Day of the Dead
Page 33
Enrica didn’t think twice: this was no time to stand on ceremony and formalities. She pushed her mother aside, as she stood there asking where Enrica thought she was going, and in this foul weather, and she hurried recklessly down the stairs, putting on her overcoat as she went. Rosa welcomed her with unruffled simplicity, linking arms with her. He’s in the hospital, she told her.
Enrica prayed, listening to the rain hammer at the glass and waiting to learn whether she’d have to give up her dream forever.
She wondered if she was praying for Ricciardi’s life or for herself, for her own life. Then she realized that it amounted to the same thing.
The silence was broken by the roar of a car engine pulling into the courtyard, with a sharp screech of brakes. After a few seconds the front door flew open and Livia rushed in, followed by a wet and unusually disheveled Garzo.
“Maione, you’re here; I came the minute I heard, though first I swung past and picked up Signora Vezzi. Can you tell me what the devil happened? What was Ricciardi doing in a car with Signora Fago di San Marcello, a Lady of Charity at Santa Maria del Soccorso? Didn’t I say it was time to close that damned investigation? In fact, didn’t I say never to start it in the first place?”
Maione had gotten to his feet, and now he was staring at Garzo with an expression that couldn’t promise anything good.
“Dotto’, I don’t know what the commissario was doing in that car; but I can assure you that if he was with that woman he had his own excellent reasons for it, as is proven by the way in which the accident took place.”
“Exactly what do you know about the mechanics of the accident?”
Maione was clenching and unclenching his fists.
“What I know I know because I saw them go by and then I caught a taxi and followed them. The woman was driving, and she seemed very upset. Why, I couldn’t say.”
Garzo waved one hand, having finally understood that it was not a good idea to push the brigadier any further on this topic.
“Very well, we’ll ask Ricciardi himself. Can we speak to him?”
Maione took a step toward Garzo; he seemed to have made up his mind to pick up the man by the scruff of his neck.
“Ah, Dotto’, in that case you don’t understand what’s happening here: the commissario, as we speak, is in the operating room. Dr. Modo is performing surgery on his head. He’s in critical condition. The last thing that he cares about, the last thing that any of us here who love him care about, is determining exactly what he was doing in the car driven by Signora What’s-Her-Name. Have I made myself clear? Now, if you want to say here and wait, do me a favor: take a chair and keep your mouth closed. For once, take my advice: sit down and shut up.”
He’d spoken softly, practically in a whisper, but his voice had carried throughout the waiting room like a clap of thunder. Garzo seemed to deflate, then he staggered backward and flopped down in a chair, without another word.
Livia stepped forward, her eyes filled with tears.
“Brigadier, what did the doctor say? Do you know anything, what damage . . . how is he, in other words, how is Ricciardi?”
Maione spread his arms wide in a gesture of helplessness.
“We don’t know anything, Signo’. I brought him here by taxi, his eyes were closed, he seemed like he was dead, and blood was pouring out of his head. He wasn’t talking. His pulse was faint, you could barely feel it. Luckily, it was the doctor’s shift; the minute he saw him he put him on a gurney, had him wheeled into the operating room, and ran right after him. We’re in the hands of God, and of that doctor.”
Livia wrung her hands; she seemed to be on the brink of despair. Tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“But the doctor . . . are we sure we shouldn’t take him somewhere else? I can arrange for immediate transportation to Rome, perhaps by plane. I can call someone, I have highly placed friends . . . They’d all be glad to make themselves available immediately, in other words. The best doctors in the country, the Duce’s personal physicians. Wouldn’t that be better, Brigadier?”
Maione smiled and shook his head.
“No, Signo’, trust me: you’re not going to find a better doctor anywhere than our Dr. Modo. The commissario wouldn’t have chosen anyone else, if it had been up to him. And now it’s too late, don’t you think? He’s operating on him now. We just have to wait, and pray, for those who are believers.”
Livia bowed her head and put her face in her hands. Rosa and Enrica stared into the distance, expressionless.
Maione started pacing back and forth, like a caged lion. An hour went by. Then another. Garzo stood up, went over to Livia and, after saying a few words, mere formalities, which she barely heard, turned and left.
Enrica watched the panes of glass shiver with the gusts of rain. Let him live, she thought; that’s all I ask. Let him live, let him breathe and walk and laugh and cry. If You do that, if You let him live, I’ll give You my dream of happiness.
And now I’ll never see him again.
A distant roar of thunder warned that the storm was drawing to an end. Night was falling, and the cold hospital lighting was coming on. In the courtyard, far from the eyes of one and all, a dog with a spotted coat sat on its haunches.
Suddenly, without warning, the door swung open and the weary figure of Dr. Modo appeared on the threshold. Everyone leapt to their feet, scrutinizing his exhausted expression. He smiled, looked at Maione, and said:
“Go ahead. He’s asleep, but you can see him.”
Livia was the first to run in, as light as the breeze, followed by Maione, who was holding up a weeping Rosa by the arm. Enrica murmured her thanks and left, in happiness and despair.
On the pane of glass, she glimpsed the last rain of autumn.
Like a tear. Like a drop of blood.
And the winter started again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
At the end of this fourth season of his, Ricciardi has many people to thank.
First and foremost, Fandango Books: in order, Domenico, Tiziana, Manuela, Francesca, Manuela, for the road we’ve traveled together. Mario Desiati, in the fullness of his world, with all the sensibility of the remarkable writer that he is, and the smile of the friend who’s like a brother to me. And Gianluigi Toccafondo, a magical, marvelous artist.
Francesco Pinto, for having conceived of the whole distance when no one else had even thought of setting out.
Antonio and Michele, who think up his stories and the air that he breathes.
Professor Giulio Di Mizio, through whose eyes he sees the dead and hears them speak.
Rosaria De Cicco and Peppe Miale, who possess his voices.
Francesca Filardo, who imagines his clothing and fabrics.
Monica Biglietto, who looked for the poison and found it.
The fantastic team of the Corpi Freddi: Serena Venditto, Aldo Putignano, and Stefano Incerti, who are the first to hear his heartbeat, and smile when they recognize it.
Thanks to you all, from Ricciardi.
I have just one thank you of my own to say, but it’s immense.
To the author of my enchantment, to the bearer of my song: to Paola.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maurizio de Giovanni lives and works in Naples. His Commissario Ricciardi novels, including I Will Have Vengeance (Europa 2013), Blood Curse (Europa 2013), and Everyone in Their Place (Europa 2013), are bestsellers in Italy and have been published to great acclaim in French, Spanish, and German, in addition to English. He is also the author of The Crocodile (Europa 2013), a noir thriller set in contemporary Naples.
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