Everyone in Their Place

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Ricciardi sat down and ordered an espresso. Andrea neither looked up nor said hello. Maione started to snap a military salute, then he remembered that he wasn’t in uniform and simply waved his hand, lamely.

  “Commissa’, it was all exactly as you said. The pistol was behind a brick, in the cellar wall. It’s clean, and it looks like it was recently used. The youngster, here, was at school; he came along without objecting.”

  Without raising his eyes, Andrea said:

  “So you were keeping us under surveillance. Even before you came to our apartment, you were keeping us under surveillance.”

  The tone in which he spoke was that of a simple statement: there was no moral judgment, no reproof. Nor was there an admission of guilt. Ricciardi set the record straight:

  “No, we weren’t watching you. We received a report from others. This is a city where nobody minds their own business, you should certainly know that by now. In any case, it doesn’t matter how we found out: what matters is that you hid your father’s pistol. Why did you do that?”

  Andrea finally looked the commissario in the face, with a shrug.

  “Just because. Because I felt like it, because it made a big impression on my friends. I’m a boy, right? It’s the kind of thing boys do.”

  Sad, pained eyes. Ricciardi decided that those eyes hadn’t been a young boy’s eyes for years. The theft of childhood and youth is not yet a criminal offense, he mused. But it ought to be.

  “Listen: this is no time for games. Not anymore. This is a very serious matter. It will take our forensics experts five minutes, tops, maybe less, to prove that this pistol ejected the shell that we found on the scene of the murder, and that it therefore fired the bullet that killed the duchess. So let me urge you, let’s not waste time.”

  Andrea went on staring at the commissario, expressionless, his jaws clamped tight. A knot of young girls went past their table, laughing loudly. Ricciardi softened his tone of voice.

  “I understand you. Whatever reason you may have had to hide that pistol, you did it to save your family, or what’s left of it. You can see for yourself, we didn’t come to get you in uniform, we didn’t take you down to police headquarters. But if it becomes necessary, we will: because a murder’s a murder, and whoever the victim might be . . .”

  The boy leaned forward, turning pale and compressing his lips. His face had taken on the feral rage of a cornered animal, forced to attack in self-defense. His voice was a hiss.

  “Whoever the victim, you say. But do you know who she really was, your poor pitiful murder victim? She was someone who took away the happiness of an entire family just to satisfy a whim. Now you see him crying like a baby. But do you know that that man—yes, that man: I will never again consider him to be my father—hasn’t come home in months? Yes, I know what my mother told you. But she’s lost her mind, and that’s just one more piece of fun that the signora, her ladyship, decided to have with us. Now she’s dead. Because she needed to die. And that’s all.”

  Once he was done talking, he slumped back into his chair and stared down at the tabletop again. Maione wondered whether he’d really seen and heard it, so sudden had the metamorphosis been. Ricciardi went on, in a harsher tone of voice:

  “You can think whatever you like. But we want to know who shot the duchess; and the fact that you hid the pistol tells us beyond the shadow of a doubt that you know.”

  A long silence ensued. All around them, the crowd was beginning to swell, the Friday night strollers were reaching some kind of crescendo. The shops were nearly all still open and the ladies with their big fans were lingering before the display windows, commenting on the prices and models of dresses and hats. At last, Andrea spoke.

  “It was me. I couldn’t take my mother’s madness any longer, her sobbing. I couldn’t take the shame that my father had heaped on us; the fact that everyone knew, even at school. I couldn’t stand the fact that my little sister still loved him, after what he’d done.”

  Another silence. Ricciardi stared at the boy, taking in the harsh glare, the clamped lips. Maione, as always, seemed to be half-asleep; after a while, it was Maione who broke in.

  “So, you waited for school to be over and you went to the palazzo, is that it? And you went all the way into the bedroom, where you shot the duchess, who was still sleeping. Four shots, you fired; and then you took to your heels.”

  The boy nodded, still staring into the middle distance. Ricciardi shot the brigadier a rapid glance, encouraging him to go on.

  “So explain this to me, how did you manage to get away? Why didn’t anyone see you?”

  The boy answered in a firm voice, as if he were talking about what he’d done at school that morning:

  “There was no one there. Maybe the doorman was at lunch. The front door was wide open, it was hot out, and at that time of day there was no one walking in the street.”

  Maione shook his head, sadly.

  “Guagliò—youngster—the duchess wasn’t killed during the day; and only one shot was fired. She wasn’t killed in the bedroom, either. None of this was in the newspaper, and for once we owe a debt of gratitude to those who decided to eliminate crime reporting. No, it wasn’t you.”

  Andrea’s expression remained unchanged, as if he hadn’t heard a word. But one tear did suddenly course down his cheek. Frustration, thought Ricciardi.

  “What can I tell you? I could insist, say that I got my facts backwards. I’m sixteen years old, the punishment would be a slap on the wrist, wouldn’t it? But then I’d get tripped up again, and again: because I wasn’t there, when the bitch was murdered. So I have to admit it. It was him. It was my father.”

  Maione settled back in his chair. At last, the case was solved: for once the murderer was the prime suspect. He turned to look at Ricciardi and recognized his expression; he immediately realized that he hadn’t understood a thing.

  “No. It wasn’t him. We have an alibi for him, we know where he was at the time of the murder. And we even know who it really was: who you’re protecting. But we need to hear you say it. To keep you from being implicated in any of this, to make sure you come out of this story free of guilt, to make sure we can forget the fact that you hid the pistol. And also to make sure that you understand clearly that a murder is a murder: even when the murderer is perhaps more innocent than the victim. Who was it?”

  In the cheerful din of Friday, as the afternoon slowly faded into the evening and Via Chiaia filled up with noise and hopes, Andrea’s face resumed its age and dissolved into grief and uncontrolled sobbing. Through his tears he looked at Ricciardi and said:

  “Can’t you see what she’s been through? Don’t you see that the pain and grief have driven her insane? That she doesn’t know what she’s doing and she never will, my poor mamma?”

  XL

  Prego, Commissario, come right on in. Have a seat, Brigadier: right here, get comfortable on the sofa. Let me shine a little light in here, I’ll open the curtains, the days are starting to get a little shorter; but it’s still hot out, eh? Such terrible heat, you can’t even breathe.

  Can I offer you something? And the two policemen outside, can’t they come in? Do they have to stay by the door? You know, we don’t entertain as much as we used to. There was a time when this apartment was like a seaport; my husband was a hub for culture and politics. If you’d seen the prominent personalities who came to see us, you would have been astonished. The children were little, perhaps they don’t even remember the comings and goings, the hubbub and bustle, right, Andrea, Mamma’s little treasure? I was never done making coffee, tea, cookies, and biscottini. Never once did he call ahead, my husband. But I never complained, in fact, I was proud of this man that everyone wanted to know.

  Have you met him, my husband? Ah, of course, you were here with him just the other day. He’s a little depressed now, but you’ll see, he’ll be as good as new before long. Because now he’s back in his place, back where he belongs. You see, Commissario, I think that everyone has
their own place: and they can only be happy when they’re in their place. Any other place leaves them feeling incomplete and, therefore, unhappy. My husband always used to tell me: Sofia, you are my wisdom. Because Sofia means wisdom, in ancient Greek: Sophia. Did you know that? That’s what he used to say to me. Before. What I mean to say is, before Adriana.

  Really, you don’t want a thing? An espresso? You shouldn’t think that I simply accepted it at first, the thing with Adriana. In fact, the first year I was miserable. How I suffered! Like a dog, the way that any woman feels when she loses her man. I fought, of course, what else would I do? At first, I was horrible, I’d make a scene every night, broken dishes, him with his head down, saying nothing. Then I tried using honey, I did my best to lure him back, you must know how a wife would try to lure back a husband, I can’t explain it to you right now, with the youngster listening, but you’re men and you know what I’m talking about.

  And I started cooking all the things that he loved best; but he never came home for dinner, he never came home. If you only knew how many kilos of the finest food I was forced to throw away, the stray dogs in the neighborhood were feasting like kings. Here I was, night after night, sitting at the kitchen table and wondering, why, what had I done?

  But I hadn’t done a thing, Commissario, not a thing. I’d stayed here, in my place, in my apartment, with my children, waiting for my man to come home. I hadn’t done anything. You can’t imagine what happens to an abandoned woman as she waits. It’s as if she’s come down with some contagious disease. Everyone, friends, girlfriends, relatives—they look at you pityingly, then they try to open your eyes, then one by one they move away, avoiding you as if your sores and wounds disgusted them. And you’re left alone, with no one but yourself, trying to find a reason why, a reason that doesn’t exist.

  The first time was a year and eight months ago. I remember it like it was yesterday—it was raining. One night, after the children were all asleep, I got dressed and went out. It just came over me, I threw on some old thing and I went out, into the pouring rain. I went and stood outside the theater, where I knew they’d be. You know, Brigadier, it’s as if I’d become invisible. Like an angel. If you ask me, the Madonna, and I talk to Her every day, gave me this gift, that I can go unseen. When I want, I dress in dark clothes, I go places, and no one notices me at all. And so I’m free to watch, observe, look, all without being noticed.

  That night I saw them, I was telling you. They came out the door, laughing, they’d been to see some comedy. She was beautiful: as far as that goes, Commissario, I have to say that Adriana really was beautiful. She was elegant, self-confident: how many men could have resisted her? And he was looking at her.

  For me, it was a real discovery: he’d never looked at me that way, not even remotely. Lord knows, my husband loves me, absolutely; but he’d never looked at me that way—never. He was just rapt, as if he were gazing at the sun. She laughed and he was gazing at the sun.

  After that night I followed them, every evening. I’d feed the children, give them dinner, and then wait for them to fall asleep: I’m their mamma, my place is to be close to them if they need anything. But then I’d go out and tag along behind them, the two of them, living their lives for a little while, watching them live. It didn’t matter, I was invisible. They were beautiful and happy, the whole city revolved around them. Everyone looked at them, everyone envied them. But they loved each other, and they were happy, and I was happy too because I thought that, a little bit, I deserved credit for the fact that the two of them could be together like that. Because certain kinds of happiness are complete only if they can remain in the shadows; because it’s everyday life that kills happiness.

  I must have followed them a hundred times, the two of them went everywhere. I saw that my husband was happy, in a way I’d never seen before.

  Then she started getting tired of him.

  He didn’t notice. Men are such fools, no offense, Commissario. But a woman is more diabolical, she notices. And I noticed. She started looking around, when he was distracted because he was talking with someone or saying hello, the minute he stepped away for a moment, she would smile, and wink, and take someone into her confidence. She was one of those women who liked having men like her. She attracted attention, she sent signals.

  The first time that she cheated on him was seven months ago. He’d stayed at the newspaper, he had to work up a full page on the visit of the Prince of Venice or some other member of the royal family, and she went out all the same, and then she took some man home. I waited out in the street until I saw him leave, practically at dawn. And then there was another, and another still, and the pace was accelerating. Common folk, nobodies. She’d go find them in another part of town, outside of her part of the city; she wanted to make sure that Mario could never find out about them.

  Where she lived, well, as you’ve seen: nobody cared what she did. Everyone minds their own business, in that palazzo, and everyone’s careful not to step on anybody else’s toes. The duke never left his bed. I asked the Madonna to gather him to Her quickly, poor man, how he suffers. The duke’s son, every so often a big black car comes and picks him up, and he spends the night away from home. Who knows where he goes. The servants, they only care about a few things: holding on to their jobs and their privileges, that silly doorman with his children who do nothing but eat, the housekeeper who thinks about nothing but the duke and his son.

  So I’d see her with these other men during the times of day when my husband was at work, at the newspaper. But if you ask me, Commissario, she wasn’t an evil woman. It’s just the way she was: she liked men. And as long as those men knew enough to stay in their place, my husband was safe and I was happy. It was my job to keep an eye on him, remember? I told you before. That’s my job, the Madonna told me that I’m an angel, my husband’s guardian angel.

  But then, one night, I noticed something odd: she sent word to Mario that she wouldn’t be going out, because she didn’t feel well; I know that because I asked the florist when he brought a bouquet of roses to the building, my husband is so thoughtful, if you only knew the flowers he sent me when Andrea, mamma’s little darling, was born. But instead she went out, she went to the theater with a young man. This was ten days ago. A good-looking young man, not much older than a boy, someone I’d seen escorting the occasional rich old woman to parties, when I was standing watch.

  And so I started to worry. You know, it’s one thing with a fisherman, it’s quite another thing with a young man from a good family, a young man in a tuxedo who comes from the same social circles. And in fact, even my husband—who is a man, and men never see things until they’ve smacked their noses right up against them, again, forgive me, Commissario—sensed something and caused a scene. I was there, hiding behind the coat check, I told you, I’m invisible and no one ever notices me. And he even took my ring away from her, the ring he’d taken from me when he fell in love with her. And he slapped her in the face, in public.

  That’s not right, Brigadier; that’s not right, hitting a woman. That’s not typical of him. It must mean that he was suffering, that he was suffering terribly. And I, his guardian angel, couldn’t let that happen.

  He went off, who knows where, to get drunk; but I followed her. I waited for the play to be over, sitting in a seat in the gallery, surrounded by people who stamped their feet, whistled, and applauded, and I never once looked at the stage. I was watching Adriana, who was smiling and whispering and even blowing kisses. And the young man was responding the whole time, because after all the old woman who was with him was fast asleep, head back, mouth open. They met after he accompanied the old woman home; he caught up with her in a restaurant in the Galleria, the two of them dined alone. No one saw them, but someone could have: and my husband, what kind of a fool would that have made him look? You tell me, a man like him, a respected professional, well known throughout the city, would have become a laughing stock. And for what? For an infatuation. Because I’m sure of one thing,
Commissario: once she’d scratched that itch, she could not have done anything but go back to him. He’s too handsome, my husband: too important and too cultivated.

  So I decided that it was time for me to do something. The angel has to intervene, and mete out justice. I ran home and got Mario’s pistol. My father was an officer in the army, you know, Brigadier. I know how to clean and load weapons, my father used to let me do it when I was a little girl, sitting in his arms. And I keep my house clean and orderly, so I kept the pistol clean and properly oiled.

  I certainly never meant to kill her. I only wanted to scare her, I wanted to make her understand that she had the immense good luck to have a wonderful man and that she couldn’t make him unhappy. It was an important thing, you know, Commissario: he might even have done something stupid, if he found that Adriana had a lover. He might have strangled her and ruined his career, or even worse, he could have shot himself in the head. I couldn’t let him do it.

  And so I went. I walked through the festival of Santa Maria Regina, you tell me whether the Madonna, on Her own feast day, was likely to leave me to my own devices. Like an angel I passed through and no one even saw me. I hid in the courtyard until I saw her come home. I know the routines in the palazzo very well, I know that she opens the gate, goes inside, and then comes back out to lock up. I waited a while, to make sure that everything was quiet, and then I went in.

  And this is where the odd thing happened, Commissario. I just wanted to talk to her. I wanted to explain that what she was doing was sheer folly, and I’d only brought the pistol along to frighten her, perhaps to threaten her: maybe if I could scare her enough, she’d go back to my husband and stop betraying him, so that I could see him once again with those happy eyes I used to see, those sparkling eyes I could never forget. But instead I saw her there, in the shadows, stretched out on the sofa, and I heard her breathing heavily, as if she were snoring. She was tired from the night she’d spent with that other man, maybe she was even drunk. She hadn’t even made it to her own bed.