Day of the Dead

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  XXXVIII

  Livia decided to make a visit to police headquarters to find out where Ricciardi was and what he was doing. She had played a crucial role in helping him to get that time off, but in the days that followed he hadn’t even bothered to give her any sign that he was still alive.

  The information she’d learned through Falco’s organization, from the report that she’d read, had given her plenty of food for thought, and the allure that the commissario exerted over her had only increased as a result.

  So, the man was a wealthy aristocrat; with a standing that would easily have allowed him to play a prominent role in high society. He wasn’t a homosexual, which confirmed what her instincts had told her. There was no woman in his life. He’d chosen to live modestly, with his old tata, and in a part of town that was hardly chic, far from the center. Even his friendship with Modo, dangerous though it might be, showed that Ricciardi had values above and beyond those of self-interest.

  That man was a living mystery. Fascinating, thought Livia as she stepped out of the car door held open by her chauffeur. Absolutely fascinating.

  Ponte, Garzo’s oily assistant, materialized in the lobby, evidently standing watch for any new developments.

  “Signora, welcome. Dottore Garzo will be delighted to see you. Prego, prego, come right this way and I’ll show you to his office.”

  Livia certainly hadn’t come to see Garzo.

  “No, grazie. I’m actually here to see Commissario Ricciardi.”

  But Ponte had seized her by the elbow and wasn’t about to let go.

  “But the Commissario isn’t here, Signo’. He’s on vacation, don’t you remember? If anything, I would think you’ve seen more of him in the past few days than we have, no? Come along, come along. Just for a moment, the dottore will say a quick hello and then you can be on your way. If he finds out that you were here and I let you get away without stopping by his office, you can imagine the temper he’ll be in!”

  He continued to chatter away as he led her up the stairs and then down the hall to Garzo’s office. The deputy chief of police saw her coming through the half-open door.

  “Mia cara signora! At last, a ray of sunshine, on this dark, damp day! Come in, come in, prego, please have a seat!”

  Now Livia was bitterly sorry she’d had the idea to visit police headquarters.

  “No, Dottore, I really don’t want to take up your valuable time, with all the things that you must have to get done. I just dropped by to . . . I just had something I wanted to tell Ricciardi, but your assistant tells me that he’s not here, so . . . ”

  Garzo had practically forced her down into the chair, and then he’d closed the door behind her.

  “But, just five minutes, it’s never a waste of my time to speak with you, and especially not to see you in person. How are you? How is everything going?”

  “Fine, just fine, grazie. I’ve almost finished furnishing my new home.”

  Garzo was doing his best to seem charming and sophisticated, which made him appear to Livia’s eyes even more insipid than usual.

  “Ah, speaking of your new home, how are the preparations going for your party? No one in Naples is talking about anything else. I personally refrain from mentioning the fact that you and I have discussed it, and that you were so kind as to express your intention to invite me and my wife, but I listen to everything I hear with great interest.”

  “Yes, I know that people can even be far too interested in these unimportant little social gatherings. For me, it’s nothing more than an opportunity to see an old girlfriend and to introduce her to my new acquaintances, that’s all.”

  The deputy chief of police put on a conspiratorial air.

  “Let’s put our cards on the table, Signora: your position and your presence in this city are the subject of considerable observation. Very, very attentive observation.”

  A moment of silence followed this statement, which seemed to cast the functionary in a new light: could it be that this insignificant man, this conceited bureaucrat, possessed information about the activities of the mysterious organization Falco worked for? After all, it was a kind of police force, and police headquarters might well be keeping tabs on its work. In that case, perhaps Garzo, in his eagerness to curry favor with her, might be able to provide her with a little more information about the degree to which Ricciardi was in their crosshairs. In a strange way, Livia felt that she might be able to protect the commissario.

  She decided to let on that she was aware of the secret police’s surveillance, hoping that this would prompt Garzo to confide new details.

  “Certainly, Dottore; I’m well aware that the Duce’s daughter—and by extension this insignificant friend of hers—must be protected and therefore kept under watch. These are difficult times, and who would know that better than you? But since we have nothing to hide, it is reassuring to feel that we’re being protected. Especially when those who are watching over us are so thoughtful as to inform us of the fact. As far as the reception is concerned, it will be kept extremely secure, and therefore, as guests, you should certainly feel safe.”

  Garzo’s face lit up; hearing explicitly that he would be among the invited guests, and finding out at the same time that not only did Livia know about the secret police’s surveillance, she was happy about it, was more than he could have hoped for.

  “Signora, I know it, too, and I’m very pleased. You put it perfectly: when a person has nothing to hide, being under surveillance is actually quite reassuring.”

  It wasn’t true, and they both knew it. Too many rumors had been circulating about innocent people who, without the slightest idea why, had been hauled off to secret locations and subjected to trials that inevitably resulted in guilty verdicts; but neither one trusted the other enough to express their fears.

  “Dottore, I came by in search of news about Ricciardi, whom I haven’t seen since the last time I was here. Have you heard from him? He’s a latter-day scarlet pimpernel, that man!”

  She followed her words with a cheerful laugh, to keep from betraying a hint of concern. Garzo shook his head.

  “No, Signora. In fact, I don’t mind telling you that I’d like to know a little more about what he’s up to. As long as we’re talking confidentially, I should say that sometimes the man takes personal initiatives that put him at serious risk of trouble. Certain behaviors of his, certain people he spends time with—they might give the wrong impression. You and I, who are his friends, ought to urge him to be more careful.”

  Livia immediately understood that Garzo possessed the same information that had been given to her. What else did he know?

  “So true. That’s exactly what I intend to do, when he finally decides to show his face. But let me ask you, Dottore, do you have any idea as to what commitments might have induced him to ask for this time off? How could I get in touch with him, if I wished to speak with him?”

  The deputy chief of police seemed uninterested in going any further. You could never know for sure: what if Livia herself was an informant for Falco and his associates? After all, she came from Rome, and he couldn’t be sure she hadn’t been sent by someone to investigate him and police headquarters.

  “Well, I really couldn’t tell you. You were here the last time I saw him. And as you know, it’s hard to say with Ricciardi. I just hope he doesn’t get himself into some mess that I can’t help him out of, because—and this is something you should know about me, Signora—no matter how I like and respect him, I’d never do anything that might conflict to the slightest degree with the wishes of the regime.”

  Livia refrained from expressing her disgust. The man was a coward, and he clearly thought that even she might be an informant.

  “I’m more than sure of it, Dottore. Grazie. But now I really have to go, there’s still so much left to do.”

  Garzo stood up to see her to the door.

&n
bsp; “Certainly, certainly, I completely understand. Well, then, arrivederci, my dear Signora. I’ll look forward to receiving . . . mail from you.”

  Livia flashed him her most dazzling smile.

  “And you most certainly will. Have a pleasant day.”

  Just as her car was leaving the building, Livia glimpsed the massive silhouette of Brigadier Maione. She told the driver to stop. She got out and approached him.

  “Brigadier, good afternoon. How are you doing? I was just held captive for a short while by your Dottor Garzo, who doesn’t know a thing about Ricciardi. Would you happen to know what’s become of him?”

  Maione looked around. He seemed conflicted.

  “No, no, Signora. How would I know where to find the commissario? He’s on vacation, as you know, the lucky dog. And not here slaving away like the rest of us.”

  Livia dismissed the brigadier’s reticence with a wave of her hand.

  “Let’s skip the playacting, Brigadier. Ricciardi’s welfare and health are as important to you as they are to me. What kind of mess has he gotten himself into, if I may ask? A man doesn’t just disappear from one day to the next, and I know that you wouldn’t just stand idly by without knowing anything about it, nor would he fail to keep you informed. So tell me: what’s going on?”

  Maione was a married man; he was all too familiar with womanly determination, and he knew that his personal strength was inadequate up against that kind of resolve. Better tell her something, he thought to himself; I’ll toss her a bone and see if that satisfies her.

  “Signo’, perhaps you’ll remember that the commissario made some reference when you met—after all, I was there, too—to the death of this little boy at Capodimonte. He was an orphan, poor thing. The last time I spoke with the commissario he was looking into this death, but informally, just trying to get a clearer picture. He’d asked Dr. Modo to do an autopsy; he wanted to know how the child had died, that sort of thing. That’s all I know. Forgive me, Signo’, but I have to leave you now. My shift is over, and before going home I need to make a stop somewhere. It’s been a pleasure to see you. Have a good evening.”

  And, touching the tips of his fingers to the visor of his cap, he walked off into the rain under an enormous umbrella.

  When she heard the doctor’s name, Livia grew more worried still. With all her strength, she hoped that Ricciardi wasn’t getting himself into serious trouble.

  For the hundredth time, Enrica walked past the window and shot a look across the street. Dark. There was no glow of light from Ricciardi’s window. It was torturing her, because she had no way of knowing whether her letter of reply had been read or not.

  She’d chosen a courteous tone, cordial but not overly warm, and in the letter she’d informed Ricciardi that she didn’t mind in the slightest if he chose to greet her, and that it was just as much a pleasure for her to see him and say hello in turn. She cited good neighborly relations, as well as her own upbringing. With apparent nonchalance, toward the end of the one-page letter, written in the clear, precise script of a left-handed girl who had resisted even the nuns’ efforts to make her change hands, she had made it known that there was no one else he could offend by saying hello to her, and she hoped the same was true for him.

  Now she was very worried. She was afraid that with that allusion to the lack of a fiancé on her part and the lack of a fiancée on his, she might have seemed a little too aggressive, leading him to think that she was angling for a more serious and definitive commitment. What if he were to think that the fact that she was unmarried at her age had turned her into a manhunter, on a desperate campaign to land herself a husband? What if he took fright and withdrew? If he never wrote her again, what would she do?

  She sighed. For a person as patient as she was, this anxious waiting was a new experience, and she found it difficult to bear. She decided that, unless she heard from him directly by the next day, she’d go back to Rosa for advice.

  XXXIX

  Panting his way up the hill and cursing the rain dripping down the back of his collar in spite of his umbrella, Maione reflected on the current situation and worried. Livia’s questions, the growing tension that he sensed at police headquarters, Ricciardi’s terrible propensity to plunge headfirst into trouble: all made him fear for the commissario.

  What bothered him most of all was that he couldn’t seem to understand the reason that the commissario continued to delve into the life of that poor child. He’d become accustomed over the years to accepting Ricciardi’s intuitions without discussion; he couldn’t always follow his boss’s reasoning, but it often corresponded to exactly what had actually happened. The analytical approaches, the mental processes that seemed to inspire such mistrust among his fellow policemen—who superstitiously avoided all interactions with his superior officer, whom they never missed an opportunity to bitterly describe as a Jonah with an evil eye—were, as far as Maione was concerned, just so many truths handed down from on high, and far be it from him to question them.

  And yet, this time, he thought to himself as he struggled up the last part of the climb, the risk was enormous: a semiofficial note of protest from the Archiepiscopal See, delivered, moreover, during the very sensitive time immediately preceding the arrival of Mussolini himself, put a very dangerous weapon in the hands of that idiot Garzo. What had Ricciardi glimpsed in the tragic death of that young orphan? What subtle clue, what feeling that there must be something else concealed beneath the surface?

  He didn’t understand; but precisely because he was unaccustomed to questioning Ricciardi’s orders, he intended to accompany him on this dangerous path. Everything else could go to hell, as far as he was concerned.

  He looked up disconsolately at the steep flight of stairs that still loomed before him; the commissario had asked him to go out and gather information, and he’d turned to the finest informant at his disposal. And if that informant had the somewhat eccentric habit of agreeing to meet with Maione only and always at her own apartment, which in fact stood at the top of the stairs in question, which in turn could be reached only by climbing the steepest hill in Naples, he was determined to go there all the same.

  It was therefore a tired, rain-drenched, sweaty, starving Brigadier Maione who finally knocked at Bambinella’s door.

  The true name of this particular individual was known only to a very select few; the nickname, by which she was universally known and renowned in all the city’s most sordid vicoli, derived from a song by Raffaele Viviani that had been in vogue over the last few years. The protagonist and namesake of the song was a beautiful prostitute who was in love. The figure that answered the door, wrapped in a garish floral silk kimono, her face heavily made up, did possess lovely features and might very well be in love; nonetheless, under the thick layer of rouge, one could clearly see a veil of dark stubble, which only contributed to the cognitive dissonance induced by the individual’s sheer height and strapping broad shoulders.

  “Why, Brigadie’: what a lovely surprise to see you here, and in weather I wouldn’t send a dog out in! I was resigned to not seeing you at all, at this hour. Please come in, prego: make yourself right at home.”

  The low, throaty voice was unmistakably masculine; but the modulation, fluting and affected, left no doubt about the speaker’s absolute femininity. Bambinella walked, breathed, and lived perfectly at her ease along a fine boundary line: something that was only possible here, in the world’s most tolerant city. And she was so much a part of that city that she managed, given her natural propensity for gossip, to learn everything about everyone in record time, information that she shared only and exclusively with Brigadier Raffaele Maione, in the name of an exceedingly odd and particular friendship between two people who couldn’t have been more different from each other.

  “Bambine’, I have to tell you: of all your twisted ways, this insistence on only talking to me at your apartment, which happens to be on top of
a mountain, is the one I can tolerate the least. One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack, and then you’ll have me on your conscience, you will.”

  Maione flopped down into a small wicker chair that groaned under his weight, loosening his shirt collar and fanning himself with his handkerchief. Bambinella sat down across from him, coquettishly angling her sheer-stocking-clad calves to one side.

  “Sure, that’s all we need, to have our little conversations together in a café, in plain view. Then someone will slice my gut open with a knife, and at the very least they’ll go tell your signora that they saw you with the loveliest chanteuse in Naples, and she’ll slice you open, too.”

  Maione’s panting was starting to subside.

  “You have a point, and that’s why I’m willing to come all the way up here. But there is one other possibility: I could always arrest you, that way we could chat comfortably any time I like, without climbing a single step. What do you say to that?”

  Bambinella clapped her hands.

  “Bravo, Brigadier, now you’re talking sense. That way I’d have free room and board, and you’d get what little information I could scrape together in jail. What do you say, is that what you’re looking for?”

  Maione snorted.

  “All right, all right, I’ll let you go free for now. Let’s see if what you have for me today is sufficient, otherwise I might have to rethink my decision. Well?”

  Bambinella looked up at the ceiling, as if to summon the information to her memory.

  “Now then, what was it you wanted to know? Ah, yes, Cosimo the saponaro. Now, why are you interested in him? He’s just a poor wretch, without skills or money. What could he have done wrong?”

  “I told you already, Bambine’, you need to remember to mind your own business when you’re dealing with me. But only with me; as far as the rest of Naples is concerned it’s your job to stick your nose in, and if you fail to do that, I’ll have to throw you in jail.”