Glass Souls

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  The young man murmurs: yes, I know. At least, I think I do. He’s saying that there’s nothing he can do about it. That he can’t stop her, that he doesn’t have the strength. He begs her to go away, because he is powerless.

  The old man turns around and smiles at him, and his creased face wrinkles up a little more.

  Precisely, he says. He’s explaining to her, or he’s trying to explain to her, that she’s playing with something that actually burns, wounds, and can even ultimately kill.

  The young man raises his dark eyes and looks at the old man standing in the rectangular frame of the window, with all that useless sea behind him.

  But then what happened, Maestro? The letter, he . . . Did he answer her? Did he want her? Did she leave? Did she stay? How did it end?

  The old man doesn’t answer immediately. He drags himself toward the armchair, he sits down with a faint lament. His bones crunch with a flat sound. One trembling hand reaches out to take the instrument and bring it back to his lap, as if his lap were another instrument case.

  He says, in a low voice: It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the song, that’s the story. But it’s nice that you wonder what became of the two of them, how it turned out. It’s nice because it means you’ve understood that the song is a story. Bravo.

  He plays a chord: sweet and desperate, suffering and piteous. A call for help, an account of an unrequited laceration. All in a single, miserable chord. The young man thinks: I’ll never be able to do that. I can never be as good as him; and with his hands in that condition. I’ll never be able to play like that. And if I can’t play like that, then I can’t tell a story.

  He only thought it, a series of disconnected flashes in his head, but the old man stops and turns around to stare at him with his eyes sunken in wrinkles.

  No, don’t even think it. You must merely eliminate the barriers, it takes a little time, but once you’ve figured this out, that you’re telling a story with your hands, then you’ll really be good. Even better than me, because your hands don’t tremble.

  The young man feels a long shiver go down his back; I have to be careful about what I think, he reflects, absurdly. This one can hear me think.

  The old man starts to tell his story again with his hands.

  For the last verse.

  Torna, va’, palomma ’e notte,

  dint’a ll’ombra addo’ si’ nata!

  Torna a ’st’aria ’mbarzamata

  ca te sape cunzulà!

  Dint’ ’o scuro e pe’ me sulo

  ’sta cannela arde e se struje,

  ma c’ardesse a tutt’e dduje,

  nun ’o ppozzo suppurtà!

  Vattenn’ ’a lloco!

  Vattenne, pazzarella!

  Va’, palummella, e torna,

  e torna a ’st’aria accussí fresca e bella!

  ’O bbí ca i’ pure

  mm’abbaglio chianu chiano,

  e ca mm’abbrucio ’a mano

  pe’ te ne vulè caccià?

  (Go on, go back, butterfly of the night,

  into the shadows where you were born!

  Go back into this resin-scented air

  that knows how to console you!

  In the darkness and for me alone

  this candle burns and suffers,

  but that it should burn us both,

  that I cannot accept!

  Get out of here!

  Get away, silly thing!

  Go, little butterfly, and go back

  go back into this air

  so cool and clear!

  You see that I, too,

  am slowly being dazzled

  and that I’m burning my hand

  as I try to shoo you away?)

  XXXVIII

  Ricciardi was walking down the broad boulevard, heading for the office, after an almost entirely sleepless night.

  It had been difficult to wait for the dawn, with the images that kept chasing each other behind and before his eyes, faces and expressions, and sun and sea and dead children embracing to remind him of his pain and sorrow. And in his ears the confusion was certainly no less, with the words of the duke and Piro’s wife and especially Enrica: it all piled up in his weary, vigilant mind, sleepy yet awake, grinding incessantly away at the past and the future to reconstruct a senseless present.

  He had run into her, he could scarcely believe it. He had met her on the street after spying on her the night before through the gap between his curtains and he had even spoken to her about that man, thinking back to the night on Ischia and what he had seen from his hiding place in the shrubbery, and she had thrown the blame back on him. But how was it his fault? He was alone. He’d been left with no one to think about him. Whereas Enrica had a family as numerous as an army. And someone who kissed her under the stars.

  And after all, what the devil was it supposed to mean: What is all this sea any good for? What could he have said to her in reply?

  Ricciardi was walking, his eyes downcast, his hands in his pockets. He was walking, with the same wind and sand in his head as the day before. And the wind whirled crazily around even the few, scattered thoughts he had about the Roccaspina case, and he could tell he wasn’t applying himself to it with the proper degree of dedication. The contessa’s composed suffering when she’d asked his help would have deserved at least the clarity of a refusal, rather than the neglect of a lack of attention.

  The street was gradually filling up with people, a little later than had the network of vicoli that extended uphill and downhill. The commissario listened to the calls from one apartment to another, the sound of the shutters opening to greet the new day. This is how it always was, at seven in the morning: another world, a minuscule universe of faces and sentiments.

  A festive group of children went running past him, bookbags on their backs. There were schools that had begun to take in students for preparatory courses for the new classes; that was the hybrid period when the last barefoot beachgoers in shorts crossed paths with the first students in school uniforms.

  Not far away, the commissario saw a figure that in terms of stature could have just as easily been one of the kids on their way to the beach or to school, but whose uniform eliminated all doubt. When he got close to him, he stopped, intrigued.

  “Don Pierino, buongiorno. Why are you out and about so early, and in this neighborhood?”

  The little priest gave him a broad smile.

  “Very simple, Commissario. I was waiting for you. Can you spare me a minute?”

  Ricciardi had first met Don Pierino a year and a half earlier, during his investigation into the murder of Livia’s husband. They had struck up an acquaintance, even though they were as different as they could possibly be. The priest was cheerful, extroverted, an impassioned lover of the opera, while the policeman, who among other things felt a certain annoyed distaste for performances based on fictional sentiments, was the exact opposite. But they both shared a sincere, profound sense of empathy for the sufferings of others, a territory that was vast enough to accommodate, if not a genuine full-fledged friendship, at least a relationship of cordial amiability.

  “Why, certainly, Father,” Ricciardi therefore said. “What’s going on? Do you need help?”

  Don Pierino lifted a hand.

  “Ah, certainly, I could use a great deal of help: people falling sick, children who have nothing to eat, heads of households tossed into prison who lack the money to defend themselves from absurd charges; poor women forced to become prostitutes in order to feed their families, victims of loan sharks, you name it, we’ve got it. But all these are things you already know about, and in fact you are one of the very few who fight on the same side as me. Do you think I don’t know that?”

  “We do our best, Father. But tell me, now, what can I do for you?”

  The priest locked
arms with him and pointed to the street leading to police headquarters.

  “I’ll walk you to the corner, if you don’t mind. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  They strolled off together.

  They really were an odd couple. Every so often they’d cross paths with someone who knew one or the other of them, and the reactions were, according to the specific invididual, quite diverse. Ricciardi had to admit that Don Pierino, without a doubt, was far more liked and appreciated. Certainly, a priest is far more likely to win hearts than a policeman, he thought to himself, but probably his glowering persona didn’t help matters either.

  “Commissario,” said the man of the cloth, “I’d like to ask you to make an effort of imagination. Try to imagine a priest, let’s say, an assistant parish priest, beautiful to behold and good-hearted, tall and fair-haired, in odor of sanctity. Can you do that?”

  In spite of himself, and despite the miserable night he’d had, Ricciardi found himself smiling.

  “Yes, I have no difficulties, especially right now. Please go on.”

  “Well, now, let us suppose that one day this extraordinary model of beauty and virtue receives a visit in the sacristy from a friend of his, a good and respectable person, but very reserved: one of those people who would sooner let themselves be tortured than let any personal confidences escape them. And let us suppose that this person sits down and starts chattering away like he’s never done before, and that the assistant parish priest realizes that his words conceal a great deal of suffering. All right?”

  Ricciardi’s curiosity was aroused, but he had not the slightest idea of what Don Pierino was driving at.

  “Yes, Father,” he replied.

  “Well then,” Don Pierino resumed, slowing his pace, “in your opinion what should that tall and fair-haired and holy assistant parish priest do? Simply accept the information confided in him by his friend, not under the seal of confession, by the way, just to be clear, and try to offer him some spiritual comfort, or else take the initiative to try to lend him a hand?”

  The commissario froze in his footsteps.

  “Father, if this is something that concerns my work, I beg you, don’t be afraid. We operate with great discretion and without revealing the provenance of any information concerning a crime that . . . ”

  Don Pierino shook his head with some vigor.

  “No, no, Commissa’, what did you think I was talking about? No murder, for the love of all that’s holy! I know perfectly well that in that case I would have been able to speak to you, but I would have come to your office to talk to you there. No, instead, as you can clearly see, I’ve simply waited for you to happen by on a street corner. I remembered how common it is for me to go and officiate for some poor sick man and run into you around this part of town early in the morning.”

  “Then what is this about, Father?”

  Don Pierino started walking again.

  “Now then, Commissa’, this is a fairly delicate matter. And trust me, I don’t really know where to begin. It seems strange, you know, but it’s not necessarily the case that a priest really loves to stick his nose into other people’s business. We’re supposed to do it as a profession, but we don’t like it. At least, I don’t.”

  Outside the front entrance of an apartment house, Ricciardi’s eyes were greeted by the sight of the plummeting suicide who had died two days earlier. He was vivid and real; to Ricciardi it almost seemed that if he had reached out a hand he could have touched the man’s shattered cranium and the deformed abdomen with the crushed rib cage. Kneeling on the street at the exact spot where he had died, upon a brownish stain that still hadn’t been washed away, he kept repeating: My love, I won’t spend a single minute more without you.

  Caught off guard, Ricciardi started. Don Pierino followed his gaze and focused on the large bloodstain in the street.

  “You heard about him, eh? Professor De Stefano. When she was alive, his wife always came to Mass, then, once she died, he stopped coming. I often thought of going to see him, but what with one thing and another . . . ”

  Ricciardi heard the poor old man’s voice pulsate in his head. Love that kills, love that sweeps everything in its path, love that destroys. Two young women walked past laughing, their pleated skirts fluttering in the wake of their brisk strides, swift and full of life, their heels striking the sidewalk, their handbags, slung over their shoulders, swinging at their hips. Life. Death.

  My love, I won’t spend a single minute more without you.

  “Please get to the point. I have to get back to the office.”

  Don Pierino stared at him with consternation. Ricciardi’s change of tone, the coldness of his words had disoriented him.

  “But . . . did I say something to hurt your feelings, Commissario? If I did, please forgive me, I talk and I talk and sometimes I don’t realize what I’m saying.”

  Ricciardi ran his hand over his eyes.

  “No, Father. Quite the contrary, I hope you’ll forgive me. I haven’t been sleeping well for a while now, and I always have something of a headache.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. We haven’t seen each other since I came to see you to extend my condolences for poor Signora Rosa, and to be perfectly frank, you actually don’t look especially well. This confirms my instinct that it was a good idea to come and see you. I have a question to ask you, Commissario. Just one question.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “How much longer do you plan to condemn yourself to this pain and sorrow that, for whatever reason, you carry in your body?”

  Ricciardi stopped again and looked at the priest. Behind him, the horrendous image of the suicide continued to repeat the mad litany of his love. Let’s hope that somewhere, even if it’s in hell, you have the comfort that you’re asking of her, he thought.

  “Father, please be clearer.”

  Don Pierino hesitated, then threw himself into it.

  “This tall and fair-haired assistant parish priest of my little fairy tale cares very much about his friend. And his friend adores his daughter, a delicate and kindhearted young woman, with a vulnerable soul. A young woman who might—as she senses that the man she truly loves is moving away from her—make a choice for her own life that isn’t perhaps the right one, a choice that she might live to regret, that she might pay for with profound unhappiness. And so the tall and fair-haired assistant parish priest would really like to tell the man who holds this young woman’s heart in his hands to stop building walls behind which he himself might someday find he’s a prisoner. To tell him to open up to life and emotions.”

  Ricciardi turned and stared into the empty air, which to him wasn’t empty at all.

  My love, the dead man said again.

  “And in your opinion, Father, what would this man reply to the tall and fair-haired assistant parish priest? Wouldn’t he tell him, perhaps, that walls do exist and that he’s not the one who builds them, that it is life, and destiny, that builds those walls? Wouldn’t he tell him that sometimes you might wish and want, so very badly, but there are some obstacles that are insurmountable?”

  Don Pierino shook his head, decisively.

  “No, he couldn’t tell him that. Because nothing is insurmountable, where there’s a bit of genuine will. Happiness is something you achieve, not something you sit around waiting for, as if it were your due. The Lord has endowed us with the ability to choose, Commissario. That is the greatest gift He ever gave mankind.”

  My love, I won’t spend a single minute more without you.

  “Loving someone means wishing for their happiness and welfare, Father. You ought to know that. And when you’re certain that you yourself are the evil, the harm, then you must stay away from them. To prevent the very person you care most about from burning themselves in the candle’s flame.”

  Don Pierino, struck by the gravity of Ricciardi’s las
t words, remained for a few moments in silence. Then his voice came out sounding slightly more broken and overwrought.

  “You see, Commissario, souls are fragile. Beautiful, fragile creatures, made of glass, they let light and heat through, but they’re incapable of containing them. Souls are made of glass, and if you treat them too roughly, they’re liable to crack and emit inaccurate reflections. Never underestimate the soul, Commissario. Have the courage to gaze deep into it, the surface is transparent, it will let you see.”

  Ricciardi turned his gaze away from the image of the dead man.

  “Tell that to the tall and fair-haired assistant parish priest. Everyone loves as best they can, and in the manner they think best. Have a good day.”

  And he walked off.

  Left alone on the street corner, Don Pierino whispered a few words, his mouth twisted into a bitter grimace: “I will pray for you every day, Commissario Ricciardi. Every single day.”

  XXXIX

  Bianca Borgati of the Marchesi di Zisa, Contessa Palmieri di Roccaspina, had three lire and seventy-five cents in her pocketbook. Which meant that she could afford to take the trolley to Poggioreale, both there and back.

  She made up her mind, after thinking it over very thoroughly. She didn’t know whether she’d ever unravel the mystery, but she was certain that she wanted to tell her husband, while looking him in the face, that it was all over between them. Whatever else he might have in mind and however he might want to act, when he got out of prison, she wouldn’t be there to meet him.

  She walked down the alley that ran past the front door of the palazzo, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead of her, straight as an arrow, as if she were attired in regal garments instead of her usual, threadbare black dress and the shoes whose uppers, with all her tireless buffing and polishing, had been reduced to nothing much thicker than a silk veil. As usual, before leaving the apartment, she had been subjected to the examination of Assunta, the ancient servant who had taken care of her since she was a little girl. Those stern eyes checked everything, from the pin that fastened her little hat to her hair to the strength of the buttons and the clasps on her earrings. Their economic ruin, the financial collapse, the shortness of resources had done nothing to alter the attitudes of her old governess: the Signora Contessa was still and always would be the Signora Contessa, even if she were poor now. And if was going to appear in public, it would be as the Signora Contessa.