The Bottom of Your Heart

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Ricciardi drew closer. At the edge of the workbench, carved with some pointed tool so masterfully that it appeared to have been written with pen and ink, a few words stood out in all capital letters:

  AT LAST I CAN DEPART

  The commissario raised his eyes and found himself staring at the facing wall, at the old calendar with its faded drawing of a steamship. Behind him, equally faded, Our Lady of Mount Carmel was tenderly caressing Her child.

  What could have made the goldsmith feel he was finally free to make that last, definitive departure? Ricciardi turned to the boy, the only person he knew of who had been in contact with that shy, silent man, with the exception of the late professor: “Listen, Sergio. Do you remember Iovine, who commissioned the jewelry from Coviello?”

  “Yessir, Commissa’, I remember him. He’s the one who wanted the two identical rings. Those are major rings, they cost as much as an apartment: the diamonds are large and pure, especially the diamond on the second ring, the one that was made afterward. He must have been very rich, that professor. It was after he finished those rings that my master stopped taking on new work.”

  “And do you remember how many times he came, and what was said?”

  Sergio concentrated: “Twice when I was here, Commissa’. He said that his wife had been given Mastro Nicola’s name by some girlfriends of hers, and that was why he had come to ask him to do this work for him. Then, when he came back, he said that he needed another ring for another person, and that he was relying on my master’s discretion.”

  That matched what they already knew. Ricciardi sighed, defeated.

  Then Sergio said: “I remember it clearly, because the first time he came, it was the day after the lady with the veil.”

  Maione practically jumped into the air: “What lady with the veil?”

  “She came here late one evening, Mastro Nicola was teaching me how to work with coral. She knocked on the door, she was wearing a hat with a dark veil, and I couldn’t see her face. Mastro Nicola said: we’re closed, come back tomorrow. And she said: tomorrow, there are no steamships departing. Then Mastro Nicola told me to leave immediately.”

  The brigadier asked: “What was this lady like? Tall, short, young, old? And what did Coviello do?”

  The apprentice shifted uneasily.

  “She was normal, neither young nor old, neither tall nor short. But Mastro Nicola turned white as a sheet, and his graver dropped out of his hand. I asked whether he felt all right: he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. But he just told me again to leave, and in a hurry.”

  Ricciardi pressed further: “And the next day, did he say anything?”

  “Nothing. A few days later I asked him if the lady had commissioned some new work from him, and he raised his voice: what lady? There’s no lady. You must have dreamed her. That’s why I remember her: because of what Mastro Nicola said to me.”

  At last I can depart, Ricciardi read on the edge of the workbench in the silence that followed. The bottom of your heart, the image of the dead goldsmith murmured from the shadowy corner.

  He felt exhausted. Maybe it was that heavy air. He needed to get out of the workshop.

  Outside, in the heat of the rising sun, Ricciardi decided that at last he had a lead.

  LX

  On the way back to police headquarters, Ricciardi and Maione found themselves plunged back into the dark thoughts and glum moods that had oppressed them that morning. They were both wrapped up in the same fear. How little of themselves had they devoted to that investigation? How badly had they been distracted by their personal problems?

  Ricciardi had the impression he now possessed all the elements he needed to arrive at the solution, but he couldn’t find the thread, the connection between the individual fragments that would allow him to put together the picture.

  Maione said: “I can’t imagine why Coviello killed himself. He was untroubled, in fact he was downright cheerful, according to what the boy told us. He was completing a major project, so major he was even keeping it a secret from his own apprentice, then he finished it and killed himself. But why?”

  Ricciardi was walking with his head down, his hands stuffed in his pockets. An unruly lock of hair dangled over his forehead.

  “I don’t know, Raffaele. I wonder whether there could be some connection between the veiled woman and this ex-voto. Whether the secret client was her. But if she was the one who commissioned such a significant project, why didn’t she go to Coviello’s workshop more than once, to see how the work was coming along?”

  Maione mopped the sweat from his brow every three paces or so. The sun beat down mercilessly.

  “And another thing, Commissa’, is there some connection between Coviello’s suicide and the professor’s murder? There’s no suicide note, and he didn’t say anything to anyone. Maybe they’re two unrelated incidents.”

  Ricciardi made a face: “One man delivers jewelry to another, who is tossed out a window a few minutes later; the first man is the last person to see the other man alive, and he has probably met or glimpsed the murderer who was waiting outside the office, and then he kills himself. I don’t believe in coincidences, Raffaele. Two fatal events just a few days apart and a single person as the common denominator: Coviello. It seems unlikely to me that there are no correlations. We just need to identify them.”

  They’d reached the door to Ricciardi’s office. As he opened it, the commissario perceived a vague, spicy scent of perfume and the thought of Livia was promptly confirmed by her physical presence. She was sitting in front of his desk.

  He felt annoyed at that invasion of his personal space: how dare she enter his office in his absence?

  “What are you doing here? Who let you in?”

  Livia turned a hesitant smile in Riccardi’s direction, but the spoken answer came from the occupant of the other chair, concealed behind the coat rack: “Oh, here he is, our man Ricciardi, at last! It’s a good thing I happened to meet the lovely lady, who was wandering the halls; while you, Ricciardi, spend your time pursuing yet another criminal, such an important visitor—and let me repeat: important—is forced to wait for you here. What on earth were you thinking?”

  At the sound of Garzo’s voice, Maione, behind Ricciardi’s back, emitted a dull snarl, like a dog would, sighting a cat.

  The commissario replied, courteous and cold: “Buongiorno, Dottore. Yes, in fact we were out on duty. I don’t know if you’ve heard about the suicide of the prime witness in the Iovine case, but we’d been to examine the scene and . . .”

  Garzo waved one hand in the air, as if he were shooing away a fly: “Yes, yes, I know. Work. But it’s also your job to look out for the safety of the important individuals who live in our city. And to ensure that the events, let me repeat, the events that are being held here go off without a hitch, so that they can bask in the prominence they deserve. That’s why Signora Livia came to visit us—to come to an understanding about these security measures.”

  Ricciardi’s tone remained dry: “With all due respect, Dottore, I believe that a murder and a suicide are slightly more urgent than a masquerade ball that . . .”

  He was interrupted by a falsetto shriek: “What? A masquerade ball? But . . . but you never told me that, my dear lady! What a wonderful idea, this party will go down in city history! I would imagine that even in Rome the personalities—and let me repeat: the personalities—that you’ve invited will be over the moon with delight! I have to tell you that when I received the invitation, for which I must thank you again, I felt honored and happy, and I felt even more keenly than before a responsibility to ensure the highest possible level of security by means of a surveillance plan that I worked on myself and which I will submit for your perusal.”

  Livia was ill at ease; she sensed Ricciardi and Maione’s hostility and kept her eyes glued to the commissario’s expressionless face as she replied to Garzo: “I certa
inly would have told you, Dottore, but it’s still two days away. I didn’t want to interfere with your work, and . . .”

  Garzo laughed noisily: “But my cara, cara Signora, this is work too, you know! I always tell my wife: work, before all else. But a party, and a masquerade party to boot! Our man Ricciardi lets himself get carried away with investigations into street crime, and that’s very much to his credit, but your party is also a matter of public security, given the prominent personalities—and let me repeat: the personalities—that will be attending!”

  Ricciardi felt he had to say something: “Dottore, please forgive me, but we can’t stop our work on this investigation: as you know very well, time is a crucial factor.”

  Livia started to stand up.

  “Certainly, Dottore, Ricciardi has a point. For that matter, the only reason I came by was to inquire after the health of Signora Rosa, and . . .”

  Garzo interrupted: “Ah, right, yes, Ricciardi, I heard that your servant had an apoplectic fit. How is she?”

  Maione took a step forward and blurted out in an exceptionally harsh voice: “Signora Rosa is no servant, Dotto’. Signora Rosa is a family member to the commissario—and let me repeat myself: a family member—and she alone is more important than all of police headquarters including the top brass,—and let me repeat: the top brass.”

  In the awkward silence that ensued, Garzo, as he always did when he was irritated, sat with his mouth partly open; he blinked repeatedly and his throat turned red in patches. He was about to deliver a stinging retort to Maione, who was staring at him grimly, but Livia didn’t give him the opportunity: “The brigadier is quite right, Dottore: Signora Rosa is an exceptional woman, and I’m very fond of her. One of those rare people who have the privilege of winning the affection of everyone they meet. I would take any offense paid to her just as if it were directed at me.”

  Garzo had all the shortcomings in the world, but he was also exceptionally quick on his feet, able to adopt with extraordinary rapidity whatever position best served his own self-interest.

  “Why, of course, Signora. And we at police headquarters care very much about the family members of the men who work with us. Why, I’d venture to say that we’re all just one great big family. Well, Ricciardi, and how is this dear lady doing?”

  The commissario whispered a reply: “These aren’t matters that can be solved easily, Dottore. I’m glad to be able to say that she’s in excellent hands, perhaps the best: Dr. Modo, at Pellegrini Hospital.”

  Garzo made a face: “Ah, yes, Modo. A singular individual, from what I’ve heard. I believe I’ve seen a confidential report or two . . . but we’ll drop that. All right then, shall we talk about the security plans for our—and I venture to call it: our—party, my dear lady?”

  Livia, unlike Garzo, was capable of taking the room’s temperature. She looked Ricciardi in the eye and said, in her deep, unflustered voice: “Dottor Garzo, I believe that the commissario and the brigadier really have very different matters on their minds just now. But I’d consider myself truly fortunate to have a chance to discuss it with you . . . Perhaps you could invite me to your office so we could talk about it more freely, don’t you think?”

  Garzo happily leapt to his feet: “Why, certainly, Signora, what an honor. Please, come right this way: I’ll ask my assistant Ponte to arrange for an excellent espresso to be brought up, and you can tell me all about the party. A masquerade party, we were saying? And with what theme? I hope my wife doesn’t kill me when she finds out that she’ll have to find herself a costume on such short notice. In fact,” he said, laughing jovially, “she’s sure to kill me!”

  Maione, under his breath but within Ricciardi’s hearing, said: “And she’ll be doing us all a favor, your wife will.”

  Livia smiled at Garzo: “Lead the way, Dottore. I’ll catch up with you right away, let me just say goodbye to these two gentlemen.”

  “Don’t make me wait too long, though. As I always say: work before all else!”

  Maione nodded to Ricciardi and headed in the opposite direction: “Commissa’, I’ll see you later.”

  Once they were alone, Livia laid a gloved hand on Ricciardi’s arm: “I’m so sorry, caro. I happened to run into him outside your office, I asked him whether you were here, and I was turning to leave, but he insisted on letting me in. I never would have dared do such a thing.”

  The commissario nearly exploded: “Livia, I’ve told you before: you come here to police headquarters too often. You know that when I’m working, I . . .”

  She interrupted him with a bitter laugh: “Work before all else, of course. Listen to me, Ricciardi, let’s not mince words here: I’m a woman, and I have feelings. And I’m actually not stupid. You’re having a terrible time, I know how dear Rosa is to you: you’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, look at the state you’re in, you haven’t even shaved. You must, you absolutely must let me love you and take care of you.”

  Ricciardi ran a hand over his face, realizing that the woman had a point.

  “Livia, there’s a time and a place for everything. If we’re going to talk about this sort of thing, I need to have a clear head, and I . . .”

  “You can’t choose to remain alone. Whatever secret sorrow you have, you have to share it with someone. No one can live alone, remember that. That’s the real inferno, the only hell that exists here on earth: solitude. Take it from me, I’ve experienced it even when I was surrounded by crowds of people. You need to throw open this damned locked door that you have in your chest. You have to, do you understand me?”

  Ricciardi stared blankly. Loneliness is hell on earth. A hell, he thought, to which I’ve condemned myself since I was a child. The hell of my madness. The bottom of your heart, the memory of Coviello’s phantom told him. The bottom of your heart.

  He looked at the woman, who still had her hand on his arm. Her eyes were black as night, her mouth was partly open, her cheeks were red from her impassioned speech. What did she lack? What was it she didn’t have?

  “Livia, dear, it’s just a difficult, complicated moment. We can talk about it some other time, if you like. But first let me get through this.”

  She stared at him in silence. Then she said: “I’m . . . I’m going to do something, at this party. Something I care very much about, and I’m going to do it for you. Whether or not you’re there.”

  She brushed his lips with a kiss and left.

  LXI

  Maione was furious. With Garzo, who was an idiot, an uncouth imbecile; but also with Lucia, Pianese, and even Coviello, who had killed himself for no conceivable reason.

  But most of all he was angry with himself. He’d been a bad husband, if Lucia was cheating on him; a bad father, who had by his own stupid example induced poor Luca to follow in his footsteps and get himself killed; a bad policeman, who instead of focusing on an investigation was using valuable time when he was on duty to assault some guy on the street. He could sense the opinion he had of himself crumbling, along with the life he’d built for himself through hard work and pain. And he was afraid.

  His shirt unbuttoned, his face cradled in his hands, he sat alone behind a closed door in the room where he had a desk, a chair, and a cot where he slept when he was working the graveyard shift. This heat, he thought to himself. This terrible, miserable heat, that kills all desire to move around, to live, that shatters your thoughts into pointless jagged shards. It’s no accident that the inferno is hot.

  Someone knocked at the door. Maione called out, brusquely: “Come in!”

  Camarda appeared at the door, gripping a struggling child by the scruff of the neck: “Brigadie’, forgive me, I didn’t want to bother you, but this kid here says that he has something he needs to tell you.”

  Maione’s terrible mood was the talk of the day among the rank and file at police headquarters, and before Camarda decided to bring the boy into the brigadier’s pres
ence, he’d thought long and hard; then the fear that it might be something important had outweighed the fear of earning a kick in the ass, and now here he was. Stepping cautiously, though.

  Maione observed the boy. He didn’t know him: just one more scugnizzo of the thousands that infested the city’s streets, playing pranks on passersby and hitching rides on the city buses by grabbing onto the overhead electric trolley poles. “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

  The boy looked at him with defiance in his eyes: “Unless you let me go right now, I won’t tell you anything.”

  Maione gestured to Camarda, who released him. The boy, who couldn’t have been older than seven or eight, shot the police officer a vicious glare as he rubbed his neck. Then he turned to look at Maione: “I can’t speak unless it’s you and me and no one else.”

  Amused in spite of himself by the boy’s formal tone, the brigadier nodded in Camarda’s direction, who reluctantly left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving the two alone. Maione said: “Well? Who are you, what’s your name?”

  The boy cleared his throat and intoned in a stentorian voice: “Do you confirm that you are Brigadier Raffaele Maione?”

  “Yes, that’s me, but . . .”

  “Then I’ve been sent to tell you that there’s a lady at the Café Caflisch, in the inside salon, waiting to speak to you. You must come alone, make sure that no one sees you arrive, and give me a tip for my service.”

  The brigadier had listened openmouthed.

  “How about if, instead of giving you a tip, I give you a good hard kick in the ass and just stay right here, what do you say to that?”

  The boy didn’t bat an eye.

  “The lady said that it would be all the worse for you. That’s what she said. And anyway, Brigadie’, no disrespect, but by the time you get around this desk I’ll be halfway up the hill to Capodimonte.”