The commissario sighed:
“I’m not from the country, I’m from the mountains, but go ahead and tell us.”
“Because he had told, in public, in his small town, the following joke: a factory worker went to buy some apples, and when he realized that the newspaper in which the grocer had wrapped his fruit featured a photograph of Mussolini, he asked him, in a worried voice, to use some other section of the paper, because otherwise he was worried that Il Duce would eat even his apples.”
Ricciardi started to object, then heaved a sigh as Livia and Maione burst into laughter.
“Come on, Bruno, I can’t believe that’s why he was arrested.”
Modo was perfectly serious. He leaned forward and said:
“Ricciardi, you don’t get it: things are terrible. They call it “undermining the image of the head of state,” and they behave as if it’s a serious crime because they claim that it harms the image of Italy as a whole. They’ve gone crazy. And that’s not the funniest thing I heard in there!”
Maione was wiping the tears from his cheeks.
“Really, Dotto’? Do you have another joke as good as that last one?”
Ricciardi scolded the brigadier:
“Raffae’, please, don’t encourage him, otherwise we won’t be able to stop him, and he’ll wind up behind bars once and for all.”
Livia was happy to let the tension loosen, in part because she sensed another source of anxiety at the pit of her stomach, ready to replace the first.
“Yes, Doctor, tell us: what other ridiculous reasons did they have for locking people up?”
Modo took a long drink of wine.
“Well, there was a teamster, a man who drove a cart. A poor wretch whose only concern in life was how to feed his ten children. Well, this guy used to spend time at the workers’ club for railwaymen and trolley drivers, you know, the one up at Monteoliveto, because with his little cart and donkey he used to deliver coal to the train station. So one day last month, at the club, they inaugurated with full honors a new plaster bust of our leader, Old Bull Head, and this poor fellow finds himself attending the event, with everyone in dress uniform clapping when they unveil the bald-headed bust. And he thinks to himself, well, maybe they just didn’t have the money to include the hair. You get it? He had no idea who the bust was supposed to be.”
Maione and Livia had started to chuckle. Modo went on:
“Well, he just wanted to help out the head of the club, and he’d seen how proud he was of that bust; and so, late one night, he decided to make up for the club’s monetary deficencies, so he cut off his donkey’s tail and he made a magnificent toupee for the egghead himself, and he slaps it right on, in the middle of the head. The next morning the custodian unlocks the club at opening time, and he finds old Thunder Jaws himself wearing a wonderful donkey-tail hairpiece, perfectly combed and brushed. Of course, the teamster was immediately arrested and shipped off to internal exile.”
Maione burst out laughing.
Livia burst out laughing.
Ricciardi suddenly understood who had killed Viper.
LIII
Suddenly, everything was crystal clear. The connections were clear, what had happened was clear, and how it happened was clear as well.
It took tremendous effort for Ricciardi to keep from leaping to his feet and running straight to police headquarters; but there was no rush. And he didn’t want to undercut the first moment of peace and safety in three days for Modo, Maione, and Livia, and for himself as well.
When they got out of the tavern it was broad daylight, and it was Easter Sunday. The church bells, finally free, filled the air with their chimes and the streets began to fill up with little old ladies in black shawls, heading for the churches where they would preside over all the celebrations.
Modo ran his hand over his face, and felt the stubble that demanded the attentions of a razor.
“Mamma mia, Signora, I can’t believe I let you see me in such bad shape. I hope you’ll forgive me. I usually take better care of myself.”
“Don’t think twice about it, my dear doctor. First of all, you have the best excuse possible; and then, after all, I’m certainly not at my finest either. I’ve had a few bad days, though nothing to compare with the experience you’ve just had.”
Maione added:
“You know, I’m suddenly starving. It’s a good thing that today is Easter Sunday, if it was still Lent I’d commit a sin and go straight to a restaurant. In fact, Dotto’, I wanted to tell you that I swore an oath last night, privately: if the doctor is freed, then he’s coming to our house for Easter dinner. My wife Lucia has made a pastiera that’s so good it can talk.”
Livia lit up:
“Ah, the pastiera! That’s the pie my housekeeper brought me yesterday, because she was worried I had eaten so little over the past few days: it’s a wonderful thing, that pie. Even as overwrought as I was, I ate two slices, and I can’t wait to eat some more.”
They were outside the doctor’s building now, in Piazza del Gesú. The large church, its façade covered with diamond, was dressed up for the holiday, and the faithful were gathering for the first service.
Modo said:
“I never thought I’d see my home again so soon. And I’m grateful to you, truly grateful, my friends. If I weren’t such a tough old battle-hardened army doctor, I swear I’d start crying. But since I know that if I were to do such a thing you’d march me straight back to the barracks, I’ll spare you. Brigadie’, thanks for having taken care of my four-legged friend, it seems to me that under that coat he might have even gotten a bit fatter. And thanks for the invitation, which I gladly accept: I’ll catch a couple of hours of sleep, get a shave, and wash up, and I’ll see you later in the home of the lovely Signora Lucia.”
After which he went over to Ricciardi and, after gazing into his eyes for what seemed like a long time, gave him a hug.
“I’m sorry, Ricciardi. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to tolerate this hug.” Then he bowed to Livia: “Allow me to pay my most sincere respects, Madame: and my heartfelt gratitude. It’s a double blessing, to be so devoted to a woman of such beauty: I am surely the beneficiary. I hope to see you again soon.”
The woman returned the bow with a graceful curtsey.
“It’s been a pleasure, Dottore. And who knows, perhaps we will see each other again sooner or later.”
Once Modo had vanished through the front door, followed by his dog, Ricciardi turned to Livia:
“I hope you’ll forgive us, Livia: Maione and I have to run, we have a very important matter to attend to. But I thank you too, truly. I’ll be forever in your debt, for this deed you performed, and which I certainly didn’t deserve.”
“I’m very happy with how things turned out, mostly for the doctor, who truly is an extraordinary man. As for you, I just hope that what happened will help you to understand a little something about me, and about yourself as well. Happy Easter.”
She turned to go, but Ricciardi impulsively called after her:
“Livia, listen. You mentioned a celebration, a special Easter performance tonight at the Teatro San Carlo. If you still plan to attend, I’d be delighted to accompany you.”
She stood motionless, her back to him. She wasn’t sure she’d heard right; and after all, she’d made up her mind to leave town, hadn’t she? She’d decided to abandon that ridiculous illusion, to stop humiliating herself for a man who didn’t want her. And even that invitation, she realized a second later, wasn’t it merely the product of his gratitude for her help in freeing the doctor? Wasn’t it too little, too late, for a new beginning?
No, she answered her own question. It wasn’t too little, too late.
“You know, Ricciardi, I’d decided to leave, and I was planning to spend the evening packing my bags. But all things considered, that’s something I can just as ea
sily do tomorrow morning; perhaps after another slice of that wonderful pie. All right then, invitation accepted. I’ll expect you at my place, at nine.”
And she left, taking care that neither man could see the joy lighting up her face.
Once they were alone, Maione immediately spoke to Ricciardi:
“Commissa’, just what is this important matter we have to attend to? I’m not even on duty, and if I’m late for Easter dinner this will be the time that Lucia finally slaughters me and serves me up roasted, with a side dish of potatoes, instead of the kid goat.”
Ricciardi was walking briskly toward the office.
“I’ve figured it out, Raffaele. I’ve figured it all out. I’ve figured out what happened, and why. I’ve figured out who killed the poor girl, and how, and even the mistakes they made. I need to confirm a few things, but I’ve figured it out.”
Maione was having a hard time keeping up with him.
“Commissa’, then help me figure it out too. Tell me what we need to do.”
And Ricciardi told him, continuing to stride briskly, dodging all the people pouring out into the street to celebrate Easter and springtime, the madonnari who were using colored chalk to draw scenes of Jesus blessing Mussolini on the sidewalks, beggars playing mandolins and ocarinas, black blindfolds over their eyes, and the thousands of strolling vendors setting up shop outside the churches.
He told him everything, speaking of passions, emotions, and cash.
He told him everything, of murder caught as always midway between hunger and love.
He told him everything, and when they reached the entrance to police headquarters they were once again full of strength and energy, as if they hadn’t spent two sleepless nights, as if they hadn’t just dealt with so daunting an experience. They were hunting dogs, and after bounding aimlessly through fields, they’d caught scent of their prey and were prowling, bellies to the earth, ready to lunge at its throat.
Maione rubbed his hands eagerly.
“Fine, Commissa’. That explains everything. All right, what’s our next move?”
Ricciardi followed the thread of his thoughts.
“Here’s our next move: you go with two officers to pick up the murderer, without making too much of a fuss. Be careful, this is likely to be something that won’t come entirely as a surprise, though with every passing day the sense of safety is probably growing.”
“What about you, Commissa’? What are you going to do?”
Ricciardi smirked.
“I’m going to go spend a little time at the bordello. Everyone has been telling me that’s what I should do, so this time I really will. Maybe I’ll be able to pick up some confirming evidence. I’ll see you afterward, at headquarters; move fast, and you’ll get home in time for lunch and your wife won’t have to cook you.”
LIV
Once again, Ricciardi walked up Via Toledo and then Via Chiaia, heading for Il Paradiso.
Springtime had decided to welcome in Easter dressed in her very best. The air was sparkling like a vino novello, and was every bit as intoxicating and treacherous, full of scents and promises that spring had no intention of keeping. He could hear singing from the apartments overlooking the street, women busy with final holiday preparations or finishing up some spring cleaning, and men shaving by the light of day for a change, the mirror hanging from a hook out on the balcony in the first whiff of the new season: voices both off-key and gloriously melodious, deep and high, all talking of love.
The commissario tried to put himself into the mind of Viper’s murderer. Now that he was certain of the killer’s identity, he could rule out what he had first theorized as a motive, a burst of rage or some accumulation of contingencies: the murder had been premeditated, prepared and planned out. Therefore the murderer must have walked this very same route, calm, the same as all the other pedestrians walking beside him on that magnificent Sunday morning.
Ricciardi mused on how often he wound up close to someone who was planning to put an end to a human life. He went past the ghostly image of the suicide outside Gambrinus who stood murmuring: Our café, my love, our café, my love. He was starting to fade, and before long he’d vanish just as the memory of him would, to be replaced by some new and despairing emotion. I prefer the dead, thought Ricciardi: their thoughts are blunted and by now useless, but at least they’re obvious.
He reached Il Paradiso, but he didn’t go in; instead he walked a little farther and stopped at the corner of the side alley, the vicolo that ran past the small door that served as the tradesmen’s entrance. He found himself standing in front of the accordion player, with his dark glasses and his little metal plate of coins.
The man accompanied the music that his nimble fingers drew from the instrument with a few of the words of the song, modulated by his half-open lips. The position of his head, pointed toward some indeterminate point between the roof of the building across the way and the sky, was the very picture of blindness. No doubt about it, thought Ricciardi: he was a master at maintaining his fiction.
Noticing the commissario standing motionless before him, the accordionist raised his voice and begin singing with conviction, in a fine baritone: “T’aggio vuluto bbene, a tte, / tu m’e vuluto bbene, a mme. / Mo’ nun ci amamm’ cchiú, ma ’e vvote tu / distrattamente pienz’ a mme!”
The song ended with an elaborate arpeggio and a passing matron dropped a coin in his plate; without shifting the direction of his eyes, the man thanked her. Ricciardi remained motionless.
The man went on playing, but his discomfort was making itself clear. Finally he stopped, his dark lenses pointed at some distant point straight ahead of him. Ricciardi said, in a low voice:
“We need to talk.”
The man nodded his head yes but didn’t get up. So Ricciardi sat down on a step near him.
“Let’s not waste each other’s time. I know you’re not blind, and I’d ask you to drop the pretense, which I care nothing about and about which, I assure you, I’ll do nothing in the future. I’m here for something else.”
The beggar nodded.
“And I know exactly who you are, Commissa’. I was hoping to have a chance to thank you and the brigadier for defending us, the other day, against those Fascists who came dangerously close to ruining my accordion, and what would I have done then? Luckily the damage was light and I was able to fix it.”
“What is your name?”
The conversation was conducted in whispers and the man hadn’t altered his posture at all.
“Francesco Lo Giudice, but they call me Ciccillo. Ciccillo ’o Cecato, to be exact.”
“’O Cecato, eh? Ciccillo the Blind Man. And how long have you been pretending to be blind?”
“When I was a boy I fell ill and for a while I couldn’t see very well. That was exactly when I learned to play the accordion, from an uncle of mine who was a strolling musician. He’d take me with him, so folks would take pity on the little boy with the bandaged eyes and would be more likely to give us charity. Then I got better, but when people see that you’re normal, they say: go get a job. As if playing the accordion and making people happy wasn’t a job.”
Ricciardi considered the matter and deep down, he had to agree.
“So this is your regular spot, right? This is where you always work?”
“Yes, Commissa’. And it’s a good spot. The police, given the fact that there’s a bordello right here, generally leave me alone; lots of people pass by, and they stop to look in the shop windows; and there’s a restaurant right there, with a good-natured waitress who always gives me leftovers.”
“And you were here last Monday, weren’t you, when . . .”
“When Viper was killed, yes. Such a shame. You have no idea how beautiful she was, when she’d come out of that door and walk past me, you have to believe me, the temptation to turn my head and watch her even just from behind wa
s almost irresistible.”
In spite of himself, Ricciardi began to understand the difficulties of being professionally blind.
“Then perhaps you recall who went in and who came out the little side door leading into the cathouse.”
Ciccillo snickered.
“Commissa’, I may even pass for blind: but I have a memory like a steel trap, if I do say so myself, and I don’t forget what I see.”
And he told Ricciardi exactly what he wanted to know.
Il Paradiso was closed for Easter, and that struck Ricciardi as nicely ironic.
Madame Yvonne had greeted him in a nightgown, her hair a mess, her face free of the usual heavy makeup. Wearily she had walked him upstairs to the door of Viper’s room, opening it with a key chosen from among the many that clanked on an iron ring.
“Commissa’, forgive me if I ask you again: when will we able to use this room again? I’d like to give it to Lily, because word has gotten out that it was her who found . . . that she was the first to see Viper, and there are people willing to pay very good money to make . . . to hear the story.”
“I imagine there are. Don’t worry, Signora: it won’t be long now, not long at all. Now, if you’ll be so kind, I’d like to go in alone.”
“At your orders, Commissa’. I’ll wait for you here.”
In the room, everything was just as Ricciardi remembered it; his orders had been respected and no one had moved anything. The stale odor of a closed room, with the heavy traces of French perfume and disinfectant all but drowned out by the scent of rotting flowers, almost made him gag; he opened the window and let in the fresh spring air.
He shivered slightly when he heard the words of the girl’s corpse, as she stood before the mirror and kept repeating: Little whip, little whip. My little whip. The little whip he’d looked for and been unable to find. Perhaps now this too had an explanation.
Ricciardi looked at the objects on the dresser, the ones scattered over the bed and on the floor. The pillow that had killed the young woman. The jewel box. The frame with the photograph, which he now knew was a picture of the girl’s mother and her own son. Suddenly what Ricciardi knew about the dead girl’s life weighed down on his heart, her sadness and her joys. This was no longer a stranger’s room, the place where some unknown corpse had been found; now it was a place where a person had experienced pains and passions and emotions.
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