[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Waiting in the shadows, outside of the dim glow of a street lamp, two figures stood waiting and smoking. Upon their arrival, one of the two stepped away and came toward them. The young man started as he saw what looked in that uncertain light like a mask: an enormous nose, flattened off to one side; a split upper lip that had been clumsily stitched at more than one spot; a number of scars on the cheeks; one missing eyebrow, with the mark of a long, reddish wound. The man was broad-shouldered, rather tall, and seemed to be entirely without a neck. Nonetheless, he was well dressed, wearing an elegant hat with a fashionable cut and a new overcoat, glistening slightly in the damp.

  He turned and spoke to Alfonso, brusquely: “Buonasera, paisà. Thanks for, how do you say? Punctual. Thanks for punctual, sí?”

  The young man decided that the strange way the man talked was a result of his thinking in another language. His years of interactions with the tourists that packed the restaurants along the waterfront in the high season allowed him to identify an unmistakable American accent.

  Alfonso bowed briefly and introduced himself.

  “This is my colleague, the mandolin player. He’s very talented and trustworthy, he knows that he needs to keep his mouth shut, and that he can’t tell anyone about tonight.”

  That was certainly true. Alfonso had gone on at considerable length in his request for absolute discretion, and in response the young man had given a mere, brief shrug of the shoulders: he couldn’t think of who might be interested in the story of a nocturnal serenade in the Materdei quarter. The man drew close and stared hard at them from just inches away, eyes narrowed. The young man felt a shiver run through him, but he met his gaze. In the end, the foreigner nodded as if he was convinced now, and he gestured to the other figure waiting in the shadows.

  A younger man than the foreigner emerged from the darkness, very different from him, though with a few features in common. The young man had the immediate, distinctive feeling that he’d seen the other man somewhere before, though he couldn’t have said where. He was tall and athletic; he wore a pinstriped, double-breasted suit, without an overcoat, and a broad, polka-dot tie. His fashionable, black leather shoes were dulled by dust and slightly muddy. The skin on his face was dark, his cheekbones high and prominent, his dark eyes a little filmed over. He kept his light-colored hat pushed back high on his head, and a damp shock of hair hung over his forehead.

  He walked over to them. The young man’s nostrils caught a jarring, pungent whiff of alcohol. That guy was drunk. He staggered forward, so much so that his friend had to catch him and hold him up, murmuring a few words to him in English. The guy replied in a slurred voice: “No, Jack, no. I want to do this thing. I’m determined. Let’s go.”

  They walked a few dozen yards, they came to a little piazzetta, and there they stopped. The guy in the pinstriped suit raised a hand to point at a window on the third floor of an elegant-looking palazzo. The young man noticed that the guy was clenching and opening his fists, in the grip of some unmistakable growing nervousness. Suddenly he put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a long, very shrill whistle. For some obscure reason, the young man recognized in that whistle a distinct lament.

  The man with the disfigured face stretched a hand out toward his friend’s arm, but the other man pushed that hand away, firmly, remaining in the cone of light from the streetlamp, legs spread wide, wobbling back and forth. Alfonso pulled his guitar out of its case, and the young man did the same with his mandolin. Jack turned and placed a raised forefinger over his lips, imperiously. The drunk took off his hat and let it fall into the street, running a hand, first, over his hair and then over his face. He heaved a long sigh, turned slightly, and nodded ever so faintly.

  Alfonso played the first few notes and the young man plunged confidently into the weave of the music, enriching it with the sweet, heartrending sound of his mandolin.

  He expected the man’s voice to ruin the marvelous melody—he could see that this was no singer, and what’s more, drunk as he clearly was. He was the one paying, after all, so as far as the young man was concerned, he was free to sing nursery rhymes if he so chose, but still, his sensitive ears cried out in pain when they were forced to listen to certain off-tune yodeling. Sometimes he wondered how some of his clients could fail to see just how counterproductive it was to bark an unpleasant succession of sounds up at the window of the woman they were hoping to charm.

  He was very surprised to discover, instead, that the man knew how to sing, and how. A fine tenor voice, a perfect timbre and ideal phrasing. He was clearly familiar with the lyrics. But that wasn’t all.

  He was singing from the heart. In the words, which the young man knew perfectly, he brought a resonance that bespoke a timeless sorrow bereft of peace. This drunk—the young man could now see beyond the shadow of a doubt—was tossing a desperate message into the night.

  As was only to be expected, a few lights started switching on here and there. Though the night was dank and windy, various shutters were thrown back and sleepy, curious faces peered out to see who was singing, and to whom.

  The first verse ended and the man began the second one. He kept his eyes fixed on the third-floor window; his gaze never wavered for a second. His right hand clasping his chest, his left hand dangling at his side. The young man realized that tears were streaming down his cheeks, but the man’s voice never wavered.

  In those situations, there was always someone who seemed bent on sabotage, a nosy neighbor who butted in, complaining about the noise because they wanted to get a good night’s sleep, or else chiming in to the music with a refrain or even with mocking noises or wisecracks. Instead, this time, no one uttered a sound. The improvised audience listened in a rapt, engaged silence, perhaps sensing the depth of the singer’s emotion.

  At the beginning of the third and final verse, the shutters on the third floor swung open as well, and a man’s face could be seen—with a luxuriant mustache, his hair restrained by a hairnet—and on it an initial expression of surprise slowly turning to distaste as he realized, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this serenade was directed at his window and no other. At that point, just as the final verse was coming to an end, the shutters slammed shut again, with a bang that echoed from one end of the piazza to the other.

  The drunk man choked off the last word in a sob. Alfonso stopped playing, bowing his head; the young man, instead, embroidered a delicate, bitter finale, as if he were laying a flower on a grave.

  One by one, the windows were shut and fastened. No comments, not a laugh, not so much as a whisper. A middle-aged woman blew the singer a kiss from her fingertips and then vanished indoors.

  The disfigured man moved closer to his friend, touching him lightly on the shoulder. The other man put his face in his hands. From the way his back was convulsing, the young man understood that he was weeping.

  After a few seconds, Jack walked over to Alfonso and handed him a bundle of cash. The guitarist lifted his hat in a gesture of thanks, picked up the case in which he’d put away his instrument, and nodded to his young colleague, turning to head off down the steep street. The young man shot one last glance at the drunk and turned to follow him.

  He felt as if he’d just attended a funeral.

  III

  When the couple made its entrance, the cheerful chatter buzzing away in the restaurant of the Grand Hotel fell silent all at once, so abruptly that in his surprise, one of the violinists hit a sour note, earning himself a glare from the pianist. That silence lasted only for an instant, however. Almost immediately the guests went on talking, if anything more loudly than before; now they had a really juicy topic of conversation.

  The coat-check girl took the lady’s fur stole and her companion’s overcoat with a bob and a smile, while a self-important waiter came over to greet them—good evening, please come right in, allow me to show you to your table—and led them all the way across the dining room to a reserved table that, as fate would have it, was at the opposite wall, illuminated by scon
ces disguised as candelabras and hanging crystal chandeliers. To reach that table the couple thus had to run a virtual gauntlet, walking the length of an invisible catwalk that exposed them to the venomous commentary of the diners, chattering eagerly as they consumed their costly meals. In other words, a small and unscheduled floor show.

  The orchestra struck up a waltz.

  The woman, in a defiant move, chose a chair that would allow everyone in the dining room to see her full in the face. The man, in contrast, sat down with his back to the room, displaying—at least in appearance—his utter disregard for the curiosity that surrounded the couple.

  The waiter bowed before walking away; he’d be back in a few minutes with the menu.

  The new arrival was surely the loveliest and most elegant of the ladies present in the room. She wore a knee-length, dark gray satin dress, with full-length sleeves with a balloon of fabric at the elbows and a fold of black silk over the shoulder, draped over her bosom and gathered on her right hip, where it was fastened by a belt with an ornate buckle. Her cap was perched at a slight angle, on the left side of a head of blonde hair with copper highlights, and the tiny garnish of silk went nicely with the dress. Her slender ankles fit snugly into a pair of black leather high heeled shoes, matching the small, flat handbag that closed with a snap, which she had laid on the table before her. She wore diamond-rosette platinum earrings. Lace gloves, also black, covered her hands.

  The refinement of her dress, in any case, was nothing compared to the face that glowed atop the swanlike neck: a button nose, an upper lip raised ever so slightly, revealing her dazzling white teeth, and most of all, her eyes. Calm, clear, powerful, an incredible color: an intense blue that fell just short of being purple.

  The woman ran those eyes fiercely over the many that were observing her, forcing them to turn their gazes away in baffled embarrassment. She smiled in grim satisfaction and went back to focusing on her companion.

  In that autumnal season, Bianca Borgati of the Marchesi di Zisa, the wife of Count Palmieri di Roccaspina, was the most talked-about woman in the drawing rooms of the city’s aristocracy. Soon enough, she was bound to be dethroned as the prime topic of conversation in favor of the planning of winter holidays along the coast, but for the moment nothing seemed more interesting than to stitch her up in the garb of the alluringly lost woman; the wife who was out on the town having a high old time while her unfortunate husband, the poor Romualdo, rotted away behind bars. Certainly, he had willingly confessed to a murder and refused to retract that confession; certainly, there were those who said that he simply preferred to stay in prison rather than face up to the crushing load of debt he had contracted as a result of his weakness for the demons of gambling; certainly, it would have been more befitting his rank and honorable to have simply ended it all with a bullet to the temple. Still, however you sliced those considerations, the unwritten laws governing the behavior of the nobility demanded a contessa in doleful mourning, shut up at home in a grief as sober and composed as it was unwavering and absolute; or at the very least, at arm’s length from the more fashionable restaurants, and in any case definitely not dressed to the nines in apparel and accessories that—the ladies present in the restaurant were ready to warrant after appraising her clothing and adornments one by one with gimlet eyes—were far more expensive than she had any right to be wearing, seeing that the husband in question, now a convict and ward of the stated, had squandered his entire family fortune.

  It therefore followed, as night follows day, that the Contessa Palmieri di Roccaspina was unquestionably plying the world’s oldest trade, exploiting her stunning appearance and her knowledge of who knows what dark arts, concerning which all the males in the room were feverishly speculating while feigning the same indignation as their spouses and fiancées. Now, the crucial point was this: Upon whom was the contessa practicing her witchery? What was the source of that silk, those diamond rosettes, that bedizened belt buckle, and those lace gloves?

  Her friendship with the fabulously wealthy Duke Carlo Maria Marangolo, heir to one of the largest fortunes in the city, was a well-known fact, but the two of them had already been acquaintances for many years, and besides the duke was a very sick man. In the hallways it was whispered that there was more to the friendship than met the eye, and that this evening outing at the Grand Hotel on the waterfront, a place that was frequented by the city’s best society, offered a spectacular confirmation of that theory.

  Lately, many had been whispering and even hissing, that the contessa was deep in an affair with that strange police officer, Commissario Ricciardi. That their relationship, dating back who knows how long, had only emerged into public view as a result of the charges against him of pederasty. That, in order to ward off the all-too-concrete threat of her lover being packed off, bags and baggage, to internal exile in some remote and godforsaken spot, Roccaspina had waded into the fray, of her own volition, presenting herself at the informal judicial hearing meant to ascertain whether the commissario was indeed guilty as alleged. It was also said that he, in spite of the fact that he was a humble functionary of the local police force, and though he was never seen participating in any of the social whirl or local drawing rooms and salons, was actually of noble birth, albeit from the more remote provinces, and fabulously wealthy. Last of all, word had it that Ricciardi never wore a hat, clear evidence of some deep-seated eccentricity and, in all likelihood, perversion.

  In short, there was plenty of grist for the mill, enough to enliven the boring tea parties of the impending autumn, already too distant from the giddy gossip of the summer.

  Much speculation was embroidered and stitched, in particular, onto this enigmatic figure, Commissario Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, the Baron of Malomonte. There were those who still remembered his late father, a leading figure in the city’s high society some thirty years earlier, who had passed away in the prime of his life. There were others who had known his mother, a delicate young maiden with green eyes, of a fine family, who was married off in the first bloom of youth, only to withdraw to the distant slopes of the Lower Cilento before dying of some grave nervous disorder. There were even those who remembered, but couldn’t say with absolute certainty, a taciturn classmate in boarding school, where they were taught by Jesuit priests, a somber boy who always kept to himself and was, frankly, somewhat frightening, and who was therefore roundly ignored by one and all.

  In short, the gay contessa and the shy commissario were the couple of the moment.

  Bianca shot a dazzling smile at the waiter as he handed her the menu; then she turned and told Ricciardi: “Now that I’m a lost woman I’ve developed an insatiable appetite. And the French cuisine they serve in this place is really something out of the ordinary.”

  The commissario made a face, gesturing at the dining room behind him.

  “You’re joking, Bianca. But it’s a great burden to me to think that I’m the cause of the malicious gossip about you, all because you wanted to lend me a hand in this absurd situation.”

  The contessa chuckled, delicately covering her mouth as she did.

  “Actually though, Luigi Alfredo, as far as I’m concerned, I couldn’t have hoped for anything better. My husband had buried me before my time, you know. And the things that you discovered, and that you told me, freed me from that tomb and now rid me of any twinges of conscience. But let’s forget about that for the moment.”

  Ricciardi nodded.

  “Why of course, you’re perfectly right. Still, you might easily have won back the position you deserve in the world you were born into, without having to be taken for a too-merry widow.”

  Bianca shrugged her shoulders, gracefully.

  “What do you think I care about all those gossips? I’m used to it, I’ve been hearing them smear all sorts of people since I was a little girl. You’ll see, they’ll get tired of it and move on. I’m already starting to receive invitations to concerts and to the theater; soon enough some forward-thinking grand dame with a desire to sh
ow off oddities and freaks will invite me to a soirée, along with a pygmy and a fire-eater. It’s not so bad after all, you know, being a two-headed animal.”

  Ricciardi shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “It’s indirectly my fault. And that’s what bothers me.”

  Bianca laughed.

  “Oh, in that case, you actually enjoy tormenting yourself. I’ve already told you that I find the whole thing amusing, and that I feel alive now in a way I haven’t in years. In fact, come to think of it, in a way I never have before in all my life. Let them talk. It’s exciting: I’m an actress playing a part on a brightly lit stage, and I’m working hard to earn my share of the applause when they finally bring down the curtain. Because we’re both acting here, aren’t we?”

  The commissario opened his mouth to deliver a reply, but shut it again at the sight of the approaching waiter. Bianca smiled and ordered, as confident and content as a hungry little girl.

  “Spanish omelette, vol-au-vent à la toulousaine, and a veal fricandeau. Afterwards, I think, a Suchard cake. Grazie.”

  Ricciardi’s eyes opened wide.

  “Gosh, you really are hungry. I’ll have the potage à la Reine and a galantine de volaille à la gelée. Nothing more, grazie.”

  “I may be hungry, but you eat like a bird. Are you sure you’re well?”

  Ricciardi gestured vaguely.

  “I do my best to defend myself from the cooking of my housekeeper, Nelide. She’s been with me ever since . . . well, not all that long, and I have the impression that she’s always afraid she isn’t getting enough food into me. So, she overdoes it, and when I eat out, I try to lean in the opposite direction. Otherwise, my liver will be in tatters before long.”

  Bianca laughed again.

  “I’m the opposite way: after years spent budgeting down to the last penny in order to avoid spending money I didn’t have in the first place, I’d never stop eating. I’ll become fat and ugly, and no one will ever believe that a man of your charm might have ever wanted me as a lover.”