Out of love. How many strange, absurd things he had seen people do out of love. And how treacherous, he thought as he ate under Rosa’s vigilant gaze, this sentiment could be as it made its way into the folds of one’s thoughts, infecting one’s soul. He had struggled and continued to struggle, but he couldn’t seem to keep himself from thinking with growing anxiety about his innocent nightly appointment, and the slight wave of greeting that he exchanged with his across-the-street neighbor. He couldn’t have said whether it was worse or better than before, as he watched her embroider from hiding, just to drink in her normality, like some healthful herbal tea.
He knew nothing about love. But if he were ever to talk about it, he would’ve said that it was important to protect the object of one’s affections from evil, even if the evil happens to be in the person in love. Especially if the evil happens to be in the person in love. And so in his case, if love was what he felt for Enrica, then it was incumbent upon him to keep her safely distant from his curse, from the savage and terrible pain that he carried within him.
That was why he continued to stay far away from her, why he never looked for an opportunity to meet her, to be able to talk to her, look her in the eye, hold her hand. That’s the way it had been for over a year, until fate finally put them face to face. And now that pure, sweet emotion, experienced from a safe distance, had been tainted with the scent of flesh. For twenty-three hours a day, Ricciardi wished that the previous situation of checkmate could be reinstated; unsatisfying though it certainly might have been, it was at least reassuring.
But for an hour a day, for that hour, on the other hand, he’d have gladly flown the twenty-five feet that separated them to embrace her and kiss her a thousand times. And now that hour had arrived.
With his heart in his throat, after closing his bedroom door, Ricciardi went over to the window.
Enrica was distraught with rage and despair. A trap had been laid for her, without even asking her views or opinions. She’d tried all night long to catch her father’s eye, but he’d taken great care to look anywhere but at his daughter’s face. As for her mother, of course, she was perfectly at her ease in her role as the lady of the house, never stopping once as she regaled her guests with Enrica’s domestic gifts.
She had found her father’s two friends intolerable, a badly matched couple in which the wife was an unctuous, bullying harridan while the husband was a miserable wretch without qualities, practically a mute. As for the son, he was the main reason for her rage. An unpleasant, ignorant, uninteresting man; he knew how to talk—and never stopped for an instant—about nothing but clothing, automobiles, and high society, topics that could not have been any further from her interest.
It had been her mother, of that much she was sure. She had decided to go on the offensive, after whining for years about how urgent it was to find her a fiancé. She had become increasingly insistent, but Enrica never thought that she would stoop so low: to bring a man home, and without even asking! Her upbringing and her social standing kept her from being openly rude, but no one could force her to be pleasant. And so she had remained silent throughout the meal, for once served in grand gala in the drawing room; the hours went by slowly, with the incessant chitchat of that prettified dandy in her ears, and she was forced to tolerate her mother’s continual invitations to take part in the conversation and the harridan’s compliments, why, what a lovely young woman, what lovely hands, what a lovely smile. She was nauseated.
And now she was also desperate, because it was already ten o’clock and the guests showed no signs of leaving. And she wouldn’t be at the window to see the only man she wanted to listen to, if only he would say something to her.
Ricciardi had spent half an hour watching the darkened kitchen window, waiting in vain. The sense of disappointment had grown within him, along with some slight concern for Enrica’s well-being; he’d been certain that she would never miss their appointment except for some serious reason, some disaster, and it pained him not to know.
Just as he was about to give up and go to bed, he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye a gleam of light from the corner of the apartment building across the way: another room in the Colombo home had its lights turned on. There was a part of him that recoiled at the thought that he wanted to see who was there and what was going on, intruding into another family’s life like the lowest and most common gossip: but the other part of him easily won the battle.
Justifying his actions with the thought that he was only trying to ensure that Enrica was well and safe, he rapidly calculated just which window in his apartment would offer the best view of the illuminated room, and to his horror he realized that would be his tata’s bedroom.
Rosa was just about to go to bed, having completed her rosary with the invocations of the proper saints. She had a nightcap on her head, her hair gathered inside it, a long nightshirt, buttoned from neck to feet, and she was pulling up the bedclothes when she heard someone knocking at her bedroom door.
“Who is it?” she called out, absurdly.
“It’s me, who did you think it was? No one lives here but you and me,” said Ricciardi.
“What’s the matter, don’t you feel well?”
“Yes, I feel fine, don’t worry. I just want to see something from your window. Can I come in?”
“Of course, be my guest.”
And Rosa saw Ricciardi open the door; she saw him give her a guilty look; she saw him go over to the window, muttering something about having seen some suspicious activity in the street; she saw him stand for several long seconds with both hands gripping the windowsill, holding his breath; she saw him brace himself against the wall with one hand, as if he were about to faint; she heard him moan softly; she saw him turn, pale as death, biting his lip; and last of all, she saw him leave the room, shutting the door behind him, after saying, “It was nothing, nothing at all, I must have been mistaken. Buona notte.”
At that point Rosa got out of bed, slowly pushing the covers aside, and in her turn went over to the window; there she saw a certain young woman sitting primly on a sofa, as stiff as if she’d swallowed a broom, with a smiling well-dressed young man whispering into her ear.
At first, she was worried. But then she decided that the ice tends to melt faster if you light a nice hot fire underneath it.
And with a smile, she went back to bed.
XIV
The following morning, anyone crossing paths with Maione and Ricciardi, who were on their way to Palazzo Camparino to question the two dukes, would have failed to notice any substantial changes in the expressions of either one: the commissario, dark and silent; the brigadier, sweaty and angry. Actually, though, both their moods had deteriorated considerably.
Maione had had a nightmare. There was Lucia who was giving immense bowls of macaroni with ragu to the damned fruit vendor Ciruzzo, laughing and telling him that he needed to put some flesh on his bones, that he was far too skinny. Behind the closed door, but he could see her perfectly as you can only in dreams, Filomena was weeping, begging him to eat what she’d cooked for him and him alone; it was impossible to see what was in the bowl, but he could smell a celestial aroma. Maione, who the night before had put on a heroic show of a lack of appetite and had eaten only two peaches, in his dream continued to decline the offer, and sat there, suffering, watching the detested Di Stasio as he enjoyed his meal.
The nightmare had worsened both the brigadier’s hunger and his anger, and the next morning once again he’d tried to don his summer uniform, but without success; so now he was walking up the Via Medina apparently in the same black mood as the day before, but in reality, he was furious.
The dominant emotion in Ricciardi, on the other hand, was bafflement. He found himself in the presence of an entirely new emotion, and he had no idea how to deal with it.
Unlike Maione, he’d had no nightmares, but that was only because he hadn’t slept a wink all night long. The image of a smiling Enrica, with a stranger whispering sweet nothings in he
r ear, was tormenting him. The part of him that had insisted on keeping his distance, well aware of just how impossible it would be to have a normal relationship, now piped up loudly, reiterating its reasoning; but the commissario suspected and feared that it was too late in any case, and that thought terrified him in some way.
He contemplated with genuine fascination the emotion that had surged through him, its reverberations echoing in his chest all night long. A real, physical malaise: not mental, the way he’d always imagined it, the thousands of times that he’d heard dead people talk about it, whether they’d been murdered for love or had killed themselves for love. In reality, it was a stabbing pain behind his stomach, in some unspecified spot under his lungs, and it affected both his breathing and his intestines. A violent and enduring pain that, if you tried to think about anything else, would immediately snap your attention back and keep your thoughts from wandering.
The sheer irrationality of the sensation made it impossible for him to examine the problem the way he was accustomed to doing with his work. He kept repeating to himself: if you’ve always known you couldn’t approach Enrica, that you had to protect her from your pain and your absurd nature, how dare you suffer like a dog now, just because you’ve seen her with another man? What sense is there to this suffering of yours?
It makes no sense at all, he answered himself. All the same, the stabbing pain behind his stomach, somewhere beneath his lungs, remained just as intense.
Neither of the two men, as they struggled with their own malaise, had noticed the state of mind of the other; the policemen who had watched them as they left headquarters had, though, and they had exchanged knowing winks: this was no day to tangle with them.
Along the way, Ricciardi once again encountered the man who’d been beaten to death, launching his invective against those who had killed him:
“Buffoonish clowns, you’re nothing but four buffoonish clowns. Four to one, for shame, for shame, you buffoonish clowns.”
The commissario just grew darker and grimmer. He thought to himself: you could have lived a normal life, had a wife and children. You could have eaten and drank, laughed and played. You could have sat on a sofa, at night, whispering sweet words to a girl. And instead, you got yourself beaten to death in exchange for the satisfaction of talking smart to some idiot with a billy club. The usual damned waste.
The palazzo’s front door was half-closed, as was customary when in mourning. On the closed door panel a sign read:
FOR THE DEATH OF THE SIGNORA DUCHESSA
ADRIANA MUSSO DI CAMPARINO.
Sciarra, the doorman, was sweeping in the courtyard, doing his best to stay in the shade where however it was already perfectly clean. With every stroke of the broom, he had to pull up the sleeves of his shirt, which kept slipping down and covering his hands. Near him, the same two children they had encountered on their last visit were eating two enormous pieces of bread and cheese. As soon as the man saw Ricciardi and Maione, he came toward them with that pouncing gait of his.
“Commissario, Brigadier, good day to you. How can I be of service?”
Maione wasted no time on rote courtesy, in part because he was clearly irritated at the sight of the children stuffing themselves hand over fist.
“I only need you to take us in. We’re here to talk with the duke and his son.”
Ricciardi broke in:
“First I want to take a look at the duchess’s room, though. Isn’t the housekeeper here?”
“Of course she is, Commissa’, I’ll call her for you immediately.”
“One more thing, Sciarra. Where were you, the other night, when the murder happened?”
The doorman spread his arms, letting the sleeves trail below.
“Where do you think I was? Upstairs, at home, keeping an eye on these two devils.”
The older of the two spoke, while still noisily chewing his food.
“So unless Papà comes and feeds us, we refuse to go to bed. We only eat when Papà’s there!”
Maione made a face.
“Then Papà must always be there, because every time I see you, you’re eating.”
“What can you do about it, Brigadie’? These two are wolves, they’re not human children. I don’t know where they got it, not from my side. Wait for me here, I’ll go and get Concetta.”
Here they come now. I can see them both clearly, the big bulky brigadier in uniform and the other one, the skinny one: the commissario. I asked Concetta and she told me what they asked her yesterday.
I was amazed: I thought that they’d want to talk to us immediately, me and the old corpse. But instead they just left. Maybe they wanted to let us steam for a while, bubble in our broth. But I didn’t simmer and wilt, even if it’s hellishly hot. I stayed here, good as gold, tending my plants, here on the terrace. Without altering a gesture, without uttering a word I wouldn’t have said normally.
Not because of their suspicions, not because of that. But because I refused to allow yesterday and today to be different days, in any way, shape, or form. Nothing’s happened. Has something happened, after all, when a sewer rat dies down in the filthy alleys, in the vicoli? Has something happened if a rabid bitch is stoned to death by a band of street urchins? No. Nothing’s happened. Life goes on, the same as before, with everyone in their place. The bigger the picture, the less the details count. And here, really, nothing’s happened at all.
Though, actually, I wouldn’t say that absolutely nothing’s happened. After all, I have the ring back.
Concetta materialized at the top of the stairs in silence; this woman, Maione thought, had the ability to appear and disappear without anyone seeing her. Even as big and tall as she was.
“Gentlemen, a good day to you. I’m at your service.”
Ricciardi looked at her as if he’d just awoken from a nap.
“And a good day to you. We’re here to speak with the duke and his son, but first I’d like to take a look at the duchess’s bedroom. Could you take us to see it?”
“Certainly, Commissario; it’s still just as the duchess left it, as you know she never even got a chance to retire for the night. Come right this way.”
They passed through the anteroom. Ricciardi immediately saw the image of Adriana di Camparino in front of him; staring right at him with her dead eyes she repeated:
“The ring, the ring, you’ve taken the ring, the ring is missing.”
And we’ll see if we can’t find it, he thought to himself.
They followed the Sivo woman as she moved soundlessly, through a long series of rooms. There was a scent of cleanliness and everything was in perfect order, but the general impression was of a place devoid of life. They strode through an endless succession of drawing rooms, each of them wallpapered and upholstered in a different color. They also passed through a chapel, dominated by an altar with a reliquary that seemed quite ancient. Concetta stopped and genuflected, rapidly crossing herself; Maione took off his cap and bowed his head, while Ricciardi paused to take in a wheeled gurney. The housekeeper, following his gaze, said:
“It’s for the duke, when the priest comes to say mass.”
Immediately after that, she ushered them into a large bedroom, at the center of which stood a double canopy bed, draped with mosquito netting. Here the prevailing hue was rose, from the silk wall coverings to the oversized cushions, the upholstery of the sofa, and the two armchairs in one corner. The French doors led out onto a balcony overlooking the piazza.
Paintings and photographs celebrated the duchess’s beauty, portraying her in every pose imaginable: at the wheel of a sports car, in an evening gown, dressed as a bride. The painting that took pride of place on the wall facing the bed depicted her, lovely and half-nude, covered with a sheet that she held over her breasts with one hand. The woman had been well aware of how beautiful she was and had made full use of the fact.
Ricciardi thought about death, about how the woman had appeared before his eyes. When she was alive, as he could see from the pi
ctures in the bedroom, she’d always been keenly aware of her appearance: carefully made-up, her hair done in a permanent, her clothing pressed. In the other picture, available exclusively to him, aside from the bullet hole in her forehead, she had rouge smeared over her face from the cushion, as if on a painter’s palette, her fine silk dress rumpled and creased, one stocking half off. The final violation. Death makes a mess.
The odor that pervaded the room was the same scent that he’d noticed under the smell of cordite in the anteroom: a floral essence, on the heavy side. The choice, thought the commissario, reflected the duchess’s true nature, wealthy but hardly the product of a refined upbringing. When it comes to clothing, you can always ask your girlfriends and the owners of the boutiques for advice, but perfume is far too personal of a choice.
The arrangement of the objects suggested that the woman must have gone out in a hurry, leaving her dressing table in disarray and her armoire half-open. As if reading his thoughts, Concetta, who was standing in the doorway, whispered:
“She always left things higgledy-piggledy, the duchess. For all she cared, after all we were there to tidy up after her. But now, I can’t say why, it gives me a strange feeling to enter this room. Not in the anteroom, even though there’s still blood on the sofa, and it won’t come out. But here, I get that strange feeling.”
Ricciardi made a sign to Maione, who opened the drawers of the nightstand. In the first drawer, atop the linen and underwear in plain sight, sat a bundle of letters tied together with a blue ribbon. The brigadier hefted them with one hand, after rifling through them quickly.
“They’re all signed ‘yours, Mario.’ She certainly didn’t seem to be particularly afraid that anyone might see them, eh, the Signora?”
Everyone in Their Place Page 10