The other men, unwilling to be outdone, reached out their hands, as rapacious as foxes in a henhouse. The women clutched at one another for safety and Lily dealt a slap to the Fascist who had first grabbed a girl; caught off guard, he slipped and fell. His friends began to mock him and he stood up, offended, and slapped the woman hard in the face.
It all happened in just a few seconds.
Dr. Modo was the quickest to react: he grabbed the closest one, who fell, dragging another of his comrades to the ground. The other two turned their attention away from the women and moved toward the doctor, menacingly.
That was when the dog took up a position between Modo and the Fascists, baring its teeth, raising its hackles, emiting a hollow snarl. One of the men pulled a knife: the situation was critical.
From the shadows of the entryway across the street emerged the considerable bulk of Brigadier Maione, who had waited until the last possible moment in hopes that the situation might right itself without his intervention. Before taking action he had whispered an aside to Ricciardi, who had already started to step forward:
“Commissa’, wait, please. Let me take care of this.”
He placed himself in front of the doctor, and brought his hand close to the holstered revolver on his belt. He spoke to the four men:
“Gentlemen, let’s calm down . . . Are you sure it’s in your best interests to pursue this?”
There was a terrible moment of silence: from the windows and balconies by this point at least a few dozen spectators were looking down, and the girls and Madame Yvonne had all withdrawn to the entryway and were watching the scene from there. The Fascists were annoyed at having to backtrack, but the enormous policeman seemed resolutely determined to stand up for the doctor.
After a long hesitation, the tallest one put his knife away with studied and ostentatious lack of care. The oldest, who seemed to be in charge, spoke to the physician:
“We know you. You’re that doctor from the Pellegrini hospital. The one who likes to let his mouth run and always spouts nonsense. So you like politics, eh, Dotto’? You’d better be careful, though. If you practice the wrong kind of politics, you could wind up having a nasty accident.”
Modo looked at him hard for a long time. Then he spat onto the pavement, just a few inches from the tip of the man’s boots, and the man leapt backward in disgust, red-faced with anger and humiliation. The Fascist nodded his head, ostentatiously, never taking his eyes off Modo, as if he were memorizing that face.
He signaled to the others and then headed away up the street, followed by his three comrades.
After a pause, the driver hastily closed the van’s door, got behind the wheel, and set off for the cemetery. The women went back inside, but not before expressing their appreciation and gratitude to the doctor.
Bambinella went over to Maione:
“What a man!” she exclaimed in an adoring voice. “You just slayed me, I’m covered in goose bumps!”
The brigadier made as if to punch her and the femminiello, with a lilting giggle, headed off into the back alleys.
XXIX
Of all the holidays, the one Lucia Maione loved most passionately was Easter.
Certainly, Christmas had its charms, with its various pizzas—anchovies and onions or escarole—to be made, and the manger scene with a real flowing river thanks to an enema bulb hidden behind the papier-mâché, with the pastries and the beautiful table setting, and the letters from the children making resolutions for the new year; and then there was the Day of the Dead, with its nougat torrone; and the marvelous festival of Piedigrotta, so rich in music and songs. But Easter, Easter was springtime, the windows opening after winter, letting sunshine and the smell of the sea back in.
For Lucia, just like for all the mothers in the city, Easter began with Carnival, forty-one days before; and therefore with preparations for the feast of Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, a feast for which she was renowned throughout the quarter, if she did say so herself: his majesty the lasagne, the dish of kings, with ragù and meatballs; sausages and rapini, the fegatini nella rezza, pork livers cooked in a mesh made of the pig’s intestine and laurel leaves, and most important of all, the sanguinaccio, a sweet blood pudding made of cocoa, milk, and pig’s blood garnished with candied citron, a treat that the children dreamed of all year long.
And it was at the end of every Carnival banquet that her Raffaele, slumping back in his chair after consuming two helpings of every dish, exclaimed the stock phrase: “Luci’, your cooking is going to kill me: but what a wonderful way to go!”
The holiday that followed was Lent, a time of self-denial and penitence. Although she was certainly no bizzoca, no pious bigot, one of those women who passed every instant of their spare time in church saying rosaries, she did want her children to have a clear idea of the traditions inherited from their faith. That was how they had been raised, and that was how their children would be raised. And so for the next forty days meat gave way to legumes, which left little room for the imagination of a sophisticated cook; Lucia limited herself to the occasional preparation of the quaresimali, the dry Lenten almond biscuits made of candied fruit and topped with just a dash of cinnamon—treats that consoled the children during a period of relative abstinence that seemed even longer than it was.
Then came springtime, and the Holy Week that culminated in Easter. When springtime came before Easter it was hard to rein in your appetites, as nature stirred and the bright new sunshine tickled the skin, out of keeping with the last part of this period of penitence; but when springtime and Holy Week coincided perfectly, as they had that year, then it was twice the holiday.
As Lucia walked briskly through Largo della Carità toward the Pignasecca market, she thought to herself that everything was ready: she’d prepared the full array of her culinary armaments well in advance. The pots and pans glittered, the knives had been sharpened, the ingredients that could be stored had all been purchased, and the menus had been planned out thoroughly. There was nothing left to do but wait.
The last few days had been devoted to another domestic ritual of particular importance: spring cleaning. For the first time, Lucia had involved her eldest daughter, who had just turned ten, and Benedetta, who was the same age.
At the thought of the little girl, Lucia smiled. Raffaele had brought her home on Christmas Eve, after an absence during which she had feared he’d gone to commit a terrible crime, which thank goodness he hadn’t. Instead, he came in the door carrying that serious-faced little lady, with her perfect manners and her quiet voice: Benedetta had lost both parents in a tragic fashion, and tenderhearted Raffaele couldn’t enjoy the holidays knowing that the girl would be left alone in a religious boarding school. She’d lived with them since that night. The Maiones had obtained legal custody of Benedetta, and they were in the process of officially adopting her. Eight can eat as cheaply as seven, Lucia had told her husband, and after all the girl ate like a bird.
And so Lucia, Maria, and Benedetta had mobilized for the major operations involved in spring cleaning: carpets, curtains, and winter clothing to be beaten and brushed, with special care taken to turn out the pockets and clean out the white clumps of lint; the mending and darning of small tears, worn-out buttonholes and eyelets and pockets to be re-stitched, dangling buttons to be reattached, linings to be resewn; grease stains and smudges on cuffs and collars to be cleaned with hot bran. And then everything had to be stowed away for the summer in the cascioni, the ample trunks which would be tucked away in lofts and attics, with plenty of naphthalene mothballs, camphor blocks, and pepper, essential weapons in the fight against mites and clothes moths.
But soon the wait would be over, and the women of the Maione household would test themselves against the most challenging and serious obstacle course of Neapolitan cooking: the casatiello and the pastiera, respectively the savory stuffed bread and the ricotta cheesecake that were synonymous with Easter
in Naples. Lucia would initiate the two girls into the family’s most intimate and closely guarded secrets, the secrets that they’d be able to use to ensure that their own men looked to them with gratitude and bliss for every Easter of the rest of their later lives.
But first there was Holy Thursday, the day of the struscio, or the walk up and down the Via Toledo, and of the sepolcri, or the day in which the faithful remember the Lord’s Last Supper. Culinary tradition demanded, in the name of that commemoration, the zuppa marinara, or seafood soup, the first fanfare of Easter cooking.
When she needed to purchase mussels, clams, and fasolari—giant clams—instead of going directly to the fishermen Lucia preferred to frequent a fishmonger at the Pignasecca market; he was a longtime acquaintance and she knew that, out of consideration for their well established business relationship, he’d never sell her seafood that was anything less than fresh. The soup also called for cuttlefish and octopus, and that shopping would demand patient and attentive evaluation.
The market was large and crowded: it was broken up into a multitude of stalls, counters, and carts that intruded into the maze of lanes surrounding the larger structure of the Pellegrini hospital. Lucia dove in, with the confidence and expertise of a sea captain navigating through an archipelago whose every reef and shallows he knows by heart. The blond hair that spilled out of the scarf knotted over her head, her brisk pace, and her lovely blue eyes attracted the attention and greetings of a variety of vendors and merchants; she replied with a nod of the head: never let yourself be led astray by things you don’t need, she told herself. Straight to her objective; the fishmonger was at the end of the street, she’d have to walk past the hospital’s side entrance.
Passing the entrance, she shot a glance into the courtyard. She dreaded that place as the policeman’s wife that she was; every morning she instinctively recited a Hail Mary as she watched her husband leave for work: she remembered Commissario Ricciardi’s time in that hospital, in the aftermath of that horrible car crash on the Day of the Dead, and how worried Raffaele had been. She herself had gone to visit the man, bringing him a torrone, the classic almond nougat, that she’d made with her own hands.
Just as she was about to hurry on, she glimpsed an odd movement: a small dog, tied to a pole by its leash, was furiously struggling to break free. On the far side of the courtyard, two men were conversing animatedly next to a black car, parked with the engine running. One of the men wore a lab coat and had white hair, and looked to be a doctor; Lucia wondered if this could be Dr. Modo, the physician of whom her husband always spoke with the greatest respect and fondness. The other man caught Lucia’s attention because he was so well dressed, in a double-breasted suit and a hat of the same color; unlike the doctor, who was gesticulating angrily, this man stood still, impassive, arms at his sides.
Lucia stopped, her curiosity piqued. The distance made it impossible for her to overhear what they were talking about, but the doctor seemed to be in a rage. The dog was barking desperately. Oddly enough, there was no one walking through the courtyard, which was usually a busy place, and the hospital windows were all shut. At the entrance to the courtyard there were two stalls, but the vendors were making a great show of indifference, and continued sorting through their merchandise in its crates.
At a certain point, two other men climbed out of the car and flanked the doctor on both sides; they dragged him quickly into the car while the well-dressed gentleman, the one who’d been talking to the doctor up till now, walked around and got in the car on the driver’s side. The car pulled away quickly, passing close to Lucia as it left the courtyard.
The doctor looked out, and for a second his gaze met the woman’s. His face was red and upset, his eyes filled with anger and something else that struck Lucia as sadness.
Once the car had screeched around the corner, the woman recovered her wits and started calling loudly for help, but one of the two vendors who had feigned indifference walked over to her:
“Signo’, take it from me: forget about this. If you don’t want to put anyone else in danger, say nothing to no one about what you just saw. These are hard times.”
In the courtyard the dog had finally managed to break free, and it shot off in pursuit of the car that had by now disappeared.
XXX
From his vantage point, what had happened at the end of Viper’s strange funeral rite had provided Ricciardi with plenty of food for thought. First of all, he considered what he’d observed of Modo. His attitude toward anyone who represented the regime, even if they were just a few young thugs who were taking advantage of their black shirts to spread a little mayhem, would sooner or later land him in seriously hot water. Even if it only meant—and that time he’d come dangerously close—he was going to catch a beating.
After the women had retreated into their building and the doctor, Maione, and the commissario were left standing alone in the street, the doctor had blithely ignored their remostrances to be more cautious and had in fact actually scolded Ricciardi for failing to intervene.
The brigadier had replied in his superior officer’s place:
“I told the commissario, Dotto’, to stay out of the way. We were here without authorization, and the last thing we needed was a brawl in the street, to give the deputy police chief, that good-for-nothing Garzo, an excuse to toss us both in a cell. I can always say that I was just passing by, but the commissario can’t.”
Maione had a point, but that wasn’t what Ricciardi urgently needed Modo to understand.
“The point is, Bruno, if you keep it up like this, you’ll get yourself into trouble we won’t be able to get you out of. The problem isn’t a crew of drunken hotheads looking for trouble; the problem is their boss. I dealt with them, last summer, when the Duchess Musso was murdered, and I can assure you that they’re capable of doing things you couldn’t even begin to imagine. I beg you, if you won’t listen for your own sake, listen for the sake of all those you can help. Control yourself.”
Modo‘s tone of voice was venomous.
“Are you trying to tell me that we’re just supposed to accept the kind of things we’ve seen here? That some little idiot, simply because he’s wearing a black shirt and a pair of jackboots, feels that he has the right to put his hand on a woman’s behind when she’s in tears at her friend’s funeral? Not me, I’ll never accept it: and if they want to put me in front of a firing squad for it, they can go right ahead. I,” and here he tapped himself on the chest with his forefinger several times, “I defended this country, on the Carso. I stitched up wounds with steel wire, I amputated arms with a bayonet. And I’m not going to let them turn this country to a stinking pile of shit!”
He’d turned on his heel to leave, then he’d stopped, as if in regret, and come back.
“I know that you’re my friend, Ricciardi. And I love you too, even if you’re a silent, taciturn bastard and there’s never a way of knowing what the hell you’re thinking. But I am who I am, you know. There’s no switch you can flip. If they’re going to come cart me off, let them do it: that just means it was meant to be.”
And with that he left. The dog stared hard at Maione and Ricciardi for a second, then turned and trotted off after him, as usual trailing behind by a couple of yards.
Maione had commented:
“That dog kind of gives me the willies, Commissa’. He’s like a citizen who can’t talk.”
Ricciardi had said:
“What can I tell you, Raffaele: let’s just hope that our friend the doctor manages to stay out of trouble. Let’s just hope.”
From the street door of the building housing Il Paradiso, Tullio, Madame’s son, had emerged. He’d stopped for a moment to light a cigarette and then had headed off, head down as he walked into the wind, toward Piazza Trieste e Trento.
After a minute, Ricciardi had said:
“There: that’s one piece of the puzzle we’ve been overlooking,
it seems to me. Why don’t you see where he’s going, Raffaele: and then you can come back and report on what you find. I’ll be waiting for you in the office.”
Maione had started off on the opposite side of the street, taking advantage, as was his custom, of the intermittent shade of the front entryways. Experience had taught him that this technique greatly reduced the risk of being spotted. Not that he was particularly worried the young man might see him: he’d craned his neck as he left the bordello, but he hadn’t even glimpsed the brigadier and Ricciardi, who were talking in the atrium of the building across the street, making no effort whatsoever to escape notice.
He observed Tullio’s shoulders, the head that appeared and disappeared as the young man made his way through the Holy Thursday crowd now filling the Via Toledo. He might have been twenty or maybe a little older, his face scarred by smallpox, his broad shoulders slightly bowed, his hair fair; he’d never heard his voice. Bambinella had been quite clear about him: a gambler, slave to the promise of easy winnings that never seemed to arrive. Maione had seen plenty of dreams just like his that wound up dying at knifepoint. Debts, and more debts contracted to wipe out the previous debts.
At a certain point the young man veered off confidently onto a side street. Maione wasn’t caught off guard because he knew the locations of all the city’s leading clandestine gambling dens, which did a brisk businesses even during the week of Easter. He’d already noticed a couple of touts, fairly shady customers who served both as lookouts in case of a police raid and as procurers, luring in potential gamblers who might happen by. From a distance he could see that the young man was trying to win admittance to a gambling den he knew quite well, a place run by Luigino della Speranzella, where the chief tout on the door was a certain Simoncelli, an ex-con whom Maione had run in a couple of times for purse snatching.
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