Maione turned to Ricciardi, with some exasperation: “I wonder why we bother to go to all the trouble. We might as well just come to see Signora Ines here, and let her tell us the whole story. Just think how much walking we’d spare ourselves, how much less sweating we’d do in this heat.”
The concierge put on a contrite expression: “Sorry, Brigadie’, but we have to talk about something, no? The days are long, and a major event like the professor falling out a window isn’t something that happens all the time. We’ll be arguing about it for years.”
Ricciardi decided it was time to break up the cheery conversation.
“Is Signora Iovine home?”
The woman looked around, prudently.
“I wouldn’t really know . . .”
Maione was furious now: “Ah, so you’re familiar with every nook and cranny of our investigation, but you don’t know whether a person who lives in the apartment building where you work as a concierge is home or not? Now you’re going to come straight upstairs with us, or I swear to God I’ll arrest you!”
Ines shot off up the stairs, motioning for the policemen to wait. Soon she was back: “If you please, Brigadie’, come right on up. The Signora will see you.”
A housekeeper in a black dress with a white apron ushered them into the same parlor where they’d spoken to the woman on their first visit. The pitiless noonday sun filtered through the shutters, but the air remained reasonably cool thanks to a pleasant breeze, possibly produced by a clever combination of open windows and doors. Everything was clean and tidy, and there was a faint odor that Maione was unable to identify.
Maria Carmela Iovine came in a few minutes later. She was dressed in black, with a string of pearls around her neck and her hair gathered in a bun. Her face was serene and her wrinkles, so unmistakable the first time, were less marked now. Only her dark eyes spoke of an intractable grief.
“Buongiorno, gentlemen. Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting visitors and the housekeeper just cleaned the silver with ammonia. The last few days have been challenging, as you can imagine, and we’d neglected the apartment. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Maione put a name to the odor he’d noticed and hearing talk of caring for apartments gave him a stab of discomfort; it seemed to him that lately his wife had been paying less attention to her domestic duties.
Ricciardi looked at the woman: “Forgive our intrusion, Signora, we should have called ahead, but we’re working the entire city trying to figure out just what happened. First things first: I must inform you that the findings of the autopsy might lead us to conclude that . . . that it was not the professor himself, of his own free will, who caused his own death.”
She nodded, her long slender fingers interlaced.
“Yes, Commissario, I knew that already. My husband’s charge nurse told me, when she came to keep me company after the funeral. You know, rumors spread from one hospital to another, and my husband was quite well known.”
“May I ask what you think of this news? If it’s confirmed, naturally.”
“What can I tell you, Commissario? It would have caused me more grief to learn that he’d taken his own life. I’m religious, and an act of that sort would have sent him into eternal damnation. What’s more, the scandal would have affected my son: a father who killed himself, can you imagine? And what’s more, for a woman, it would be terribly sad not to have realized that the man she lived with had been brooding over such a decision.”
Ricciardi went on: “I understand . . . Signora, the last time we were here we asked you whether for any reason your husband might have been so desperate or upset that he might have been pushed to commit an extreme act. Now, however, we must focus on the hypothesis that there was someone who greatly resented him.”
Maria Carmela thought it over: “Commissario, I already gave you that letter from Ruspo, and the charge nurse, Ada Coppola, told me about a man, someone whose wife died in childbirth, who had made threats. I don’t know anything else.”
“Did this sort of thing happen frequently? That the husband of one of his patients talked about taking revenge?”
“You see, Tullio was one of the best known physicians in the country. He was constantly being asked to consult on cases; he was truly gifted, but that hardly means he was infallible. It could happen that, in one of the vast number of procedures performed under his supervision, something went wrong. But there were very few patients that he took under his direct care. He never mentioned that episode to me, presumably because he didn’t want to worry me. All the same, I doubt that anyone would kill a doctor for a tragic event that was hardly his fault, wouldn’t you say?”
Maione and Ricciardi remained in silence. Then the commissario said: “Are you by any chance aware of . . . other situations outside of work that might have created problems or conflicts for your husband?”
The woman remained silent for a few seconds, her eyes calmly fixed on Ricciardi; from the piazza came the rumble of traffic. Then she said: “Let me see if I understand, Commissario: are you asking me whether my husband was leading a double life, and if I was aware of the fact?”
Ricciardi exchanged a glance with Maione. They had reached the crucial point.
Signora Iovine stood up and went to the window. She spoke without turning around: “Tullio wasn’t my first husband. I was a widow. I’m a widow now, too, of course, but I’d already been widowed once. However, I had no children. My only child is my son Federico. He’s eight years old, I think I told you that the last time you were here. Every love is different from all the others, in my opinion. Love is like an article of clothing. You choose a certain size and you wear it, maybe even for many years. Then one day you look at it and you wonder why you ever put it on. It doesn’t suit you anymore. Your first love, the love you first feel when you’re young, is made of flesh and blood. You can’t conceive of anything else, you’re jealous, you even suffer. But when you’re an adult, on the other hand, you reason. Above all, you reason.”
She turned halfway round. Looking at her profile, Ricciardi noticed the long, narrow nose, the willful chin. A woman who might not be beautiful, but who was strong and intelligent.
“Children are a different matter. Children split your life in two. When you have a child, you must protect him against everything and everyone. You carry a child in your womb forever: a parent is responsible for anything that happens to him. And also anything that doesn’t happen.” She came back over to them: “No, Commissario. I imagine, certainly, I have my ideas. Let’s say that I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had another woman, or even that he had two other women. And I couldn’t swear that Tullio didn’t have other vices. When a man has a job that keeps him out of the house most of the time, a wife can’t have too many certainties. He was a good husband, and a good father. He took care of us, he made sure we never wanted for anything. That’s what I know and that’s what I can tell you.”
Ricciardi nodded: “I understand. I beg your pardon for having to ask these questions, but I hope you’ll understand that everything we’re doing is meant to clarify the facts of the event, as I’m sure you want, too. One last thing: are you aware that the professor had purchased a gift for your upcoming name day?”
The woman smiled: “Every year he bought me something more expensive. I believe it was his way of proving to me how successful he was.”
“Do you have any idea of what it might be?”
“A ring? I’d told him I wanted a new one. A girlfriend of mine, I can’t remember which, told me about an artisan with a workshop down in the goldsmiths’ borgo who makes especially beautiful rings, and I remember that Tullio wanted to know the man’s name. He was so transparent when he thought he was planning a surprise. You men can be so naïve sometimes.”
Before Ricciardi had a chance to reply, a little boy dressed in a sailor suit ran into the room. The resemblance to his mother was extraordinary.
He threw his arms around her neck. Tenderly, she asked him: “Federico, have you said hello to the nice men?”
The little one turned around, his expression serious: “Buongiorno, Signori. Did you know that my papà is dead? Now when we go on vacation, we’ll have to hire a chauffeur.”
Maione felt a knot in his throat. He said: “Why, what a brave little man. Listen to me, now you have to take care of your mamma . . .”
The little boy looked the brigadier up and down. Then he said: “But if bad men come I’ll call you, because you have a pistol.”
Ricciardi saw Maria Carmela Iovine’s eyes glisten.
The woman kissed her son and whispered in his ear: “My little man will take care of me. And I’ll take care of him. For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of him.”
XLVII
Livia told her driver to take her to Pellegrini Hospital to see whether the condition of Ricciardi’s governess had improved.
Actually, she was hoping to run into the commissario there and persuade him to go out for a bite to eat; he’d looked pretty rough the night before when she’d hurried over after her meeting with Falco. She’d realized immediately that Ricciardi wasn’t especially pleased to have her at his side, but she hadn’t taken that personally. She understood that this was a very private matter, and it was quite understandable that he would prefer to be left alone at his tata’s sickbed.
She knew how close he was to the woman who, according to what little he had told her about himself, had been a second mother to him and was the only family he had left. She had hurried to the hospital, obeying a blind impulse and the urge to be close to him at a difficult moment. Unfortunately, Rosa’s condition had seemed hopeless. The doctor had already gone home, and so she’d been unable to get a specific diagnosis firsthand. Ricciardi had been vague, but Livia had seen other cases of apoplectic fits and she could see how serious the situation was.
The image of the man she loved holding the old woman’s hands in his own in a nondescript hospital room, while that unsettling young woman—so similar to her aunt that they seemed to be the same person at two different stages of life—lurked in the shadows, had upset her. She didn’t like to be in the presence of pain; perhaps that made her a coward, but she felt she was justified by what she’d already been through.
On her way home, she’d wondered whether it was a good idea to continue preparing for the party, and she told herself she’d have to speak with Modo and ask him for some advice.
The doctor came to greet her, beaming with delight: “Well, look who we have here, Signora Livia. And yet my horoscope didn’t tell me that this would be one of the happiest days of my life.”
Livia found the man, with his ribald, explicit gallantry, extremely likeable, even though Falco always spoke of him as a serious danger to Ricciardi and even to her.
“Doctor, whenever I feel ugly all I have to do is come see you, and you immediately make me change my mind.”
“For that, Signora, all you need is a mirror. Believe me, you are a ray of sunshine in the life of this poor old combat physician. To what do I owe the pleasure of this benediction? I ask, even though I fear I know the answer already.”
Livia locked arms with him and led him into the courtyard. The dog came closer, tucking itself into a seated position a few feet away from them. The woman looked down at it.
“That dog hasn’t left you yet, has he? And yet you’ve shared some decidedly unpleasant adventures.”
Livia was referring to the previous Easter, when she, Ricciardi, and Maione had rescued the doctor from a nasty political situation.
Modo leaned down to pet the dog, who, perhaps sensing that he was the topic of discussion, had begun to wag his tail.
“Dogs aren’t like women, my lovely lady. They bestow their hearts and never take them back.
Livia laughed: “Women, as you well know, my good doctor, don’t have hearts at all.”
“True,” Modo admitted, “but it’s so much fun to go on looking for one. Tell me everything, Signora.”
Livia turned serious: “Yesteday I saw Ricciardi’s tata. She seemed to me to be in truly critical condition. Do you think that we could do anything for her somewhere else? I don’t know, in Rome. I . . . well, as you know, I have many friends.”
“I know, and I always wonder how a woman like you can stand to frequent certain people. No, I appreciate your concern, but unfortunately our dear Rosa’s situation wouldn’t improve even with the intervention of the finest doctor on earth. What’s happened has happened, and it’s practically impossible to repair it without surgery, and that unfortunately would be far too risky. Cranial trephination, for a person of that age, is fatal in virtually 100 percent of cases.”
“Poor Ricciardi. He loves that woman so much. But tell me, doctor, what’s the prognosis? That is, when . . . when might the final crisis come?”
“No one can say. Rosa has a very strong constitution, and if you ask me the cerebral damage is relatively circumscribed. As long as we’re able to feed her and her internal organs don’t collapse, she’ll survive. I believe that she could last a couple of weeks, barring a sudden and unexpected deterioration.”
Livia nodded.
“Then you’re saying that this week, she still ought to . . .”
“Certainly, I would say so. Can I know the reason for your question?”
The woman looked at him like a little girl hoping not to be scolded for a bit of mischief: “You see, Doctor, I’m afraid that it’s something rather frivolous. I had decided to throw a party, next Friday. Just to introduce myself to the city, and to return the many invitations that have been extended to me over the past few months. I wanted . . . you see . . . it’s important to me that Ricciardi be there. You know, you must certainly have guessed, and for that matter you are practically the only friend he has . . . in short, I’d really like him to come. And if his tata’s condition were to worsen, I doubt that he’d be willing to be away from her even for as much as a few hours.”
“It’s just too easy for you to strike tenderness into this rumpled old heart, Signora. I’ll make sure to kick him out of here by reshuffling my shifts and staying with Rosa in his place. It will be up to you, though, to persuade him, and I don’t doubt that you possess the tools to do so successfully.”
“But that would mean not having you at the party, Doctor.”
The doctor laughed: “I’m afraid that’s our only option; Ricciardi wouldn’t give up his post to anyone other than yours truly: also, I’m the only person who has the power to kick him out of the room. And let me add, Signora, that I’m pretty sure that many of your guests would be delighted not to see me there and, if I may, I would be just as delighted not to see them, either. It means that, if the plan works, you’ll owe me a meal together, just four old friends: you, me, old Brigadier Maione, and the prince of darkness himself, our man Ricciardi. With a bowl of scraps for my hairy little friend here.”
Having cleared things up with the doctor, Livia gave her driver an address on Via Duomo. The knottiest detail in her preparations for the party still had to be taken care of.
She stepped out of the car and strode confidently through the atrium of an apartment house, politely greeting the doorman, who responded with a bow. Everything suggested the woman had a certain familiarity with the place. After climbing two flights of stairs, she rang a doorbell.
“Is he in?” she asked the housekeeper who came to the door.
“Of course, Signo’. Let me go tell him that you’re here.”
After a few moments, a middle-aged man came trotting to the door. He was on the short side and overweight. His double chin was tucked into an over-tight collar, and his white smoking jacket, dotted with a light-blue geometric motif, was wrapped around his jutting belly with a broad red sash, creating an unusual chromatic effect.
“Donna Livia, what a pleasur
e! To what do we owe this visit? Have you come to announce that you’ve conquered your last lingering reservations and have made up your mind to elope with me this very day?”
Livia let the little man kiss her on both cheeks.
“Don Libero, what woman on earth would be capable of resisting the allure of the greatest living poet in the most beautiful language on earth? Certainly not me, your most fervent admirer. But as for eloping . . . How would you live without your Maria?”
The man waved a hand in the air, as if shooing away some annoying idea: “Maria? Who’s Maria? Ah, you must be referring to my wife. Oh, of course, you have a point, unfortunately. I can’t live without her, largely because she’s constantly underfoot. You’ll see her for yourself when she gets back from her grocery shopping; she insists on buying our food in person, otherwise she claims that both our housekeeper and the shopkeepers will rob her blind. Please, come right this way. What can I do for you?”
Livia entered a living room at the center of which stood a concert piano, like some kind of pagan altar. Seated at the keyboard was a man in shirtsleeves; he had a mustache and a pair of thick-lensed reading glasses, and he was jotting down something on a sheet of paper. Other sheets of paper partly covered with notes and lyrics were scattered all over the room: on the carpet, on the piano, on armchairs and sofas.
The man at the keyboard stood up and made a bow: “Donna Livia, what a pleasure! Have you come to rescue me from the talons of this lunatic?”
Livia extended her hand for a gallant kiss from the pianist: “Don Ernesto, your prison cell is the forbidden dream of every singer and musician in this city. And I consider myself lucky to be allowed entrance to the workshop where so many marvelous masterpieces are brought into being. How have you been?”
The Bottom of Your Heart Page 26