Some twenty yards below, a number of strolling vendors were all heading in the same direction, as in a secular variation on a religious procession; one of them, a gigantic man whose self-propelled stall was loaded down with walnuts, hazelnuts, and chestnuts piled high in a spectacular display, swayed under the burden of his merchandise, threatening to crash to the ground. His curses rose to Ricciardi’s ears, muddled by the cacophony of the piazza. The commissario thought it was absurd to curse so furiously if the man was going, like the others, to set up his stall near the church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel—in haste, come to think of it—to find a good spot for the impending festival.
Haste, he thought.
Haste. Hurry. Festival, ex-voto, hurry.
With his heart in his throat, he yelled for Maione.
The brigadier’s mood had undergone a change for the better so spectacular that even Ricciardi noticed it, though he was preoccupied by a complex set of wheels in his mind that had finally begun to grind and spin. Maione’s face, which for the past several days had been furrowed by a network of wrinkles that made him seem much older, was now relaxed and serene; from time to time, he even broke into a cheerful little whistle, as if he were singing some ditty to himself.
As they walked along together, the commissario shot him baffled glances: he was almost more worried by that sudden change than he had been by the bad mood which had preceded it.
Maione burst out in a delighted voice: “Just look at all these people, Commissa’! The voices, the smells, the music. Don’t you think they’re just wonderful? They’re like a symphony, like the band that plays at the Cassa Armonica, the bandstand at the Villa Nazionale: each with an instrument of his own, all of them together playing the music of the city!”
As they pushed their way with greater and greater difficulty through the increasingly packed crowd, Ricciardi shot back: “Raffaele, do you mind telling me what’s going on? First all that anger, everything bothered you, everyone got on your nerves, and now you talk to me about the music of the city?”
And Maione replied contentedly: “No, Commissa’, it’s just that there are times when something opens your eyes. You know those investigations where you try to force evidence and clues to fit in with some preconceived idea you’ve come up with? And the evidence never really does fit together perfectly, but you never notice that because, by then, like an ass, you’ve made up your mind and nothing’s going to change it. Then, in fact, someone comes along, a man, or maybe a woman, it doesn’t matter, tells you something, and your whole view of things changes, and all the evidence and proof slides right into place and everything becomes clear. You know what I mean?”
“Certainly I know what you mean. It’s the main risk of the work we do, isn’t it? Prejudice. As well as how much time it makes you waste, the way it leads you to make a bunch of mistakes, possibly irreparable ones. Who can say how many innocent people are in prison because of it. And that is precisely why we must move quickly.”
They reached their destination and strode through the large entrance.
The interior of the Basilica del Carmine Maggiore, the church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, resembled a construction site more than a place of worship. The impending festival, an occasion that involved the entire city in an explosion of joy, fire, and dances that had clearly been influenced by pagan celebrations, was heralded by a frantic activity that was evident even along the nave of the beautiful old church.
A dozen or so men were clambering up precarious wooden ladders to hang draperies and festoons in silk and cotton, white and sky-blue, decorating the internal portal and the altars, the columns and the nave. A number of florists were busy replacing flowers that were beginning to wilt in arrangements already laid out for the initial services: green plants beneath the altar, ferns and boxwoods, sky-blue hydrangeas and calla lilies and gladioli in white, while hundreds of roses filled the hot air, along with incense and the melting wax of a thousand candles. The immense, monumental organ located, according to tradition, above the main portal, lowed melodiously in the rehearsals of sacred music that would be played on the day of the festival.
Adding to the confusion, thirty or so of the faithful were tending to candles and pews, trying to make sure that immense space would be able to accommodate all those who would be trying to crowd into it two days from now.
Drawn by the sight of Maione’s police uniform, a young friar walked up to them.
“Peace be with you. Is there something I can do for you?”
Ricciardi looked at him. He might have been a little older than twenty-five, and his tonsure and eyeglasses weren’t enough to make him seem much older; the brown cassock of the Carmelite order was a little large on him, and he kept his hands inside the sleeves, in the characteristic monkish posture.
Maione, who had removed his cap when he entered the church, returned the greeting: “Peace be with you, Brother. This is Commissario Ricciardi and I’m Brigadier Maione, from police headquarters. We’d like to speak to whoever receives the ex-votos from the faithful.”
The young man’s eyes hardened. He strode silently to a recess off the side aisle, where there were no crowds of people engaged in preparations for the festival; still, a couple of men and a woman or two had turned to watch, their curiosity piqued. Tight-lipped, he said: “How dare you? The relations between the church and the faithful are private, top secret. What authorization brings you here?”
The two policemen were surprised by this reaction. Ricciardi said: “Excuse me, I’m not sure I caught your name.”
The man held Ricciardi’s gaze: “I’m Friar Simone. And let me reiterate, you have absolutely no right to investigate the ex-votos. Or even to see them without our permission.”
Maione was disconcerted by the friar’s categorical rejection.
“Excuse me, Brother, but aren’t the ex-votos on display? Aren’t they there for anyone to see?”
The friar shook his head no: “Only a very small portion of them are kept in the vitrines adjoining the altar. Those are on display. And they’re all anonymous, except for the ones that bear the names of the faithful, either painted or engraved.”
Ricciardi said: “Could you take us to see them, then? We only want to look, not investigate. Will you allow that much?”
The young man nodded mistrustfully, and walked away without inviting the two policemen to follow; they strode after him all the same.
Next to the main altar was a chapel that opened into a smallish room. Both the room and the chapel were lined with ex-votos. Maione, who had clearly been here before, smiled at Ricciardi’s gasp of surprise.
There were objects in gold, silver, and painted wood, of all shapes and sizes, several of them quite old. Body parts alternated with hunting scenes, accidents, and shipwrecks depicted on panels; there was quite a lot of silver and gold, and Ricciardi wondered if these ex-votos were truly safe from burglars, even if they were in a sacred edifice.
As if sensing his thoughts, Maione whispered to him: “No one would ever dare to touch any of them, Commissa’. These things belong to Our Lady of Mount Carmel, no one would even think of it.”
The most precious objects, especially the jewelry made of gold and precious stones that reflected and splintered the gleam of the candles, were contained in glass vitrines.
Ricciardi asked the friar: “Has one of these been put on display recently? In the last two days, I mean.”
“No. The ex-votos are only put on display after an examination and an evaluation by the priory of this monastery. Let me repeat that these are matters over which you have no jurisdiction. Please, if you’re not here to pray, I must beg you to leave immediately. And if . . .”
A deep voice from behind them broke in: “Friar Simone, since when do we kick people out of the church? I understand that we’re busy preparing for the festival, but this seems a bit much, don’t you think?”
They
turned and found themselves before an elderly man, dressed exactly like his younger colleague; he was short and his cassock was clean, if obviously worn. But from his blue eyes emanated a liveliness and authority so strong they were almost palpable.
Simone bowed: “Father, I certainly had no intention of kicking anyone out of the church. The gentlemen here are from the . . .”
“. . . from the police, I’d have to imagine. Unless the brigadier is an actor or has just left a masquerade party. Buonasera, gentlemen. What can we do for you?”
Ricciardi returned the greeting, introduced himself, then said: “We’ve come because we need information concerning the ex-votos. One ex-voto in particular, actually. It’s just that Friar Simone tells us that unfortunately we are forbidden from obtaining that information. We cannot even lay eyes on the ex-votos, from what we are told.”
The old man nodded, pensively. Then he said: “I’m Friar Bartolomeo, the prior of this monastery, and therefore in charge of many things, far too many; the ex-votos among them. My young brother is quite right, the ex-votos are secret: they are inherent in the relationship between the church and the faithful, something that still remains, by God’s grace, beyond the reach of human meddling.”
Ricciardi replied in a conciliatory tone: “I understand, Father. And believe me when I say that the last thing I’d want is to interfere in such matters, our hands are already full with pain and grief. But this concerns a murder; and I’m determined to leave no stone unturned in my efforts to set things right, and especially to prevent an innocent man from being punished instead of the guilty party.”
The prior looked hard at him. Then, as if he’d come to a decision, he said: “Well done, Friar Simone. Now I’ll take over. Gentlemen, please come with me.”
Going through a door and then down a hallway, they finally emerged in a marvelous cloister, a quadrilateral a good hundred feet on each side, with finely frescoed walls and a luxuriant garden in the center; from there they walked on into a low building with white walls. Friar Bartolomeo made his way up a steep flight of stairs, displaying a youthful agility, then he came to a stop before a heavy door made of dark wood. He pulled a large ring with many keys out of his cassock, opened the door, and invited them to enter.
The prior’s office was cool thanks to the high ceiling and the thick walls that kept the temperature low. The few items of furniture were made of heavy, hand-carved wood. There were no concessions to luxury, nor were there decorations, but the impression that Ricciardi had was of a place where great power was administered.
Friar Bartolomeo walked around the desk and took a seat, gesturing to the policemen to do the same. Then he addressed Ricciardi: “Commissario, do go ahead. To take a human life is a mortal sin, an act of arrogance by a human being convinced he can act in God’s stead. Not even we can allow such an act to go unpunished.”
Ricciardi told the story of Iovine, from the moment the corpse was found at the polyclinic up to what had happened that very morning.
“According to what we’ve been told by his apprentice, the goldsmith, Nicola Coviello, had been working frantically over the past few days to complete a very valuable ex-voto, an engraved golden heart with a flame on top. I guessed that his haste might have been due to the approaching festival, in part because there’s an image of Our Lady of Mount Carmel in his workshop, right above his workbench.”
The friar listened attentively: “But couldn’t you ask this Coviello?”
Maione and Ricciardi looked at each other, then the brigadier said: “Unfortunately, Father, Coviello took his life this morning. He hanged himself in his workshop.”
The prior sat in silence; he joined his hands together and stared down at the top of his desk, and then he crossed himself. He had such a look of sorrow on his face that Ricciardi thought he might have known the goldsmith personally.
Bartolomeo asked: “Could you describe this man to me, Commissario?”
Ricciardi did so, as accurately as he could remember him; eyeglasses with very thick lenses, disproportionately long arms and legs, a figure made ridiculous by a hunchback; he even told him about the change in the man’s mood the last time that he’d been seen alive. As he proceeded with the description, the look on the prior’s face grew increasingly sorrowful. When he was done, he asked him: “You understand clearly, Father, just how important it is for us to understand the reason for this ex-voto. Who commissioned it, why Coviello’s last act before his death was to work on it, and above all why he killed himself. Except for an engraving on his workbench, he didn’t leave a word.”
Bartolomeo sat for a long time without speaking. Then he stood up and went over to the window: “You know, Commissario, no one is brought face-to-face with the mysteries of the human mind like a priest. In confession, people throw open the door onto certain abysses they have within them, gulfs in which specters of every kind lie concealed. Sometimes a person may choose not to go to confession, to keep their distance from the sacrament. Still, we understand them; perhaps because we are used to looking into and through the eyes of others.”
In the cloister, a bird cawed mournfully.
“The man you’ve described was here very early this morning, before dawn. The Lord willed that he should meet me while I was taking advantage of the early morning hours, after reading Matins with my brothers, to take some time to study before dawn. He appeared at my side, almost frightening me. I asked him what he wanted, and he spoke to me.”
Ricciardi wanted the friar to tell him everything he could remember: “What was he like, Father? Did he seem upset, anxious, confused?”
The prior turned to look at him, his fingers clasped behind his back: “No, Commissario, quite the opposite. That was what I was trying to tell you, earlier. There was no anguish, fear, or despair in him; nor was there resignation or anger. He was a man at peace, tranquil and serene. That is why the news you’ve given me is so upsetting, and why I asked you to confirm with a description. After all these years I thought I could recognize a human being on the verge of an act as terrible as suicide, but instead, as you can see, I was wrong.”
Ricciardi understood him perfectly.
“What did he tell you, Father?”
“He told me his name, and his profession. He had a bundle, which he gave to me. He told me that it was a gift from him to the Virgin Mary, and he asked me if I would display it on the day of the festival.”
Maione asked: “Did he say if it was on the behalf of some other person? Did he say by chance whether it had been commissioned by a woman?”
“A woman? No, Brigadier. He told me that it was an object that he had made for the Madonna, to whom he was particularly devoted. For that matter, I remember that man very clearly because he attended all the services every Sunday, and often during the week as well. He really must have been very devoted to Our Lady.”
Ricciardi said nothing. He had placed his hope in the mysterious female visitor’s mission, and he’d thought he would be able to track her down to learn what bond linked her to Coviello, and what had caused him to kill himself. At last he said: “Can we see this object, Father? Perhaps it can help us to understand.”
The prior said: “I can’t see how it would. However exquisite the workmanship, the fact that it was donated by a man who then killed himself strips it of all value, and there is no way that I can comply with poor Coviello’s request. The Virgin Mary, on the day of Her festival, certainly cannot wear a bloodstained jewel.”
Ricciardi decided to insist: “Just one more reason, Father, not to conceal it from us. If it cannot be a venerated object because the man who made it and donated it died a suicide, and therefore its mere venal value can only serve to do some act of charity, perhaps in that case showing it to us would not violate your rules.”
The prior sighed: “All right. You’re probably correct.”
He went over to a tall, deep cabinet. Once again, he pu
lled out the ring with the many keys and opened it. The policemen glimpsed, beyond the friar’s diminutive physique, a great many metallic objects that glittered in the light of the setting sun; the man picked up something and quickly shut the door, turning the key several times in the lock. Then he came back to the desk carrying a bundle wrapped in dark cloth that Ricciardi recognized as the one that Coviello had wrapped up hurriedly and stowed away in the safe the first time they had come to his workshop.
The friar stepped over to the desk and spread the cloth out on the surface. At the center, gleaming brightly like a small sun, was Coviello’s heart.
It was the size of a clenched fist, and it was topped by a nine-pointed flame. It had been carefully polished, and the front, the part that was visible as it lay on the cloth, featured very fine arabesques that almost looked as if they’d been embroidered.
It was absolutely beautiful, Ricciardi thought; it had every right to serve as the artistic last will and testament of a great craftsman.
He asked the prior: “Does it have a meaning, Father? Does it mean something, in and of itself?”
The friar made a baffled face: “Hard to say. Votive offerings, you see, haven’t always been the same throughout history: it’s a testimonial, a sort of signature on the pact between man and God or His saints. Every object can have a different meaning, even if they have roughly the same shape: as you must know, ex-votos take the shape of diseased and cured organs, or the ones on behalf of which a grace is being asked. The material used symbolizes the seriousness of the disease or the importance of the grace that is being requested. Gold, obviously, means something of maximum gravity. The donor does what he can, and at times the funds at his disposal don’t allow him to allocate large sums, but the faith that underlies the gift is almost always dictated by immense hope or true gratitude. A heart with a flame, like this one, can have an array of meanings. It’s a burning heart, either burning with grief or pain or else with love, like the heart of Jesus: a flame that does not consume, and that is never consumed. An eternal love, like the love of the Savior for His children.”
The Bottom of Your Heart Page 35