The brigadier immediately understood that his superior didn’t want to be in the office when they talked about what had happened to Dr. Modo; on the one hand he appreciated his caution, but on the other, it seemed worrisome: the commissario wasn’t usually so circumspect.
When they reached the corner of Via Toledo, the dog, sitting in the shade, got to his feet and followed them. Heading toward Gambrinus, Ricciardi said:
“He hasn’t moved from that spot since this morning. It’s as if he knew.”
Maione grumbled:
“Well, maybe he really does know what happened. And he’d like to tell us, but he can’t.”
When they reached the café, they found a table inside. It was lunchtime by now, and the place was almost full. There was no piano because it was Good Friday, but music was provided by a strolling violinist who was playing for coins just out front of the café’s veranda. The air was mild and sweet-smelling, the sun was warm and bright.
Ricciardi and Maione ordered quickly to get rid of the waiter, and then started to swap the information they’d obtained.
The brigadier told Ricciardi about his two conversations with Bambinella.
“. . . so now we know three things, Commissa’: that the doctor was picked up by the Fascists, but that they weren’t Fascists from here and we need to figure out why that was; that they’re keeping him at the barracks of the harbor militia, whom we know very well; and above all that we have today and tomorrow to do something about it, because this coming Sunday the ship is going to dock and they’ll take him away to Ventotene.”
Ricciardi had listened with rapt attention, leaning forward to make sure he didn’t miss a word.
“Good. What I did was take a stroll over to that place where I went to check out the status of Ettore Musso di Camparino, you remember, the murder from last summer.”
Maione started.
“Commissa’, what are you saying? You went alone, again, to that place? But why didn’t you tell me, we could have gone together and . . .”
The commissario had been expecting Maione’s reaction, and he’d prepared an excuse:
“The person I intended to question would never have spoken with two people; he wouldn’t have run the risk that what he said to me could be confirmed by a third party. Anyway, he was waiting for me. Just think, he wouldn’t even speak to me in his office, we went to a nearby café.”
“And what did he tell you, Commissa’?”
Ricciardi summarized what he had learned, leaving out only Pivani’s mention of Maione’s role in the brawl at the funeral.
“Then that’s the reason they came all the way down from Rome to arrest him.”
“So the guy even gave you a free piece of advice, Commissa’. Certainly, the fact that Signora Vezzi is sweet on you is hard to miss; in fact, if you don’t mind my saying so, since we’re already on the subject, I’ve always hoped that your friendship with her might grow into something more, she’s a beautiful woman and, it seems to me, a fine person as well. So now what are you planning to do?”
Ricciardi stared into the middle distance. He seemed lost in a painful memory. The violinist struck up the tango that Modo had said he wanted to accompany Maria Rosaria Cennamo, aka Viper, on her last earthly journey.
A man, seated with two young women at a nearby table, began to sing along in a fine tenor voice:
“Y todo a media luz, que es un brujo el amor, / a media luz los besos, a media luz los dos. / Y todo a media luz, crepúsculo interior. / ¡Qué suave terciopelo la media luz de amor!”
Ricciardi thought back to his friend’s doleful singing, and felt the ferocious fangs of nostalgia sink into his heart. Out on the street, from a vantage point where he could see and be seen, the dog was staring at him, one ear straight up.
But he also remembered the last time he’d seen Livia, right there at Gambrinus, and how he had insulted her, and how the doctor had upbraided him for it. Friendship, love, passion, penumbra. Half-light, like soft velvet, as the song said.
“I know that I need to go and talk to her, and I know that I need to do it right away. But believe me when I tell you, Raffaele, that it’s harder to do this thing than it was to go right to the headquarters of the local Fascists to grab their little Duce by the lapels. This morning I wasn’t afraid, but now I am.”
Maione didn’t understand the reason for that fear:
“But why, Commissa’? The Signora is a wonderful person, you’ll see: she’ll understand the problem and she’ll be glad to give us a hand. Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. This is something I have to do on my own. First of all because it’s what’s right; second because if there’s a chance of Livia saying yes, it’ll be precisely because I beg her. It’s complicated.”
“Never in life, Commissa’. When you love someone, it’s a simple thing, and it’s part of human nature. If I love a person, I want that person to be happy. If there’s something that’s making that person unhappy, and I can do something about it, there’s not a thing in the world strong enough to keep me from doing it. You’ll see, as soon as the Signora hears what happened, she’ll be the first to want to help us out.”
Ricciardi wished he could share the brigadier’s optimism.
“No, Raffaele. Unfortunately the thing is complicated because I complicated it myself. The last time I saw Livia was right here, and Bruno was there too: I made a stupid wisecrack, and I insulted her.”
Perhaps he had wanted to punish her, he thought. Or discredit her.
“But why did you do it, Commissa’?”
Ricciardi shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps because you were just a little jealous of her?”
Ricciardi again said nothing. Then he said:
“I’d better go right away, there’s no time to waste. I’ll see you later, in the office.”
XLIII
Rosa was delivering the cooking lesson from her chair, pulled up next to the kitchen table.
“The minestra strinta, that’s something he loves. The ingredients are all sitting right here, I prepared them especially to let you take a look at them, one by one: chicory, swiss chard, and these right here are the cardoons. Now we’re going to boil them, then we drain them nicely, and finally we dry them in this towel here, you see? We twist the towel tight, which is why it’s called minestra strinta, tight soup or squeezed soup. Then we put it all in a pan with the hot oil, the garlic, the chili pepper, and the potatoes, which we’ve already boiled and mashed very thoroughly. Did you see all that? Is everything clear?”
Enrica looked at the vegetables and the other ingredients, and replied sweetly.
“Yes, Signora. It’s all clear. As usual, something simple and delicious, like everything you cook. And if you tell me that he likes it, then I’ll learn how to make it. The problem is whether all this serves any purpose, or not.”
“And just what is it that you mean by that, Signori’?”
“What I mean by that is that frankly I don’t understand this man, Signora. I have no experience with men, that’s true: but I do have a married sister, I have plenty of girlfriends, and I do go occasionally to the movies. I listen to songs, I talk to people. And my mother . . . my mother never talks about anything else, how important it is to have a man by your side, that I’m well on my way to becoming an old maid, and so on and so forth. And if a man really is interested in a woman, then he makes that known. He tries to see her, he speaks to her, he gets as close as he can. He sends flowers, he talks to her parents, he tries to make friends in common. But this man does nothing.”
“But that isn’t true! Didn’t he write you a letter? And isn’t it true that every night he goes to his window to gaze at you?”
“Yes, this is true. And it’s also true that I can feel it, that he’s interested in me and that he likes me. I can see it. I’m not so beautiful, and as I t
old you, I have no experience: but a woman knows it, when someone likes her.”
“There you go. So?”
“So, something’s not right. There must be a reason that keeps him from making himself known. He’s shy, that’s true; and he’s also very reserved, I understand that. But too much time has gone by, even a shy man by now would have found a way, however roundabout, to talk to me differently, to arrange for us to go out together. I’m telling you, something’s not right.”
Rosa sighed. Her eyes roamed, looking at nothing.
“He was a strange child, you know? He always played alone. There were plenty of other children in the baron’s castle: the children of the farmers, of the housemaids, more noise than you could possibly imagine, they made more noise than the chickens in the henhouse. Not him. He was beautiful and, as you know, very intelligent. And he talked and talked to me and to his mother; he told us about all the things he imagined and we listened to him, whole hours at a time spent listening to him. But not with the other children, no, he didn’t play with them . . .” She stared at Enrica. “There’s something, yes. Something in his head, in his soul, I couldn’t say. A sign, a mark of some sort, that forces him to be by himself. I may be ignorant and old, but I’m not senile and I know perfectly well that there’s something. But my young master is good and kind, sweet and caring. It’s not right that just because he thinks he needs to live his life alone, he really should have to.”
Enrica listened, toying with a stalk of swiss chard.
“So what should I do? If I wait for him, I really do run the risk of waiting forever, because he might never be able to overcome this barrier. If I don’t wait, then I’m giving up on the man of my dreams. Because I know that he’s the one, the man of my dreams. I can feel it in my belly, the way it twists every time I think about him. And I can feel it in my legs, the way they tremble whenever I see him.”
Rosa slapped her open hand flat on the tabletop, making the lemons jump.
“Then listen to what your legs and your belly are trying to say you need to do! If he has something in his head, and it’s keeping him from making a move, then it’s up to you to take the initiative.”
“If he likes me because I am the way I am, then why should I change? I’m a thoughtful, normal person. I tried a different approach, on Christmas Eve, and you know it. I don’t even know what came over me, I would never do that kind of thing. But I felt the need to wish the love of my life a merry Christmas, and that’s what I did. And ever since then he seems to be closer to me, he has more of a . . . smile about him, even when he doesn’t smile at all. But he never asked me out. I have the impression that at night, when he comes home and sees me leaving this apartment, it makes him happy, but that’s not enough.”
Without realizing it, she had begun to cry. The tears were streaking her cheeks and her glasses fogged up slightly. Rosa felt a pang in her heart.
“Signori’, I beg of you, don’t be like that; you shouldn’t even think these things. Why, in your opinon, did I come looking for you? Don’t you think that I worry day and night about what will happen to my young master, when I’m dead and gone? And what do you think, that I just walked out into the street and grabbed the first girl I saw? He wants you, nobody but you. And if you want him, then you have to go out and get him. Before some other woman steps forward and, taking advantage of some weakness of his, takes him and makes him miserable for the rest of his life.”
“But if he wants me, why on earth would he give in to another woman?”
“The danger, Signori’, is always there. Certain women have . . . resources, shall we say. And if one of these women, like that widow from up north who goes around town in a car with a driver, you know who we’re talking about, finds the way, then he’s lost. For example, my young master is good-hearted: so good-hearted. His conscience is a dangerous thing; if she convinces him that she’s suffering terribly without him, then his conscience might start bothering him. That’s a danger.”
Enrica wiped her eyes.
“What can I do to keep that from happening?”
“My lovely girl, you need to take action. Let’s cook him this meal: on Sunday, he has to work, he always works on holidays, so you can eat Easter lunch with your own family. But that night you can come to dinner here. You can eat with him, the things that you’ve cooked for him. That way that knucklehead will start to understand what it means to have a person close to him, and you can toss your hat in the ring, so to speak.”
The girl sat openmouthed.
“Me? To dinner, here? Impossible, how on earth could I do that? And after all, no one’s even invited me. I could never do it.”
Rosa put on an offended expression:
“What about me? Are you saying I’m no one? I live here, I can certainly invite a person to dinner if I like. So I’m inviting you, and if you refuse to come, then you’ve insulted me and I can no longer speak to you. Are you trying to insult me?”
Enrica stammered:
“Me, insult you? No, never, absolutely not. But . . .”
“Good, then it’s all taken care of: for dinner, on Easter Sunday. Now, let’s get busy, we have less than two days.”
XLIV
We’d better get busy, Ricciardi thought. We don’t have much time.
Two days at the very most, and the doctor would be loaded onto a ship and taken to Ventotene. How many times, joking around with him and Maione, had Modo said: if only they’d send me into internal exile; sunshine and salt water, and I’d never have to look at your ugly mugs again.
As he was walking up Via Monteoliveto, on his way to see Livia, he felt conflicting emotions surging in his heart; sooner or later perhaps he would have gone to see her, to apologize for his offensive wisecrack. But most of all he wondered about the answer to Maione’s question: why had he said what he did to Livia? What did he feel for her?
He chased all those thoughts from his mind: he needed to focus on winning his friend’s freedom.
He knew nothing about the true nature of Livia’s relations with her friends in Rome. He didn’t know what result her request for help would have, even if he did manage to talk her into making it. He didn’t know how difficult it would be to figure out which path to follow. He didn’t know how Modo was doing, and whether or not it was already too late.
He didn’t know anything about anything.
Livia couldn’t seem to find the will to get out of bed.
She was furious at herself, really furious. For years she’d sworn to herself that she’d never leave so much of herself at anyone else’s mercy, and that never again would she give someone else absolute power over her freedom.
When she swore that oath, she’d been close to death.
She thought back, lying in the darkness of her bedroom.
She remembered the months after her son died, when she couldn’t come up with a single reason to get back on her feet and start walking through the world again. When she had turned to her husband, a hard, selfish man, who had only been able to tell her this: so you didn’t even know how to do this for me. Placing the blame on her, though he was the one who was never there, he was the one who had never skipped a performance even to be at the bedside of his ailing child, nor given up a single opportunity to travel, to spend the night out, in pursuit of the immense and undeserved talent with which nature had bestowed him. He had accused her of failing to take adequate care of the child, of having paid too little attention to the progress of the illness that had taken that sweet angel.
She lay shut up in darkness for weeks and weeks, wishing with all her strength for the death that she hadn’t been able to seize with her own hands: a thousand times she’d been on the verge of gulping down an entire bottle of sleeping pills and then slipping down, down, down into sleep, never again to reawaken.
Livia remembered. She remembered perfectly.
When she’d finally
stood up and opened the shutters, it was spring, just as it was now. She’d dragged herself over to a mirror, taken one look at herself, and sworn that she’d never let herself be reduced to this state again. She banished suffering from her heart; in exchange, she’d ushered in a harshness that was utterly unlike her. She became a different woman, now capable of sailing safely through life, passing unharmed through a shark-infested world.
She’d done that.
So now what was keeping her closed in the darkness of her room, unable to eat, no idea whether outside it was day or night?
She was furious at herself, for the weakness she thought she’d long since abandoned in the mists of the past.
And she was furious at Ricciardi, at his chilly indifference, and at what she had glimpsed in his green, pain-filled eyes, or perhaps what she had only imagined.
Now she was bound and determined to go back to Rome, but she was afraid of returning to her old life. She wasn’t up to it: it felt like setting out to scale a mountain.
Still, she’d do it. She owed it to the memory of her little Carletto, because if losing him hadn’t killed her, nothing could kill her now. Even if the image of that trick people called love was dead to her now.
She heard a knocking at the door. She said: leave me alone.
The housekeeper uttered a name.
In a fetchingly furnished drawing room, Ricciardi stood waiting to learn whether Livia would see him.
He remembered that apartment.
He’d felt a pang in his heart, as he stood outside the door. He remembered a night of incessant rain, the immense weight of his grief, the usual grief that had swollen, that night, to intolerable proportions. He remembered the way he’d shivered feverishly, his distorted sense of reality, the mortal loneliness that was killing him. He remembered a door opening, and then a bed, a cool hand on his scalding hot forehead.
And he remembered the scent, a scene of spices, at once savage and sophisticated. And the feel of soft, welcoming, moist flesh. Smells and tastes, a slow fall, like a feather’s as it flutters to the bottom of an abyss. A pair of large, happy eyes, a soft mouth opening in a smile, as he realized with a new burst of pain that he’d be unable to keep that promise, that he was twice a traitor: he’d betrayed the trust of a person who wasn’t there, and the hopes of one who was.
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