Ricciardi gave him a cool reply:
“It’s not up to you, or Sofia Capece, or anyone else to decide whether someone has the right to live or not. No matter how dastardly that person may be.”
The young duke shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“The fact remains that someone, as you’ve seen for yourself, took that right. There’s another thing though: I’ve heard about your . . . nocturnal strolls, and a certain visit you made to a building not far from where you live. As well as a lengthy conversation.”
Ricciardi nodded. He hadn’t expected Ettore to make any reference to the matter that concerned him, nor had he decided what he would do if he did: it had no conection to the investigation. All the same, the man clearly felt the need to talk about it. In fact, he continued:
“You see, Commissario, in a sense it’s almost a relief to be able to talk about it. I understand why Achille would do it. There are times when I want to jump out of my skin from the urge to talk about it. Like everyone who’s . . . who’s ever been in love, I imagine.”
Ricciardi said:
“These aren’t matters that concern me, Musso. I needed to understand, find out the reason for certain things, and that’s all. Once I’ve got a clear picture, the rest is of no interest to me.”
“I know, I know. And I thank you for your sensitivity. But now that you know, let me tell you something: if you keep them in long enough, eventually emotions will suppurate and poison the blood. I’ve always been the way I am, you know. And I’ve never said a word about it to a soul. I’ve gone to bordellos, with fellow university students, to keep the others from talking about me, making hints about me. And then, once I got home, I would vomit for hours, out of sheer disgust. My mother would come over to me and stroke my head, without a word. She knew everything, I think: a mother can guess about certain things. And she loved me tenderly, no matter what. Not my father. But, then, he might not have loved me in any case.”
Ricciardi said nothing: there was nothing to be said. In the heat of the afternoon that was turning into evening, the insects buzzed and the scent of jasmine was intoxicating. Ettore went on:
“And I fought it, you can believe me. Nothing ever happened. I fell in love with colleagues, classmates, but I turned my back on love. I ran away, I broke off friendships. And I hated my own name, the name of this house, my father who was imposing upon me a nature that did not belong to me. Only my mother held me close. Only her tender love. And then she fell sick.”
“And Adriana came into your home,” Ricciardi added.
“That’s right, the bitch arrived. And she took my mother’s place, even before she was dead. Did you know, Commissario, that she slipped into my father’s bed while my mother was still alive, and in horrible pain from the tumor that finally carried her off? They even gave her this extra dose of suffering. Those two filthy beasts. And fate paid them back: killing her violently, and him slowly, little by little, day by day.”
Ricciardi felt a faint shiver run up his back; the horror of that hatred was far worse than the sight of the murdered dead.
“But you didn’t kill her. Not you.”
Ettore shook his head.
“No. I don’t have that kind of strength. I’m not a man of action: I’m a damned theorist, a writer. But I hated her, no question that I hated her. I yearned for her death every minute of every day. She tried to seduce me almost immediately, which was her way of sealing alliances. I found her, half-naked, in my bedroom one night, not long after my mother died. When I threw her out, do you know what she did? She burst out laughing. First she was just surprised, and then she started laughing. She knew that if a man rejected her, he had to be . . . like me; perhaps nothing of the sort had ever happened to her. And from that day forward, she never missed a chance to humiliate me, to mock me. She even told my father, who had never noticed or had simply pretended not to notice. And we haven’t spoken since.”
Ricciardi asked, in a flat voice: “Talk to me about the ring.”
Ettore reeled, as if he’d just been slapped.
“The ring? How do you know about the ring?”
Ricciardi replied, without changing his expression:
“The autopsy revealed a dislocated middle finger on the left hand; it also found that it had been dislocated after she was killed because there was no hematoma. Clearly, someone had removed the ring that the duchess wore, and this someone couldn’t be anyone but you: the only one who returned home after she was killed.”
Ettore stared into the empty air, as if he were speaking to himself.
“I love him. I love him like I’ve never loved anyone in my life, in a way I never even thought was possible. We hide our love, we’ve tried to break it off a thousand times. I’ve fought against it, we’ve fought against it. But you can’t fight love, Commissario. Because if you fight it you’re bound to lose. Inevitably. And so you need to take the initiative, and you need to pluck this love, the way you might one of these flowers. When you love, then you find that you love the world as well, and you want to sing, and shout, and laugh about nothing at all, in the light of day. But instead I have to hide, leave at night and come back before dawn, like a wolf, like a criminal. That night I came home happy, and I found her there, the bitch: dead on the sofa, with a bullet hole between the eyes and the gate hanging open. And her hand dangling, with my mother’s ring on her finger. I’ve always known that ring, as long I can remember, every caress I’ve ever received was with that ring. The ring my mother was married with. That woman wasn’t fit to look at it, but she wore it as if it had always been hers. Yes, I tore it off her finger, with all the strength in my body. And I kept it. It’s right there, in that drawer: every now and then I take it out and I polish it. But just by wearing it, that bitch made it dirty for all time. It’s no longer my mother’s wedding ring. It’s as if she killed her a second time.”
XLIV
Apparently, regulations required that any woman sitting alone at a café must and should be besieged. Livia actually found it amusing, as she sat at a sidewalk table outside Gambrinus, waiting for Ricciardi to pass by on the Via Chiaia, according to what she had learned at police headquarters.
A euphoric and deeply obsequious Garzo informed her that the investigation had been closed. When she happened to run into the deputy police chief at the main entrance to headquarters, she’d made it very clear to him that she was there to confer with the commissario; but Garzo made sure not to miss this opportunity to chat up the former Signora Vezzi who enjoyed, as he knew very well, highly placed friends in Rome. And so he unreeled a succession of phrases—“why how lovely you look” and “what a pleasure to see you again in Naples” and “the salt air must be agreeing with you” and “what’s the latest news from our beloved national capital?”—but also, once he sensed the signora’s interest in the commissario and the possible favorable implications that that might have for him, he unfurled a daisy chain of generous compliments for his subordinate’s skills and achievements.
By the time she managed to wriggle out of the conversation, Livia had obtained the information that Ricciardi would in any case be back in his office that evening and that, in accordance with a route that had almost become a ritual with him, he’d be stopping at Gambrinus for a quick cup of coffee; if the signora wished to see him, then that was the best place for her to wait. Otherwise, Garzo concluded, he’d be pleased to send Ricciardi to see her, posthaste.
In a way, she found that man to be a much more asphyxiating presence than the men who, taking turns in a minuet of glances, sighs, and broad winks, were now vying for her attention at the café. And for that matter, the woman’s beauty, elegance, and solitude were irresistible elements of attraction to the dandies and gagà who killed time there, smoking and drinking. A light veil dangled from her hat, covering her eyes and leaving only a view of fleshy, sensual lips painted bright red; her body was tightly wrapped in a narrow-waisted dark-blue dress with a white-leather belt: her shoes, handbag, and elbow-l
ength gloves were likewise in white leather. Her generous bosom and long legs were also unmistakable, even if they were technically covered.
She’d chosen an outdoor table, lest she miss the commissario as he passed, and she was watching the world go by with feigned interest as at least ten men devoured her with their eyes.
Ten men and a woman, to be exact.
The first shadows of evening were stretching out into Giulio Colombo’s hat shop, but he didn’t even notice them; nor did he hear the customer standing across the counter from him when she asked for a discount, and in fact she was forced to repeat the request in an even more doleful tone of voice. Giulio Colombo was focused on something else: he was staring at his daughter who in turn stood, motionless, looking out the plateglass window like a tiger downwind, laying in ambush for an unsuspecting gazelle.
That girl was starting to worry him. She’d never spoken to him explicitly about her state of mind, but it wasn’t hard to guess, knowing her character as he did, knowing how similar she was to him; for some time now he’d been catching her with reddened eyes, as if she’d been crying, or else with a suddenly truculent expression. She was clearly being tormented by unusual thoughts, but she seemed unwilling to talk about it; nor did her father, reserved and discreet as he was, feel able to ask prying questions. As for the girl’s mother, she hadn’t noticed a thing. She was dismissive when Giulio shared his worries with her: she’s probably finally starting to fall in love with Sebastiano, she had replied, that’s all. These are the little bumps in the road of love, she’ll get over it.
But that’s not the way it seemed to Giulio. As far as he could tell, the situation was steadily worsening, day after day; and it was obvious to him that the Fiore boy wasn’t even slightly in tune with his daughter’s state of mind. For the past few days, Enrica had been coming into the store systematically every afternoon, and she stayed for an hour, gazing out the window, coolly dismissing the young man whenever he came in on some pretext to talk with her.
Deep inside, he had already dismissed the idea of this engagement ever working out, ever since the night he’d caught the look on Enrica’s face as the young man was just about to sip his espresso with the disgusting slurping noise that he always made; it was a ferocious glare, and he could hardly blame her for it: it annoyed Giulio, and no one was pushing him to marry the boy. Just then, as Enrica stood peering out throught the plateglass window, he saw that same ferocious glare in her eyes.
There she is now, Enrica was thinking. Sitting all by herself, smoking cigarettes in a public location. But where does she get it, this bottomless pool of gall and sheer nerve? And at the exact time that he comes by for his daily cup of coffee: I know it very well, since I come to the store just to see him, now that I can no longer see him from my window every night. I have to admit: she is beautiful and elegant, not a bit vulgar, even though I told the hairdresser she was, to make sure she’d convey that information to his housekeeper.
What do I have that she lacks? Why on earth should he choose me, if he can have a woman like her? Even if I were to dress the way she does, if I weren’t ashamed of going out alone and having men look at me, I’d never be as attractive as her. But I love him, I love him with every fiber of my being, and I can’t stand living without his gaze, the sight of his eyes, even from a distance. She’s waiting for him, I know that; and he’ll stop to talk with her, he might even kiss her the way he did the other time. And it will break my heart, just like the other time. But I need to be strong, strong enough to wait and see.
You can’t turn your back on love.
You can’t turn your back on love, thought Ricciardi as he walked up Via Toledo: that’s what Ettore Musso had said. And Achille Pivani had said the same thing. And Don Pierino had said that you have to take the initiative, at least once in your life.
Now that a complete atlas of the passions that had surrounded and destroyed the Duchess of Camparino had been sketched out, the commissario was left face to face with himself, and he had nowhere to turn, no refuge from his own thoughts. You can’t turn your back on love: you have to take the initiative. But what initiative should he take? Should he inflict on the person he loved the same cross he himself had to bear, the same torture he suffered? So that he could tell her, as they strolled out arm in arm some summer afternoon, forgive me, my dear, I missed what you were saying just now because, of course, dearest, though you can’t see him, in that corner, right next to the florist shop, there’s a little boy who fell and broke his neck, and he’s screaming for his mamma and it just distracted me for a moment. Is that what a man should offer the woman he adores?
All the same, he could no longer lie to himself: the picture of Enrica with that well dressed young man was becoming an obsession, far worse than the faded images of corpses that lined every street he walked down. He couldn’t live with her, and he couldn’t live without her. He sighed and looked up: Libreria Treves, he read on the sign. He shook his head and walked into the bookstore.
Livia saw him coming, his eyes on the pavement and a book in his hand. She decided that she’d recognize him anywhere, with that air of lovable loneliness that surrounded him, as if he were walking down other streets, streets that no one else could share with him. A mysterious man; in fact, a mystery made human. She couldn’t remember ever having been so fascinated with a person in her life. Without realizing it, she had tensed up in her chair, like a wild animal scenting prey.
At first he didn’t notice Livia at all and simply walked straight to the counter. Then she stood up and caught his attention with a wave of her hand. On the other side of the street, Enrica’s heart was pounding furiously in her ears. Ill at ease, darting a fleeting glance at the envious occupants of the other tables in the café, Ricciardi took a seat next to the elegant woman from out of town. She had in the meanwhile lifted her veil, revealing a pair of dark eyes, with a luminous gaze.
“At last! And yet I was told that you couldn’t hold out very long without your daily espresso. I’ve been here for hours, waiting for you.”
Ricciardi was clearly uncomfortable, as he was every time that Livia explicitly referred to the attraction she felt for him.
“I had gone . . . I had to question a person. I had no idea that you’d be here. And in any case, you understand, my work . . .”
She interrupted him, laughing:
“Don’t talk to me about your work. Believe me, I know everything, all about your investigation and the brilliant way you wrapped it all up. I had to listen to that insufferable colleague of yours, you know the one I mean, Garzo, who buttonholed me and wouldn’t stop talking about your achievements. But I told him that I was well aware of what a hero you are. My hero, to be exact.”
Ricciardi furrowed his brow.
“First of all, Garzo is my boss, not my colleague. And I certainly don’t confide in him. Last of all, I’m no hero: the murderer confessed, that’s all.”
Livia dismissed his explanations with a gesture of annoyance.
“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to give you some important news. First: I’ve decided to stay on for a while in your magnificent city. I called an old friend of mine, a theatrical impresario, to ask him to arrange to find an apartment for me.”
Ricciardi stood openmouthed.
“What, an apartment? But why?”
The woman smiled.
“You wouldn’t want me to be stuck in a hotel, would you? I’ll be much more comfortable in an apartment. And then I could hire a maid and finally be able to entertain. Don’t you think that a little company would do me good?”
Ricciardi shrugged, and she went on talking, carefully enunciating like a schoolteacher addressing a slightly dim pupil:
“Second: I’ve decided that our friendship should evolve. Since you keep pretending not to notice, I’m going to tell you clearly: I’m interested in you, Commissario Ricciardi. I’m very interested in you. I don’t remember when a man has caught my fancy the way that you have, and I intend to g
et to know you much better.”
Ricciardi wished he could have been anywhere but there. Above all, he had the disagreeable sensation that, at least at the four tables closest to them, all conversation had ceased as the customers listened to the two of them. But there were certain things that needed to be said, and so he said them.
Now he’s stopped and he’s sitting down, the girl on the other side of the street thought to herself. He doesn’t look comfortable, but he’s sitting down. She called him, she even stood up, he hadn’t noticed her at all. How can you miss a woman who looks like her? And now what are they saying to each other? She’s counting something on her fingers, first, second. What could she be counting? And now, what is he answering? She felt her head start to spin, and she leaned her forehead against the plateglass window. Enrica, do you feel all right? her father asked. Yes, of course, she replied, as her eyes welled up with tears.
Never been better.
“I’m not sure that’s really a very good idea, you know. This isn’t an easy city to live in, and the climate can be harmful for someone who isn’t used to it. And then there’s the fact that you don’t really know anyone. You’d have to build up a network of friends, and that wouldn’t be easy for a single woman. And just where would this apartment be? In what quarter? You’d need help, you’d want to have someone you could rely upon. And I’m not sure I’d be the right person. In fact, I’m quite certain that I wouldn’t. I have no time to spare, I have no friends of my own, it certainly wouldn’t be . . .”
Livia interrupted with a loud laugh; she wanted to act cheerful, but there was sadness in her eyes.
“Why, what eloquence, and so unexpected! Do you know that I’ve never heard you talk this much? And just to get rid of me, think of that. Well, my dear man, do you know what I say to that? I say that Livia Lucani is not about to retreat. And that the more you tell me I ought to leave, the firmer my decision to stay. Actually, though, there is one thing you could say, if you want to get rid of me. Tell me the truth: do you have a girlfriend?”
Everyone in Their Place Page 32