One for the future that maybe we will have.
Because it is only without you that a mad hope can come true. Because if there is any chance of something coming into existence, any hope that a seed planted today might result in a flower come springtime, that this rain might wash away the grief and take it away, it requires that your blood be shed and that you die. Because for me there will be neither peace nor beauty, there will be no joy, unless you drown in your own breath, abandoning a life that no one will mourn.
And one, last of all, so that people will understand who it was.
A signature. The execution of a sentence. So that there can be no doubts, no uncertainties. The trademark, the killing blow. One, at the end, so that there is no need to come back.
One, finally, to destroy him. To destroy you.
X
Maione walked along in silence, holding the enormous umbrella high overhead in an attempt to protect Ricciardi too, who as usual was walking with his hands in his overcoat pockets and his head bare, as if instead of being in the month of October, under a fine icy rain that penetrated deep into your bones through the warmest clothing, he were on the waterfront promenade in springtime, on a lovely sun-kissed day.
After all, mused the brigadier, it made no difference to the commissario whether it was sunny out or rainy. He’s always caught up in some thought or another. Always silent.
For that matter, Maione too was in a foul mood. After his nocturnal interview with that lunatic Bambinella, he’d returned to police headquarters and finally had a chance to lie down for a while, but in spite of his weariness he’d tossed and turned like a porkchop for at least an hour. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t like the idea of negotiating with a couple of criminals to prevent one from killing the other, and yet he felt he had some moral obligations toward the femminiello, who had frequently helped him to solve challenging cases and who had often shown him real friendship, including in matters that were extremely private and personal.
That was what bothered him more than anything else: having been forced to admit to himself that he was friends with Bambinella. A man who worked as a prostitute, who was in constant contact with an underworld of criminals, whose very existence made a mockery of the moral code that he, Maione, was doing his best to safeguard and to teach to his own children. All the same, it was true: the two of them were in fact friends. Much more than he would have cared to acknowledge. And friends, as everyone knows, have to help each other in times of need.
He’d just managed to fall asleep when he’d felt something shaking him again. Only a delay in his normal reaction time had kept him from killing Amitrano who, getting his words out in a rush, had managed to make him listen. This time there had been a reason to awaken him, a grave and all too real one.
A dead body.
Someone had stumbled upon a dead body in a narrow alley—a vicolo—down by the port, over near Porta di Massa. As usual, the news had been entrusted to a scugnizzo, and the street urchin had vanished into thin air before anyone had a chance to ask him any further questions.
Maione had gotten to his feet with his head spinning in exhaustion; he’d dressed in a hurry and he’d summoned the officers Camarda and Cesarano, sprawled in their chairs loudly snoring, and then he’d headed out, planning to send someone to inform a police functionary later, during office hours. Deep down, he hoped to run into Ricciardi, the only senior officer who had the habit of coming in to police headquarters early. And his wish was granted, because he ran right into him just outside the front entrance.
A brief huddle, a couple of terse items of information, and they had started off; Ricciardi and Maione leading the way, the two officers bringing up the rear.
The city streets were slowly filling with people, but only those who really had no alternative but to go out: a chilly, rainy mid-October Monday was an excellent reason to postpone one’s obligations, if at all possible. They crossed paths with factory workers and laborers riding bicycles, heading for their factories or construction sites, pedaling along sadly with their trouser legs fastened at the ankles with laundry pins, their jackets shiny with rain and extended wear, their caps pulled down over their ears, from which trickled icy rivulets. Students on their way to distant schools, their legs sticking out of their short pants, red with the cold. Women selling milk and dairy products staggering along beneath the weight of enormous wicker baskets balanced on their heads; the baskets were covered with oilcloth tarps to keep their goods from getting drenched. Horses trotted along, lazily pulling carts piled high with merchandise of every description, their masters eager to lay early claim to the best corners from which to exercise their nomadic commercial activities. The rain wasn’t offering anyone discounts that morning.
Maione, stepping carefully to avoid puddles, wondered what could be worse than a murder victim on a Monday morning, near the end of a shift, when it was raining and when he, in point of fact, hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in almost twenty-four hours. To say nothing of the presence in his life of people like Bambinella and Amitrano. And he also wondered why a man like the commissario should come into work at least two hours before he was required to, instead of sleeping in—he who was free to get as much sleep as he needed.
Ricciardi, on the other hand, mused over the strangeness that had come to characterize his life lately. After the death of Rosa, the beloved nanny—his tata—who had been a mother to him, the sense of loneliness pervading him had reached depths hitherto unknown, and yet, in contrast, his life had never been so crowded with other people, some of them new presences.
He was reminded of Bianca’s face, her melancholy expression, veiled beneath the cheerfulness that she showed off like a new dress when they were playing their part for the benefit of high society. He felt a strange surge of feeling for her. He was grateful to her, of course, just as he was to Duke Marangolo, whom he had only met a couple of times, and who had nonetheless decided to get Ricciardi out of a serious scrape, in spite of the fact that the duke owed him nothing at all. But that wasn’t all. To be perfectly frank with himself, spending time with that beautiful, ironic, and very intelligent woman was something he didn’t mind a bit. Shy and reserved as he was, he couldn’t imagine more agreeable company for an evening out at the theater or for dinner at some fashionable restaurant, things that in his heart of hearts he detested.
He was reminded of Livia, the gorgeous widow Vezzi, who had used every means and contrivance known to her in order to drag him into the social whirl of that city, and whom he had rejected so many different times. Livia, who had been the cause of the problem to which Bianca had proved the solution. Livia, whom he had left in tears at her home, overwrought at yet another rejection. Livia, toward whom he had never been able to feel any true resentment, only a lurking sense of guilt. Livia, whom he had glimpsed in the foyer of the Teatro San Carlo a few weeks ago, as feline and elegant as ever, but looking skinny, and with a film of bewildered loss in her eyes. Livia, who had avoided his glance, laughing a little too loudly at a witticism by one of the devouted coterie of men surrounding her.
And of course, he was reminded of Enrica. He thought of her the way you might think of someone toward whom you feel an immense, multi-faceted sentiment, rich in colors and charged with anguish. He was reminded of her face, at once sweet and angry for no logical reason, who by the light of an afternoon sun that was miles away from the autumn rain through which they now walked had once asked him what was the meaning of all the sea that extended before them. He thought of her as she sat embroidering in her room, from time to time turning her smile toward the window, aware, perhaps, that he was there, on the other side of the street, peering out at her from behind his curtains. He thought of the way she had stared at him, wide-eyed, caught unaware at the street corner, as he had spewed out incoherent, despairing phrases. He, who had no idea how to talk to a woman, who didn’t know how to start a normal conversation with that courteous, middle-class young woman, who might perhaps have been satisfied wi
th very little, almost nothing at all. He, who was the disease capable of ruining her, who loved her deeply but couldn’t tell her so, and who wanted nothing as much as her presence to save him from a lifetime destined to collapse into madness. He, who listened to the grief and pain of the dead but couldn’t understand the living.
Better to concentrate on his work, the old dolorous ballast in which he was accustomed to taking refuge. Better to explore the abject trajectories of criminal behavior, the obscure twists and turns in which you could lose yourself, avoiding the burden of thought. Dispelling the memories of that blonde man who had kissed Enrica, his Enrica, in the light of a summer moon, in the sweet-smelling green foliage of an island resounding with crickets.
They were walking in the rain, Ricciardi and Maione. They walked along in silence, each with his own burden in his heart.
Even a dead body, on a Monday morning and in that weather, all things considered, could help them to forget. At least for a while.
XI
The body lay curled up near a wall in a dark and narrow vicolo. The rain was just barely dampening it, sheltered as it was by the awning that surmounted the entrance to a warehouse. All around stood a small crowd, no more than ten or so people, in silence, hats in hand, their heads drenched in a determined show of the respect due to death.
Maione looked around.
“Well? Who found him?”
A short, middle-aged man in work clothes stepped forward out of the little knot of people.
“I did, Brigadie’. I’m the owner of the warehouse. I came in to open up for the day, and I found him on my threshold. At first I thought he’d just fallen asleep, it happens sometimes that they curl up under the awning, but this one was too well dressed. So I tried shaking him, but he didn’t move. So I sent ’nu guaglione to fetch you.” A kid.
Maione scrutinized him.
“What’s your name?”
The little man snapped to attention.
“Palumbo, Giorgio, at your service.”
“At ease. Tell me, did you notice anything? Anything strange, out of the ordinary? And do you live around here?”
“Yessir. I live right upstairs, with my wife and the three children who still live with us; the two older ones have gone off to live their own lives. No, we didn’t see anything and we didn’t hear anything. I just found him, lying on the ground like this. Forgive me, Brigadie’, but . . . I’m just wondering, when are you going to get him out of here? No, it’s just that I’ve got work to do. We handle lumber for construction sites, you understand, and if someone comes by and we’re closed for business, we’ve just lost a day’s good work.”
Maione looked him up and down with a furrowed brow.
“Palu’, you have children of your own, you told me. Now maybe this poor wretch did, too. It takes the time that it takes, we aren’t working for your convenience.”
The little man took a step back, ill at ease, murmuring: “No, of course not, it’s just that we need to make a living too. And that poor wretch over there has no use for time, by now. Still, do what you need to do. I’m here, at your disposal.”
Maione grunted, and with a toss of his head he ordered Camarda to move the small knot of rubberneckers a few yards further away. Then he went over to Ricciardi, who had hung back, at the mouth of the vicolo. He said: “Go right ahead, Commissa’. Be my guest.”
The unwritten procedure which the two men followed was as follows: Maione would clear the field, whereupon Ricciardi was the first to approach the corpse, all alone. The brigadier had never asked for an explanation of that strange habit, but he understood that it was a fundamental element of his superior officer’s approach, and he adhered to it scrupulously.
Ricciardi walked forward, feeling a growing tension in his chest. It happened every time. It was one thing to be hit by the Deed while he was out walking down the street, unexpectedly, or else in the dining room of a restaurant, like what had happened last night, with Bianca; in those situations, he could just avert his eyes, turn and walk in the other direction, or try to think about other things. It was quite another matter to go in search of it. Walk toward it, face to face with the image of a dead body spewing meaningless words from a mouth contorted by a violent death.
But given the line of work he’d chosen for himself, he could hardly avoid it.
He crouched down.
The corpse belonged to a big, powerfully built man, sprawled on his side, arms hugging tight to his chest, knees pulled up against his belly. The suit he wore was well cut, and the overcoat, unbuttoned, looked new and expensive, though smeared with mud. He might be in his early fifties, or even younger. His face was puffy and there was a strange depression in his right temple. He was freshly shaved, and he had a mustache.
From the fob in his vest there protruded the gold chain of a pocket watch that glinted in the gray morning light, light that struggled to penetrate the falling rain. Not a robbery, then, thought Ricciardi. Or at least, not a successful one.
He half-closed his eyes. He sensed the presence to his right, no more than a few yards away. Before he turned to look, he wanted to feel the emotion pour over him. He lowered his defenses and concentrated, as if listening to a piece of subdued music, a whisper.
Surprise, as always. And great physical pain, persistent and growing. It hadn’t been shortlived, the pain, even if in those moments the perception of time shifts, dilates. Resentment, hatred, and the frustrated urge to repay the suffering: he had realized what was happening to him. Fear, sense of helplessness when it had become clear that the murderer wasn’t about to desist. The plunge into darkness, into oblivion. A yearning for fresh air, for the earth. A shred of awareness, the last gasp of life as it ceased to animate that body.
The usual jumbled mix of fragments, vague images, devoid of outlines.
Nothing different. Nothing new.
He got to his feet. His eyes proceeded along the scant inches of distance that separated the corpse from the translucent image that only he could perceive. The dead man was on his knees, arms hanging at his sides, looking out over the narrow street below almost as if he were delivering a speech to so many imaginary spectators. His face was puffy, shapeless, as if made up for a performance at the circus; the mouth was smashed and bleeding. Grinding his shattered teeth, he kept repeating: you, you again, you, you again, once again you, you again.
The overcoat was wet. On the ground, right next to the body, there was an elegant dark hat. Ricciardi looked around and saw the same hat a short distance away, next to the sidewalk.
He walked over to Maione, who had hung back in silence under his umbrella, a little way off to one side.
“Someone dragged him a short distance, there are marks on the ground. It must have happened at the mouth of the vicolo, so maybe the people who live here didn’t hear a thing. We need to establish the time. Has the medical examiner been called? What about the photographer?”
The brigadier nodded.
“Of course, Commissa’. The photographer is on his way, and I sent Amitrano over to the Pellegrini Hospital, in the hopes that Dr. Modo is on call. If you like, I can start asking around a little bit, that way we can get started on the questioning.”
Before Ricciardi had a chance to reply, a cheerful baritone voice blared out behind them: “Ed io pensavo ad un sogno lontano, a una stanzetta d’un ultimo piano, quando d’inverno al mio cuor si stringeva. Come pioveva, come pioveva!”
The song was a popular ditty, about the rain and a lost love. It went: “And I was thinking of a long-ago dream, a little room on the top floor, when the winter chilled my heart. How it rained, how it poured!” Maione shook his head.
“Commissa’, we’re in luck. We’ve got none other than Dr. Bruno Modo, the famous Neapolitan singer.”
The man who had just arrived carried in one hand a black umbrella that had seen better days, and in the other hand the typical leather doctor’s satchel. He wore an overcoat gathered at the waist with a belt and his shirt collar was ope
n at the neck; his dark tie had the knot loosened. His hat did not entirely conceal his tousled, gleaming white head of hair. He said: “And of course a man has got to start singing, Brigadie’. Otherwise how can he find the nerve to wander around in the vicoli down by the port, on a beautiful morning like this one?”
Ricciardi greeted him with a nod of the head.
“We were counting on your cheerful disposition to brighten our day. The show hasn’t been much to speak of, so far.”
Modo had already bent over the corpse.
“Mm-hm, yes, I have to admit it.” He straightened up. “It seems to me that the health officials have been much more timely in this case than the officials of public security: your artistic photographer has yet to honor us with his presence, and that means, I’d have to suppose, that I cannot yet proceed with my initial summary inspection. All right then, buongiorno to one and all, then, I’ll swing by later.”
Maione walked over to him, with a worried look on his face.
“No, Doc, let’s not make jokes! We’re not budging from this spot until we’ve finished all the procedures. If you leave now, then we’re just going to have to wait until you come back, and we’ll turn into stewed purpetielli—drenched little baby octopuses. Show a little pity.”
The other man replied beatifically: “My dear, dear brigadier, it’s hardly my fault that the photographer is snoring away peacefully in his bed. I have things to do, I can’t stand here gossiping with you.”
Ricciardi broke in, calmly: “Why of course, be my guest. Go ahead and leave. I’ll forward my urgent request for an autopsy, and I’ll make sure it reaches you just minutes before the end of your shift, that way you won’t be forced to leave your beloved workplace. I’m doing it for your own good, of course. In order to safeguard your good health. Maybe it will keep you from picking up a case of syphilis in one of those places where you spend your leisure time.”
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 8