“My father explained to me what had happened, Raffae’: that animal, that fox, had been forced to make a choice. Either live without that paw or be caught. And it made that choice.
“I’ve lived my whole life with my paw in a trap, Raffae’. And I never realized that I had the ability to choose freedom. Even when my husband was alive, the minute I was alone someone would approach me, using their hands or using their words. That’s no way to live, believe me. It’s no way to live.
“And for all the time we’ve been alone, Gaetano and I, things have been intolerable: my boss was threatening to fire me, another miserable wretch threatened to take it out on the boy.
“We talked it over again and again; we couldn’t come up with a solution. Then, one evening, Gaetano came in, hand in hand with Rituccia, the girl you saw, and said to me: ‘Mamma, maybe we’ve thought of something.’ And while we were talking I remembered that little black paw dangling from the henhouse door and my father shaking his head. That’s when I made up my mind. But I never could have done it myself. Four times I raised the knife, and four times I set it down again. I looked over at Gaetano; I didn’t say a word to him. I was crying, he was crying: only Rituccia’s eyes were dry. But she was pale as a sheet and she didn’t move a muscle. She looked at Gaetano too, and he got to his feet; he picked up the knife. And he freed me. And he freed us. He did what I wanted to do myself, Raffae’. I left my paw dangling behind me.”
The silence that followed her words closed in like a fog. Maione thought he could hear his heart pounding; he felt a crushing pity for Filomena, for Gaetano, for Rituccia. And for himself, too.
Then his thoughts went to Lucia. He imagined her locked in a cramped cell, a prison made of memories; hanging from a trap by her paw, ever since that accursed evening three years earlier. And he thought: What am I doing here?
He got to his feet, gazing into her magnificent eyes, the eyes of a stranger, glistening with tears, and that beautiful, Madonna-like smile. And he realized that he loved Lucia, even more than he loved her when he glimpsed her at the fountain at the age of sixteen, washing a sheet and singing, that he’d never seen anything lovelier since then, and if he were to die someday he wanted it to be with that face before his eyes.
He said good-bye to Filomena. The word he used was arrivederci, until we meet again, but what he meant was addio, good-bye forever, may God be with you. She told him addio, hoping it meant arrivederci. Maione walked out into the street and turned his footsteps toward police headquarters.
LIX
Only a couple of hours had gone by, but when they met again in Ricciardi’s office, they were two different men than they had been when they’d left it.
The commissario was morose, with a fixed glare, and a crease of sorrow furrowing his brow. The brigadier, in contrast, seemed as if he had untied a knot that had been preventing him from breathing. He seemed to be at peace now, untroubled, though there was a faint hint of sadness in his eyes. He had entrusted a boy he’d met in the vicoli, a friend of one of his sons, with the task of letting Lucia know that he’d be working late. An old tradition to be revived; but he had emphasized that the messenger was to remember, as he made him repeat several times, that he wouldn’t eat before he came home. He missed his home; he hungered for it.
The window was open and the salt air was blowing in from outside. Needless to say, Ricciardi was looking out of it.
“I want to know who killed her, Calise. I want to know who and I want to know why. Work aside, I mean. I want to know whether it was for money or for passion.”
Behind Ricciardi’s back, Maione nodded. And he chipped in a thought of his own.
“I want to know too, Commissa’. Because she was a poor old woman and someone killed her and then kicked her dead body all around the room. Because, even if she was a loanshark and cheated people out of their money with tarot cards, she still had the right to go on breathing. And because I’m a cop.”
Ricciardi turned around and looked Maione in the eye.
“That’s right, Maione. We’re cops. Let’s go see what this actor has to say for himself.”
As they walked the short distance, they explored the issues at hand.
“Just for the sake of discussion, Commissa’, just thinking out loud here. Let’s say that the professor can’t stand the idea of his wife leaving him and losing all that money of hers, which really is a lot of money, after all. Let’s say he goes to Calise and pays her to tell the signora to get rid of the actor. Then let’s say that when he goes to settle up, they get into a fight and the professor loses his head. Or better yet, Calise wants to make more money off him and she blackmails him with what she knows about his private affairs.”
Ricciardi nodded as he walked.
“Or let’s say that Iodice can’t pay her what he owes and is on the verge of desperation. Let’s say Calise threatens him, intent on ruining him, making him lose his pizzeria, everything he owns. That she’s going to take the bread out of his children’s mouths.”
Maione shook his head.
“No, Commissa’, no. A father with a family would think it over before risking that kind of ruin. Because if he doesn’t kill her, he can still always find a way of putting bread on the table, even if he does lose the pizzeria. But if he flies out of control, then his children not only don’t eat, they lose their good name, the family honor. It wasn’t Iodice, I’m sure of it. If you want to know the truth, I’m more inclined to think it was the signora, so emotional, so desperate to sweep aside the one obstacle to her great love affair.”
“Sure. And it could just as easily have been our friend Passarelli, the funny little man with the ninety-year-old mamma and the sixty-year-old fiancée, who might not have wanted another old woman around. Or Ridolfi, who could have just pretended to fall down the stairs. It could have been anyone, and that’s the truth. We’re still completely at sea here.”
Maione smiled.
“True, but my top candidate is still the professor; let’s not forget Teresa and the shoes. If you ask me, it was him.”
Ricciardi shrugged.
“Still, I wouldn’t overlook the ladies entirely. Remember: the doctor said that a young woman, or a very strong one, could have done just as much damage as a man. And I for one wouldn’t want to go up against Petrone or Signora Serra, with their lovely little tempers.”
They had reached the theater, where the crowd was bigger than they’d expected. The play had been running for quite a while, and it was a weekday, but the playwright’s reputation was growing; word of mouth was evidently very effective. What’s more, this was the next to last performance before the production relocated to Rome. In short, the atmosphere was one of festive anticipation.
Ricciardi and Maione identified themselves and had an usher accompany them to the stage door. Inside, in the narrow hallway that ran along the dressing room doors, they brushed past actors and actresses already dressed in costume, with pre-show jitters showing in their faces. The actors were talking excitedly but silence fell when one of the doors opened and a face poked out. Maione recognized the playwright and chief actor from his picture in the paper.
The man’s face was white with powder and there were two spots of pink rouge on his cheeks, his collar turned up in a fashion popular ten years earlier, a wide, colorful tie, and a jacket with a conspicuous patch on the side. In sharp contrast with his ridiculous getup, his expression was dour: a thin mustache and thin lips, arched eyebrows, a broad forehead with a single vertical crease running down the middle. The brigadier had read that he was just thirty, but now, up close, he struck him as a much older man.
As he stared at them, the playwright spoke to a shorter, cheerful-looking man who vaguely resembled him.
“Are these gentlemen friends of yours? Have you decided to start letting strangers backstage, along with everything else? What have you got in mind now, one of your floating card games in the dressing rooms?”
Spreading his arms wide in a show of helplessness
and speaking to a small crowd of actors standing not far off, the shorter man looked heavenward with a smile as he replied.
“Of course, put the blame on Peppino. It’s Peppino’s fault, even if it just starts raining. No, I don’t know these gentlemen. I’ve never seen them before. But if it’s an order, I’ll start a floating card game. That’d be more fun than standing here listening to you whine about everything.”
The tension became palpable and the playwright slammed his dressing room door shut. Peppino, as he had identified himself, shrugged, snorted, and addressed the two policemen.
“Forgive us. When our governess was giving lessons on good manners, my brother was always sick in bed. Tell me, can I help you with something?”
Maione opened his mouth to speak, but Ricciardi laid a hand on his arm.
“We’re . . . friends of Signor Romor, Attilio Romor. Could you tell us where we can find him?”
Peppino laughed heartily.
“Ah, that’s a new one on me! Romor has friends who don’t wear skirts! In that case, he must owe you money. Prego, you’ll find him in the dressing room at the end of the hall. The one farthest from my brother.”
Shaking his head, he headed off toward the stage door.
Ricciardi and Maione walked in the opposite direction.
Romor had just finished getting into costume.
He was a tall young man, the kind who is aware of his appeal to women. Two girls loaded down with costumes elbowed each other and whispered among themselves as they walked past his dressing room door.
The man appeared not to notice, or perhaps he was just used to it. He courteously ushered them in.
He didn’t seem particularly surprised to learn who they were; his open, sincere gaze didn’t betray concern of any kind. Maione did the questioning.
“Signor Romor, we’re aware of your . . . close friendship with a married lady. We’re investigating a misfortune that occurred a few days ago, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Romor smiled, revealing a perfect set of teeth. He looked them in the eye and seemed to be completely at ease.
“Yes, the signora is a friend of mine, Commissario. A very dear friend. We were even thinking of going away to set up house together. I heard about the . . . misfortune; I know all about the poor fortune-teller because Emma mentioned her frequently. I’ve never seen her, but I know that Emma was very attached to her. I’m at your complete disposal.”
Maione and Ricciardi exchanged a quick glance.
“Thinking of going away to set up house together? But the signora told us that she had decided not to leave her husband.”
The actor smiled politely.
“Brigadier, my Emma is a very sentimental person and, as such, she’s subject to other people’s influence. On the verge of such a momentous decision, it’s only natural that she should feel some degree of uncertainty. Her husband came to see me, a few nights ago. He waited for me outside the stage door and he offered me money in exchange for breaking it off with Emma. Of course, I refused. I’m not the sort of man who can be bought. I care nothing about the money; I have my profession. Then he threatened me: he told me that he would ruin me, that all he had to do was drop a word or two with the director of the troupe. But, and if you’ve seen the show you already know this, there’s nothing he could do to make the director hate me more than he does already. I already know that when my contract expires I’ll have to look for another company. Luckily, however, this is a good time for the theater and there’s plenty of work. I’ll find something.”
“And how did you respond to Serra’s threats?”
Romor threw his head back and laughed with gusto.
“That’s how: I laughed in his face. There’s no way to persuade me. I assure you that she can’t stay away from me. I’ll let you in on a secret: we’re expecting a baby. And a baby, Commissario, is an important, irrevocable step. Having a child brings a couple together forever, and that’s the way it’s going to be between Emma and me.”
“Would you be willing to repeat what you just said in the presence of the Serras?”
The Serras. An institutionalized couple: a family. Ricciardi appreciated the way that Maione was maneuvering to provoke a reaction from Romor; if the man felt he was being cut out, that he had no chance of winning back his relationship, then he would show concern and be less than forthcoming. Instead he smiled, without looking away from the commissario’s gaze, even as he responded to Maione’s question.
“Brigadier, that’s something that I already intended to do. I know my Emma, marvelous, sensitive woman that she is. I’m sure that once she sees me, she’ll get over any doubts and choose love over the arid social conventions that are presently holding her prisoner. I feel sure I’ll be able to give you proof of this in short order. We had decided to leave together after the last performance in Naples, which is going to be tomorrow night. I haven’t yet lost all hope that, now that she’s had time to think it over, Emma will show up as we had agreed, that she’ll come for me here at the theater.”
Ricciardi looked the actor in the eye, and Romor looked back, unwavering.
“Tell me one last thing, Romor: who do you think murdered Calise?”
A sad expression appeared on the man’s face.
“Who can say, Commissario? I didn’t know her. But I’d have to guess that a woman who makes a living by deceiving people and, according to what I read, loan-sharking as well, should expect to wind up that way. I remember that Emma was a slave to her obsession with the old woman; she couldn’t breathe unless Calise told her how with one of her proverbs. But I will say that when Emma’s husband came to threaten me, he really did seem willing to stop at nothing. If I had to say a name . . .”
As they headed back to police headquarters, Maione thought out loud.
“That guy strikes me as a genuine idiot. He likes women, he knows that they like him, and he thinks that’s how it will be for the rest of his life. If you ask me, he would have been better off taking the professor’s money, because he won’t be getting anything else out of his relationship with Emma.”
Ricciardi was wrapped up in his thoughts.
“Don’t forget about the baby, though. The professor would be happy to acknowledge the child as his own—that is, if he even knows his wife is pregnant. But would she be willing? She seems deeply involved. In any case, none of this concerns us. What I’d like to know is who had a motive to kill Calise. And we’re running out of time. But I just had an idea.”
“What is it, Commissa’?”
“The idea that tomorrow evening Signora Serra will be unable to resist the temptation to go to the theater, to enjoy the play she loves so well, for one last time. Why don’t you take a walk over to see your friend the doorman in the afternoon and find out if anyone’s planning to take a car or a driver to go to the theater.”
Maione seemed perplexed.
“The Serras? Aren’t we supposed to check in first with that idiot Garzo?”
Ricciardi smiled.
“No. He told me that I’m in charge of the case and I can do what I want. Anyway, it’s the last day. You watch, if we don’t come up with anything, they’ll put the blame on poor Iodice and good night, nurse. Let’s see if we can flush the professor out into the open.”
Attilio, now alone, smiled into his dressing room mirror. Things were moving in the right direction; he would make Emma face her responsibilities.
He felt certain that, with her back to the wall and no proprieties left to safeguard, she would opt for love. On the other hand, why would the husband have done so much to convince him to leave her? Because the husband knew that Emma loved him. He’d never misread a woman, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t wrong now, either.
He hoped that his mamma would come to the theater too, the following night. To enjoy his last performance. His triumphant last performance.
You walk home, kept company by your work, thoughts of the current investigation, thoughts studded with face
s, sensations, tones of voice. You walk, cobblestones underfoot, and you smell the fresh air wafting down from the distant woods. And you think about the words you’ve heard, words you now need to put in order.
You walk among the few living human beings who are heading home, skirting close to the walls, and the occasional dead soul watching you go by, oozing grief from its wounds. You walk and you don’t look; you pass through the world like a stranger. You climb the stairs, you open the door, you hear the tired breathing of your elderly Tata sleeping serenely. You undress, you and the night become a single thing. You tell yourself, no, not tonight, you won’t go to the window. You’ll stretch out and slip into sleep, or rather sleep will come envelop you, dragging you off for a few hours to a land of illusory peace.
Instead, you do go over to the window. Perhaps she’ll be there, embroidering, as if to greet you unconsciously, to gently ferry you off to your dreamless slumber.
Instead, your gaze runs square into a pair of darkened shutters. No one speaks to you at all.
You step forward into the night and you know that your eyes will search for peace in the darkness but in vain. You were hoping for rest. But that’s not what you got.
He climbs uphill along the vicolo, his step slow and heavy. The weight of the day bears down on his shoulders, the weight of the week, of life. He climbs the vicolo and he feels lonelier than ever, thinking of all these people looking for love and finding hatred, resentment, fury. He climbs the vicolo looking straight ahead; perhaps not even a scream would make him stop this time. Tonight it costs too much to walk. Tonight he wants nothing but peace.
Sea air accompanies him, caresses his shoulders, helps him in the uphill climb. It brings a promise of summer, a promise it may even keep. But who knows how many more deaths, in the meanwhile.
Blood Curse Page 27