At the Bartoli palazzo, on these occasions, there were never any fewer than three hundred guests. The members of the local aristocracy mingled with cunningly chosen personalities who were the talk of the town at the moment, such as singers, actors from the movies and the theater, local Fascist officers and—a detail that made the pale blue invitation, handwritten by the marchesa herself, particularly sought after—Roman members of the new oligarchy tied to the Fascist regime. A couple of times, the daughter of the Duce herself had attended, under the watchful eyes of half a dozen guards in civilian attire.
This time, while carriages and automobiles dropped off women in formal gowns and men in tuxedos to be greeted by solicitous household staff in livery, the eyes of all those present gravitated toward a fat, sweaty, and clearly nervous German consul, trailing after two cabinet ministers in the newly established Nazi government. With them was a Fascist delegation consisting of three party functionaries, who were enjoying the party, staring indiscreetly at the youngest ladies in attendance, and commenting to bursts of laughter on the prominent bellies of the men accompanying them.
Bianca and Ricciardi, who had been left in front of the entrance by Duke Marangolo’s chauffeur, walked up the broad marble staircase surmounted by statues, following the red carpet that served as a guide. At the entrance to the main salon, after checking her fur stole and his overcoat, the couple was immersed in the buzz of conversation of those who had already arrived and the music being played by the orchestra. The air was redolent with smoke and perfume. The austere paintings on the walls were counterbalanced by the floral compositions scattered on shelves and mantelpieces all over the place. Waiters with large trays moved adroitly and quickly through the crowd, offering goblets of golden nectar and savory tarts. Ricciardi seriously considering turning and taking to his heels.
The lady of the house sailed toward them, her eyes glittering with curiosity.
“Bianca, darling, what a joy it is to see you again. How many years has it been now? Four? Five? You’re stunning, such a jewel. And how very elegant: these days not everyone can afford these dresses in the latest style. Certainly, it takes fine taste.”
Bianca replied seraphically: “Not just taste, my dear Luisella. You have to have the figure too, don’t you agree?”
Luisella Bartoli registered the body blow with a slightly strained smile: she had tested Bianca’s battle-readiness, and she now recognized the mettle of her opponent.
“Will you introduce me to your knight in shining armor? The Baron of Malomonte, unless I’m mistaken. I believe I met your father once, a century or so ago.”
Ricciardi brushed his lips over Bartoli’s hand.
“My father? Impossible, Marchesa. You’re far too young.”
The woman was delighted: “Flatterer! Please, come in, come in, make yourselves comfortable. There are a few tidbits to eat, and soon some other dishes will be served. The orchestra is interesting, they know how to play these new American dance numbers, even though strictly speaking, the soirée is German-inspired, as perhaps you know. We’ll see you later, Bianca. That way you can tell me everything that’s happened to you in the time since we last saw each other.”
With those words, she waded off in search of fresh victims. Bianca’s smile had never faltered the whole time, but a faint blush had spread over her cheeks. Ricciardi whispered to her: “I can’t understand why you feel you need to expose yourself to the jabbering nonsense of these stupid old women. Shall we leave? After all, they’ve seen us now, we can spare ourselves the rest of the evening.”
The woman clutched at his arm.
“No, that we cannot. Carlo Maria told me that the very people who strung together that ridiculous trial against you are here at this party tonight, traveling incognito. They came here to see the Germans and the functionaries from Rome, but it would be wise to make sure they notice our presence as well. And one more thing, believe me, Luigi Alfredo, people like Luisella Bartoli only help me to remember why, even when things were going well for me, I always tried to avoid these events. Come on, chin up.”
The room, vast though it was, was still packed with people, who were forced by the rain to stay off of the terrace—they couldn’t even go out for a breath of fresh air. Universal curiosity, however, was focused on the corner where, in armchairs and couches arranged in a circle, the Fascists and the Nazis had taken their seats. Every so often the two delegations would exchange smiles and pleasantries, but they were anything but inclined to merge into a single group. Ricciardi noticed a number of men, perhaps half a dozen, who were unaccompanied by women and who had positioned themselves in a way to ensure that they had the entire salon within their line of sight. Unostentatious, dressed in dark suits, a glass in hand from which none of them ever sipped: here is our audience, thought the commissario, we’re here for your benefit.
He went to get something to drink for himself and for Bianca, whom he had comfortably ensconced on a slightly out-of-the-way armchair. For once, they weren’t the chief subject of the murmurings and whisperings of those present, and so he felt a little less uneasy. It was just as he was returning with the glasses that his gaze was caught by someone, and his heart turned a somersault.
Facing a woman with her back to Ricciardi, and speaking to her intently, stood the blonde man that Ricciardi remembered seeing the previous summer on Ischia. It had been nighttime, he had to admit, and at the time he hadn’t had the presence of mind to register the necessary details, but he’d later spied him again from his own bedroom window, sitting in the living room of the Colombo family, as smiling and cheerful as he was now.
It was the man who had kissed Enrica.
The commissario was seized by a profound wave of anguish. First of all, he wondered whether Enrica was there too. He was in no condition to see her, especially not in this kind of company, and he feared how he himself might react. Luckily, however, such an eventuality was unlikely.
Bianca sensed something wasn’t quite right.
“What’s going on, Luigi Alfredo? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Ricciardi caught an unintentional reference to the Deed and felt a shiver run down his back. No, my dear Bianca, he thought, in this case seeing a ghost would actually have been preferable. And so he asked: “Do you happen to know that blonde man down at the far end of the room?”
She followed his gaze until she identified him; the man was laughing at something the woman with her back to them had just said; helping him laugh was a group of at least eight other guests, all of them in evident delight, all of them male. She shook her head.
“No, I don’t think I do. He seems to be having a grand old time, though. Why do you ask?”
Ricciardi remained silent.
“Wait for me here,” Bianca whispered. “I’ll go investigate.” And she moved off, fluid and elegant as a moray eel slipping through clear water.
The commissario wished he could stop staring at the man, but he couldn’t. He was tall and athletic, with a complexion that suggested a marked propensity for life in the open air. He had a fine, infectious laugh, and he showed a vast expanse of gleaming white teeth every time he laughed. His eyes were blue and he had a cleft chin. With a hint of unhappiness, Ricciardi was forced to admit that he was a charming specimen.
A few minutes went by, and then Bianca rematerialized at his side: “I found an old girlfriend who could easily draw up statistical dossiers on everyone here. Someone you might find extremely useful in the work you do, by the way. Now then: the man is Major von Brauchitsch, cultural attaché to the German consulate, stationed here in the city. Apparently, he is support staff for a delegation of archaeologists conducting a dig here in the province. He was invited along with the German government delegation; in other words, he’s one of the guests of honor. He’s considered to be quite handsome, though I personally find him rather insipid. Would you care to tell me why you’re interested in him?”
Before the commissario had a chance to reply, the orch
estra struck up a fairly energetic piece of swing music, and the lady who had had her back turned to Ricciardi and had magnetically attracted the attention of the entire group, including von Brauchitsch, threw her arms wide and swiveled her hips; the message was explicit: she wanted to dance. All the men surged forward and she, coquettishly, pointed her finger toward each of her aspiring partners in turn, until she let it come to rest on none other than the German, who bowed and held out his open hand, steering her toward the center of the salon. Only then did the woman turn around.
The commissario and Livia found themselves looking into each others’ eyes, just a few yards apart. The woman’s surprise froze the smile on her lips, and she halted without warning, causing a minor collision with the major’s body as he followed her. Ricciardi’s eyes were two puddles of green.
A moment passed, just a brief moment, before the tension subsided and Livia looked elsewhere, regaining her confidence and her easy smile, but in that instant Ricciardi read all he needed to know. Despair, bewilderment, and rage. Sorrow, regret, and remorse. Melancholy. Yearning, and a hint of hope.
Livia and Manfred joined the other dancing couples. The orchestra really was in fine form and the acoustics were perfect.
Bianca said: “Would you care to tell me what’s going on here? Why did that woman look at you like that? And who is that German?”
Ricciardi turned to look at her.
“I don’t know if I’m up to it, but perhaps you too would care to dance. Would you like to give it a try?”
The woman visibly started.
“Really and truly? Of course I would. Let’s dance.”
Bianca and Livia were without a doubt the two loveliest women at the party. One of them elegant, lithe, and aristocratic, her blonde hair glinting with coppery highlights, and her eyes violet, a long neck, and a melancholy, very delicate smile; the other dark-haired, not quite as tall, but with a body whose soft and feline outlines and explosive sensuality made themselves felt with every step that she took. Both women had slightly murky pasts and present situations that lent themselves to malicious gossip. The men squiring them were also captivating: an athletic German officer with jovial manners, in the one case, and an enigmatic nobleman who plied the eccentric profession of policeman. Soon the two couples had seized the attention of the crowd.
Bianca, turning lightly as a feather, said: “I’m astonished. You dance beautifully. Where did you learn?”
The whole time, Ricciardi kept shooting furtive glances at Livia Manfred.
“An old relic of another life, don’t mention it. As far as that man and that woman are concerned . . . Well, I was friends with her once. I investigated the murder of her husband, a famous tenor.”
Bianca stiffened for a moment.
“Ah, certainly, the widow Vezzi. Even in my isolation I’ve heard of her. Beautiful and deadly to anyone who falls in love with her, that is how she’s described, and she certainly is pretty. She was the talk of the town for a while, before the two of us took that honor.”
Ricciardi shook his head.
“That’s just petty gossip. She’s a good person. She pays the price for having an emotional life. Her personal life hasn’t been simple, and if she reacts at times, it’s because of the wounds that she has sustained. It was she who . . . Well, to make a long story short, the charges that were brought against me originated with her. So, in a certain sense, we have her to thank for our friendship.”
Bianca couldn’t help but turn her eyes toward the widow Vezzi.
“Interesting. I’d be curious to know what happened between the two of you to drive her to such an extreme step, but I have the impression I wouldn’t actually like the answer if I asked. What about him?”
Ricciardi thought a moment before answering.
“Someone I thought I’d seen somewhere once. But I might have been wrong. The typical fantasies of a policeman.”
The woman tilted her head to one side.
“Well, he seems to be pretty taken with your former friend. I’d like it if the person I’m dancing with stared at me like that, even if I’m not as pretty as her.”
The commissario flashed her an unexpected smile.
“Bianca, I’m not much of one for paying compliments, by now you know me. All the same, I think I can safely assure you that you are in absolute terms the most beautiful woman here, and I’m the most envied man.”
A few yards further on, while pretending to listen to what Manfred had to say, Livia was studying Ricciardi. She thought to herself that she had never been able to dance with him, nor had she ever managed to get him to smile at her. She thought to herself that he was very handsome, when he smiled. She thought to herself that that woman, whom Falco had mentioned, was very lucky. And that she, in contrast, was likely to die of grief in the arms of that stupid German, as she tried to seduce him precisely in order to protect the man who was murdering her soul.
The music ended to a burst of applause. Luisella Bartoli came leaping over to Livia’s side and took her hand.
“My dear Livia, I’m so happy that you’re here. I had the pleasure of hearing you sing at your place, last summer: won’t you give us the enormous gift of a small performance tonight as well? We have an express request for it from Colonel Franti, who is a great admirer of yours. Please say yes! I’d be so sorry to disappoint him.”
Livia met the gaze of the high Fascist official in his black shirt, and from across the room he directed a half-bow in her direction. She could not say no. And truth be told, she didn’t really want to. She walked over to the orchestra.
Standing by a French window that led out onto the terrace, partially hidden in the shadow of a nook in the wall, Falco watched her. An artist, he told himself, never misses a chance to be onstage. Never. Luckily.
Vezzi conferred briefly with the trumpet player, who was also the band leader, according to the American model. She uttered the title of a song that had been a huge hit for the past few years, written by a composer she loved very much, and then informed him of the key in which she would be singing it, with her contralto voice. Then she turned to look at the guests, who encouraged her with a round of applause.
The musicians performed a brief, easily recognizable introduction and the audience, who were expecting a Neapolitan romanza, or at the very least a traditional song, buzzed with excitement: a song written by a Jew, in the presence of Nazis and Fascists. That took some nerve. Then Livia began to sing, transporting the hearts of her listeners elsewhere.
Someday he’ll come along
the man I love
and he’ll be big and strong
the man I love . . .
The woman’s eyes ran over the guests, who listened to her in absolute silence. Von Brauchitsch was swept away. Ricciardi realized that that voice was speaking to him and, once again, he was sorry that he had no answer. Falco felt as if he’d been slapped in the face. Bianca, her hand resting on the commissario’s arm, felt a heavy sense of disquiet in her chest.
Livia’s voice, wrapped in the embrace of the trumpet and the violins, punctuated by the notes of the piano and sustained by the clarinets, ran the length of the song, excited and exciting, deeply emotional, until the conclusion, which contained a delicate hint of hope.
From which I’ll never roam
who would, would you
and so all else above
I’m dreaming of the man I love . . .
When the orchestra fell silent, there was a moment of suspense. Many in the room turned to look at the group of Fascists, who had listened silently the whole time—all of them standing, arms folded across their chests, faces expressionless. Then Colonel Franti, the highest ranking officer present, burst into a heartfelt, determined burst of applause, and the rest of his men joined in enthusiastically.
Livia thanked the audience with a slight bow, courteously declined the calls for an encore, and went back to Manfred; she looked pale.
“Major, I beg of you,” she said, “I’ve develo
ped a bit of a headache. Would you see me home?”
The fairhaired German officer replied, solicitously: “Why of course, Signora. It would be my great pleasure. For that matter, what point would there be in staying, if you were to leave?”
Without another glance at the commissario, Livia said farewell to Luisella Bartoli and walked out the door, followed by Manfred.
FIRST INTERLUDE
The old man is uneasy, as if he’s waiting for someone. He looks outside, where the sunset has finally stopped projecting red, oblique flashes of light. The young man notices that he hasn’t put his instrument away in its case, which means that he intends to play it again. Thank God, he says to himself. He continues to be convinced that the only time he can learn anything is when the old man has the good grace to make up his mind to play. Even though, he has to admit, at least to himself, that a part of all that talk about stories, about entering into the spirit, and about imagination is starting to filter into his body, and from there to his hands, his fingers, and his voice.
The young man notices it during his concerts. For a while now a strange thing has been happening to him, he reflects, as he scrutinizes the old man’s profile. While he’s playing, he feels as if he’s leaving the stage and wandering off somewhere else. Down to the seaside, for example, or else to a field of tall wheat, or under a balcony in a narrow street. Instead of concentrating on chords and variations, on countermelodies and the openings of the refrain, on the movements and expressions that his audience expects from him with anxious enthusiasm, he feels as if he’s flying away.
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 20