Lilililì, on that other bed, I lost my identity and shape and now I’ll never know if I’m a man, a woman, or both.
Not that killing ever put me in an especially good mood, but at least it makes me feel I’m alive. It satiates me with flight, terror, hiding places, here’s the noise of the people coming to get you. You know. Those kinds of things.
All of them.
Except for guilt, I killed it too, in all the previous lalalalà’s and lilililì’s.
10.
Martusciello had almost reached the floor of his office when he changed his mind and headed back downstairs. At the front door the police officer asked him if he’d left something in his car.
“No,” the captain said, spreading his arms, “I left everything in the subway.”
He forced himself to walk. He didn’t feel like it, but his abulia, which was already moving house inside his head, was bothering him. He decided that there had been other periods like this, but he’d never allowed the void to taint his life in that manner. Not even when his wife Santina left him and then came back as if nothing at all had happened.
He looked at his shoes, with the same old laces, the ones he’d been buying in the same shop for years:
“You don’t feel like it? Well, you have to walk all the same.”
He headed over toward the narrow lanes behind the port, from which there was no view of the water.
Without planning out his route, he found himself skirting the tracks of the Cumana railway, which had been sidelined forever until someone could reorganize and put it at the service of other rail lines. For the moment, the Cumana remained nothing more than a hustle and bustle of local trains, bedaubed with modern graffiti that was already ancient, flaking signs in fading hues.
A few glimpses of flowers that had survived the harsh stones and searing summer gave him respite from his abstraction.
The pain in his ankle, which served as a rudimentary pedometer, reminded him of the pleasure that had still been his to enjoy not even all that long ago: the enjoyment of long treks, the effort of slow intelligence, of going on just as long as he could and even then, a little longer. And he felt a solitary delight in the anyway and all the same.
For the first time in months he was brushed by a smooth consideration of good intentions.
He told himself that if he succeeded with the street, if he plunged into it to the point of taking pleasure from even the rocks and the rotten food and the filth, then he could try again with his work as well, with all the troubles at home and with his age that refused to stop advancing. It would turn into a sort of training.
I’ll turn it into a daily exercise and I’ll shatter with my many footsteps the void that insists on lodging in this head of mine.
Martusciello had built himself with simple and obstinate resources. He remembered all too clearly the derision, expressed in words and gestures, of his enterprising colleagues. He’d always been an ordinary beat cop, the kind who refused to corrupt whores of all kinds and levels of income, the kind who never swore, who didn’t want to modernize, who went around town with his pistol unloaded, who had only ever had two options: a miserable end or the Pubblica Sicurezza—Naples’ s finest. He rejected proclamations, but as far as he was concerned, when it came to Pubblica Sicurezza, the only Safety really did rest in the hands of the Public.
Public, now, let’s not go overboard, he thought. The job that I wanted, or maybe I should say, the job that wanted me, that landed on my shoulders because of how and where I was born, was to keep safe the little patch of territory that I could keep an eye on. A patch that wasn’t for sale to the highest bidder, that was without newspaper advertising, and far from the realm of these two-bit sharks that come onto the market with their heads decapitated only to be replaced by a swordfish head. So they can be sold again, new and improved.
As he walked, Martusciello headed back toward the sea, along the boundary with the Bagnoli quarter. He found he had fetched up outside Jerry Vialdi’s house.
He looked up and saw that from the recessed terraces of the two-story penthouse there extended a host of plants: a garish livery at a wedding ceremony between sea and sun. To rest his eyes from that incongruous splendor he turned them toward the islet of Nisida.
“You’re even prettier in October,” he said. “I can’t think of anything better to say, it’s an outright declaration of love.”
Nisida was beautiful, and nothing more need be said. Set on the surface of the sea as if it were about to set sail any second, due to its inherent superiority over the horrors surrounding it, the island had remained uncontaminated over the years because it housed the Juvenile Correction Institute and, uncaring, flaunted its Mediterranean maquis, sea, and past.
Every so often some especially zealous politician would suggest turning it into a casino, a resort, a residential development, or a theme park.
In the meantime, the prison stood, preserving with its indifference the regret over what the Campi Flegrei could have been.
11.
Martusciello stepped closer to the row of buzzers by the front door, read the name “Maestro Jerry Vialdi,” and rang. He expected no response, the gesture was just his way of trying to get closer to the case.
But a woman’s melodious voice answered him:
“Who is it?”
The captain was surprised, especially because Vialdi was the only person listed as an occupant of the apartment.
“It’s Police Captain Vincenzo Martusciello.”
He walked to the door, took one look at the broken police seals, and knocked.
The woman who opened the door to him didn’t match the voice that had responded on the intercom: age impossible to judge, short, skinny, shoulders wrapped around her own sternum.
Martusciello looked through the door to find the owner of that voice, then the woman spoke.
“I know that I’ve committed a crime.”
Even the police seals fell back into place. It wasn’t just a matter of the timbre: hesitation mixed with apparent calm that was, however, belied by imprudent r sounds whisked Martusciello to a soft comfortable place. That woman spoke with the sound of asbestos kisses.
The captain extended his hand with the awkward gesture of someone incapable of judging distances effectively and therefore obliged to lean forward from the waist.
“I’m Vincenzo Martusciello. Why did you ignore the police seals?”
“I’m Marialuigia Moreno.” She smiled, and her green eyes darkened. “I wanted to water the plants.”
“And you’re willing to risk jail time to water the plants?”
“See for yourself.”
Marialuigia Moreno led Martusciello onto the upstairs terrace, which was hidden from the street.
The captain admired the array of wisteria, bougainvillea, and miniature white climbing roses, and patches of meadow in broad low planters dotted with wild daisies.
She waved her hand.
“Two days, and they’ve all withered.”
“You can’t buy seedlings, you need to buy seeds. They should be planted in large planters with good soil for flowering plants. They need lots of water.”
Martusciello walked over to the railing and leaned over: on the terrace below he made out the shapes of the plants that could be glimpsed from the street as well: palm trees, short powerful trunks exploding with excessive glee, saplings crowded into a cluster of vases from Vietri and the Benevento area.
The vegetation was all starting to wither, but it hardly struck Martusciello as much of a loss.
“What a difference, downstairs.”
“Well, at least that’s not my fault.” The woman laughed and made music. “I selected the plants on the upper terrace and I take care of them, that’s all. It’s not my job: I wrote the lyrics for Jerry’s songs, or at least I have been for the past several years. Modestly spe
aking, Tu, solo tu, sei tu is my work. You know it?”
“Everyone knows it! And with all my respect for your musical artistry, it’s uglier than that wrought-iron bench over there.”
“The previous album hadn’t sold the way Jerry expected, and so I brought that monstrosity into the world, and in fact it sold like hotcakes. Tu, solo tu, sei tu paid for the double-decker penthouse. Far too often my work has had no relationship to speak of with musical artistry.”
“Talk to me about the victim.”
“There were disagreements and arguments aplenty, but if you care about someone you wind up fighting with them, don’t you? And Jerry was so generous with the people who worked for him. He put my life back on track.”
“You have a very pretty voice.”
Marialuigia Moreno pressed her hand against the pit of her stomach, took a few deep breaths, and then began to sing, even improving the health of the daisies.
When she was done singing the number from Jerry Vialdi’s repertoire, she stood for a moment in silence.
“Yes, I know how to sing.”
“Yes, you do know how to sing. Why don’t you sing your own songs?”
“You need to have a soloist’s physique, and I don’t have it.”
Martusciello and the woman walked back inside, and the captain took a look around.
“Care for something to drink, Captain?”
“I’d better not, I don’t want to become an accomplice to your breaking and entering, even after the fact. Who hated Vialdi enough to murder him in that way?”
“I don’t know. Not everyone loved him, of course. I’d venture a guess: his more talented and less successful rivals, perhaps, but I doubt that any of them would go so far as to commit murder.”
“Did he frequent any questionable individuals, have any ties to organized crime?”
Marialuigia Moreno curled her legs beneath her on the sofa and turned into a cat.
“Jerry had some bad habits, but actual ties to organized crime, no, I doubt it.” She shut her mouth. “And if he had, I wouldn’t tell you about it.”
“That phrase could be taken as a confirmation.”
“I don’t know. Why would he have even told me about such a thing?”
“Because if you care about someone you wind up fighting with them and talking to them.”
“I was an employee of his, and what friendship there was was a product of working together. That’s all.”
Martusciello understood that she was done confiding in him.
“Shall we go, Signora?”
“Sure, I don’t have far to go, I live in a studio apartment in the other wing of the building. The one overlooking the tufa-stone, not the salt water.” She cocked her head to one side. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“Let’s not overdo things. You inspire trust in me. But, take it from me, forget about the plants.”
“Can’t I at least take a few of them away with me?”
“It wouldn’t be a very smart move.”
“Sure, for me or for them. They’d die in any case. Where I live there’s not much light and no outdoor spaces. Let’s go.”
Martusciello did his best to put the seals back the way they were and headed toward the stairs.
“One last question: why didn’t I see your name in the credits on Vialdi’s CDs?”
“Because my byline is Gatta Mignon, a nom de plume that he came up with for me. I won’t be using it again, and I won’t be writing any more songs either.”
12.
On the way back, being tenaciously loyal to annoyance, Martusciello could not bring himself to admit that he’d glimpsed anything worthy of curiosity. What he felt was a defective desire to know more, but still, the desire had finally come to him.
He almost dismissed it:
“Nothing much.”
He mused: A woman, not pretty, an unsuccessful soloist, who then looks around for a job of some kind, at a certain point finds herself writing lyrics for a singer who also isn’t much but who still manages to sell a substantial number of records. No doubt, Marialuigia is obliged to keep her face calm and her emotions under control, in the midst of the benefits that have rained down on her so unexpectedly. Short enough to drown in one of the puddles of that rainstorm of good luck, actually. Marialuigia Moreno seems to be missing certain parts of a normal sized body. But what a voice she has. So lovely. This Jerry must have sucked the art right out of her, with the permission of Gatta Mignon herself, after all she wanted nothing better than a chance to go buy herself some plants. She inspires trust in me, she strikes me as a creature with her feet on the ground. One who was perfectly aware that the fancy silverware never actually belonged to her, but who also understood clearly that if things had gone differently, she never would have even heard the silverware clank with a ringing sound as she washed up and put it away into the silverware drawer. Which also didn’t belong to her. She looks like an prematurely old girl doing everything she can to justify the second-rate world that surrounds her, but goes on devouring it all the same, even finding it tasty and nourishing from time to time. Hummphh. She made quite an impression on me, no doubt. Yes, a little something of an urge to dig into her life and the life of the Singing Maestro did start to stir inside of me, not much, just a little. I did like the fact that she was reluctant to empty the bucket of lifelong sins over the head of the dearly departed. She didn’t drip out a teary rendition of oh how I loved and will always miss my lord and master. She played it straight, and she played it well. And now she’ll be unemployed, and she’ll have to go join the ranks of the aspiring. She was good, indeed.
Martusciello arrived at the police station. Standing at the entrance to the building was the same police officer as earlier:
“Did you find what you left in the subway?”
“No, but I did find pieces of other things that I’d lost. It’s one of those things that happens.”
Outside the door to his office, the captain saw two women seated, waiting for him. He guessed their ages as, one, thirty or so, the other, almost fifty but a very nice fifty. The thirty-year-old kept moving her legs: crossing them, stretching them out in front of her, tapping the pavement, exercising her calves by flexing her feet. The almost-fifty-year-old was arranging the contents of her purse, as if to make up for the time she was wasting while waiting for him. She gave him a smile.
Martusciello reached for the door handle.
“You can’t go in. Apparently we have to wait our turn.”
“I work here, they won’t be mad at me.”
And he went through the door.
Blanca, Liguori, and a woman with short hair were sitting on the same side of his desk, talking. His office chair was empty, and a cigarette lighter seemed to be holding his place.
Liguori walked toward him and asked him where he’d been. The captain smiled, distantly, challenging the detective’s habit of being the first to make a move.
“I drank a cup of coffee with a serial killer who waters plants.”
Blanca turned formal.
“At Captain Malanò’s request, we’ve summoned Signora Rosina Mastriani, present in this room, Signora Mara Scacchi, and Signora Julia Marin. All three women have had contact with the victim.”
“Well, go ahead in that case. Never let me be one to thwart Malanò’s purposes.”
Signora Rosina Mastriani caught Martusciello’s annoyance. She caught it because she felt the same way.
“Captain, Vialdi had countless women. But I wasn’t seeing him anymore, because I’m never comfortable standing in line so I generally just give up and go away.”
Blanca nodded. Liguori noticed the sergeant’s gesture and moved closer to Rosina Mastriani.
“We’ll summon the countless women to come in too. Signora Mastriani, present in this room,” he went on, imitating Blanca’s phrase and
then glancing over at Martusciello, “was just telling us about Vialdi.”
“Well, Signora, if it’s not too much trouble, could you repeat for me what you told my colleagues?”
“Vialdi was a creep.”
“May his soul rest in peace,” Liguori commented.
“He’s dead, more power to him, but when he was still alive he played a considerable role in ruining my life. He was a friend of my husband’s, he came to see me. I fell for him.”
Liguori was about to add a further comment, but the captain beat him to it.
“Go on, Signora.”
“I’m forty-two years old, but I wasn’t born yesterday: I left my husband and children and went to live on my own.”
“At Vialdi’s place?”
“I wasn’t invited. He said that nothing kills love like a routine.”
This time Martusciello wasn’t quick enough to keep Liguori from talking; the detective whispered for Blanca’s benefit:
“Anna Karenina is tearing up the pages. One by one.”
“Did you say something, Detective?”
“Nothing, Signora.”
Rosina Mastriani shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s how it went. I held out for three years, I stayed in the apartment I had rented, and I went on with my life.”
The captain, apprehensive of the glance that he expected from Liguori, asked her:
“Was there anyone who could have benefited from his death? Did he have any ties with organized crime?” The detective turned his hands palm upward and fanned his fingers to show his discomfort. The standard questions struck him as so much boilerplate.
“How would I know?”
Rosina Mastriani stopped to think.
“I do know that everything and everyone was a plaything to him: gambling, bills, horses, soccer.” She broke off again. “For a while, he loved cars, then he stopped caring about them. He had countless women.”
“So you said,” Liguori observed.
“Sorry about that, I tend to repeat myself. Can I go now?” Liguori walked her to the door and handed her a card with his office numbers.
Three, Imperfect Number Page 4