“Then you must know that I received a visitor today.”
Falco stood up again, went to the window, and looked out.
“Yes, you received a visitor. I was informed by the same person who told me about your invitation. I hope that the person who came to call on you here didn’t bother you in any way.”
She replied in a cutting voice:
“I continue to feel that these matters are none of your business, Falco. And they’re none of the business of the person who asked you to watch over me. The person who came to see me, and let me add that I was very happy to see him, brought a matter to my attention that I feel I need to discuss with you, and urgently. That’s why I summoned you here.”
Falco continued to look out the window, saying nothing. Then he said:
“As you think best, Signora. I’m here to listen and, if I can, to obey your every wish.”
Livia took a deep breath.
“I have the idea, Falco, that you already know everything I’m about to tell you. If you want to hear it explicitly, then I’m asking you to help free Dr. Bruno Modo, whom you’re holding for no good reason in some location you know well.”
Falco turned to look at her.
“All right then, Signora, let us speak in terms of pure conjecture. Let us say that I know the person you mention, and let us suppose that I know that he is under arrest and being held in a place familiar to me: how can you be so certain that there is no justification for it? Don’t you think there might be reasons, and important ones, why this has happened?”
The woman puffed out her cheeks:
“Please, Falco. We both know perfectly well what the reasons are. My friend, my visitor, told me everything, and I trust him. Blindly.”
“You trust him. Blindly. So much so that you moved here from Rome for his sake, in order to pursue him with no thought for your pride. So much so that you allow him to be utterly unfeeling about the pain he’s causing you.”
Livia leapt to her feet, furious. The feline impression that she always gave, in the elastic gracefulness of her movements, was accentuated by her anger.
“I ought to throw you out of here,” she hissed, “and put in a phone call to Rome immediately, telling them loud and clear what you’ve just dared to say to me. Don’t you ever dare say such a thing again, understood? Never again!”
The man blinked.
“Forgive me. I beg you to forgive me. It’s hardly professional to say so, but I believe that a person like you doesn’t deserve to suffer, with the life you’ve had. And for the woman that you are.”
Livia calmed herself, and sat back down.
“In that case, you’ll understand that the fact that I’ve called you, instead of calling Rome directly, shows how much I trust in your sensibility as a man.”
“Yes, and I thank you for that. Moreover, I must admit that I admire the work that the doctor does, the way he puts his heart into helping people. This is still my city, after all. That’s the reason we’ve turned a blind eye to certain of his behaviors and to a great many statements he never abstained from making in public. But this time matters have gone, as you know, well over our heads.”
Livia leaned forward.
“I know that, Falco. But perhaps it’s not too late to do something about it. Is it true that the transfer is scheduled for Sunday morning?”
The man stared at her without answering. Then he said:
“I have no idea how your friend came by this information, which even I don’t have. But yes, it’s possible. The ship. . . the conveyance that is scheduled to transfer the prisoners could arrive at any time between tomorrow and Sunday, in fact.”
“In that case, we only have a few hours. I have to know whether I can count on you, Falco: otherwise I’ll have to call Rome directly; and that is something I’d rather not do. It would mean having to explain too many things, and I would have to draw on credit that may not even be available to me. Dolls like me, as you know, are never forgiven for talking about serious matters.”
“You are no doll, Signora. You are a wonderful person, endowed with an incredible talent: I heard you sing, once upon a time, and I know just how incredible.”
This time it was Livia’s turn to be surprised:
“Really? And when was that? I haven’t sung since . . .”
“. . . since the tragic death of your son, yes. But in another life, I allowed myself to indulge in the pleasures of the opera house. And it was my good fortune to see you.”
There followed a silence heavy with memories. Then she said:
“In that case, in the name of the pleasure that you had that day and in the name of . . . this strange, secret friendship of ours, if you can help me, please help me. I’m begging you.”
Falco fell into a thoughtful silence.
“All right. I don’t know what effect this may have: I assure you that we must deal with people who can have very unpredictable reactions. And I don’t even know whether there is any likelihood of success: but we’ll try. With the greatest goodwill, we’ll try.”
“I thank you, Falco. I thank you in advance. I understand that it isn’t easy, and I understand how complex the work you do must be. How do you intend to go about it?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to try to identify the proper contacts, and I have to come up with a reason why it woud be more costly to detain the doctor than to free him. Possibly the pigheadedness of your friend and his brigadier, their continued insistence, will be considered valid justifications. I couldn’t say. You wait to hear from me—and I assure you that you will—but not for at least twenty-four hours. And in the meanwhile, take it from me: don’t do anything. Do you promise?”
Livia looked at him; now she would have to decide whether or not to trust that man. She decided to do it.
“All right then. I’ll wait for you here, at home. And I’ll wait for you to tell me where I can go to collect the doctor. After that, you only need tell me what I can do to repay you for this immense favor that you’re doing.”
Falco picked up the leather portfolio and hat that he’d set down on a counter.
“If I do manage to pull this off, and believe me, it will be quite a challenge, then I will ask you to sing for me. Just once.”
XLVIII
Ricciardi didn’t like telephones.
He’d never managed to become comfortable with that instrument of communication, out of which came a metallic and inexpressive voice that made it impossible to capture the half-tones, the hesitations, and most important, the look in the eye that allowed him to understand what was being hidden behind the words. And then, there was the awareness that all conversations could be heard by the switchboard operators, who theoretically only connected the lines by inserting a plug into a socket but who could actually break in at will, which seemed to him to rob all conversations of confidentiality.
But at times the telephone was necessary: he was relieved when he got Livia’s call. She had told him in a whisper that “the letter has been delivered” and that “we can only wait for an answer.” She had assured him that he “would be the first to hear” and that she would contact him via “a visit from her chauffeur” to police headquarters, but no sooner than Saturday night. In the meanwhile, “there was no need for them to talk to or see each other.”
The woman’s voice seemed not only metallic, but also flat and expressionless. He’d been surprised and chagrined at how distant she’d seemed: it was clear that the wound he’d inflicted was still open, though she had given him the help he had asked for.
Ricciardi wondered whether her decision to leave the city, which Livia had mentioned in the same conversation in which they’d discussed Modo, was definitive. And he wondered why it gave him such a pang of sadness.
Hadn’t he hoped most of all that she would finally come to terms with the fact that his heart wasn’t his to g
ive? Hadn’t he hoped she’d finally forget him, that she might find someone more compatible?
Those thoughts took his mind back to Enrica, to their slow but unequivocal courtship, the afternoons that the young woman was spending with Rosa, and to their encounters at the front door at night. How to square that desire, that sweet and uneasy yearning, with his sadness at Livia’s departure? What was happening to him?
He’d always told himself that love was completely alien to him, as distant as the face of the moon, but now he was face to face with not one but two emotions he couldn’t explain.
Suddenly he felt suffocated, and he decided to leave the office. Just then, all the bells in all the churches started ringing, and their peals were joined by the tooting of the horns of the ships anchored offshore and moored in the port. Eleven o’clock, Holy Saturday.
Easter had officially come to town.
Ricciardi headed off to Via Chiaia. Getting closer to the scene of Viper’s murder might perhaps give him some new ideas, or at least help to take his mind off other thoughts.
The street as always betrayed the spirit of the city, which had changed as if someone had thrown a switch: in place of contrition and mortification there was a swelling, generalized euphoria charged with anticipation. The sound of church bells, silent for days out of respect for Christ dead on the cross, now announced to the world that what was done was done, and great things could now be expected: the Savior would be reborn, He would redeem mankind from its infernal fate, and all would be well.
The festive sound of pealing bells was meant to tell the city that all the bad things plaguing it would come to an end sooner or later: the economic crisis that had brought hundreds of shopkeepers to their knees, the poverty that gripped nearly all the families, and the diseases caused by poor sanitary conditions; and that unpleasant thoughts could be put off for two days, while they awaited the miraculous discovery of Christ’s empty tomb.
The radio stations continued broadcasting only classical music, as they had for nearly a week and would continue to do until the following day, but the serious, doleful sacred melodies had been replaced by surging symphonies.
The strolling vendors had resumed calling their wares to the city’s women with renewed urgency, and now, in the streets, the roving butcher, apron spattered with blood, pushing a cart loaded high with knives and cleavers, ready to slaughter lambs, kid goats, and chickens destined for the paschal table, could be seen. From the railings of the balconies and half-open shutters, children who had become fond of the animals they had raised and fattened for months stared down in horror at those bringers of death, whose shrill whistles and jovial cries announced that the time had come.
The very air itself was laden with new scents: they came from kitchens bustling with feverish activity. The aromas of orange blossom water, cinnamon, vanilla, boiled wheat, and lemons elbowed their way through the rich smells of coffee, grilled fish, and the thousand other fried foods that generally reigned supreme, along with the tang of draft horse manure and exhaust fumes from trucks and cars. But the smell that dominated came from the ovens, where women brought their pastiere and casatielli to be baked, the queens and kings of the impending feast.
There was still none of the noise that would come from children shouting and playing; even the street urchins, the scugnizzi, were sworn to silence in honor of the coming holiday: the metallic echo of the isolated troccola excepted, their noisy games were still forbidden. But it would be only a few hours now before they burst out into the streets in swarms, with balls made of crumpled newspaper or rags bound together with twine, the best possible representatives of the young new season that had just arrived.
The commissario absentmindedly noticed the change, and saw that the suicide outside Gambrinus, incongruously dressed in his heavy winter jacket, went on, undaunted, calling for his lost love, even though he was already beginning to fade like an old photograph. Some things don’t get swept away by the spring winds, unfortunately, mused the commissario.
On the other hand, at the corner by Il Paradiso, not far from the vicolo where the tradesmen made their deliveries, the accordionist had resumed playing at full force. The instrument, broken by the drunk Fascists the morning of Viper’s funeral, had been patched back together and now played just as well as it had before, under the nimble fingers of its proprietor. Ricciardi was pleased to see it, and he tossed a coin into the man’s plate: a misdemeanor he was willing to encourage. Amused, the commissario noted just how skillful the man was at pretending he’d noticed the coin only from the sound, and not because the eyes behind those smoked-glass lenses actually saw perfectly well.
Just as he was about to walk on, he noticed someone stepping out of the small side door and he drew back into the shadows to wait and see who it might be. The ample silhouette and the matronly gait immediately told him that this was Madame Yvonne, heading off briskly in the direction opposite the one from which Ricciardi had come.
The commissario waited a few seconds, then set off after her. He certainly had none of Maione’s skill at tailing people, but the woman seemed quite unaware of her surroundings and she didn’t notice him. She was walking hastily, sticking close to the wall, wearing a black hat with a short veil that just covered her face, taking short quick steps, her heels striking the broad paving stones with a burst of sharp reports. She crossed paths with two women who glanced at each other with raised eyebrows and a man who shot her a faint smile, taking care that the woman on his arm not sees. In neither case did Yvonne show any sign of having noticed. Ricciardi reflected that perhaps he and this woman had more in common than one might guess: they both lived on the thin line that separates light from dark. She, who dealt with whores without being one; and he, who did much the same with criminals.
She wasn’t strolling, she was clearly headed somewhere: her pace was too determined. Ricciardi identified the destination when he saw her slow down and move closer to the wall, peering into the windows of Vincenzo Ventrone’s shop.
XLIX
They stayed that way for a while, sharing the same posture a few yards apart: Ricciardi observing Yvonne, who was in turn observing the interior of Ventrone’s store, working to improve her vantage point by small, incremental adjustments.
Then the woman was forced to give up; her shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointment, and she slowly turned to retrace her steps.
At that point the commissario pulled up next to her. The maîtresse gave him a sidelong glance without slowing down.
“Oh, great, now you. What do you want with me this time? Can’t a poor woman even go out for a walk without having the police in her hair?”
Ricciardi adjusted his gait to match the woman’s.
“Hardly, Signora. I just spotted you from a distance, and I wanted to say hello.”
Yvonne grimaced.
“And what a lovely hello. Forgive me, Commissa’, but this is just not the day for it, with all the problems we have. By the way, when are we going to be able to use Viper’s room again? You can’t imagine how many customers want to see it, but I have to keep it closed until you say otherwise.”
Ricciardi replied confidently:
“Signora, for now I can’t give you that permission. Until we understand what happened, it’s important that everything remain just as it was at the time of the murder.”
The woman snorted.
“Commissa’, I’m sorry about what happened to Viper. I’m really sorry, truly. But life has to go on, and I can’t afford to do without any available resources right now.”
“You need all your resources, eh? Ventrone was a very nice resource, and apparently that’s one you’re having to do without.”
Yvonne stopped and lifted her veil.
“And just what is that supposed to mean, Commissa’? What do you know about it? Maybe the Cavalier is coming to see us all the same, even after Viper’s death, for all you know
.”
“It’s simple, Signora. Why would you need to go to his shop in hopes of running into him if he was still coming to Il Paradiso every day the way he used to? And since they tell me that Cavalier Ventrone isn’t feeling well, or so he claims, and isn’t even coming down to the store . . .”
The woman ran a gloved hand over her face.
“You already know everything, don’t you? Then what are you asking me?”
Ricciardi shrugged.
“Nothing at all, Signora. I was just wondering why you had to speak with Ventrone. Perhaps it would help me to understand whether there’s some reason that man is no longer in circulation.”
They’d arrived at the building where Il Paradiso was located. Madame began to cry. She wasn’t sobbing, nor was her voice broken; tears simply began to streak her cheeks, and she did nothing to wipe them away.
Ricciardi looked around uncomfortably, and he was reminded of Livia at Gambrinus; he seemed to have a special talent for making women cry.
Madame opened the door with a key that she carried on a small chain under her shawl, and she headed up the staircase; the commissario followed her. Given the hour and the day, the bordello was immersed in an unusual silence veined with Lysoform and stale cigarette smoke. When she was close to her customary post with the oversized cash register, Yvonne finally felt comfortable:
“Commissa’, you don’t know. You couldn’t possibly know. I was in the profession, like so many others; I did it until one day I couldn’t do it any longer, and the funny thing is that it didn’t happen to me on the job. He, Tullio’s father, was . . . well, he never really had a job. And he didn’t have the money to pay me; but he was nice, and he was funny. Oh, how he used to make me laugh . . . A whore’s life is no laughing matter, as you know, Commissa’. But he told jokes, he acted out scenes, he did perfect imitations, and I had so much fun, and if he made a move, well, I didn’t say no. And when I happened to get pregnant, he didn’t leave. He certainly could have left, no? It would have been easy. I was a whore, it could have been anybody. But he stuck by me.”
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