In spite of himself, Ricciardi smiled and launched into an attempt at self-defense, once again filling his friend’s glass to the brim as he did so.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Bruno. You know that there are certain things I’m not cut out for. It’s just that I can’t stand it when I’m incapable of deciphering certain sentiments, because then I’m unable to understand what drives people. I’m interested in comprehending motives: whatever it is that drives her to take so much trouble to prove her husband’s innocence, and whatever it is that drove him to declare himself guilty, since he wants to spend as little time in prison as possible.”
Modo drank, and this time he poured a glass for himself alone, rather hastily.
“Your theory, Ricciardi. The one you explained to me a long time ago. People kill for hunger or love. By hunger, of course, we mean material need and by love, all emotions. Whose child is this murder? Hunger’s or love’s?”
Ricciardi thought it over at length. He raised his glass and admired the hue of the wine against the light. Then he murmured: “Hunger, I think. He was a loan shark, he lent out money and then demanded repayment, threatening to unleash scandals. It’s a murder caused by hunger, arrogance, and power, prostration and desperation.”
Modo had had roughly the same amount to drink as Ricciardi, but unlike the commissario, he seemed quite drunk. He was slurring his words.
“Then seek the hunger. Try to figure out why and in what way that hunger could be at the root of what happened. That world, the wealthy, the nobility, is full of poverty like any other environment. It’s just that there, they conceal themselves. You have to flush them out into the open. Get them to talk, Riccia’. Go where they go: the club, the theater, the café. If only you knew how often I see them, in the brothels, and what dreary perversions they have. Go and see them.”
Ricciardi nodded, grimly.
“I’ll do that. You know that I never feel very comfortable in those places, but I’ll go all the same, tomorrow first thing.”
The physician chuckled, resting his chin on his knit fingers.
“Go on, after all you might learn something interesting. By the way, whatever became of the lovely widow Vezzi? Do you know that the whole city has been talking about this magical creature who has fallen in love in some incomprehensible way with a horrible and miserable policeman?”
The commissario put on a sad expression.
“Don’t worry, people will stop that talk soon enough. I’ve put an end to this misunderstanding once and for all. Another moth has been saved from the flame.”
Modo blinked rapidly.
“What the devil are you talking about? Misunderstanding, moth . . . It seems to me that you’re drunk. I don’t know how you’re ever going to get home. I certainly can’t take you, I can hardly stand up myself. In fact, I think you’re going to have to take me home.”
Ricciardi called the proprietor and asked for the check, then he helped Modo to his feet and, to keep him from falling, stretched his arm around his friend’s waist, letting Modo place his arm on Ricciardi’s shoulder.
The doctor sang at the top of his lungs the whole way home about pale young ladies, notaries with whirling capes, gazes out windows, and love letters discovered in Latin books many years later, none of which did much to make the situation any cheerier.
As if that weren’t enough, the dog insisted on snarling dully and continually, turning to look behind them and stopping every so often. They were forced to slow down more than once and call to him.
Along the way, the commissario was forced to withstand the lamentations and curses of an entire family that perished in a car crash: the father run through by the steering column, as he shouted at his daughter to take her hands off his eyes because when he was driving was no time to play games; the little one virtually decapitated by impact; the mother and the little boy calling out to each other.
He shouldn’t have drunk all that wine.
Outside his front door, by now completely soused, Modo tried to kiss him on the lips and called him his beloved, perhaps mistaking him for one of his whores. Ricciardi managed to break free, though with some effort, and took Modo upstairs to bed, leaving him in the dog’s safekeeping.
From the darkness, two chilly eyes had observed the whole scene.
XXXIII
After the usual comparison of notes with Brigadier Maione, Ricciardi headed off to the yacht club to meet Duke Carlo Maria Marangolo.
He wasn’t expecting much from that appointment at the hour of the midmorning pre-luncheon aperitif. For some time now it had become clear to him that the aristocracy of that city was disinclined to open itself up and confide in him. And he also suspected that those who belonged to that world would much rather file away as quickly as possible the whole matter of Piro’s murder; the fact that it had been committed by a member of the nobility, and what’s more, one who was more generally in disgrace, represented an unpleasant thought, and there was no reason to burden the usual giddy round of cocktails and brilliant soirées with such a thought.
That’s it, the haste! thought Ricciardi with a sudden illumination as he strolled down the gentle slope that took him toward the salt water. It was the haste that bothered him about the Piro case. Everyone was in too much of a hurry. As if everyone involved was only too happy to divert attention from that murder and move on to something else, anything else.
A haste that might not be part of a conscious strategy to conceal anything in particular, but rather a convergence of various interests.
The interests of the Piro family, who certainly weren’t happy to have anyone delve into the origins of the lawyer’s wealth. The interests of the police, who had no need to see a murder featured for more than a day or two in the pages of the newspapers while Rome was intent on spreading the image of a country where what reigned was order and prosperity. And the interests of high society, which had just successfully rid itself in one fell swoop of both a shady loan shark and an impoverished, disgraced count.
He moved past the image of the two drowned boys, clutching each other in one final embrace, but this time without stopping to look at them. When there was more than one dead person, then the Deed tended to last at greater length; who could say for how much longer this grim monument to love and grief would remain open to his perception. Perhaps until summer had become a memory and the waterfront was swept by the wind and rain of autumn.
It’s not so bad, he thought with bitter irony. I’m the only nutcase who can see them.
As soon as he set foot on the sun-flooded terrace, a uniformed waiter came toward him.
“Buongiorno. Please, walk this way.”
The man hadn’t addressed him by name and Ricciardi didn’t remember having met him the last time. So he was expected. He knew that the contessa would alert Marangolo to his impending visit, and he wondered whether she had already suggested to the duke just what to say to him. He was prepared for the possibility that his interlocutor might retail half-truths and even outright lies, but in spite of that, the duke’s presence in the Roccaspina home the night of the murder, and in the count’s absence, was a circumstance that might certainly bear some looking into.
The waiter led Ricciardi down a hallway whose walls were lined, in glittering display cases, with the trophies won by the athletic teams that worked out of the club, alternating with photographs of the champions who had taken those trophies. Swimming, sailing, rowing, and water polo. The club into which he was now being ushered was one of the oldest ones in the city, and therefore heaped with the greatest spoils of glory, but other similar clubs had sprung up near the parks lining the waterfront, and were starting to compete in terms of sporting achievements, general splendor, and the elegance of their receptions.
The commissario knew it very well, because he had attended a few soirées there, yielding to Livia’s insistence. He had been bored to death and had spent the
whole time doing what he could to prevent the woman from introducing him to everyone attending, in an attempt to establish him as her official companion.
The thought of Livia, as the waiter was knocking discreetly with a gloved hand at a heavy mahogany door, caused him a stab of melancholy. He had inflicted a great deal of pain upon her, and intentionally so, by humiliating her; he knew that that extraordinarily beautiful and talented woman was in love with him, and what had happened between them must have wounded her to the very depths of her femininity.
But there had been no way to avoid it.
Precisely because he also cared for her, he had been forced to turn her away.
To keep her from being burnt by his flame.
They entered a cozy little room, shrouded in dim shadows. Only a little bit of light filtered through the drawn curtains over a French door, allowing him to guess at the outlines of the walls.
“Duke, your grace,” the waiter said in a subdued voice, “the gentleman you were expecting is here.”
A deep, well modulated voice replied from the darkness.
“Grazie, Ciro. Draw the curtains a little, if you please, and bring us two espressos and a few pastries.”
With alacrity, the waiter pulled open the curtains.
And a marvelous view spread out before them.
They were no more than ten feet above the level of the sea and the waterfront extended in a vast panorama to the foot of the hill that plunged down to the salt water, pointing toward the silhouette of the distant island.
Without a doubt, this was a private room, used by prominent citizens for confidential meetings. A privé, as the French would have it. Tapestries on the walls, a sofa with two armchairs and a low table, and, over by the window, a green baize table with four chairs, several decks of playing cards, and stacks of chips.
Ricciardi studied his host.
The man was skinny, with his skin drawn taut over his face, and he was dressed in black. He sat with his legs crossed on one of the two armchairs. He could be any age between thirty-five and sixty: his features seemed fairly youthful and his eyes were dark and lively, but his hair was thinning and colorless, the spots on his face and his deep wrinkles those of an old man.
“I beg your indulgence,” said the man. “I don’t like strong light, much less being surrounded by other people. And, in order to do a thing I do only rarely, that is, meet with anyone, I choose to withdraw to this little room. It’s not roomy, it’s certainly not fancy, but that painting on the wall,” and with that, he tilted his head to indicate the panorama that burst in through the window, “repays the discomfort, or at least I hope it does. I am Carlo Maria Marangolo. Our mutual friend, Bianca di Roccaspina, asked me to place myself entirely at your disposal, and I am only too happy to do so. Please, make yourself comfortable.” He pointed to the empty armchair across from his own.
The duke’s voice was low, unaccented. It betrayed both intelligence and irony. Looking at him more closely, Ricciardi detected something that had at first escaped his notice: the man’s complexion was yellowish and unhealthy looking.
Marangolo was a sick man. That was the reason for the wrinkles, the spots, and the skinniness. Perhaps also for the darkness in which he seemed to be hiding.
Ricciardi sat down.
“Thank you for your time, Duke. As I believe you know, I am trying, at the contessa’s request, to understand a little more about the case in which her husband is involved. I want to make it clear straightaway that this is not an official investigation, and therefore if you decide to answer my questions, it will only be as a form of courtesy. Is that all right with you?”
In his turn, Marangolo studied the commissario’s face, without speaking. The waiter came in, set down the coffees and the pastries on the little table, and then quickly and soundlessly left.
“Ricciardi, Ricciardi . . . I once met a Baron Ricciardi di Malomonte: nobility of Cilento, if I’m not mistaken. He was a friend of my father’s, a remarkable man, a passionate hunter and horseman. Would you be related, by any chance?”
The commissario confirmed, brusquely.
“He was my father. The contessa . . . ”
The duke pursued his line of thought, as if Ricciardi hadn’t answered at all.
“You look nothing like him, though. He was a tall, powerful looking man, very jovial. An open, contagious laugh. My father was fairly choosy about his friends, and he adored him. Physically, you’re quite different, and you strike me as more . . . how to put this . . . reserved?”
Ricciardi shrugged his shoulders.
“I wouldn’t know, I can barely remember him, I was still a child when he died. I believe I take after my mother. Can I ask you a few questions, Duke? I wouldn’t want to take unfair advantage of your courtesy.”
Marangolo nodded repeatedly with a half smile, as if finding confirmation for his theories.
“Curious . . . This narrow, blinkered environment is the forbidden dream of many people, who would do anything to gain access to it. And someone like you, who would have the title and the right to belong to it, actually goes and conceals a part of their name.”
The commissario gave the duke a chilly stare, well aware that he was being provoked.
“One might imagine that people have the right to frequent whoever they choose, don’t you think? In the light of events, perhaps Piro too would have changed his mind. But it seems to me that he was actually very well accepted in this . . . what did you call it? community of yours.”
Marangolo took the retort with the same half smile.
“I never said that it’s a particularly nice environment. I believe that my propensity to seek seclusion from it says all that needs to be said. Well, now, tell me, what is it you want to know?”
“I am told that the night before the murder, you went to the Roccaspina residence while the count was not there. Could you clarify the reason for your visit?”
Marangolo scrutinized his questioner.
“No beating around the bush with you, is there? You’re a direct fellow, Bianca warned me about that. I wonder what the reason is for this fixation, why not simply accept the fact that Romualdo murdered Ludovico Piro? In any case, to come to your question, I wasn’t there to see the count, I was there for the contessa. So, to be perfectly clear, as you prefer, I can tell you that I knew he wouldn’t be there at that hour. I didn’t choose the time haphazardly.”
Ricciardi sipped his espresso. It really was excellent. For that matter, it would have been strange to find ersatz coffee in that club that seemed to follow its own rules, high above more ordinary customs.
“Forgive me for the question. I’m indiscreet and I’m not going to stop, but knowing the overall picture is the condition I set the contessa in exchange for looking into the matter. So I’m going to have to insist: why did you want to see her?”
Marangolo got out of the armchair and made his way laboriously over to the window. He was a man of average height, his spine somewhat curved. Closer to age sixty than fifty, Ricciardi decided inwardly.
The man admired the panorama in silence for a couple of minutes, during which time the commissario concentrated on his razor-sharp, suffering profile.
Then he spoke.
“You know, Baron, I am rich. Very rich. So rich that in my case not even a lifetime of squandering would be enough to dilapidate the fortune I possess. Not that any of it is to my credit, let me make that clear. It all came to me in my inheritance, through a long succession of arranged and rearranged marriages that had only one intent, to amass an immense patrimony. This palazzo, for instance, belongs to me. I’ve put it at the disposal of the yacht club to have the pleasure of coming here, every so often, to enjoy a first-rate espresso, and because it made me sad to see so many large, empty rooms. The only contribution I ever made to the family fortune is that of never developing any bad habits. I don’t like
to gamble, I don’t like to get drunk, and I don’t take drugs, unlike so many of my debauched compatriots who are strolling up and down on the terrace even as we speak.”
He broke off for a moment to step over to the table, bend over with some effort to pick up demitasse and saucer, and return to the window. Then he resumed.
“I’m a rich man, and a sick one. My liver . . . hence the yellowish hue of my flesh. Curious, really, if you consider the fact that I’m practically a teetotaler and that I don’t frequent brothels, where no matter what the functionaries in charge of medical checkups for the young ladies might say, it is still eminently possible to catch diseases. Perhaps it’s the result of some marriage between cousins, among my ancestors, or else simply fate. The finest physicians on earth care for me; they come here to enjoy a few days of very well-paid vacation. They give me some new medicine or other, and then scuttle back home. They tell me that I’m getting better, but it doesn’t seem so to me. In any case, I have no intention of missing out on my espresso.”
Ricciardi intervened with a subdued voice.
“Duke, why are you telling me these things? I never asked you . . . ”
Marangolo cut him off, brusquely.
“Baron, if I tell you certain things, there’s a good reason for it. Let us take it for granted that we’re both intelligent, if you please: neither of us is here to waste time, you because you have work to do, I because I have a life to live. Both things are very, very urgent indeed. Earlier I told you that I have no bad habits, but I wasn’t being entirely honest. I do have one bad habit. My bad habit is Bianca Palmieri di Roccaspina.”
Being called Baron put Ricciardi ill at ease, made him feel as if he’d left something out, as if he hadn’t done an adequate job of something that fate had assigned him.
“Duke, that’s not why I’m here, there are some things you need not tell me. I only want to know why that evening . . . ”
Glass Souls Page 24