Everyone in Their Place

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  All care would be lost, every last shred of honor pertaining to this house, if they were to take me away. You, too, Mamma, in the hereafter, would suffer, I’m sure of it. And yet I wouldn’t say a word. I wouldn’t try to defend myself.

  Because love, Mamma, comes before anything else. And if I had to defend anything at all, I’d defend my love.

  My first, great love.

  The man led Ricciardi into his office and shut the door. The room was shrouded in shadows, the shutters on the windows were pulled to and partially closed; the furnishings were limited to a desk and two chairs. The walls were covered with shelving that rose all the way to the ceiling, piled high with fat files marked with letters and numbers. Facing the door he’d just walked through, the commissario saw another closed door, emblazoned with a portrait of a helmeted Mussolini.

  His host sat down and pointed Ricciardi to the other chair. He stared at him intently, with his small, expressionless blue eyes. After a minute he spoke:

  “Now then: Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, commissario with the mobile squad for the past three years or so. Born in Fortino, province of Salerno, thirty-one years ago. Orphaned of both father and mother. You’re an odd duck, did you know that? Filthy rich, acres and acres worked by tenant farmers, with a vast income. And yet you work for pennies, really, and you show no signs of seeking advancement in your career. An interesting man, I’d say.”

  In his turn, Ricciardi leveled his gaze at the man speaking to him, without so much as blinking. The man’s accent was northern, possibly Ligurian or Piedmontese; his voice was chilly and remote, like a scientist delivering a lecture.

  “You know who I am. I’m impressed, and even flattered by all this attention. Would it be too much for me to ask you to tell me who you are?”

  “My name is Pivani, Achille Pivani. I’m . . . let’s just say that I’m a Party official, a temporary guest in this lovely city of yours.”

  He fell silent again, as he drummed his fingers lightly on his desktop. He sat straight-backed, his shoulders not touching the back of the chair. A muscle twitched on his temple, as if he were chewing without moving his jaw. After a short while, he asked Ricciardi:

  “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  The commissario smirked.

  “What’s this? You know everything about me and yet you don’t know what I just asked your oversized trained ape?”

  Pivani shook his head.

  “I know, I know. I owe you an apology, even if, believe me, I had nothing to do with it. Mastrogiacomo . . . some of our militants are eager to please me, in a sense. And so they take certain initiatives, in keeping with their nature. They’re like a bunch of mischievous children, street urchins, really.”

  Buffoonish clowns, thought Ricciardi.

  “No, Pivani. They’re not street urchins: they’re criminals. With blood on their hands. It doesn’t matter what happened to me last night, but what they’re doing every day, and they’re becoming bolder and bolder. And they get this boldness from you and those like you. You’re their accomplices, and you know it. If not actually the masterminds behind them.”

  The commissario’s tirade, even though it was hissed in something close to a whisper, had been violent and unexpected. Pivani blinked. He seemed to think it over, then he admitted:

  “You have a point; I’ve even told them at the highest level that these men can become a problem. You must understand that even an elevated and noble idea like Fascism can become, in the hands of some ordinary idiot, a weapon to settle old personal grudges. It’s already happened elsewhere, and it’s starting to happen here, too. But that’s not our intent, please believe me. When we find out about something, we take care of it ourselves.”

  Ricciardi had no intention of showing any sympathy.

  “Then you know that your man Mastrogiacomo, or whatever his name is, and his friends, murdered that unemployed man in Via Emanuele Filiberto. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do know. Even though I have no evidence, or even a criminal complaint.”

  Pivani leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

  “Are you certain of it? Absolutely certain?”

  Ricciardi nodded. The man picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote something on a sheet of paper.

  “I’ll take care of this, Commissario. I’m not here to shed blood.”

  “Then why are you here? Aside from bringing order and civilization, of course.”

  Pivani gave no sign of having caught the irony.

  “My . . . organization is assigned to identify the enemies of the Party. You should think of me, of us, as . . . colleagues, in a certain sense. Except, we’re less fortunate than you. We can’t work in the light of day, the way you do.”

  Ricciardi snorted.

  “I don’t believe I’m going to let you make this comparison, Pivani. How should I address you, by the way? Do you have a rank, do you hold some office?”

  The man smiled, affably.

  “My rank and my office would be incomprehensible to you. Pivani is enough. In any case, it’s my job to know everything about everyone: I was sent here for that purpose. I’m a sort of . . . let’s say, a kind of inspector, that’s good enough. Fascism in Naples hasn’t been in good hands; you may remember the accident in which Padovani died, a comrade from the earliest times, a man who marched on Rome at the Duce’s side in 1922. Certain values, certain aspects of the Party have changed. I’m here precisely to see whether this . . . change has been incorporated.”

  Ricciardi remembered all too well the tragedy in the Via Generale Orsini; it had been five years ago. He’d been one of the first to arrive on the scene of the catastrophe; the balcony from which the high-ranking member of the Fascist party was greeting the crowd celebrating his birthday had collapsed, killing nine and seriously injuring thirty or so. Many aspects of what Pivani called an “accident” had never been cleared up. The scene that greeted the commissario’s eyes when he arrived was hellish: his ears picked up both the screams of the injured and the lamentations of the dead who had suddenly been snatched from the world of the living. He shuddered, remembering that rumors flew around the city that Padovani’s cult of personality had begun to become an annoyance to the Duce. Very strange, that accident. And providential for the Party, as well. Pivani was still talking:

  “It’s always been a problem, the excess of zeal. And also the cult of personality, the Duce aside, obviously; you understand clearly that the party base is made up of the masses, mediocre and incapable of thinking for themselves. It’s in cases like this one, where four useless idiots decide they want to do something to please their bosses, that violence erupts. They need to be guided, supervised every hour of the day. But those who conspire in the shadows are a problem too, and must be stopped. And that’s where we come in.”

  We, meaning OVRA, thought Ricciardi, the legendary Fascist secret police, whose existence the regime stubbornly refused to acknowledge. All the terror and violence that this whispered name inspired, bound up in this inoffensive little man.

  “I don’t care what you do. Nor do I care what you find out, rummaging around in the dark as you do. What I do care about is what Ettore Musso di Camparino was doing here, the other night. And where he goes when he goes out, and what he does. What I care about is who murdered his stepmother, the duchess, and why they killed her so pitilessly. And I want to know whether it was him.”

  In the ensuing silence he heard someone knock at the door; Pivani called loudly to come in, and Mastrogiacomo stepped forward with a tray on which sat two steaming cups. He set it down on the desk, and just as he was about to turn and leave, Pivani, who hadn’t once looked away from Ricciardi’s face, as if he were hypnotized, addressed him:

  “Mastrogiacomo, when the commissario leaves, later, make sure that he’s not bothered by so much as a stray breeze. Then come to see me with your three colleagues, you know very well the ones I mean. We need to talk about a trip you’re going to take. You’ll be departing immediately. A long trip: pa
ck your bags.”

  The man heaved a deep sigh, and just as he was about to say something in response, Pivani turned his head and looked in his direction. That was enough. He walked toward the door, retreating with his head held low; when he reached the threshold he straightened and clicked his heels, delivering a straight-armed salute, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

  XXXV

  After waiting for what seemed to him like a sufficiently long time, Andrea Capece entered the room that the two policemen had recently vacated to leave the apartment. He found his mother sitting on the small sofa, her hands in her lap, looking out through the open French doors onto the balcony where his father was leaning over the railing and smoking a cigarette. The sight gave him an unpleasant feeling, like he was experiencing a scene out of the past, and so he was. As a child, he had spent hours listening to the spreading silence separating his parents.

  This time, however, he felt a strong sense of repulsion: for his father, who had once again shown himself to be ungrateful and indifferent, but also for his mother, who was obviously not yet fed up after all the years of humiliations to which she had been subjected, directly and indirectly, by that man. He thought how everyone is born either hammer or anvil: and the anvils are happy to be pounded, because it’s in their nature.

  He walked over to her and speaking in a hushed voice, for who knows what reason, told her that he’d be going out for half an hour or so, to give a notebook to a friend. The woman nodded without turning around to glance at him; she continued to stare at the mute back of that stranger smoking and staring out from their balcony. Andrea left the room with a sense of relief, as if he just been forced to witness something horrifying against his will.

  He walked out the front door without haste; he took a quick look around, but in the brutal afternoon heat, there was no one in sight, except for a beggar who was probably sleeping off a drunk in the shade of a tree across the street. He walked a few yards, and then slipped through a small wooden door leading down into a cellar. The stench of damp rot washed over him, but he paid it no mind; he walked over to the wall, removed a book, and put in his hand to pull out something wrapped in newspaper. He unwrapped it.

  Mamma, he thought, I don’t know why you protected him from the police. After all the things he’s done, after what he did to you. But then I don’t even know why I tried to help.

  Gripping his father’s pistol in one hand and placing his forefinger on the trigger, Andrea decided for the hundredth time that love was a fatal illness, and that he for one would never fall in love. Not for all the gold in world.

  After Mastrogiacomo slunk, mortified, out of the room, Pivani dipped his pen in the inkwell again, and drew a line across the note he’d made earlier, with the nitpicking care of an accountant. Ricciardi, slumped in the chair, hands in his pockets, went on staring at him, waiting for the answer to his question: what had Ettore Musso di Camparino been doing there, and where was he the night his stepmother was murdered?

  Pivani looked back at him, calmly.

  “Dottor Musso is a respected authority in his field; did you know that, Commissario? A political philosopher, one of the most respected in the country. Behind that shy and sensitive exterior he conceals a penetrating mind, and he has admirers at the highest level in the national government. On a confidential basis, he writes many of the speeches that the Duce himself delivers before the Italian parliament and to the most eminent cultural organizations.”

  Ricciardi seemed rather unimpressed.

  “Then he’s responsible for the thunderous words we hear over the radio. But that’s not the crime I’m here to investigate.”

  The man smiled as he caught the irony.

  “I ought to warn you to take care, Commissario; I ought to remind you where you are, and the times we live in. A phrase like the one you just uttered can be enough to have you sent into internal exile: so be on your guard. But since I know that you’re no dissident but merely another of the many citizens who care little about Italy’s destiny, I’ll pretend you didn’t say anything.”

  “And just how do you know that I’m not a dissident? After all, one of your squads attacked me, yesterday. And I wasn’t alone, either.”

  Pivani shrugged, and checked another of the sheets he had on his desk.

  “I already told you that what happened yesterday was a foolish mistake, and you’ve seen for yourself that those responsible will pay dearly for it. Very dearly indeed. And if I may, through you I’d like to extend an apology to the Signora Livia Lucani, the widow Vezzi; by the way, my compliments for the company you keep: a lovely and intelligent woman, and also a first-rate singer, I’m told. No, you’re no dissident. I know everything about you: and therefore I also know your attitudes, even if you don’t discuss them with anyone. You’re intelligent; in a very personal way all your own, decidedly introverted and focused inward, but still, you’re intelligent; and we all need an intelligent person at police headquarters. There really aren’t all that many.”

  “Once again, Pivani, I need to remind you that I’m not here to hear about myself. And that I’m not particularly interested in knowing how you manage to know everything about everyone. I only want to know about Musso, where he was and why. And it seems to me that no one can answer that question better than you can.”

  Pivani blushed, suddenly. He looked like a schoolboy caught red-handed. He leapt to his feet and started pacing back and forth, arms folded across his chest, his gaze low. Ricciardi thought he saw the muscle on his temple twitch a little faster.

  “Let me tell you something right away, Ricciardi: Musso had nothing to do with your murder. Have no doubts about that. It wasn’t him. But I can easily imagine that my word isn’t enough for you; and that you’ll go on investigating, fearlessly. Am I right?”

  “You know that’s what’s going to happen. And you also know that, if I came here and asked you of all people about Musso, I know for certain that you can answer my question. And that you will answer me.”

  The man stopped pacing and laid both hands flat on the desktop. Staring the commissario right in the eye he snarled:

  “Of course, there’s a second option, Ricciardi: I could recall Mastrogiacomo and tell him to finish the job he started the other night.”

  A heavy silence ensued. Ricciardi seemed to consider the possibility seriously. Then he shook his head.

  “No, Pivani. You couldn’t. And I’ll tell you why: my colleague, Brigadier Maione, knows that I’m here, even though he doesn’t know why. If I didn’t go back, he’d come looking for me. Moreover, don’t take this the wrong way, but you hardly strike me as the type. I don’t know whether that’s an insult or a compliment for people on your side of the barrier, but I have an idea that violence for its own sake actually horrifies you.”

  After a long, surprised silence, Pivani shook his head, sadly.

  “You’re quite right. Just as I was right when I read your file and decided that you must be an intelligent man. I know that you said nothing to Maione about where you were going, because you’d have put him in danger by doing so; and I also know it from the fact that he didn’t follow you, not even from a distance: they would have come to report such a thing to me only minutes after it happened. But it’s true, I find violence disgusting. That’s not the true face of Fascism, and yet the further we progress along our path, the more people seem to think that it is, actually.”

  Ricciardi waited:

  “So at long last you’re going to answer my question.”

  Pivani let himself drop into his chair.

  “Yes, I’m going to answer you. Because I can no longer let his name be spattered with mud; he’s an extraordinary man. And I can’t let his family’s name be besmirched any further: he may deny it, but that’s the thing he cares about most. I couldn’t stand to see him sent to jail for something he didn’t do, simply to protect myself. I’ll answer your question. Because I love him.”

  Leaning out over the balcony railing, C
apece decided that he loved her. He still loved her, even if he was never going to see her again. He loved her in his memory as if he were still holding her in his arms. In a long, heartbreaking tango of despair.

  He couldn’t figure out what had happened, or why. It seemed like an endless delirious nightmare, the kind that make you moan in your sleep and linger for many long minutes even after you wake up, leaving a wake of agony and loneliness. He was damned. He had fallen into a living hell, a hell without peace. And it all seemed impossible.

  He idly considered the possibility of climbing up onto the railing and joining Adriana again with one last, mad dive into the void. He wondered whether you have to be immensely brave or immensely weak to do something of the sort; and he answered his own question: whichever of the two characteristics might be required, he lacked them both.

  In the street, fifty feet below, he saw his son Andrea walking out the door and turning the corner. He was a grown man, already. Capece had seen the hatred in the look Andrea had given him, earlier, in front of the two policemen; and the cold, intelligent, and ironic manner in which he’d answered Ricciardi’s question without answering it. He’d felt a shiver of pride, or was it fear? The young man would never forgive him for what he’d done; nor, as far as that went, would he ever be able to forgive himself.

  For the hundredth time in the past hour he wondered what he’d say to his wife when he left the balcony and went back inside. And, also for the hundredth time, he wondered what had become of the pistol.

  By now it was quite dark in the room, with the exception of the cone of light from the desk lamp, at the illuminated edges of which sat the two men, facing each other. From behind the shut door came a few subdued voices: the Fascists were asking one another what could be going on in that sanctuary that they themselves entered only reluctantly and hurried out of, when they did, as soon as was humanly possible. Pivani was staring into empty air, remembering. When he finally made up his mind to speak, it was in a low, flat voice.