[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  The contessa had turned pale, and continued wringing her hands.

  “But he . . . I believe that he, in any case, has something else in mind. There are moments when I see that he is absent, distracted. As if . . . as if he could see things that I can’t. He’s a very peculiar man . . . ”

  Marangolo nodded.

  “Yes, I’ve noticed the same thing. But I’ve also noticed the way he looks at you, and trust me, he’s not indifferent to you. For that matter, such a thing would be impossible, I assure you, darling.”

  The woman smiled at the compliment, in spite of herself.

  “Well, so what do you think I should do?”

  The duke shrugged his shoulders.

  “Take advantage of these meetings of yours, they won’t last forever. His nature is bound to lead him to veer away from a way of life with which he is not entirely comfortable. Before that can happen, you’re going to want to figure out whether you truly want him for yourself, and if so, to persuade him to desire you in his turn.”

  Bianca stared at him in bewilderment.

  “My friend, do you realize what you’re saying to me?”

  Marangolo ran a hand over his eyes.

  “Yes, I’ve pondered it at considerable length. I’d already made up my mind to talk to you about it the next time I saw you. And trust me, I wasn’t sure I would have the strength. But I’m not a healthy man, Bianca. I’ve watched over you my whole life, and now I can’t stand the thought of leaving you all alone in this world. I’d like to be able to shuffle off with the awareness that you’re happy, and I know that that strange, green-eyed man might be able to do that for you.”

  Once again, she stroked the side of his face.

  “I’m not a little girl anymore, you know that, Carlo Maria? Privations, humiliations, and abandonment will make you grow up much faster than the years spent riding horses or drinking tea. I’m well aware that I’m experiencing a new, untested sentiment, but I haven’t entirely lost my dignity as a woman, and I could never thrust myself on someone, unwanted. I’ve met men far more attractive than he is, and even in the midst of my misfortunes I have had men woo me and court me persistently. Still, there’s something about Ricciardi . . . Something different, something profound and dark. I . . . I just wish I could understand him better.”

  The duke listened attentively.

  “I understand. Or actually, I don’t understand at all: but I believe that your curiosity actually goes by another name, and that’s all I need to know. Now, you get going, otherwise you’ll be late for that harridan the Marchesa Bartoli. I forced her to invite the two of you by threatening to reveal certain secrets that concern her.”

  “Really? What are they?”

  Marangolo smiled, cunningly.

  “I have no earthly idea. But now I’m sure she has a few, or she never would have accepted. Come on, get going. And afterward you can tell me all about it.”

  XXVI

  He ought to have hurried straight home, Brigadier Raffaele Maione. He ought to have hurried home because it was raining and he was dead tired after working almost twenty-four hours straight. He ought to have hurried home because his children were waiting for him, as was his wife, Lucia, who had told him so over the phone from the apartment of the accountant Ruggiero, as usual shouting as if she were leaning out a window and he were down in the street. He had promised her that he’d come straight home as soon as he got off his shift, but then there had been this murder, and when there’s a murder, all bets were off.

  He ought to have, certainly. And he would have liked to, as well, because the rain was penetrating deep into his bones through his trousers, and into his shoes through the soles; the umbrella offered a thoroughly inadequate protection from the elements.

  And yet it was not toward home that a grim and determined Brigadier Raffaele Maione turned his steps. His shift had ended, that’s true, but then it’s a well known fact that a brigadier is always on duty, otherwise what kind of a brigadier would he be?

  He turned eastward, heading straight into the wind that blew the rain right into his face from practically head-on, as if a misbehaving street urchin, or scugnizzo, had decided to drench him with a hose. His umbrella kept turning inside out, with the distinct likelihood of breaking once and for all, so at a certain point he shut it, abandoning entirely any hopes he might ever have had of keeping at least his jacket warm and dry.

  As he walked along, he noticed that the network of lookouts was functioning even at that time of night, in spite of the terrible weather. A figure moving in the shadows, a shutter loudly slamming, a metal roller blind lifted halfway, with a hole in the center through which it was possible to see the shape of a face. The walls have eyes, Maione said to himself. Eyes and ears, and they even seem to talk to each other.

  Welcome to the Sanità quarter, Brigadie’. The welcoming committee is ready to offer you its greetings.

  The policeman didn’t slow his pace a bit, but just continued, striding confidently toward his destination. He had no doubt that he’d been checked out and promptly identified. If he had showed up with an entourage of officers, at a time of the day that might have suggested a police operation in force, he would have been greeted by an army, but walking along alone, no one was liable to stop him. The sole obstacle would continue to be the wind, chilly and laden with rain.

  He turned the corner and walked past a tavern. Behind the plate-glass window were four young men rapt in conversation, with a straw-wrapped bottle of wine and a deck of cards in front of them. They turned to look at him with hostile faces, hands thrust into their trouser pockets, grasping their knives; they reminded Maione of a pack of stray dogs, caught in the act of ripping a dead body limb from limb, as they raised their blood-smeared muzzles to size up a potential adversary. He glared back at them, jaw clenched: I belong to the same breed as you, Maione’s eyes informed them; I’m not afraid of you.

  He found his way by counting the vicoli one by one as he walked past them. One, two, three. When he reached the fourth one, he turned down the narrow alleyway and found himself face to face with two sinister figures who were loitering in the darkness of an atrium. He took one more step and came to a halt.

  Speaking to the older of the two, he said: “Go call him. I need to talk to him.”

  The man’s face was hidden beneath a cap pulled low. He pushed it back and stared at the brigadier as if looking at the wall behind him.

  “And who should I say?”

  No respect. No consideration. No fear.

  They stood there, studying each other for a long moment, while the younger of the two ostentatiously cleaned his fingernails with a long-bladed knife. At last, Maione snarled: “You just go tell him that I need to speak to him. Trust me, you had better.”

  The older man, without taking his eyes off Maione’s, tilted his head in his younger companions’ direction, who moved off, leaving the two men alone, facing off, immobile and fierce as two natural enemies: like a dog and a cat.

  Before two minutes were up, the younger man was back.

  “He says that you need to go in through the main entrance. And he says that you need to take your hat off, when you go in.”

  A sort of grimace appeared on Maione’s face which, if it hadn’t been for the darkness and the driving rain, if the wind hadn’t been blowing harshly through the vicolo, might have been taken for a smile.

  The two men stood aside to let him pass.

  The atrium was dimly lit by a bare lightbulb hanging on the wall. It was possible to make out a courtyard and a narrow staircase. Maione sensed a movement out of the corner of his eye, but couldn’t see anyone. He let his eyesight grow accustomed to the dim light, then he pushed on into the courtyard.

  Standing outside of the beam of light from the bare bulb was a gigantic silhouette.

  “Ciao, Lio’,” the policeman exclaimed. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  The silhouette took a step forward and gradually assumed the semblance of a ta
ll, heavyset man, with a thick head of red hair, his skin dotted with freckles.

  Pasquale Lombardi, also known as Pascalone ’o Lione, ran his eyes over the policeman’s whole physical being; the two men were exactly as tall and as powerfully built.

  His voice issued in a basso profundo that sounded like a dull clap of thunder.

  “Hi there, Rafe’. Mamma mia, how old you’ve gotten.”

  The dark-haired boy runs over to the red-haired boy and calls to him: “Hurry, hurry, Pasca’, the schoolmistress is looking for you.” The other boy replies: “Well, you just tell her that you came to my house and that I was sick, Rafe’. I didn’t do my homework, and my father is going to kill me if the schoolmistress is mad at me.” The dark-haired boy has a bewildered look on his face: “But I’ve never told a lie in my life, Pasca’. Boys who tell lies go straight to hell, the priest told us that in church.”

  Maione returned a crooked smile.

  “Well, the years haven’t been any kinder to you. You got fat.”

  Lombardi ran his hand over his belly.

  “So, anyway, do we really need to stand here exchanging compliments after all these years? Do you want to come inside? Will you drink a glass of wine and warm up a little? There are a few friends here, we were just talking business.”

  The brigadier shook his head.

  “Aren’t your friends going to have something to say, if they see someone dressed like me come in?”

  The red-haired man shrugged his shoulders.

  “I can ask anyone I like into my own house, Rafe’. Even if they’re dressed in a clown suit. And no one will dare disrespect me.”

  Maione clenched both fists.

  “No one around here’s wearing a clown suit, Pasca’. I’m here to talk business myself, if you like. But it won’t take me long.”

  “What kind of business would we have to talk about, you and me? Come on, come inside. After all, we’re old friends.”

  The red-haired boy’s eyes are welling over with tears. “Rafe’,” he says,“you know my father. He says that he doesn’t want me to wind up like him, constantly shuttling in and out of prison. That he wants me to study. If the schoolmistress tells him that I haven’t finished the math problems, he’ll get after me with his belt. The last time, he came this close to killing me. My mother saved me, she put herself between me and him.” The dark-haired boy shoots a worried glance at the front door of the school. “I’ve never told a lie in my life, Pasca’. Never once.”

  “Friends? We’re not friends, the two of us. We’re both in the same ring of the circus, true, but we’re not friends. I might be a clown, but you’re a wild animal.”

  Lombardi fell silent, and for a moment his face displayed all the ferocity of his heart. Then his features relaxed, and he burst into laughter.

  “Which is why they call me ’o Lione, don’t you think? Because I seem like a wild animal. But I just seem like one, because if I really was you wouldn’t be standing here on your own two feet, I can assure you. Tell me what business you’re here on, if you don’t want to drink my wine, Rafe’. And don’t waste my time, because I’m in a hurry.”

  Well, tell one now, Rafe’. Save me, tell the lie now. I swear to you, I swear I’ll pay you back. Tell one now, tell a lie. Tell it for me. I’m afraid of my father. The schoolmistress will believe you; you’re a good boy, you always do your homework. Tell it for me. The dark-haired boy twists the visor of his cap with both hands. Friendship and sincerity: it had never occurred to him that the two things could be at odds. In the hallway, he hears the schoolmistress’s footsteps.

  “I’m in a hurry myself, Pasca’. And you know that if I’m coming all the way over here, it’s something important to me. It’s about someone that you and your people have an appointment with. Gustavo Donadio.”

  Lombardi couldn’t manage to conceal his surprise.

  “Who? ’A Zoccola? What do you care about that miserable wretch? He’s ’nu muccusiello, a two-bit fool who doesn’t amount to a thing.”

  Maione pressed his lips tightly together. He had no intention of explaining to a hardened criminal why he cared about someone.

  “Two-bit fool or not, I’m interested in him. And I want to know how we can solve this problem.”

  A gust of water splashed down, carried by the wind that tore through the courtyard. Lombardi ignored the distraction.

  “Sure, he’s a traitor, that’s the thing. He set up business where he shouldn’t have, and right out in plain view. We warned him, he pretended to stop, but then he started up again. He asked for it, Rafe’.”

  Maione had a hard time restraining himself.

  “Don’t try that routine with me. Don’t pretend you’re just dealing out justice, that there’s a code that needs to be respected. I know you, Pasca’. I know you all too well. What I asked you is how we can solve this.”

  The schoolmistress walks out of the main entrance and finds no one waiting but the dark-haired boy. She stares at him hard, with those eyes of her that burrow into your soul, and says: “Ah, Maione, so you’re here. Well, why don’t you tell me if you saw your little friend today, because I need to quiz him. If he comes up blank again, if I see he hasn’t studied, then I’ll go talk to his father and I’m sure he’ll give him a good talking-to.” The dark-haired boy is about to reply, when the schoolmistress tells him: “Take off your hat, when you talk to me. Show proper respect.”

  Lombardi threw both arms wide.

  “We can’t, Rafe’, and that’s for two reasons. The first is that if I let him get away with it, then I’ll lose the respect of everyone else; you have no idea of how many of these muccusielli think they can get away with running businesses right under my nose. The second, and the most important reason, is that this guy is bent. Instead of staying home with his wife and children, he’s hooked up with that ricchione, that queer up at San Nicola da Tolentino. Now, you know how we do, we give fathers, heads of households, a second chance, but not zozzosi like him. Those filthy creeps need to be punished. Otherwise, what will things come to, you see what I mean, Rafe’?”

  The dark-haired boy takes off his cap and presses it against his chest. He thinks it over. Now what am I going to do? What am I going to say? It’s as if he can hear the breathing of the other body, hiding behind the donkey cart at the street corner. If I take off my cap, that means I respect the schoolmistress, he thinks to himself. But if I respect her, how can I lie to her?

  Maione hesitated for a moment before speaking.

  “Pasca’, it’s been years and years. I do my line of work, and you chose to . . . to do the job you do. We’re both of us fathers with children of our own. If this Donadio were to . . . let’s say he showed proper respect, would you leave him be?”

  The other man waited a little while before replying. From his massive bulk, half-concealed in the darkness, came a deep, troubled sigh.

  The dark-haired boy takes a deep breath and says: “Signora Schoolmistress, ma’am, Lombardi wasn’t able to study. He’s sick.” The schoolmistress scrutinizes him: “Are you sure of that, Maione? Are you sure of what you’re telling me?” The dark-haired boy, the young Raffaele Maione, the one who will tell his children, one day far in the future, that it’s a crime to lie, opens his eyes wide and says: “Yes, Signora Schoolmistress, I’m sure.” He feels as if he can hear the sigh of relief coming from the donkey cart and thinks to himself: now the schoolmistress is going to see him, and she’ll make sure we both pay dearly.

  At last Lombardi said: “Rafe’, that’s just the way things are, there’s nothing I can do about it. If things don’t change, there’s nothing I can do about it. Have I made myself clear?”

  Maione nodded his head. And the water dripped off the edge of his cap’s visor.

  The schoolmistress looks around for a moment, rigidly, and then walks back into the school. The little boy with red hair emerges from behind the donkey cart and walks over to the dark-haired boy. “Thanks,” he tells him, his eyes full of tears. “
My father would have killed me, this time. You really were a friend.” The dark-haired boy shows him his cap and says: “If you take it off, it means you’re showing respect. And in that case, they’re more inclined to believe you.” For no good reason, he too bursts into tears.

  Lombardi looked at him with an inscrutable expression.

  “But you never did take off your cap, did you, Rafe’?”

  A smirk appeared on Maione’s face.

  “No. I never did. So long, Pasca’.”

  He turned and left, heading home under the bewildered eyes of the two sentinels.

  With a little luck, he thought, he might be able to get a few hours’ sleep.

  XXVII

  The Marchesa Luisella Bartoli di Castronuovo’s receptions were held too frequently to be truly red-letter events, but still, they had their fair share of splendor. The palazzo where they were held, for that matter, was quite the place: a magnificent building on the waterfront, close by the Villa Nazionale, and it could be seen in panoramic paintings dating back as far as the early seventeenth century, as the mistress of the house never failed to point out in an offhand manner, unfailingly, within the first five minutes of any conversation.

  In the summer, these parties were generally held on the vast inner terrace overlooking the courtyard, and sheltered from the breezes off the water. In autumn and winter, on the other hand, the teeming hordes of guests would flood the immense ballroom—a place that had seen kings, queens, and diplomats from every latitude and meridian spinning in enchanting waltzes and retreating in elaborate bows, only to advance and rise in elaborate minuets.

  If the settings surrounding these events were solemn, the Marchesa herself was a lively little woman, with large blue eyes that bulged ever so faintly and an unmistakable pair of dentures: she bore her seventy years of age proudly on a frame just five feet tall, garbed in elaborate and very expensive dresses and gowns. Marchesa Luisella Bartoli had joined together the solid estate of her family, large landowners of the petty nobility, with that of her husband, a much older man who had come from the higher aristocracy, and who had had the good grace to die just a few years after they were married, leaving her fabulously wealthy and childless. The young widow, finding herself in need of clandestine lovers, had been for decades the constant topic of the conversations of the denizens of the city’s high society. Then, when the athletic fitness required for certain kinds of maneuvering had finally abandoned her, Luisella had decided to devote her assets to holding the lavish parties in question; at least two per season. In that way, she had carved out a place for herself in the very same circles that had previously criticized the inelegance of her amorous escapades.