Everyone in Their Place

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  “Let’s just say that it never even occurred to me. That I choose to believe that you’d feel some inclination. Or that at least you’d be courteous enough to welcome me with a smile.”

  The commissario felt as if he’d been slapped in the face, even if Livia’s gentle voice and her smile couldn’t conceivably suggest any ill will on her part.

  “Forgive me; of course I’m happy to see you. I was just wondering why you’d make such an . . . unusual choice of location for your holidays, that’s all. Can I order you something?”

  “At last, a little bit of normal conversation. One of your magnificent Neapolitan espressos, grazie.”

  Ricciardi turned around to look for the waiter, his glance darting around the room. He saw at least four men shooting him envious looks, including the man dressed all in white. He saw the curious looks of three married women, trying to catalogue this unfamiliar couple. He saw the lawyer’s corpse looking toward the entrance with his one remaining eye, incessantly asking himself when a certain stupid chump would let his woman come join him.

  And he saw Sebastiano whispering into Enrica’s ear, and he saw Enrica looking in his direction, her eyes welling over with tears.

  She would have preferred to drink her espresso standing at the counter, to cut short the torture of Sebastiano’s inane company. She’d decided to head straight home afterwards and put off the conversation with her father. She felt she lacked the necessary strength. But her suitor had insisted they sit down inside for a few minutes, and he’d even stopped to ask the pianist to play his favorite song. She’d followed in his wake obediently, scheming all the while to come up with a plan that would let her leave as soon as possible. And then she’d found herself looking at Ricciardi.

  At first she thought that her own mind must have somehow materialized her dream, so closely did her thoughts match what she was looking at; but the woman who was smiling at the man she loved was not her.

  She allowed herself to be led to the table, and she sat down on the chair that he pulled out for her, never taking her eyes off the woman before her: Ricciardi was looking at the woman, and had his back turned toward Enrica. To Enrica’s eyes, Livia’s makeup was overdone and garish, she was dressed eccentrically, and the way she smiled certainly couldn’t be described as refined; in a word she was cheap and showy, undoubtedly something of a tramp. She was forced to admit that her facial features were comely enough and that her body, as far as she could see, was presentable; but those gloves and her fishnet stockings, the little hat with the veil turned up, that dark red lipstick on her mouth . . .

  She had an urge to go over and slap her face, especially because of the sheer vulgarity of the way the woman was staring at Ricciardi, so intent and rapt, without the slightest awareness of her surroundings. How dare she: did she think she’d capture him with that gaze? Didn’t she know that the man had a gentle, sensitive soul, that he was capable of watching a girl embroider night after night for more than a year, without daring to speak a word?

  She pricked up her ears to try to hear what they were talking about, but they were too far away; what she managed to intuit was that her accent wasn’t Neapolitan, and that it might be from the north. She should have guessed it: northern Italian women were famous for their reckless, libertine ways.

  Then she noticed that he was talking to her in his turn, and when Ricciardi turned around to summon the waiter, she burst into tears.

  It seemed to Ricciardi that he’d suddenly become the center of the universe: Livia was looking at him and smiling; Enrica was looking at him and crying; the dead lawyer was looking at him and talking to him; other men and women who were sitting in the café were looking at him and murmuring; the waiter, who had hastened over, was looking at him and asking him what he’d like. The only one paying him no attention whatsoever was Enrica’s young companion, intently whispering to her as usual, and he was absurdly grateful for the fact. He wasn’t a bit comfortable in this sort of situation.

  He wished he could get up and run outside, or else go over to Enrica to tell her that things weren’t the way they looked; but, he thought in an instant, what could he possibly say to a woman who might very well be experiencing the happy beginnings of what looked to be—there was no mistaking the fact by now—a genuine and full-fledged engagement? And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Livia; he’d already been far too abrupt with her. In the meanwhile, he’d allowed his mind to wander, and he’d completely missed whatever it was that the woman had just said to him.

  “I beg your pardon, could you say that again?”

  “I asked you if you were on vacation too, or whether you’re still working.”

  “No, no, I’m working. I don’t take vacations . . . that is, I don’t often go on vacation. We’re working on a case just now, a woman, a murder. In fact, to tell the truth, I’m running late, there’s someone I should be questioning, today in fact.”

  Livia had no intention of letting herself be shaken off so easily, after all this time.

  “But you still haven’t touched this, what do you call it?—sfogliatella—and your coffee. Eat up first, and then I’ll let you go. Though not until we’ve decided when and where we’re going to meet again. I told you, I’m here for you, and this time I’m not going to let you get away, leaving me standing in the pouring rain.”

  “Well, there’s little danger of that: as you can see, it hasn’t rained here in months. All right, I’ll eat; but then I have to go.”

  The back of his neck was tingling with Enrica’s gaze and the pain of the dead lawyer: he couldn’t have said which of the two made him uneasier. But there was one thing he did know: the thought that she was with him meant that the pain behind his stomach simply wouldn’t let up. He wanted to leave, immediately.

  He gulped down the sfogliatella in a few bites and swallowed the espresso all at once, scalding his mouth and throat. In the meanwhile, Livia updated him on an intricate program that involved visits to museums and monuments and days at the beach:

  “. . . and of course, I intend to be taken to dinner by you, or to the theater if you prefer. Otherwise, I won’t give you any peace, and you know it: even if I have to come snatch you up directly in police headquarters.”

  Just as she uttered the magic word—police—an angel materialized next to Ricciardi’s chair; a big stout angel, drenched in sweat, wearing a winter uniform jacket.

  “Commissa’, forgive me, but I expected you back and so I just thought I’d come and meet you partway, on the off chance that something had happened. But, am I wrong or is this Signora Vezzi? What a nice surprise, Signora. What are you doing down in these parts?”

  Ricciardi could have hugged Maione for his timeliness. He hurriedly stood up.

  “Yes, Maione, thanks for coming to get me. We need to get going. The Signora is here on holidays, and we happened to run into each other. But now we’ll have to say our farewells to her.”

  Livia had stood up in her turn, and she smiled at the brigadier. Standing up, lithe and elegant, she was prettier still.

  “Yes, Brigadier. I’m taking a holiday here, and I’ve decided I’m in no hurry to leave. We’ll certainly have other occasions to meet.”

  She’d spoken in a loud voice, extending her hand to Maione who clumsily bowed over it and kissed it. With dazzling rapidity, as if it were part of the same motion of getting to her feet, she turned toward Ricciardi and kissed him on the cheek. “Well then, we’ll see you soon,” she said. And she left, followed by the eyes of everyone in the place.

  She had kissed him. That vulgar wench had kissed him, and she’d done it right in front of her. What’s worse, he’d let her kiss him: and yet, he’d seen her, she was sure of it, their eyes had met.

  She’d left the house to defend her dream, ready to fight with her father for the first time in her life, and now that very same dream had crumbled before her eyes. Sebastiano, unaware of what was going on around him, went on chattering fatuously about horse races and parties: Enrica had
n’t listened to a word he’d said.

  Ricciardi, pale as death, had turned in her direction and was looking at her. His eyes were eloquent with an immense sorrow, as if he were looking out the window of a departing train, never to return. He lifted his hand to his cheek, brushing it. He shook his head ever so slightly, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened, or as if he were simply denying it.

  Enrica stood up: she absolutely had to maintain her decorum. She felt like she was dying. The piano was still playing the same tune it had been when they’d walked in, only two minutes ago, but it seemed like an eternity. She turned to Sebastiano and said, in a firm voice:

  “I have a headache. I need to get some fresh air. Take me for a walk outside, caro.”

  And she, in her turn, left on the man’s arm, without a glance in Ricciardi’s direction.

  XX

  Maione was escorting Ricciardi back to police headquarters; it was still too early to go to the offices of the Roma to interview Capece, plus Garzo wanted to see the commissario before they talked to the journalist.

  As they walked, the brigadier for once wasn’t thinking about the heat or his hunger, terrible though they both might be: he’d been happy to meet the tenor’s widow, who had already shown some interest in Ricciardi the last time; he remembered that he’d even taken the liberty, with some awkwardness and embarrassment, of recommending that Ricciardi open up a little bit and spend some time with the woman, who struck him as not only quite beautiful but also a decent person. He also remembered that Ricciardi hadn’t seemed entirely indifferent to her charms. Nothing had come of it and in the end she’d left.

  All the same, he’d detected odd emotions in the air, at Gambrinus, as if the commissario were struggling with a difficult situation, almost as if he’d been caught red-handed. He wondered why, given the solitary life that he led. Perhaps he himself had been the cause of the awkwardness; perhaps the commissario would have preferred not to be seen on such a personal occasion. And so he’d chosen to make no comment about his meeting with the Signora.

  When they got back to the office they found Ponte as always, anxiously awaiting them at the door so that he could accompany them to see Garzo. The man was pouncing back and forth in the throes of his usual anxiety and, as soon as he saw them, he started toward them.

  “Commissario, Brigadier, buona sera. Dottor Garzo is waiting to see you, both of you; he says to come by his office before you go out again.”

  Maione spoke as if the other man weren’t even there:

  “Let’s go see him immediately, Commissa’. Otherwise I’m liable to beat this guy silly.”

  They followed Ponte to Garzo’s office, where the deputy chief of police was waiting for them at his desk.

  “Well, well, I know that you’re going to head over to the newspaper, now.”

  The unceremonious start to the meeting was a clear indication of the deputy police chief’s concerns.

  “Yessir, Dottore. This morning we were at Palazzo Camparino, and we spoke . . .”

  “. . . with the duke and with his son, I heard. And I also heard that, as is unfortunately all too often the case, you were intrusive and rude. Now you tell me, Ricciardi, do I always have to tell you the same things? And every blessed time, do I have to get telephone calls from prominent people, complaining about your lack of respect?”

  Garzo punctuated his tirade by pounding his fist on the top of his desk: he was irate, and he wanted the fact to be known. But the only one who jumped at the sound of it was Ponte, who had been standing in the doorway. There was a moment of silence, in which Maione glanced over at Ricciardi, his eyebrows knit and a look on his face that promised nothing good: he seemed ready, at a gesture from the commissario, to lunge at the deputy chief of police’s throat. Ricciardi spoke, and his voice was little more than a whisper.

  “I’m going to repeat something that I’ve already told you, sir, since it would appear that you failed to understand it the first time: you are free to assign this damned investigation to whoever you please. But if it’s my investigation, then stop sticking your nose into my business. If we fail to catch the guilty party, you can certainly do whatever you think best. But in the meanwhile, you are not to question any of my decisions. None of them.”

  It had been little more than a hiss, but the effect was that of a gunshot in a church. Ponte pulled his head down between his shoulders, as if he’d heard an explosion. Maione went on looking at Garzo with the same irritated expression. The deputy chief of police stood frozen, as if Ricciardi had suddenly slapped him in the face. As for the commissario, he hadn’t even taken his hands out of his pockets; his stray lock of hair dangled over his forehead, his eyes were focused on his superior officer’s face, and he never blinked an eye.

  After what seemed like an endless lapse of time, Garzo took a deep breath:

  “I’m not saying that . . . unquestionably, you know what you’re doing. All the same, I believe that it’s my prerogative to expect you, when you interact with . . . certain individuals, to show a minimum of . . . well, damn it: you report to me, and I have to deal with the reckless nonsense you pull. I have every right, and it’s my duty, to ask you to take care how you operate! The duke, as I’ve told you before, is a very sick man; but his son is healthy as a horse, and he frequents . . . he has very highly placed friends. Very. And the press . . . the press is still powerful, even after the most recent directives.”

  This wasn’t a day on which Ricciardi was likely to feel pity for Garzo. Too many things had happened.

  “I don’t care in the slightest about the power of the press. If the duchess turns out to have been murdered by the editor-in-chief of the paper, I’ll bring him to you in leg irons. It’s up to you to decide what to do about it. That’s my duty. It’s what I’m expected to do, and it’s what I’ll do. May I go now?”

  Garzo had a large red patch on his neck, directly above his tie, as he always did when two equal and opposite forces left him powerless: in the case in question, on the one hand he’d have happily relieved Ricciardi of the investigation and started a nice fat disciplinary proceeding against him; but on the other hand the chief of police was pushing him to come up with a rapid solution of the Camparino murder—all of Naples was talking about nothing else. It was the second of these pressures that prevailed, of course: the one that was most important to the advancement of his career. Still, he wasn’t going to miss the satisfaction of one parting dart.

  “You can hardly expect awareness of social sensitivities from someone who has no life of his own. Do as you see best: but I swear, if you don’t solve this case, you’ll rue the words you’ve said here today. You’ll rue them bitterly.”

  And he waved his hand in the air, as if he were shooing a fly away. Maione took a step forward: perhaps he had finally found someone on whom he could vent his irritation over his hunger, the heat, and the fruit vendor. Ricciardi laid a hand on his arm, and the two men left the room. Ponte softly shut the door.

  Usually, Lucia enjoyed ironing: it felt as if she were caressing her loved ones, exploring the pleats and folds of their clothing and at the same time thinking of the expressions and the movements of her children and her husband. But now it really was too hot; the white hot coal enclosed in the iron sent scalding waves of heat up her sweat-drenched arm. She sighed, and sprinkled water from a small basin onto one of Raffaele’s shirts. She checked the stitching of a button right on a line with his belly and shook her head: she’d have to reinforce it. He’s still got a little too much belly, but it’ll slowly subside.

  She smiled as she thought of him; after all the years they’d spent together she still liked him just as much, perhaps even more. Wiping her brow, she wondered how it had ever been possible, even in the horrible grief of those years, to forget how much she loved him and how her very life depended on her man. She felt a stab of pain at the thought that she could have lost him, by neglecting him as she had; just imagine how many other women would have been glad to take hi
m, handsome and good-hearted as he was.

  She caressed the shirt, and with one hand she smoothed out a last wrinkle underneath the collar. I’m the wife, she thought to herself. You can look, but don’t touch.

  Or I’ll claw your eyes out.

  He became aware of someone knocking insistently at the door. He’d fallen asleep at his desk, his face resting on his arm, the half-empty bottle of liquor in front of his eyes. He tried to remember, as he reemerged from the mists of sleep; and he remembered.

  Memory swept over him like a wave, renewing the incandescent pain that he’d managed to stifle by getting drunk. He was alone, in his office at the newspaper. He heard the noises from the newsroom, the typesetting of fresh news, tomorrow’s paper going through its birth throes; but it wasn’t the way it usually felt, those sounds gave him no comfort. Nothing would ever give him comfort again. Because Mario Capece had forever lost everything that mattered to him, the love of his life. And the worst thing about it was that he’d lost her through a fault of his own.

  The unknown hand continued to pound on the door, close to the jamb, and the noise was making his head explode. He shouted:

  “Come in, damn it!”

  Whoever it was tried the handle, and then he remembered that he’d locked the door. He got up and went to unlock it, with a stabbing wave of pain to his forehead. Better to die, he thought. An artery bursts, and goodbye sorrow. Maybe what the priests always told us is true, and I’ll be able to see you again someday, my love.

  Standing at the door was Arturo Dominici, his deputy editor; worry was stamped clearly on his face.

  “Mario, are you all right? Everyone’s been looking for you. Did you sleep here again last night?”

  Capece gestured in annoyance.

  “Yes, yes. I haven’t been anywhere else. What do you want. What’s happening now?”

  The man spoke in a low voice, shooting furtive glances over his shoulder.