discussed the matter, but I suspect that the root cause is the fact that Manfred, the German officer I wrote you about, has shown an unmistakable preference for me. I couldn’t tell you the reason why, since Carla flirts quite openly with him while I, in contrast, am even harsher and more unpleasant than necessary, precisely because I wouldn’t want my colleague to accuse me of being interested in him; still, Manfred keeps after me quite insistently, he never misses an opportunity to speak to me, and I even have the sneaking suspicion that he arranges situations in which he can just happen to run into me. Yesterday, for instance, I found him right in front of me when I went out before dinner to get a little fresh air in the pine forest.
The Bottom of Your Heart Page 23