Never fear, dear papà, he is respectful and well mannered. He has the savoir faire of a soldier and a German, and I’m certain that he’d never behave offensively toward me; but I find it embarrassing, terribly embarrassing, to see the gleam in his eyes when he speaks to me.
In a conversation we had on the beach, during a break in his work as a painter (he won’t let me see the canvas he’s painting!), he told me something about his life. The poor thing was widowed years ago when his wife suddenly fell ill; I haven’t even managed to get him to tell me exactly what it was that killed her. Her name was Elsa. His face took on an expression of profound sadness when he uttered her name; it’s clear that his heart was marked by the loss. He told me that since then he has been incapable of imagining himself as the father of a family, and that he was convinced that he would remain alone for the rest of his life. Then, looking straight at me, he added that at least that’s what he thought before coming to stay on this island.
I found an excuse and hurried away, dear papà. You know how badly my own heart has been wounded and how I still, at night, glimpse the gaze of the man about whom I told you. I’m not ready, and I won’t be for quite some time to come, to talk about certain topics with other people.
Still, there’s something I should tell you, and only you, papà. Do you remember when, a year ago, mamma got it into her head to try to arrange an engagement with that horrible Sebastiano, the son of Signore and Signora Fiore? Do you remember how she contrived to leave us alone at every opportunity, whenever he came calling at our home in the evening? And do you remember how I asked for your help in avoiding him? It was torture just to have him near me.
Well, this time, my dear papà, I will confess that a part of me is flattered by Manfred’s attention; and it’s certainly not a burden to spend time alone with him, even if I do feel sorry for Carla. All the same, no one can say that I’ve encouraged him or am encouraging him.
My heart belongs to someone else, though. And perhaps it’s wrong to force myself to think about someone else to try to forget about him. I don’t know much about love, in fact, practically nothing, but I believe that in matters of the heart the saying that one problem replaces another doesn’t apply.
Before I was able to make an excuse and hurry away, Manfred asked me if I’d give him a chance to speak to me more formally. He has something he wants to tell me. I didn’t reply and I’m terrified at the thought that he might ask me the same thing again.
At night, after dinner, I look out to sea. And beyond the sea, in the trembling lights of the distant city, I see two green eyes staring right at me. If only my heart, my cursed little heart, weren’t so keenly aware that he is still thinking about me, perhaps I’d feel free to look ahead to the future.
I send you my fondest love, dear papà. You can’t imagine how comforting it is to be able to write you about my troubles.
Yours,
Enrica
XLIII
This time they weren’t at all surprised to find themselves together so early in the morning. By now it was clear to both Ricciardi and Maione that in this strange, uncomfortable period they were more at ease at work than at home, even though the commissario couldn’t figure out why the brigadier had had such a sudden change in mood.
They planned out their day: Ricciardi wanted to make sure that police headquarters would be able to track them down precisely in case word came in from the hospital. They’d go talk to Giuseppe Graziani, aka Peppino the Wolf; then, if their schedule allowed it, they’d go by and talk to the professor’s widow.
They had no need to say anything about the challenges attendant upon their first appointment; the Wolf, young though he might be, was a powerful man who acted in accordance with a code that was hard for those outside of his world to understand. They’d need to be cautious but determined, they’d need to move along a very fine borderline: too far to this side and they’d be unable to learn anything, too far to the other and they’d be putting their own lives in danger. Many were the acts of violence that had been committed against policemen who ventured to set foot in territory ruled by forces other than those of the state.
As they were getting ready to head out, Garzo himself stuck his head into Ricciardi’s office.
It was uncommon for the deputy police chief to come into the offices of his subordinates. He considered it a prerogative of his high position to receive subordinates in his own office, while he waited behind his monumental mahogany desk as they were ushered in by Ponte, the onetime concierge who Garzo had transformed into his personal assistant, even though the official personnel structure didn’t call for such a position.
Ricciardi and Maione, therefore, were enormously surprised to see Garzo’s broad, beaming face, with his well-tended mustachio, his perfectly shaven cheeks, his neatly brushed dark brown hair, and his long salt-and-pepper sideburns, loom into the doorway. Just as surprising was the time of day: Garzo never showed up in police headquarters this early in the morning, faithful as he was to the principle that important people can afford to come in late.
The commissario and the brigadier shared the same opinion of the deputy police chief: a dimwitted, social-climbing bureaucrat, incapable of even the faintest flash of insight, but an adroit diplomat, kind to the strong and cruel to the weak, terrified at the thought of appearing to his superiors in any but the most favorable light. And since it was often the case that police work wound up treading on the feet of the high and mighty, more than once there had been friction between these two and the deputy.
But that day Garzo was all smiles, and the sight gave Maione the willies. Always fear the devil, especially when he pats you on the head, the brigadier thought to himself.
“Ah, caro Ricciardi, I knew I’d find you already here at work. Tireless and devoted to your duties, aren’t you? And stalwart Maione’s here too, excellent, excellent. How is it going? What’s the word from the criminal underworld?”
Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a look. The situation, whatever it was, must be pretty serious.
“Buongiorno, Dottore. We’re working on the case of Professor Iovine del Castello, you must have heard, he was thrown out a window over at the general hospital . . .”
Garzo waved a hand in the air.
“Yes, yes, I know. The poor man. Then again, he was a parvenu, never invited to truly join the upper crust because it wasn’t clear just who his people were. Politically, too, he seemed to lurk in the shadows, without ever taking a clear position. But now, my dear Ricciardi, is the time to come out into the open, to look the future in the eye. The Duce says so, and so does History.”
Maione coughed softly: “Commissa’, may I remind you that we need to go if we hope to track down that suspect and question him.”
Garzo took a seat at Ricciardi’s desk: “Ah, excellent! We already have suspects! It’s magnificent to be able to rely upon people like you, so diligent and conscientious, to keep the city clean and running smoothly as it is and does, and as it will be and will do. It’s no accident that we receive a steady stream of recognition and praise from Rome.”
The commissario had had only a few hours of sleep and was shouldering an enormous concern. He wasn’t in any kind of shape to carry on polite chitchat with Garzo, nor to withstand his political proclamations.
“Dottore, what can we do for you? We have a pretty busy schedule this morning and . . .”
“Of course, of course. Work before all else. And we, who have our daily war to wage, we who are on the front line, we must never forget it: I always say the same thing to my wife, who doesn’t seem to want to understand. Certainly, then, Ricciardi, let’s get straight to the point. A confidential report arrives on my desk. From this report it is possible to deduce that preparations are underway for a soirée at which, among the guests who will be attending, we expect not only the leading municipal authorities, but also certain personalities from Rome. When I say perso
nalities, you follow me, Ricciardi? That’s exactly what’s written in the report: ‘personalities.’”
Garzo fell silent, his eyes gleaming as if he expected some reaction, but Ricciardi sat impassive, waiting for the rest. Maione coughed again, dragging his heavy boot across the floor; he didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or crying.
“I beg your pardon, Dottore,” said the commissario, “but I really don’t understand how I can help you out in this matter. I don’t . . .”
Garzo burst out: “Ricciardi, don’t you see? Among those attending this soirée there might even be . . . I hardly dare to say it . . . a member of the Duce’s family! The language of certain reports, you understand, becomes comprehensible only if you read between the lines: if someone writes ‘personalities,’ rather than, for example, ‘authorities’ or ‘institutional figures,’ it means individuals of the highest stature. There’s nothing more important than ‘personalities.’ Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dottore, I understand. Personalities. I’m certain that we won’t have any trouble providing the required security, I’ll make arrangements with my colleagues who . . .”
An overexcited Garzo leapt to his feet: “No, no, what are you talking about? You’re not going to be put in charge of security. Good lord, perish the thought! That night you’ll be perfectly free. You’ll be able to devote yourself wholeheartedly to welcoming those ‘personalities,’ and that’s not all. Because the party, my good Ricciardi, is going to be held at the home of your friend Livia Lucani, the widow Vezzi. Don’t tell me that you weren’t aware of it already!”
Ricciardi furrowed his brow, remembering what Livia had told him three days earlier. It seemed a lifetime since that conversation.
“Yes, yes, I believe I remember that she mentioned it to me. But I . . .”
Garzo laughed, disjointedly: “He believes he remembers, the man says! Why, this is going to be the most important social event of the summer! Ricciardi, let’s talk straight here: we all know how much the widow Vezzi cares about you . . . and by the way, I have to say I can’t imagine why, she’s a woman who could have anyone she wants with a crook of her finger; if you only knew how green my wife and her girlfriends turn whenever they gossip about her. In any case, I demand, and let me underscore that one word, demand an invitation. I’m counting on you. This is an opportunity that I simply cannot miss. And given the relationship that unites us, bonds, if I may venture to say, of profound friendship and mutual esteem, I believe that I have the right to expect you to put in a good word on my behalf.”
Ricciardi would have been willing to say anything, so long as it allowed him to put an end to that conversation.
“Dottore, I promise you that I will lobby on your behalf with Livia the minute I have a chance to see her again. Right now I’m completely absorbed in this investigation and certain other matters of a personal nature, and therefore . . .”
Garzo headed for the door, satisfied: “I understand, I understand. Well then, listen carefully, Ricciardi: I expect an invitation from the lady. And I assure you that my esteem for you can only rise, given your marvelous social connections. Ah, youth! If I only had your freedom! Get going, get going. And keep me posted on the investigation, naturally. Work, before all else!”
And he walked out, humming a tune.
XLIV
From the archives of Antonelli’s memory an address had surfaced: Vicolo Santa Croce al Purgatorio. It was a narrow lane just off Piazza del Mercato, a short walk from Piazza del Carmine, named after Our Lady of Mount Carmel.
As they moved down cramped alleys that suddenly widened into broad stretches, Ricciardi and Maione had the impression they were moving, step by step, deeper and deeper into a living organism, driving straight toward the heart. The Pendino quarter had in fact just begun to experience the most important week in its whole year, the week that culminated with the festival of the Madonna Bruna—the Black Madonna.
This wasn’t just another of the countless neighborhood festivals, and it wasn’t limited to the locals: Our Lady of Mount Carmel was a central figure in the city’s traditions, and she was invoked constantly by the faithful, whether in requests for divine assistance or as a lively conversational interjection. When confronted with a tragic or terrible event, or some collective emotion, men, women, and children would cross themselves as they murmured the name of the Signora Bruna—the Dark Lady, Our Lady of Mount Carmel.
The icon took its name from the dark-hued complexions of the Virgin Mary and the Christ Child, clasped tenderly in her arms. On His face, tinged with just a hint of sadness, there is a foreshadowing of the pain to come; cheeks and lips brush together. A mother, a child. A perfect and eternal union that always called the people of that wonderful and unfortunate city to express their love.
The festival began with the procession on the last Sunday in May, in which Mamma Schiavona, as the common folk called her, was carried through the neighborhood, escorted by the highest officials. After that, preparations began for the events that would take place on the 15th and 16th of July.
The frenzy of anticipation was obvious even to passing pedestrians. Pagan and religious aspects were intertwined even more than usual, drawing in everyone who lived in the quarter or happened to be passing through it. People stitched outfits and made panels bearing the image of the Black Madonna with a golden star on Her shoulder, balloons were inflated to be released into the sky on each of the three nights of the festival, lights were arched over the streets that led to the church; the balconies, terraces, windows, and even the simplest apertures giving onto the piazza, were decorated, a blaze of flowers and festoons; and then there were the countless stalls and stands where tons of goods of every description would be on offer to the whole city when it poured into this piazza.
Maione noticed that their presence had not passed unremarked. His trained eye had picked out glances that lasted just a second too long, an old woman who moved a chair, making a loud scraping sound, a little boy who suddenly broke into a run, a man who emitted a shrill whistle. Moving along with the two policemen was an invisible wave made up of ostensible indifference and intense alertness.
Ricciardi showed no indication that he had noticed a thing. He kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. All around him, the living and the dead whirled in their two separate worlds, distinct and unaware of each other, murmuring, speaking, and shouting their sufferings and their joys. The commissario did his best to keep his mind off this, and off Rosa as well, tried to keep from thinking about her unnatural sleep, wondering to himself what he could do, and forever coming to the same answer: nothing. And he tried to focus on the murder he was investigating, because the professor had a right to his full devotion to the case; whoever had cut his life short ought to pay for that crime. Because the professor should have been able to die in his bed. Like Dr. Ruspo. And like his Rosa.
They realized that they had reached their destination when an empty alley appeared before them, an oasis of silence in the tempest-tossed sea that was the rest of the neighborhood.
A young man, leaning against the wall and smoking, tossed his cigarette, gave Maione a bold stare, and ambled off. Two floors up, a pair of shutters slammed shut, while a woman began singing from a balcony.
On the pavement in front of a ground-floor hovel, a basso, an old woman sat peeling potatoes. She looked up at the two policemen and asked, in thick dialect, whether they were looking for someone. From her expression, Maione understood that his answer would be virtually useless.
“Buongiorno, Signo’. Yes, we’re looking for a certain Graziani, Giuseppe Graziani. Do you know him?”
The old woman stared at him, as if she didn’t understand the language the brigadier was speaking. Then she shouted loudly: “Tanino!”
A half-naked boy came running out of a doorway. He couldn’t have been any older than seven or eight. He was barefoot, his arms and legs, stick-t
hin, dotted with scrapes and scabs. He came to a halt next to the two men, turned his back to them, and returned to the building he’d just emerged from. At the threshold he turned to see if they were following him. Then he jutted his chin in the direction of a staircase. Ricciardi and Maione started upstairs.
On the second floor, in front of a door, two young men dressed in work shirts and caps gave them an unfriendly stare, without so much as a hint of greeting. Maione met their hostile gazes and asked: “Is he in there?”
The elder of the pair nodded yes.
Maione turned to Ricciardi: “After you, Commissa’. Apparently we’re expected.”
They stepped into a clean and tidy apartment, furnished in a sober style. Daylight filtered through the half-open shutters. The heat was suffocating. An elderly woman in black came to meet them: “Who are you looking for? No one here has done anything wrong, we’re honest folk.”
Maione faced her sternly: “Excuse me, Signo’, but did anyone here say that we’d come because you weren’t honest folk? This damned bad habit of thinking of the police as an enemy—when is this city going to get over it?”
A deep voice boomed out from behind them: “Evidently, Brigadie’, if people behave that way there must be a reason. Or maybe we’re all just crazy, is that what you think?”
The Bottom of Your Heart Page 24