They ate. They drank. Enrica’s father smiled politely, though he also gave the impression that, of them all, he was the least caught up in the general hilarity. The German major, in his best dress uniform, was playing with the little ones and chatting agreeably with Enrica’s sister, and slapping the sister’s husband on the back with fraternal camaraderie. At a certain point, he even took Enrica’s mother in his arms and danced a few steps with her, delighting her no end.
Enrica was wearing a calf-length dark brown skirt, tight at the waist, and a white silk blouse under a short jacket that Ricciardi couldn’t remember ever having seen before. For that matter, he told himself, as if determined to inflict further torture upon himself, the occasion demanded new clothes.
The young woman appeared to be quite calm, at her ease. She displayed no signs of tension. And why should she have been nervous at all, for that matter? After all, what was about to happen was the answer to all her dreams. To any woman’s dreams.
While all that remained for him to do was to sing in silence, in the darkness of his own soul and forever, the nameless serenade.
Certainly, the two of them were perfectly matched. Manfred was attractive and self confident, and that meant that Livia’s courtship hadn’t achieved the intended effects. Enrica was . . . she was perfect. Ricciardi couldn’t have found any other word to describe her.
The evening proceeded according to a script of familiar predictability. From his observation post, the commissario imagined the subjects discussed between one course and the next and dessert, between a sip of wine and a sip of after-dinner rosolio liqueur.
Then Enrica’s younger sister left the room with the children, and shortly thereafter the married sister also said her farewells, taking her husband with her. The major stood up to say goodbye to the couple, unfurling a dazzling smile, and Ricciardi detected a faint blush on his face; he wondered whether that was to be attributed to the alcohol he’d consumed or else to a hint of agitation over the declaration he was getting ready to make.
In the living room, aside from the man, the only people left were Enrica, her father, and her mother.
The German lifted his hand, clenched in a fist, in front of his mouth, as if to clear his throat. Ricciardi wished he had the strength to put an end to that torture, to pull the blinds and climb into bed, as he had said he would, where he could contemplate his own destiny, fall asleep or even, perhaps, just die.
The major began to speak. Enrica’s mother listened to him ecstatically, without missing a single syllable. Her father gazed at his daughter impassively with an impenetrable expression on his austere face. Enrica laid her hands in her lap and kept her eyes downturned, focused on her new skirt; once she adjusted her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose. Ricciardi scrutinized her bosom, watching it rise and fall as she breathed calmly.
Manfred concluded his speech. Enrica’s mother seemed to burst with happiness. She turned toward her daughter and nodded in her direction, as if to signal that it was time for her to answer.
Enrica stood up. She took a step and spoke in her turn.
Suddenly a stunned look of astonishment appeared on the mother’s face, the smile freezing into a grimace, like someone listening to a foreign language and not understanding a word. Her father covered his eyes.
Ricciardi leapt to his feet.
Manfred’s brow was furrowed, his jaw hung slack, his right hand hung in midair; he looked like a director looking out over his orchestra, about to strike up the first notes of a symphony.
Enrica walked over to him, caressed his face gently, and left the room.
A moment later she appeared in the deserted kitchen and looked across at what must have seemed to her to be a darkened window.
Then she sat down, and she smiled.
NOTE
The verses in the Prologue and in Second Interlude are taken from the song Voce ’e notte. Lyrics by Edoardo Nicolardi and music by Ernesto De Curtis (1903).
The verses in chapter XI are taken from the song Come pioveva, performed by Achille Togliani. Lyrics and music by Armando Gill (1918).
The verses in chapter XVIII are taken from the song Parlami d’amore, Mariú, performed by Vittorio de Sica. Lyrics by Ennio Neri and music by Cesare Andrea Bixio (1932).
The verses in chapter XXVII are taken from the song The Man I Love. Lyrics by Ira Gershwin and music by George Gershwin (1924).
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, this journey into the early 1930s was undertaken with the loving care and sheer expertise of a great many people.
Ricciardi, as everyone knows, would never have existed without Francesco Pinto and Aldo Putignano.
The story was imagined, once again, by Antonio Formicola and his priceless criminal mind.
Naples and its characters were furnished, dressed, painted, colored, and described through the tireless research of Stefania Negro, with the fundamental assistance of the Archivi Troncone e Parisio.
The wounds and the lesions of the dead who enliven Ricciardi’s days and night were sketched out and filled in by the expertise of Davide Miraglia and Roberto de Giovanni.
Lunches and dinners were prepared with assistance of Nicola Buono and Alfredo Carannante.
The punches both in the ring and outside of it, the training and sacrifices of Vinnie Sannino, were knowledgeably recounted by Bruno Valente and by my dear Ettore Coppola.
This book is the result of the wonderful work of Francesco Colombo, Daniela La Rosa, Rosella Postorino, Chiara Bertolone, Riccardo Falcinelli, Maria Ida Cartoni, Paola Novarese, and whose fantastic young women. And let’s not forget Paolo Repetti, okay.
But never could I have imagined, conceived, or narrated a thing, nor would I, without the hand, the smile, the voice, the limpid mind, and clear heart of my sweet Paola.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maurizio de Giovanni’s Commissario Ricciardi books are bestsellers across Europe, having sold well over one million copies. He is also the author of the contemporary Neapolitan thriller, The Crocodile (Europa, 2013), and the contemporary Neapolitan series, The Bastards of Pizzofalcone. He lives in Naples with his family.
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