Everyone in Their Place

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  That’s when the blood went to my head, Commissario. How dare she betray my husband like that? How dare she pile up and burn the happiness of a man like him, the finest, the handsomest of all the men on this earth?

  At that instant, the Madonna told me that I was an angel, but that I’d been sent to bring justice. That I was the angel of death. I picked up the cushion that was lying on the floor, and I placed it on her face, and I fired. A single shot. And she stopped snoring.

  And so I went home, because everyone has a place, Commissario. And a mother’s place is with her children, who are sleeping peacefully because they’re angels too, and you don’t need the Madonna to tell you so. When you came to see me the other day, I told you the truth, because I never lie: I told you that it wasn’t my husband, and in fact it wasn’t. And I told you that I didn’t know where the pistol was, that someone had taken it. And in fact, Andrea had taken it, mamma’s little treasure, and he’d done it to protect me.

  But there was no need, my treasure: because your mamma has the Madonna to protect her, and the Madonna told her exactly what she was to do.

  But really, are you sure that I can’t offer you anything to eat or drink? A drop of liqueur, a little homemade rosolio, perhaps?

  XLI

  They hadn’t felt up to taking Sofia Capece down to police headquarters; they’d sent Camarda and Cesarano with a car, after taking careful note of the woman’s unruffled composure: they decided there was no reason to fear irrational behavior from her.

  Then they’d called Capece at the newspaper, alerting him to what had happened and suggesting he go home to take care of his children. On the other end of the line, the man remained silent for a long time, and then in a broken voice he had assured them that he’d return home as soon as possible: it seemed to Ricciardi that he wasn’t surprised, just mortally weary. The months that lay ahead wouldn’t be easy.

  On the way back, Maione remained silent, lost in his own thoughts. Abruptly, he said:

  “Commissa’, is it really true that Sofia means ‘wisdom’ in Greek?”

  Ricciardi nodded. The brigadier shook his head, mopping the sweat with his handkerchief.

  “That’s crazy. Just try telling me that everyone’s name points to their destiny. If I’ve ever seen a raving lunatic it’s Signora Capece, and her first name is Wisdom.”

  “Grief and pain can make people lose their minds. Haven’t you seen it happen a thousand times? The poor Capece woman, beaten down by suffering and loneliness, abandoned to care for her two children, and held up to ridicule and shame, lost her mind. Understandable, it strikes me.”

  “Still, Commissa’, you have to satisfy my curiosity on one point: when the boy, Andrea, told us that it was his father who committed the murder, why didn’t you believe him? After all, the man didn’t really have an alibi, and we know that very well. Couldn’t it actually have been him?”

  Ricciardi looked down and walked a little faster; they were passing the site of the car crash, and he didn’t want to see the child nailed to the seat by a sharp piece of shattered windshield. He couldn’t help sensing the boy on his flesh and in his brain, saying: “Gelato at the Villa Nazionale, Papà promised me, a nice cup of gelato.”

  “No: the boy hates his father, everything points to the fact: the way he looks at him, the things he says. He wouldn’t have lifted a finger to save him. In fact, if he’d had the time to do things right, he would have orchestrated all the evidence to put the blame on his father: he’s an intelligent boy. Now the hardest task before Capece is trying to win back, if not his son’s love, at least his son’s tolerance. For his own good, and for the good of the boy as well as his sister.”

  Maione smiled wearily.

  “Eh, very true, Commissa’. Poor Signora Capece got one thing right: everyone belongs in their place. And right now Mario Capece’s place is with his family, and without distractions. And after all, I believe that, with a good lawyer, the signora won’t have to spend long in an asylum for the criminally insane. It’s still a crime of passion, isn’t it? After all, the woman she killed was her husband’s lover.”

  Ricciardi sighed.

  “Yes, but for reasons that were completely different from what we had imagined. At least, from what I had imagined. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand the paths that love takes to harvest its victims. It tricks me every time. Listen, why don’t you go ahead on home. Nothing else is going to happen tonight. We can take care of the reports tomorrow. I have a place to go, and then I’m heading home. Have a good evening.”

  He couldn’t say just why his mind had turned to Don Pierino. Perhaps all the references that Sofia Capece had made to the Madonna, or else the sadness in Andrea’s eyes; or his compassion for Mario himself, the twice-heartbroken journalist who would never be able to escape the fact that his wife was in an insane asylum, and the woman he loved was dead, and it had been his fault.

  Perhaps it was because he wanted to hear the priest tell him that there is such a thing as a love without folly, a love without violence; and pretend to believe it, for once.

  The church was deserted and shrouded in shadows, illuminated only by the candles that glowed before the altars: people who had requested the granting of a grace, offering in exchange another little bit of pain. He spotted the little priest at the far end of the aisle, seated on a front-row pew and reading a book with his eyeglasses perched on the tip of his nose. He walked up the aisle and sat down next to the man. Without lifting his eyes from the page but with a smile on his lips, Don Pierino whispered:

  “Here’s the ghost of the church of San Ferdinando again: the ghost that appears soundlessly and then vanishes for months on end. How are we doing, Commissario? What’s happened this time?”

  Ricciardi replied, whispering in turn:

  “Nothing, Father. This time, nothing. We’ve identified the murderer, that’s all. And as always, instead of making me happy, it just leaves a void inside me.”

  Don Pierino closed the book and, after folding his glasses, he put them away in a pocket in his tunic.

  “Talk to me about it, Commissario. Tell me everything.”

  And Ricciardi told him. In the acrid scent of incense, as the shadows grew longer and the church remained dark, clustered around its candles, as the noises from the street grew muffled and the evening grew late, Ricciardi talked. And he told him about Sofia’s madness, Mario’s desperate love, Andrea’s infinite sadness; but also about the desolate and illicit love affair between Ettore and Achille, the loneliness of the Duke of Camparino, the bovine devotion that his housekeeper felt for him. And without realizing it, he found himself talking about himself as well, about the evening he spent with Livia and the four Fascists; his jealousy, his discovery of the infected egotism of his solitude. He also talked about Enrica, and what an endless distance five yards can be, when it is the distance separating his window from hers. And how much he missed watching her embroider.

  He couldn’t believe his own ears as he listened to himself tell a priest, almost a perfect stranger, about the abyss in his soul. He stopped just short of the brink, before he told the man about the dead people who infested his solitary existence.

  Don Pierino’s gaze was focused unwaveringly upon him, and the expression on his face betrayed no emotion: if he’d sensed the priest’s pity, he would have stopped. But now the little man said: “What a terrible jailer you are to yourself. I’d like to ask you to give yourself peace, but I can’t. No one can do that. But I do want to tell you one thing: there is no redemption without grief and pain. You can only free yourself if you know that you’re in chains. That awareness is the first step.”

  They sat in silence for a long time: a small portly priest, with dark eyes that glowed, and a policeman on the verge of despair, whose transparent green eyes seemed incapable of formulating questions for his answers. Then Ricciardi shook himself and said:

  “That’s not why I came, Father. I didn’t come to bore you by talking about myself.
Forget I did it, please. I’m here for another reason: I believe that the next few months are going to be terrible for the Capece family. The father isn’t used to being with the children, and the son has some very serious reasons to feel resentment toward his father. I urge you, therefore, to stay in touch with them. You’re the only person I know who can do it. I’m going to ask you as a personal favor.”

  Don Pierino sighed and said nothing. Then, with a smile, he said: “Rest assured, Commissario. That’s my job: I thank you for bringing this to my attention. But I have something to ask you in return. And you can’t tell me no.”

  Ricciardi looked at him quizzically.

  “Ask away, Father. I’ve piled up a considerable debt of gratitude with you: if for no other reason than the talk I’ve forced you to listen to tonight.”

  “Actually the chat we’ve had tonight is the nicest gift you could have offered me. And I’ll be interested to learn the upshot: neighborhood priests are curious. But what I want to ask you is something else. Do you know about the ’Nzegna festival?”

  Ricciardi shook his head no.

  “The ’Nzegna festival isn’t a religious thing. It’s held in the Borgo di Santa Lucia; it’s a folk festival, and it has some truly enjoyable traditions around it. But it does begin with a religious celebration, because there’s a commemoration of the finding of the Madonna della Catena, Our Lady of the Chain, an ancient painting that is kept in a church that bears the same name, a church that is of course in the quarter of Santa Lucia. It’s next Sunday, at midday. This year, the ceremony will be officiated by yours truly, and in fact I’ve just finished preparing my sermon. I would be happy if you attended.”

  Ricciardi decided that he really couldn’t turn down a request from that man, especially considering that he’d just asked him to look after the Capece family. Or what was left of it.

  “All right, Father. I’m not working this Sunday, because I worked on Sunday last week. I’ll be there.”

  The priest clapped his hands in delight.

  “Oh. Bravo, Commissario. That’s the way I like you! There will be lots of people and lots of singing and dancing: for once, you can enjoy a party. And one more thing: remember that there is something worse than remorse, and that’s regret. Let me tell you, because every day, from dawn to dusk, I listen to people in confession asking God for a forgiveness they can’t seem to give themselves. If it’s necessary to take the initiative for once in your life, do it now. So that you don’t spend all the years left to you on earth wondering what would have happened if you’d just had a little more courage.”

  Ricciardi got to his feet; he seemed to be about to answer, but then his mouth snapped shut. He said:

  “You don’t know the whole story, Father. There are other considerations, other . . . motives that prevent me from taking certain initiatives. Let it be; I already told you, forget about the raving I’ve done this evening. Maybe I’m just tired; this hasn’t been a simple investigation. See you on Sunday, then.”

  XLII

  When Ricciardi arrived in police headquarters the following morning, he was ready to take on the sensation he felt every time he wrapped up a murder investigation: a mixture of nostalgia, disappointment, and anger.

  Nostalgia was the most absurd sentiment of the three: to some extent the commissario missed thinking about the investigation. It was always something of an obsession, something that was ongoing no matter what else he might do during the course of the day; his mind was working incessantly on the solution of the crime, and when this constant thought vanished, he missed it. It was as if a room cluttered with one enormous piece of furniture were suddenly emptied, revealing itself to be drab and deserted, just like before.

  The disappointment came from the experience of once again looking out on the inferno of the human soul and the corruption of the passions: the same as before, nothing new.

  Last of all, the anger came from the forced realization, yet again, of the pointlessness of what he was doing: in fact, what had he achieved by discovering that Sofia Capece had killed Adriana Musso di Camparino? He had merely ensured that now two children would have a mother locked up in a criminal mental asylum, while the duchess remained dead.

  Sometimes, he thought, as he wrote up the report of the murderess’s confession, the solution is much worse than the problem. And there’s never a solution for the solution. By a process of mental association, the figure of the victim appeared before him, as he was condemned to see her.

  This is how it always was: the following day he faced his reckoning with the Deed. Aside from confessions and evidence, proof and details, the Deed itself presented its invoice to his soul and demanded attention. He glimpsed Adriana again, beautiful and proud even as a corpse, with the bullet hole between her eyes, her arms hanging limp at her sides. And the phrase, repeated obsessively:

  “The ring, the ring, you’ve taken the ring, the ring is missing.”

  And so, in the end, the contest between the two dueling rings had gone to the one that Capece had torn off her ring finger at the theater. It was clear: the duchess had recognized Sofia right before dying and her mind had begun to establish a link with the object that had once belonged to her killer; before the bullet tore through her brain and put an end to this and any other thought.

  And yet, Ricciardi mused, someone had torn the other ring off the now-dead duchess’s finger; and Modo’s autopsy mentioned signs of violence on her body, as if there had been a struggle that Sofia Capece had said nothing about. True: the woman was insane, and it might well be that the gunshot had come in the wake of a fight. Perhaps the madwoman simply forgot that part after emerging victorious, or maybe she chose not to say anything about it.

  After lightly rapping, Maione opened the door and came in.

  “Good morning, Commissa’. How are we doing, this fine day? That’s some heat we’ve got, eh? Are you writing the report on the confession?”

  Ricciardi greeted the brigadier with a nod of the head.

  “Yes, I’m writing it. And the more I think about it, the sadder it seems to me for those two kids, who didn’t used to have a father and now don’t have a mother either.”

  Maione shrugged.

  “Eh, I know it, it’s a sad thing. You’re right. But on the other hand, someone killed her: the duchess. And at a certain point I was afraid that it might well have been the boy, Andrea.”

  Sure, thought Ricciardi: Andrea. He was a strong, powerful young man, and he could certainly have helped his mother in what she did at Palazzo Camparino. And then the woman could have covered up for him, or even forgotten that he was there too. It was very possible.

  Just as he was about to answer Maione, the door swung open and a euphoric and highly scented Garzo made his entrance, followed by Ponte who took turns looking at the floor and the ceiling.

  “Ricciardi, bravo, bravissimo, a thousand times bravo! You were brilliant, I have to say it: truly brilliant. And bravo to you too, Maione.”

  Ricciardi looked at the deputy chief of police with his pen still in his hand, dripping ink onto the report.

  “And why do you say that, Dottore? Brilliant seems like a strong word, I don’t think I’ve done anything remarkable.”

  Garzo had no intention of letting his enthusiasm subside one inch:

  “Brilliant is what I said and brilliant is what I meant! You have no idea how worried we were, the chief of police and I. We were afraid it would turn out that the murderer of the duchess of Musso di Camparino was actually a member of her family, one of the most important families in the city; perhaps even the son, Heaven forefend, who I hear has friends in very high places that . . . well, enough said. Or else it could have been Capece, a prolific and indiscreet journalist who might even be a dissident, and then we would have been attacked by his fellow journalists, who are just champing at the bit. But instead, who do you nail for the murder? His wife! Which means he has to shut up and take it, and all his friends and colleagues can’t do anything else but pi
ty him, while the Camparino family emerges scot-free. Bravo, Ricciardi! Once again, we’re proud of you!”

  Maione emitted a faint hiss, like a steam boiler whose pressure was too high. Ricciardi replied coldly:

  “I’m pleased to hear how happy it makes you, Dottore, that one woman is dead and that another, the mother of two childen and a faithful, loving wife, will be confined to a criminal asylum, possibly for the rest of her life. I’m pleased that it turns out to be a relief, for you, that two families have been ruined forever, and that shame will blot their names for many years to come. And I’m sorry to inform you that it wasn’t us who crafted this solution, but merely the demon of a corrupt and desperate passion.”

  A profound silence followed the commissario’s words. Through the open window came the sound of a departing ship’s horn. Ponte had turned practically purple and was staring in fascination at a patch of peeling plaster on the wall. Garzo swallowed and turned to Maione, with an air of complicity:

  “Always modest, eh, our man Ricciardi. Always refusing to take credit for a brilliant solution. Of course, it’s a pity that people die, and that there are still murderers, even in these times when we ought to be focusing on the luminous future that awaits us. Luckily for everyone, we’re here, taking care of things; we find the guilty parties and put them behind bars. You, too, Maione, you did a beautiful job. If you come to my office and you give me the details of what happened, I’m pretty sure that I’ll be able to arrange for you to receive a generous bonus.”

  Diplomacy was not one of Maione’s gifts; his face seemed to be a billboard for disgust.

  “No, Dotto’, forgive me but I’ve got something urgent to do.”

  “And what would that be?” asked Garzo.

  “I have no idea,” Maione replied, “but it must be urgent, whatever it is. With your permission, I’ll be going.”