Maione had done some digging and was able to report to Ricciardi that Gelmi’s and Fedora Marra’s troupe, now bereft of both their lead actors, had gathered at the Teatro Splendor; they were trying to decide how to put on the show, by modifying the numbers in the revue, and for how much longer they could do so.
Commissario and brigadier together therefore decided to head over to the theater. As they exited police headquarters, the December sun was starting to sink into the west.
They were greeted at the theater, as they had been the evening previous, by Renzullo, the proprietor. His manner was less frantic, but he remained quite pessimistic concerning the near future.
“Certainly,” he said, “the first few days there will be crowds. You can just imagine, the curiosity to see where it happened: the newspapers, the city, and perhaps even the nation as a whole are talking of nothing else. But then, things will start to go downhill. Without Fedora and Michelangelo, who do you think will want to come and pay to see the revue? It’s a disaster, Commissa’, an enormous disaster!”
Maione grew uncomfortable. That foolish man annoyed him.
“What kind of disaster are you talking about? You’re keeping the revue in rotation until January 15th, aren’t you? Between one thing and another, you’ll have a full house from now till then, and you come out smelling like roses.”
“No, indeed, Brigadie’. Not a bit. Because the show, Ah, l’Amour! is a joint production, ours and Gelmi’s. We put it together ourselves, and most of the artists are from here. It was scheduled to end on the 15th, that’s true, but then it was scheduled to travel on to Rome for a month and return here. Fedora was a star attraction, topping the bill at even the most important theaters. And instead now . . .”
Ricciardi grew attentive.
“And instead now?”
Renzullo sighed.
“To be truthful, Commissario, the big draw was Fedora. She was who people came to see, and her name was internationally renowned. She was wonderful, a formidable actress; she could sing and she could dance. She was born for the stage, and she died, sadly, on the stage. I still can’t resign myself to the fact.”
Maione said: “Gelmi was a big name, too, wasn’t he?”
Renzullo shrugged and his double chin wobbled in a comical fashion.
“Michelangelo? Sure, sure, of course. He certainly was a big name.”
“What do you mean, Renzu’? Speak clearly, if you don’t mind.”
“Michelangelo was a genuine star, no doubt about it. But every star, you know, eventually sets. As things stand now, Michelangelo is only, or was only, Fedora Marra’s husband. His fame was dying out. A man is only handsome as long as it lasts; then his hair starts to thin, wrinkles arrive, false teeth . . . If you liked him when he was young, then you no longer want to see him now that he’s old. That would just remind you that you’re getting old too. And the audience no longer wants to think about things like that.”
Ricciardi weighed in: “Was he jealous of his wife?”
Renzullo’s eyes opened wide.
“No, no, Commissa’. Michelangelo was extremely grateful to Fedora, who could have had whatever her heart desired and had instead chosen to help him to stay in the limelight and go on filling theaters. In the business, her kindness, her devotion to her husband, her gratitude for his having discovered her, were all cited as exemplary. Michelangelo always told her so. Everyone had witnessed it. There was no envy between them, far from it. That’s why I can’t understand why he would have shot her. It kept me up all night.”
Maione spoke up: “What do you mean?”
“I can’t understand why a man would kill his goose that lays the golden egg. Without Fedora, Michelangelo would have been washed up in the theater, let’s be clear. Finished. No one would dream of casting him alone. For that matter, he was starting to lose his voice, so he’s not much good even as a singer anymore. He would have had to accept a steady downgrade; smaller and smaller theaters, and cheaper and drearier. If you only knew how many I’ve seen wind up like that. With Fedora, Gelmi was still a big name. But now he’s a dead man.”
Maione snorted: “Truth be told, she’s the one who’s dead. Take us to see the artists, Renzu’. We want to talk to them.”
There was something strange about the hall of the Teatro Splendor. Ricciardi wondered just what it was. It wasn’t the fact that he was seeing it without an audience. Nor was it the silence, only slightly disturbed by the chatter and laughter of the working staff, which reached his ears, muffled, from the distant kitchen.
Suddenly, the commissario understood. It was the light; it poured down from above, through the skylight. A subdued glow that gave the large room the same atmosphere as an empty church. On the stage, someone had placed a rose at the exact spot where Fedora Marra had slumped to the floor: the star, the prima donna, the unquestioned protagonist. A red rose, naked, with a long stem, no longer really fresh, because a few petals had already broken off.
Ricciardi stepped closer, attracted by the ghostly image that revealed itself only to his eyes, and no one else’s. The rose, the petals, the dark leaves, the curtain gathered off to one side of the stage. Fedora’s corpse, drooling and spitting blood from its mouth and nose, with a large stain on its chest, all the while staring sweetly at the far side of the stage, murmuring: Love of my life. Love of my life. Love of my life.
Those were the exact same words that Michelangelo Gelmi had used in his declaration of innocence. The love of his life, the woman whose very existence on this earth he had cut short with a bullet to the heart. Suffocating her in her own life’s blood, but still giving her time enough to give back that final thought.
Love of my life. What right do I have to condemn you to all this, Enrica? What madness, even greater than my own lifelong madness, could persuade me to think I might be able to share my life with you? How can I hold your hand on a sunny morning in the midst of the dead that I see while they remain invisible to you? The dead who call me, unheard by you? Wouldn’t it be better, far, far better, to leave you to your life? Why did you reject the offer of that German officer, making me responsible for your solitude?
Ricciardi’s heart began to race, pounding louder. What about your own happiness? a voice whispered to him. What do we have to say about the fact that for some time now, you’ve been waking up with a smile on your face?
He went back to focusing on the murder. He turned to Renzullo and said: “If you please, alert the troupe and tell them that we are here and ready to interview certain individuals among them. First summon Romano, and then the musicians who were onstage at the moment of the murder. After that, we’ll go backstage to take a look around.”
Pio Romano had a very different appearance from the one he’d displayed in the circumstances—quite mortifying for him—in which they’d first met. If it hadn’t been for his somewhat ashen complexion, he would have seemed exactly what he hoped to seem: a handsome, well dressed, and nicely groomed young man, determined to be a successful actor.
He walked toward Maione and Ricciardi with a smile.
“Commissario, what a pleasure it is to meet you again! I’m sorry about yesterday, it’s not every day that you see a fellow actor and colleague murdered right next to you, especially not immediately after having allowed yourself to be shot by the very same pistol, luckily in my case firing a blank. I’m entirely at your disposal.”
When he fell silent, he could still fool you, but the minute he opened his mouth there was no concealing his tendencies. He reminded Maione of Bambinella, the femminiello he regularly turned to for information about everything and everyone. The two of them could have passed for twins, if you ignored the attire.
Ricciardi asked: “How long have you been working with this troupe, Romano?”
“Oh, from the beginning. Three seasons. There were fifteen or so of us at the auditions and, modestly, I have to say that they chose me.”
Maione interrupted: “Who chose you?”
“Signor Gelmi in person. He’s the one who chooses the actors.”
“And did you always play the same part?”
The man was nervous; he avoided even looking at the stage, doing everything he could to keep his back to it.
“The role of the faithless best friend, you mean? Well, not just that role. We all perform in more than one number in the show. I’m also a very good singer, I have a fine baritone voice. I play the fiancé who can’t seem to close the deal in Quanno mammeta nun ce sta and the young suitor in E allora? I don’t know if you’re familiar, it’s the one that goes: Nel tram di Posillipo, al tempo dell’esta’ . . .”
Maione grew impatient.
“Roma’, this isn’t an audition, you know. Why don’t you tell us, instead, whether you had witnessed any arguments between Gelmi and his wife in the recent past.”
Ricciardi shot him a glance. Maione wasn’t usually this brusque, but the brigadier replied with an imperceptible nod of reassurance. Don’t worry, Commissa’, it clearly meant, I’m taking care of this.
Romano put on a vaguely guilty expression.
“Forgive me, Brigadie’. I tend to wander. Yes, there were certainly some arguments between Michelangelo and Fedora. He was . . . well, nothing serious, eh, don’t get me wrong, but a little bit jealous, yes, that he was. Maybe he could sense that everyone liked Fedora, because she was a wonderful woman, inside and out. As for him . . . well, he was charming, you’ve seen him for yourselves, he’s a good-looking man, and talented. But he was getting older, Brigadie’. He was certainly getting older.”
Ricciardi broke in: “Was he jealous of you, too?”
Romano looked at him with a strange glitter in his eyes. He seemed somehow gratified by that question.
“Jealous of me? Certainly, he would have had plenty of good reasons. I’m a man with a pleasing presence, Commissa’: a very pleasing presence. That’s why I decided to become an actor, because of my appearance. I know that I’m quite attractive. Just think, my mother, God bless her soul . . .”
Maione stepped forward and snarled: “Roma’, I’m going to say this once, and I won’t say it again: Answer the commissario’s questions. It’s in your best interest, trust me.”
The actor ran his tongue over his lips. A faint beading of sweat appeared on his forehead. His voice suddenly became high-pitched and a little screechy: “Certainly, forgive me. No, he wasn’t jealous of me. He trusted me, I’d have to imagine. And then, Fedora was like a sister to me, we spent lots of time together; she even asked me advice about her onstage costumes, her makeup . . . I take an interest in those things, as well, you know, and . . .” His gaze came to rest first on the brigadier and then on the commissario. “In other words, it’s not as if women and I . . . Gelmi trusted me, you see.”
Ricciardi nodded. He understood full well that people with Romano’s tastes needed to be quite cautious. He decided that he’d heard enough, for the moment.
“All right, Romano. We’re done. One last thing: in your opinion, was Gelmi’s jealousy based on reasonable suspicion or was it the fruit of an obsession? And do you think the victim had been, or might have been involved in an illicit relationship?”
Romano thought it over and then smiled.
“Commissario, if you had asked me that question when both Gelmi and the poor, late Fedora were present, I would have said no without a moment’s hesitation. I like my job; the wrong turn of phrase would have turned one or the other of them violently against me, and I would soon have been fired. But Gelmi is in prison, isn’t he? And Fedora . . . So if I have to tell you the truth, I’d say that there was something on her mind. From the way that she dressed, the way that she talked . . . Even in performance, when someone is happy, you can tell. And Gelmi was a bit jealous, like I told you. But not obsessed, no; and there have never been scenes between them. Perhaps it was partly out of concern for his reputation: he didn’t want to stoke the flames of gossip. And he knew he depended on his wife for his profession. In any case, they were in love. Perhaps it was not the kind of love affair that sweeps you away, but still, it was full of tenderness and kindness.”
Tenderness, thought Ricciardi. Love of my life, Fedora’s ghost kept saying, on the stage behind the rose.