The girl considered Ricciardi’s words. She was young, but life had already taught her to evaluate the pros and cons of every situation in the most objective way. In a voice so low that it was barely audible, she said: “He has a pianino. He strolls through the city, but he keeps to a specific route. Usually, around noon, you can find him at the Belvedere di San Martino, because that’s where people from out of town come to see the museum and the view. Today is a beautiful day, that’s where you’re likely to find him.”
Ricciardi bowed slightly: “Grazie, Signorina. May I ask what you plan to do with this apartment?”
“What can I say, Commissa’? I’ll wait for them to evict me.”
Ricciardi left, followed by Maione. The brigadier shot one last grim glare at Sisinella, who responded ironically by blowing him a kiss.
LI
Ricciardi and Maione were ahead of schedule and the walk to Piazzale di San Martino was a short one, so they took their time, and even stopped off at a café with a terrace that overlooked the city’s rooftops.
The volcano was silhouetted against the blue sky and together they looked like a painted backdrop, the kind you could see in the stage sets at the Salone Margherita music hall. From above, the streets and buildings of the center of town resembled a manger scene, wood and terra-cotta models built for children, with tiny automobiles and carriages moving along silently. The air was steeped in the pungent odor of horse manure and sunbaked vegetation.
Ricciardi sat waiting for Maione to say something, hoping he might reveal the reason for his jangled nerves, but the brigadier did not seem inclined to confide his thoughts; he just pushed the tiny spoon around in his demitasse and looked out at the panorama.
At that point, the commissario tried coming at it in a roundabout way: “I feel sorry for that girl, you know? She was confident that she’d closed the door on her previous life, and now she’s in danger of slipping back into it. Unless it turns out that this Cortese actually has honorable intentions.”
Maione replied without taking his eyes off the gridwork of tiny buildings: “You really think so, Commissa’? Women like her have only one thing in mind: their own self-interest. They’re like animals, like dogs and cats, eager to eat, and once they have, off they go, with not another thought about you.”
“Are you sure that’s the way things work? Just think about the doctor’s little dog, the one we found with the little boy up at Capodimonte. That child certainly can’t have been giving him much food, but the dog never left his side, even after he was dead.”
The brigadier shrugged his shoulders: “There are always exceptions. But believe me, Commissa’, that’s how women are. They look for economic security, for comfort. And if you can’t give it to them anymore, they’ll go looking somewhere else.”
“What are you talking about? That’s something you of all people can’t say. You’ve shared your whole life—its pains and its joys—with Lucia. By supporting each other you’ve survived despair, you’ve overcome a tragedy that would have destroyed almost anyone else I know.”
Maione spoke in a broken voice.
“Things change, Commissa’. Things change. Well, we’d better get going, it’s practically noon.”
And he got brusquely to his feet.
The large piazza in front of the Charterhouse of San Martino was broad, practically circular, its surface almost entirely covered with packed earth. One reached it by climbing a handsome, not especially steep road, which was busy with carriages that took visitors up to one of the most enchanting overlooks in the city. The contrast between the peaceful hilltop hermitage and the frenzy that reigned at the foot of the hill was accentuated by the presence of a herd of goats, whose tinkling bells contributed to the bucolic atmosphere.
A number of street vendors had taken up positions with their merchandise; at a certain distance, as if to emphasize the difference in what was on offer, stood a pianino drawn by a mule that had seen better days. Turning the handle, surrounded by an audience of a dozen or so people, mostly women, was a young man who accompanied the music in a tenor voice. As he sang, he stared at a young foreign female tourist who was dressed in white and carried a fetching parasol. The young woman, who had a horsey face, listened with a look of enchantment, her eyes sparkling, her mouth half open, revealing a set of buckteeth.
Chisto è ’o paese d’o sole,
chisto è ’o paese d’o mare,
chisto è ’o paese addò tutt’e pparole
so’ doce e so’ amare,
so’ sempe parole d’ammore!
This is the land of sun,
this is the land of the sea.
It’s the land where words,
whether sweet or bitter,
are always words of love.
To give further emphasis to his performance, the musician underscored his lyrics with his free hand. Ricciardi studied him: not particularly tall, skinny and lithe, wearing a shirt under his waistcoat, the collar buttons unfastened, his cap pushed back on his forehead, curly black locks poking out from beneath it, gleaming white teeth, a cleft in his chin, and a bronzed neck. The classical Neapolitan type who always manages to insinuate himself into women’s hearts.
The young tourist turned to speak to an older woman, whom Maione identified with some confidence as her mother, given the similarity in dental configuration: “Wasn’t he wonderful, Mother? Did you hear him? Such a fantastic voice, and he’s so gorgeous . . .”
The young man smiled at her, oozing connivance from every pore: “Do you like, madame? I’ll be happy to sing again, don’t you worry.”
Maione coughed meaningfully: “Maybe in a little while. Right now the commissario and I want to talk to you.”
The other man grimaced in disappointment: “Can’t it wait, Brigadie’? You’re going to make me miss my opportunity with the signorina, here.”
“No, it can’t. And don’t worry, even if chipmunk girl leaves, there’ll be plenty more later. But perhaps you’d rather come have our little conversation at police headquarters. Your choice.”
The young man sent a morose sigh in the direction of the young Englishwoman, made a smiling apology, and blew her a kiss. The young woman blushed as her mother grabbed her arm and dragged her off.
While the audience that had been listening to the pianino drifted away, the three men moved off to the side.
“At your orders, Brigadie’. What can I do for you?”
“Are you Salvatore Cortese, also known as Tore ’o Pianino?
“Yessir, Brigadie’. But what have I done wrong?”
Maione snorted: “I don’t get it: every time I speak with someone, they always think they must necessarily have done something wrong. Nothing, you haven’t done anything wrong. At least I hope that’s true, for your sake. I’m only interested in getting some information. Do you know a certain Luongo, Teresa Luongo?”
“Who, Sisinella? Of course I know her. Why?”
Ricciardi took over from Maione: “Where were you on the night between last Thursday and Friday? It was the 7th, to be exact.”
Cortese narrowed his eyes: “Commissa’, what are you trying to say? Is that when the guy died, the one who was with Sisinella, the one who gave her money? You wouldn’t by some chance be thinking that . . .”
Maione interrupted sternly: “Just answer the commissario’s question.”
Cortese remained cautious: “I . . . Commissa’, I don’t really remember. I think that . . . I believe that I was in Vomero, anyway. I live in Arenella, not far away, I was on the street, or else maybe . . .”
Ricciardi stepped in quickly, forestalling Maione’s furious reaction: “Cortese, listen to me, this is a serious matter and we can’t stand around here wasting time. Either you tell us or we’re taking you with us.”
“No, no, now I remember. I was with Sisinella, in her apartment. I spent the night the
re, like I frequently do when . . . when we’re certain that no one else is going to be coming, in other words.”
Maione nodded: “Got it. So Sisinella is covering for you. She’s your alibi.”
Tore began whining, on the verge of tears: “But Brigadie’, what on earth are you talking about? What alibi? I don’t need any alibi, I never even met this professor, I’ve only seen him once, and that was from a distance, because he showed up one day when he wasn’t expected and I had to escape over the balcony, half naked, with my clothes clutched under my arm; it’s a good thing it was at night, or they would have arrested me. What do I know about what happened? Take pity on me, I’m just an honest, hardworking . . .”
Ricciardi cut him off: “So you never met the professor. But weren’t you jealous of him?”
The young man seemed sincerely surprised: “What? Why on earth should I have been jealous of him?”
Maione glared at him angrily: “And why do you think? The man was spending time with your sweetheart, he came to see her whenever he wanted, and when he did you had to scurry out the window, he’d lie down in your bed, and you weren’t jealous of him?”
Tore darted his eyes a couple of times from Maione to Ricciardi and back again.
“My sweetheart? . . . No, no, no, Brigadie’, you’ve got it all mixed up. Or else someone told you everything backwards, completely backwards. I don’t have a sweetheart, and I don’t plan to get one! Sisinella is a pretty girl, I’m very fond of her, and we have plenty of fun together, but come on, Sisinella is a whore. Do you think that a young man like me, an upright, hardworking Christian would get serious with a whore?”
Ricciardi said: “As far as I know, she’s no longer a prostitute. She even left the bordello.”
The other man burst out laughing uncontrollably: “What does that have to do with it, Commissa’? Once a whore, always a whore. I go to see her, I have myself a good time . . . And after all, as long as she had that fool paying for everything, lavishing gifts on her and even giving her hundred-lire banknotes, it was worth my while. Where do you think I got the money to buy this mule? Before I got the mule, I had to drag the pianino all the way up here myself. But I’m planning to spend the rest of my life with something better, not some whore.”
Maione and Ricciardi fell silent. Then Maione said: “So you weren’t jealous.”
“On the contrary, Brigadie’, he was a source of income! When we heard he was dead, we thought it was the end for us, damn him to hell. Why on earth would I kill the goose that laid the golden eggs?”
The brigadier eyed him with revulsion: “Believe me, Corte’, you truly disgust me. You’re telling me that when another man comes and takes your girl to bed, instead of going crazy what you do is take his money and consider yourself lucky?”
The young man was exasperated: “Brigadie’, you’re not listening to a word I’ve said: Sisinella isn’t my girl!”
Ricciardi said, in a low voice: “But that’s what she thinks. And she hopes to stay with you, now that she’s about to lose everything.”
Cortese broke out laughing.
“Oh, right . . . I’m going to have a whore for a sweetheart, and support her in the bargain. Me, supporting her! Seriously—and now they’re going to kick her out of her apartment; what do you think, should I bring her home to live with my mother? The idea of bringing a whore into a respectable household. In fact, I haven’t been to see her in three days, not since I heard about what happened to the professor. No question about it, she’s pretty and . . . well, let’s just say that she’s experienced. But I need to get to work. Maybe some girl like the one over there with the buckteeth, you saw her: they have plenty of money, these Englishwomen . . . a girl like that, if she falls head over heels, might even take you back home with her by steamship.”
Maione grabbed him by the lapels and hoisted him off the ground. Cortese squeaked in fear, kicking his feet in the empty air.
“Let me look a miserable good-for-nothing like you right in the eye,” said the brigadier. “Who knows when I’ll find another specimen like this one.” He suddenly released his grip, and the frightened young man fell to the ground. And Maione continued: “Let me tell you something, Corte’: I’ve got my eye on you. I’ve got my eye on you. If you stray over the line by so much as an inch, even a hair, first I’ll kick your ass black and blue till you can’t sit down, and then I’ll throw you in prison. I can just imagine how happy they’ll be to see you, the lifers, with your pretty smile and your beautiful operatic tenor voice.”
Cortese got back to his feet briskly, brushing off his hindquarters: “Don’t give it a second thought, Brigadie’, I never do anything wrong. Anything you need, just send for me and I’m entirely at your disposal. Thanks, Brigadie’; thanks, Commissa’; at your service. Can I go now?”
As they were riding the funicular back down to the center of town, Ricciardi commented bitterly: “Poor girl. In just a couple of days she’s lost both the man who was supporting her and her sweetheart. Life can be cruel.”
Maione sat in the wooden seat with his arms crossed.
“Yes, Commissa’. And I’m sorry now that I treated her so roughly. She’s more honest, with the work she’s done and where she’s done it, than this human sewer Cortese, who was exploiting her while she actually cared for him. It certainly is true that there are a thousand ways to betray. And a thousand reasons to do so.”
LII
This time, it was cold. There was a wind slicing the harbor in two, a wind that wouldn’t stop blowing. He could have taken shelter behind a warehouse wall, or a boat in dry dock, but he didn’t want to.
Plenty of steamships had set sail since she’d left, and he had come back every time, rain or shine, and he’d sat in their old spot even though he knew she wasn’t coming. Not for now.
What must it be like, to set sail in stormy weather? Maybe the sea was scarier, chilly and black, tossing and noisy, but then again, maybe without the scent of flowers in the air, without melodious strains of music, without the sun shining to catch all the colors out of the houses along the waterfront, vanishing slowly into the distance, maybe then the departure weighed less on you.
The emigrants hugged each other close to keep warm. He scrutinized their faces, but he saw no trace of the fear that had once been there. Things had changed. They’d changed for everyone: for him too.
The departure of the steamship: that had always been their place and their time. For the two of them. Ever since, all those many years ago, they were little more than children. She’d followed him here, without asking a thing: she’d understood intuitively. Because they understood each other.
Both of them silent, both of them determined, both of them poor, both of them convinced that they wouldn’t always be.
But he wondered now, as the sailor lowered the gangway with the passenger list in one hand, what did they want from the future? Did they really want the same things?
He pulled his collar tight, lowered his cap over his ears. America. What he wanted was America.
So many people had told him that, with his skills, he could make plenty of money. In America, there was no tradition, nor was there imagination. His ambition would know no bounds.
Because yes, he was ambitious. No one had ever understood just how ambitious he really was. He was good at what he did, and he was going to get even better. But what good is it to have a skill, what good are success, money, reputation, except to make the person you love happy? What good is all that, if it doesn’t bring a smile to anyone’s lips?
He would have liked America, but with her. Without her, America was empty. It meant nothing.
For so long now, one steamship after another, he’d hoped that she would fall in love with the idea: him and her together, across the sea, far away from those who didn’t understand, far away from those who let life roll over them. Him and her together in a new world, part of a peop
le who were capable of looking the future in the eye and changing it.
He’d been told that across the ocean, there were no aristocrats. That what you were was what you were, and that you could build something without anyone asking your name or who your parents had been. He’d been told that you could even become president, which was something like being king, even if you came from the manure of the stables.
Here, on the other hand, if you were you, you remained you, even if you were a genius capable of working miracles with your hands.
But she didn’t want to leave. She was captivated, he could sense it, and she cared for him; maybe not as much he cared for her, but enough to accept as a given that they were going to spend their lives together. That’s the way things were, where they lived. Two people would meet, and they’d stay together for the rest of their lives. They wouldn’t part ways, they wouldn’t take different paths. Together for the rest of their lives. The two of them had met and they were never to part, just like their parents before them, and their grandparents before them, and so on, back into the dark night of time.
This is what he couldn’t seem to figure out, as he watched the weary line of emigrants wend its way up the gangway, lashed by the gusts of chilly wind. If he wanted to leave, why hadn’t she just accepted that? Why hadn’t she said yes, like women were supposed to, and then set about helping him scrape together the money for the tickets?
He’d understood that she didn’t want to go, and he’d stopped talking about it. He’d hidden his dream from everyone. That had been their secret, the reason they sat in silence, among the hawsers and the nets: they watched the departures that would always be for others, never for them.
The Bottom of Your Heart Page 29