Glass Souls

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  The woman fell silent, perplexed.

  “But in that case . . . I don’t understand, why was she at the hospital?”

  Falco shrugged his shoulders.

  “I didn’t say that there were no feelings between the two of them. Perhaps they look at each other through the windows; after all his bedroom directly overlooks the kitchen and living room in her apartment. It is likely that they know each other, though no one has ever seen them together. We have . . . we have more than one source of information among the suppliers and residents of that neighborhood, and my men had done some serious investigations. We already possessed a fairly thoroughgoing report, so all I had to do was fill it out with the more recent information.”

  Livia stood there, openmouthed.

  “What do you mean, you already had a report? Did you already have her under surveillance? And if so, why? What has she done?”

  The man put on a harsh expression.

  “Signora, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you never again to ask questions about our activity. These are things that do not concern you, and I’ll remind you that at this instant I myself am violating a great many regulations concerning secrecy, just to do you a favor.”

  Livia blinked her eyelashes like a little girl who receives an unexpected scolding.

  “Why . . . certainly, of course. In fact, I’m very grateful to you for your efforts. It’s just that she strikes me as such a . . . such an ordinary, normal person. I couldn’t have dreamed that she might have attracted your attention, that’s all. Nothing more.”

  Falco seemed placated now.

  “You know, at times it is not so much the individual person that matters, as much as that person’s relationships. And that brings me to the real reason I’ve ventured to bother you so late at night. This summer, while she was teaching at a beachfront colony on the island of Ischia, Signorina Colombo made friends with a man. And for the past several days, this gentleman has been in town. He is a German soldier, actually, to be precise, an officer. Major Manfred von Brauchitsch.”

  Livia was confused, but also relieved.

  “Well then? Can’t a man pay a call on a lady friend, nowadays?”

  “Of course he can, Signora. It’s just that the officer in question has just taken up duties at the consulate as a cultural attaché. He clearly intends to remain here for a while, in other words. And I can’t rule out that his friendship with the young lady might be part of his plans.”

  The woman didn’t seem to grasp the point.

  “And do you think I’m disappointed to hear that? I couldn’t be more delighted, and I wish them both every happiness.”

  Falco dropped the irony and went on in a very serious tone of voice.

  “Signora, this man is of the greatest possible interest to us. The greatest possible interest. We know that tomorrow he is going to call on Signorina Colombo, because he asked the porter at the consulate to give him directions to her address, and the porter is one of our men. He is staying in a pensione over by the Ascensione church. There is a matter of great importance at play, and it might affect a great many people. I must ask you to steer clear of anyone who has anything to do with him, at least for the next little while.”

  “What do you mean to say, Falco? Are you afraid that I may be running some risk? Is he ill-intentioned, or is . . . ”

  “No, no, absolutely not. No danger, lord, no. But we’re keeping an eye on this person, and if your name were to surface in a report, that would constitute a short circuit in terms of our functions that would be . . . uncomfortable for you, you see.”

  “I don’t understand, but I accept your advice. I sense, in some strange manner, that you really do have my welfare at heart. But this is about the young woman, isn’t it? Not Ricciardi, I mean. You said that they don’t socialize, that perhaps they are mere acquaintances and that in the circumstance of the car crash, this Enrica was there only to keep the tata company. And since I don’t know this woman, nor am I interested in getting to know her, there’s no cause for worry. Isn’t that right?”

  Falco nodded.

  “Certainly. But if there were to be any contact between the young woman in question and your commissario, and then between your commissario and yourself, in that case you might find yourself in a problematic situation, which is something I’d like to spare you. That’s all.”

  “Which is why you came to put me on guard. Don’t worry, Falco, you’ve been perfectly clear. But if you’re hoping that I’ll stop seeing Ricciardi then I’m sorry, and I ought to let you know from this point forward, that I have every intention of seeing him, no matter what you might say. And spending more and more time with him. To keep him from seeing other women, among other things.”

  She’d uttered the last few words with a laugh, but Falco didn’t see the humor.

  “Signora, this matter is very, very serious indeed. Don’t take lightly the advice I’ve given you. I beg you. It was the thought that your impulsive nature might have led you to speak with this young lady, and that you might happen to be with her at the very moment that von Brauchitsch was present as well, that led me to do what I would never have done otherwise, and that is, to come here at this hour of the night.”

  Livia smiled at him, touched.

  “Don’t worry, Falco. It’s not my habit to stop my sentimental rival in the street, or go to her home. In my life, actually, far too often what’s happened is the opposite.”

  Falco was visibly relieved by these reassurances. He headed for the door and Livia admired the elegance and aristocratic style with which he moved. Impulsively she asked him: “One more thing, Falco. How is it that you know so much about life in the city’s vicoli?”

  The man smiled.

  “It’s quite simple, Signora. I was born and grew up there. And I know that if there’s one thing to look out for in this strange city, it’s September nights. And the dreams that September nights bring. Good night, and once again, forgive me for this untimely visit. Which, by the way, as usual, and as you know full well, never took place.”

  XIV

  September, September. September night.

  Treacherous night, that presents itself hot from the day’s sunshine, which still carries memories of summer and brings the many smells of freshly cut grass and burgeoning flowers, when all you have to do is leave the tiniest opening and the night will burrow in with its long, light, chilly fingers to brush you the wrong way, for a minuscule shiver of unease.

  But by now your eyes are already drooping shut with exhaustion, and you can’t seem to get up to close that window through which the usual notes of that melancholy song come drifting. And with those notes come the first hints of the cold, of the nights when that light breeze will be fully grown, and it will come blowing and shrieking down the empty street, rummaging through balconies and overturning wicker baskets and tossing leaves in whirlwinds, and the fear of outdoors will become the warmth of indoors, and comfort, beneath the covers, with the smell of wood burning in woodstoves tickling your nose.

  But that is another time, another weather. That is November of the rains or January of the forgotten holidays, or the desperate tail end of the icy beast that refuses to die in mid-March. Not now.

  Now it is September, and the perfumes win out over tomorrow and any terror. It is September, and it seems that the tenderness of this city on the sea, this city of the sky and the leafy branches that toss in the fragile air, will never end. It seems that the souls can remain glass, and display everything within them, and have no need of fear.

  So it seems. Because September, at night, loves to shuffle the deck and urges you to pick a card. A card that it already knows full well.

  So fall asleep peacefully, then. And dream to your heart’s content.

  Because you’ll dream nothing of what you expect, while your hands reach out in your sleep to grab a blanket that can protect you
from the sudden chill that will enter the room, treacherously, through the window you left open just a crack, exposing your soul.

  Your soul of glass.

  Ricciardi would have liked to dream of Rosa, but instead he dreamed of his mother.

  At least in his sleep he would have liked once again to hear the old grouch complaining about her loneliness and her aches and pains, clumping around the apartment in her slippers as she prepared the terrible, enormous bowls of pasta e fagioli that she inflicted upon him at regular intervals.

  And instead he found himself at the bedside of that minute, fragile woman, her thick black hair streaked with white, the wan face that had once been so full of delicate beauty and now, now that she was about to die, was nothing but flesh pulled taut over a skull with a pair of enormous, haunted green eyes staring out into the darkness.

  His mother frightened him. He always dreamed of her the same way, dying and stunned, as if she were about to hurl herself into an abyss whose depth she couldn’t begin to guess.

  As always, he went over to the bed and stood there, motionless, waiting. She turned her head around to look at him, swiveling it without her body following the movement in the slightest.

  In many dreams, which he remembered in the morning and which stayed with him for hours throughout the day, afflicting him with a sense of despairing helplessness, his mother started weeping slowly, silently, tears swollen with unknowable regrets. In other dreams, she gave him a horrible, toothless, demented, black smile that plunged him into an anguish he was unable to escape, even once he had awakened.

  This time, though, his mother spoke.

  In a dry, rasping voice, like the crackling of burning firewood, she said to him: Alone. Now you’re alone. Did you believe that this moment would never come? Did you think you could hold out forever, wrapped in a cocoon?

  He answered her, and his voice came out in a hush, in countertime to his own breathing: What else could I have done? You know it, Mamma. You know the reason why. You gave me the reason why.

  His mother laughed, her eyes wide open and motionless, with eyelashes that never blinked, enormous and green and fixed in his. And the laughter had the sound of the Count of Roccaspina’s door as it slammed shut on hell with a bang. Yes, she said to him, I know. But what if I’d chosen to remain all alone? And what if I’d never wanted you or thought you or imagined you? Would you have preferred never even to exist? Never to have seen this girl through the window, never feel the touch of Rosa’s rough hands?

  Before he had a chance to answer, his mother was transformed into a woman with coppery hair and a long slender neck. In his dream, Bianca said to him: Help me. Help me.

  Ricciardi shivered in the nighttime breeze that forced its way through the curtains, and piteously the dream faded away.

  At a distance of a few yards and a million miles, Enrica would have liked to dream of Manfred, but instead dreamed of Rosa.

  In one of her mother’s women’s magazines, she had read that you dream of whatever you’ve thought about most during your day. A part of your brain continues to think about it while you’re asleep, transforming those thoughts into images. Simple.

  In that case, she would ask herself when the next day dawned, as she tried to clear her soul and her heart, how could it be that a thought she’d never had in her consciousness had materialized so well and so clearly, in three dimensions and full color, as she was pulling the sheets up to her chin to escape the sudden chill of the night?

  Signori’, the tata had said to her, brushing her shoulder with one hand; Signori’, don’t be afraid. It’s me. Rosa, she had replied, Rosa, how are you? The old woman had smiled at her: I’m fine, I’m just fine. My legs no longer hurt me, you see? And she’d tried out a clumsy dance step. Then she’d looked her in the eye, somewhat sternly: And you, Signori’? How are you? You don’t look a bit well. You’re not smiling. Do you remember what I told you about how you’re supposed to cook? Do you remember?

  Rosa, Enrica had muttered in her sleep, I can’t cook the way you taught me. You know, some things have happened. There’s Manfred, now. He’s been writing me letters, you know. Nice long letters. And he dreams of a family, of children. So, after all, I can’t cook the way you told me to.

  The old woman had stroked her face: my daughter, my poor daughter. Only with your heart, that’s the only way you can cook. Don’t you know that? Only with your heart. You see? And she opened her smock, and through her blouse, her petticoat, and her flesh, Enrica saw her big red heart, beating regularly. If you don’t have this, you can’t hope to cook. You can fill all the bottles you want with tomato sauce, but you’ll never know how to cook dishes. And you’ll let him die of hunger, this poor . . . what’s his name? Alfred? No, Enrica laughed, it’s Manfred. And I have a heart, you see? And she, too, displayed her breast. But underneath it was nothing. Nothing at all.

  In her dream, Enrica was frightened to death. How could she live, without a heart? Rosa, Rosa, where is my heart? she screamed, and as she slept a faint lament passed her lips. Signori’, don’t be afraid, said the old woman, you have a heart. You just need to find it. And when you find it, take my advice, listen to it carefully. The way I did, my whole life.

  Rosa didn’t even mention him in the dream, and she herself certainly never said his name. But someone was watching them talk from the shadows. Enrica could feel Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi’s green eyes on her, the man that she loved in her dreams but who she expelled from her soul during the daytime.

  Or at least she tried to.

  Livia would have liked to dream of Ricciardi, but instead the September breeze drew for her the face of Falco.

  She dreamt she was following a man down the street who looked exactly like the commissario. It was difficult, he was walking quickly and she had to struggle with her high heels. She could hear her labored breathing, it was hot out and the street was crowded. Then she caught up with him, she put a hand on his shoulder, he turned around, and she found the indecipherable expression, the square jaw, and the faint smile of Falco before her eyes.

  In her dream, she experienced a blistering disappointment, and she didn’t conceal it. But the man didn’t even seem to notice and he took her by the arm. He said to her: Livia, you have to understand, what I do is for your own good. She felt offended by his patronizing attitude, and replied: I’ll decide for myself what’s good for me.

  And then, without warning, he kissed her. Just like that, on the street, in front of everyone. The passersby, however, looked firmly away, clearly frightened. Livia struggled to break loose, but the man’s grip was strong and she couldn’t get away. Anguish pressed down on her chest, and she woke up with a start with a crushing sense of uneasiness.

  But she couldn’t remember what she had dreamed.

  Romualdo Palmieri di Roccaspina would have liked to dream of his beloved, but instead he dreamt of his wife.

  It had never happened to him before, in all the time he’d been in prison. He had slept heavily, agitated, an oppressive and anguished slumber, only rarely lightened by a nice thought; but occasionally he had sensed that flesh under his hands, and he’d kissed a smile that opened his heart. That was enough to reinforce him in the belief that he had been right to do what he had done.

  That night, though, there was the September air that felt like reshuffling the deck, and he found himself face-to-face with Bianca’s stern expression.

  She sat there rigidly, her eyes that absurd shade of periwinkle staring straight ahead, her hands crossed in her lap. She was sitting in his favorite armchair, one of the few sticks of furniture that his demon hadn’t gambled away, a relic of a bygone time and of the man he ought to have been but never was.

  Bianca, forgive me, he wished he could have said. But, as usual, he couldn’t manage to speak to her, nor could he look her in the face. He could never tell her what he felt in his heart. He had done her too much harm, a
nd who was right and who was wrong were both too clearly defined to open any discussion.

  But this time the count found the strength in his dream to explode. The forgiveness that he’d never had the strength to ask of her became a burst of vomit, a succession of angry words with an infinite trail of rancor and resentment. He said to that pale, impassive face everything that he would never have had the courage to even think in his waking hours. He expressed the solitude of a man with many faults, but who had never tried to conceal his true nature; a man who could not and would not feel guilt over the children they’d never had; that it was she who had never understood him, with that demeanor of a Madonna being speared that had always made him feel inadequate.

  That with her mere presence, that mute, distasteful presence, she had made the air unbreathable, had made it impossible to live in that home with her. That even with all his defects, his moral handicaps, he could still arouse a sweet sentiment and an attraction in someone wonderful, delightful, and splendid. A superior creature, enchanting and alluring.

  That if he did have a fault, it was that he hadn’t understood immediately that he couldn’t remain close to her, his wife, for another second longer. And that it was a thousand times better to be there, in a filthy prison cell, with the prospect of never again seeing the outside world, than in the prison of conventional behavior and manners in which he’d been confined since his birth, a cell to which she, Bianca, had the key, but which she would never use to free him.

  In his dream, he relished his malevolent venting, those words he spat out into his wife’s face, finally free of the hypocritical curtain of her silent accusations and his sense of guilt.

  But when he woke up, in a gray dawn, his face was flooded with tears.

  Bianca would have preferred not to dream at all, but instead the treacherous air of that September night gave her a dream of Ricciardi.