XXXVIII
The sun had been up for less than an hour when Brigadier Maione knocked on the door of the last apartment on the top floor of the last apartment house on Via San Nicola da Tolentino.
It took almost two minutes for the door to open on Bambinella’s puffy, bleary eyes, which emerged from the dim light.
“Who on earth . . . Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, Brigadie’, is that you? What’s happened, who’s dead?”
Maione had no time to waste.
“Hurry up, Bambine’, let me in. And wake up, splash some water on your face and wake up, I need you clear-eyed with good reflexes.”
The femminiello stood aside to let the brigadier come in, hastily smoothing down her hair.
“Tell the truth, your wife kicked you out of the house, didn’t she? And now you don’t know where to go, and you thought of me. How romantic! But don’t worry, there’s always a place for you at my table. As for the bed, trust me, you’ll never sleep better as long as you live. I’ve got a queen-size bed, big enough for the kinds of acrobatics . . .”
Maione put his hands together, as if in prayer.
“Bambine’, I’m begging you: you see it, that I’m begging you? I’ve never begged anyone, but I’m begging you this morning: you need to shut up and listen to me. Because today there’s no time for fooling around, a very serious thing has happened and we need your help, which is the only reason I’m not going to kill you right now, which is what I feel like doing. My wife didn’t kick me out, and before I’d move in with you I’d try every doorway in every alley in the city of Naples. I’m just here to ask for your help, and I need you to listen to me.”
Bambinella was more than a little struck by Maione’s tone of voice.
“Brigadie’, now you’re really starting to worry me. Let me make a cup of ersatz coffee, we’ll sit down and talk.”
“No, no ersatz coffee. I need to ask you for information, information I need very urgently. Sit down and listen to me carefully.”
Bambinella sat down gracefully in the usual bamboo chair, carefully draping her silk nightgown. On her face was a dark five o’clock shadow, and her eyes bore the marks of faded makeup; she felt she owed the brigadier an explanation:
“Don’t look at me, please, Brigadie’. My client just left, not even half an hour ago, and I’d planned to redo my makeup after catching at least an hour’s sleep. That man is just terrible, a bricklayer from the San Lorenzo quarter, he tells his wife that he’s working nights as a security guard to make a little extra, but that’s not how it is at all, I can’t imagine how she can bring herself to believe him . . . All right, all right, I see your point, this is urgent. Tell me all about it.”
Maione stared at her, rabid with anger.
“Now listen carefully: do you remember Dr. Bruno Modo? He was there yesterday, at the funeral, if you want to call it that, of Maria Rosaria Cennamo, in Via Chiaia.”
Bambinella giggled.
“Ooooh, sweet Jesus, do you think I’d have to see him at Viper’s funeral to know Dr. Modo? Everyone in Naples knows him, he’s such a good doctor and so attentive to the needs of the poor. To say nothing of his fond, shall we say, patronage of the finest bordellos in the city. There was a girlfriend of mine who used to see him practically every day at Il Pendino . . . Eh, Brigadie’, mamma mia, what on earth are you doing with that!”
Maione had pulled out his revolver and placed it delicately at the center of a small side table.
“Well, I’m not going to die of liver disease, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to die instead, Bambine’. You see this pistol? It’s loaded. And I swear to you that the next time you start telling me the story of your life, or someone else’s life, I’m just going to shoot you and be done with it. Because among other things I can just say I came up here to arrest you and you attacked me, which in a sense would even be the truth, because if you don’t shut your trap and listen to me, first I’ll shoot you and then I’ll arrest you. Have I made myself clear?”
The femminiello stared in fear at the handgun, and nodded her head yes. Maione seemed pleased.
“Ah, at last. Now then, you saw that there was a set-to with four Fascist blackshirts, on the one hand, and the doctor and yours truly on the other. Now, we have information to the effect that just yesterday, in the late morning, the doctor was picked up at the hospital, against his will, by at least three men in an unmarked black car. I need to find out who these men were and where they took the doctor, and if I can, why.”
Maione’s questions fell into a profound, unusual silence. Bambinella pointed to the weapon on the table; then she extended two fingers with unnaturally long nails to the middle of her mouth and made the universal sign that indicated a sudden, frightened inability to speak.
Maione sighed, picked up the revolver, and put it back into its holster.
“But look, I’ll pull it right back out if you start up again. Now talk.”
Bambinella grabbed a fan decorated with an elaborate drawing of a dragon and started fluttering it in front of her face.
“Madonna, how you frightened me! You’ve taken ten years off my life, Brigadie’, you know that I’m very afraid of guns!”
Maione roared:
“You don’t have ten extra years of life to lose, Bambine’, believe me!”
“I don’t have ten . . . Ah, I see. Then let’s get to the point: you’re going to have to give me a few hours of time, Brigadie’. From what you tell me, this here is serious, you’re right when you say it’s urgent. Because if the two things are connected and the doctor has been abducted by the Fascists, inside of a day at the very most they’ll put him on a train or a ship and send him far away, like they do all their prisoners. And I’d have to say, in this case, it sounds like the doctor really was picked up by the Fascists.”
Maione nodded.
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like to me too. Well, how do you intend to proceed, Bambine’? This isn’t your normal territory, and since I’m planning to murder you myself with my own two hands, I can’t afford to let you run risks.”
“Oh, at last, a sweet, kind word: you’re worried about me, eh, Brigadie’? But you shouldn’t worry, there are plenty of Fascists in this town, and you can always find a few with some interesting vices. For instance, I know one of them that just goes wild every time that I . . . well, that’s neither here nor there right now. In any case, I already know a few of the first contacts I’m going to try, and don’t fret, I’ll be careful. You just have to give me a few hours.”
Maione stood up.
“We’ll see you here at your house around noon, then. And I’m serious about this, Bambine’: I’ve never asked you for a more important favor.”
The femminiello got to her feet, with grace and elegance.
“Never fear, Brigadie’. I’m happy to do it; the doctor is a good man and he deserves all the help in the world. But first I need to get made up, and get these filthy whiskers off my face: if I want to get us the information we need, I’ll have to look my best.”
XXXIX
Ricciardi waited, concealed in a recess between two buildings.
When it became clear to him that there would be no point in trying to chase after sleep, he’d gotten out of bed, put on his clothes, and left the apartment while the night was still far from yielding to the dawn.
The deserted streets had walked with him, his rhythmic steps echoing in the cool damp air that still lacked a clear identity, in that indecision so typical of spring, when it feels as if it’s still hovering between winter and summer. Every so often, Ricciardi would cross paths with some night owl returning home, tipsy and giddy, or else early birds riding rattletrap bicycles.
No shortage of dead people out and about, not that there ever was. A little boy at the end of Via Foria, who had fallen off the back of a streetcar where he’d hitched a ride, cadging a free tr
ip to who knows what useless destination, with a huge dent in the back of his head and a broad bleeding wound on his back where he had been dragged along the pavement, who kept muttering prophetically: Maronna, Maronna, mo’ caro ’nterra— Madonna, Madonna, I’m going to fall down. A motorcyclist near the crossroads of Via Sant’Anna dei Lombardi and Via Toledo, wearing a leather helmet and a pair of oversized goggles from which ran a black tear of blood, laughing obscenely as he said: Faster, even faster. Any faster than that’ll kill you, Ricciardi retorted bitterly, to himself.
The commissario was very familiar with that hour that really wasn’t anything at all, that seemed never to pass, that was no longer night but not yet morning. That hour was a territory with its own weather and its own people, with borders and lights and shadows that would vanish soon enough, leaving no trace. He knew it well, because often his dreams took his breath away and he was forced to wander the streets, in search of a peace that he knew to be little more than a mirage for his tormented soul.
The grief and pain of others became his own. The curse was simply this: it was impossible for him to nestle comfortably in that cocoon of selfishness that everyone is endowed with at birth. Everyone, except him.
Why that fate had been visited on him was something he’d never know. The motorcyclist who had gone too fast, the reckless little boy who’d taken a tumble off the streetcar, and the thousand others just like them were free now: not him. And he never would be free.
He thought of Viper. Ever since he’d learned about Modo he hadn’t thought about her, but then what had happened to his friend demanded urgency, and for the rest of the day that investigation could wait.
It was a strange murder, though. Usually, they had to look for a motive, something that might have driven someone to commit such an atrocious act, so contrary to human nature; here there was a veritable jungle of motives.
A murder dictated by passion, but carried out in a rational manner: otherwise the murderer would have left some trace of his or her presence, some bit of evidence, an object; he’d have made some mistake—that’s always what happens when you let yourself be swept away by an emotion that clouds the mind to the point of murder. But instead, nothing. There was nothing.
Maybe the murderer really had been good. Or maybe he had just been lucky. Ricciardi just couldn’t say.
In the end, he’d found the place and he’d settled in to wait.
As he was waiting for his audience with Achille Pivani, he thought back to the circumstances that had first led him to make the man’s acquaintance. The previous summer, during his investigation of the murder of a noblewoman, he’d chanced upon evidence of an intimate friendship that the woman’s stepson was carrying on with a strange party functionary, a man from the north whose duties were top secret and who seemed to possess enormous knowledge about anyone and everyone: even about Ricciardi himself.
On that occasion he’d understood that Fascism was a very complex phenomenon, and that the seemingly fanciful tales that circulated about OVRA—the notorious secret police agency that beat back all anti-Fascist activities, real or imagined, with stealthy brutality—were, if anything, understating the case. Through a dense network of informants, made up for the most part of ordinary citizens, strolling vendors, doormen and concierges, office clerks and housemaids, OVRA gathered information and reports that revealed a picture of practically everybody’s social and political attitudes, first and foremost those of prominent members of society. And once the picture was clear, OVRA struck mercilessly.
Pivani was a slender, impeccably dressed man, about forty years old, with a calm voice, well educated and intelligent; their conversation had seemed to Ricciardi something like a fencing match, a sort of pas de deux, during which neither had grazed the other, though both were poised over a potentially lethal abyss. In other circumstances, in another universe, the commissario might even have liked that unhappy, introspective man; but Pivani had the sinuous, death-dealing charm of a rattlesnake.
Ricciardi remembered quite clearly that at the end of the one conversation he’d had with Pivani, right in party headquarters, the building outside which he was now waiting, the man had urged him to try to persuade Modo to rein in his public statements. He’d never forgotten those words, which had, with the benefit of hindsight, echoed in his mind as a threat as soon as he’d learned from Maione just how his friend had been arrested. Now he was going to ask for an explanation of what had happened, even if it meant putting himself at risk.
A man in a black shirt showed up whistling a tune, unlocked the front door, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the entrance, digging a sheet of paper and a cigar butt out of his pockets. Two other men showed up shortly thereafter, and after a few wisecracks they headed off upstairs; a window swung open on the fifth floor, where Ricciardi remembered the party offices were located.
He had decided in advance that he would only make himself known when he saw Pivani arrive, so that he woldn’t have to spend much time in the midst of hostile Fascists. He didn’t have to wait long: after a couple more minutes, a subdued voice came out of the shadows behind him and said:
“Buongiorno, Commissario. Quite the early riser, I see; but then, that’s not unusual for you, from what I’ve heard.”
Without turning around, Ricciardi replied:
“Buongiorno to you, Pivani. The wise man never puts off till tomorrow what he can do today, as they say. I need to speak to you, and urgently.”
The voice from the shadows murmured:
“So I see. I should tell you that I was expecting your visit, though perhaps a little later in the day; and that it struck me as best, both for you and for me, not to speak in my office. There’s a café that opens early, right here on the corner. You head on over, and I’ll join you in a few minutes: probably best not to be seen walking together in the street.”
XL
Ricciardi chose a table inside and ordered an espresso. The café was small and not fully visible from the main street, therefore offering a degree of shelter from the eyes of passersby.
Pivani came in almost immediately, sat down across from him, and gestured to the waiter for another espresso.
“I have to tell you, Ricciardi, that if I were to leave this city the thing I’d miss most would be the coffee. It’s so much better here than anywhere else that I’d just have to give coffee up entirely.”
The commissario stared at him without speaking: he had no intention of carrying on a friendly conversation with the man who, in all likelihood, was keeping his good friend under lock and key.
Pivani must have sensed his thoughts, because he said:
“I see you’re angry with me. I understand you. I’d feel the same way if I were in your place. But I assure you that you’re mistaken.”
Ricciardi’s expression remaineded unchanged.
“Are you saying that I should just take it in stride? I should accept the fact that an unmarked car, with three bodybuilders aboard, pulls up and grabs one of the finest human beings I know, a professional who dedicates his life to helping those who suffer, and takes him who knows where under threat of violence?”
Pivani waved his hand dismissively.
“All these inaccuracies. There were four people in the car, not three, including the driver. The car was unmarked because it was rented, and the organization that carried out this operation certainly doesn’t place its insignia on automobiles. Last of all, there was no violence. Your friend, who may be impulsive but is also intelligent, quickly understood that any attempts to escape would be unsuccessful, and so he resigned himself to his fate.”
Ricciardi leaned forward and hissed:
“Pivani, don’t try to sugarcoat the pill: I want Dr. Bruno Modo freed immediately, and allowed to return to the extremely important work that he does for society. This is still a free country and . . .”
The man giggled briefly.
“O
h, is it? I’m honored that you should think so, Commissario. Not everyone would agree with you. Your friend, for instance, certainly wouldn’t. And forgive me, but I doubt that you’re in a position to demand anything. We’re not sitting here, I’ve never met you, and this conversation never took place, nor will it ever, as you well know. For that matter, you know that without having to be told. All I need do is whistle once.”
With those words, he turned and looked at the plate-glass window. Ricciardi saw two well-dressed men out in the street, leaning against a wall and chatting idly.
Pivani went on:
“If we’re here, it’s because I’ve allowed it. And the main reason I’m allowing it is that I’m curious. I’m interested in the human aspects of my . . . my profession: they help me to better understand the things that happen, to interpret them. And to act accordingly.”
Ricciardi’s face was an impassive mask.
“Ah, so then we’re an experiment, is that it? Lab rats. Insects in a maze. But I’d be careful if I were you, Pivani. Rats and insects, in big enough numbers, can be quite dangerous.”
The man laughed happily.
“Look at that, you’re actually threatening me now! Quite interesting. But you didn’t come here this morning to argue with me, did you? You came to secure your friend’s release. And yet you have no intention of begging or pleading, instead you threaten me. Just what are you hoping to gain in this way?”
Ricciardi stared at him, unblinking.
“I’m not threatening you, Pivani. I’m hoping that someone, even in a brutal and slithering organization, will take responsibility for putting a very special man back in the place where he can do his work. That’s all.”
Pivani mulled that over, deep in thought.
“Brutal and slithering, you say. I know it can seem that way. All the same, believe me, compared with our counterpart organizations in other countries, we’re nothing more than a musical combo. I’ve seen things happen, elsewhere, that I wouldn’t even know how to describe to you, so great is the horror that, as you know, all forms of wanton violence inspire in me.”
Vipers Page 20