As agreed, Ricciardi and Maione also requested a private interview with the two musicians who were onstage when the fatal shot was fired; the guitarist and the mandolinist who had huddled, appalled, at one corner of the stage, motionless as a pair of props, spectators with some of the best seats in the house for an event that was the talk of the entire city.
Before going to summon them, Renzullo provided the policemen with a bit of information: “Commissa’, they’re first-rate musicians. Gelmi and Fedora were very selective in their choice of cast and crew. The guitarist is named Elia Meloni; Aurelio Pittella is the mandolinist. They were posteggiatori: strolling musicians who played in trattorias or did the occasional serenade; and they rounded out their earnings by playing in the street, part-time buskers. They were starving, all things considered. Gelmi and his wife first heard them, in fact, playing in front of a restaurant, and they fell in love with them. It was a sound hunch: their presence in the revue became a truly fundamental element. This is the first revue they’ve performed in; they were scheduled to tour all of Italy, and this was the opportunity of a lifetime. For them and for the others. Who knows what will become of them now, poor guys.”
Just like Pio Romano, the new arrivals also turned their backs to the stage, doing their best not to look at where Fedora had slumped to the floorboards and where the rose now lay, almost withered and sad. It seemed as if no one wished to remember that final, tragic image.
Ricciardi, however, wanted to delve into the witnesses’ memories.
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary yesterday, say, before the show? Did Gelmi and Marra have any disagreements or quarrels?”
The answer came from the elder of the pair, Elia Meloni, the guitarist. He was well over fifty. His slick black hair grayed around the temples, producing a strange, two-tone effect; the skin was slightly reddened around his cheeks, and fairly wrinkled. His back was bowed, his hands were large, his voice was low and deferential, and he had a tendency to put a tense smile on his lips that his eyes, watery and sad as those of a hunting dog, failed to echo.
“No, Commissario. We both talked it over, between us and with the others as well, and no one remembers any such thing. The lead actor—Gelmi, I mean—and his wife seemed happy and untroubled, focused on the show, like always. And so were we, as far as that goes. Nothing unusual, otherwise we would have noticed it.”
The two men wore clothing that was far more humble and threadbare than the costumes they wore onstage. Their jackets and trousers sagged shapeless at knees and elbows, their lapels shiny with wear, their shirts a dull gray from too many trips to the washtub. It was clear that they hadn’t yet begun to enjoy the benefits of a salary in a successful revue: and, at this point, who could say if they ever would.
From time to time, the tall, skinny young man turned around as if some irresistible force were drawing him toward the stage. Then he’d turn back to look at his colleague and the two policemen.
Maione spoke: “Tell us what happened.”
The guitarist turned to look at the brigadier. There were no doubts about which of the two was the spokesman.
“We were doing the very last number of the revue, a dramatized version of the song, Rundinella. You know it, of course? The lyrics are about a man whose wife leaves him. She runs off with his best friend. It’s a lovely song, and we perform the musical accompaniment. When it’s necessary, Aurelio, here, who’s a virtuoso, emphasizes with the mandolin. It’s not a difficult piece, but it has the breadth and dimension of a story. It’s practically a short novel, a romanzo.”
Ricciardi spoke to the mandolinist.
“And at what point does Gelmi fire the gun?”
The young man turned to look at his colleague, who urged him on: “Aure’, answer the commissario.”
Pittella’s voice came out deep and sonorous.
“At the end of the song. Then we bring it to a close. Elia runs through the chords and I repeat the melody from the introduction, but in a higher octave, as if the mandolin were taking the singer’s place. The lead actor wasn’t able to hit that high note for the whole duration, so I . . .”
Meloni interrupted, brusquely.
“But not because there’s anything wrong with his voice, eh, Commissa’, it’s just that the time in question is too long. That’s the only reason. He has to shoot the two faithless lovers who fall dead at his feet, portray his extreme sorrow and pain, and then throw the pistol away . . . In other words, it’s no simple matter.”
Maione butted in: “Renzullo told us that you were both hired by Gelmi. Did you know him and his wife well? Did you spend time with them outside of working hours as well?”
The guitarist shook his head.
“Oh no, Brigadie’. We only met the lead actor and his wife last summer. They were dining with friends at a trattoria in Mergellina, where Aurelio and I were playing, hoping for a tip or two. He started singing too, and we shifted key to match his voice. We always do it, it makes our customers happy. Gelmi liked what we’d done, and he suggested we come to the theater the next day. We auditioned all morning, do you remember, Aure’?”
Pittella nodded and worked up the nerve to speak.
“Signora Fedora was happy with us, too. They told us to come in on the following Monday, because there was something we might be interested in. But we’ve never seen them outside of this theater, we wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ricciardi remained silent for a few seconds as he thought. Then he asked: “By any chance, did you get the impression that yesterday Gelmi fired his gun any differently than other times? Did he just aim the pistol in Romano’s and Marra’s direction, or did he take careful aim?”
The mandolinist heaved a sigh, shuddering at the recollection, while Meloni replied: “I’d say not, Commissa’. Certainly, we tend to our playing, we keep our eyes on our instruments, we’re not like those audience members who enjoy the revue with a glass in their hand, but I don’t think there was anything different.”
Maione weighed in: “What about you, Pitte’? Did you notice anything?”
The mandolinist turned once again briefly in the direction of the rose. From the shadows of the stage, Fedora’s ghost spoke softly to Ricciardi: Love of my life. Love of my life. Love of my life.
“What was different was the blood. All that blood,” the young man murmured.
The phrase, uttered as if to himself in that bass voice, was a gust of icy wind on a winter day without a chill. From the skylight came a dwindling shaft of light.
Meloni resumed: “We weren’t on personal terms with the lead actor and his wife, Commissa’. We just tried to do our best at what we know how to do, because this was a huge opportunity and we were hoping it would offer us a living that until recently we couldn’t even have dreamed of. As you can see, however, that dream has ended. The show is shutting down and everyone is back out on the street, to fend for themselves; in our case, we’re back where we’ve been all our lives. It looks like that was fate.”
Everyone fell silent, each of them following the trail of their own thoughts.
In the end, it was Maione who broke the silence.
“If either of you happens to remember any new details, let us know.”
Meloni coughed sharply.
“Excuse me, but what else is there to figure out? Isn’t it obvious what happened?”
The brigadier shrugged his shoulders.
“This is standard practice, Melo’. We still have to ask these questions.”
Pittella opened his eyes wide, suddenly revealing the naïveté of his twenty years of age.
“But the answer never changes. Gelmi killed his wife. We were there.”
Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a glance, each thinking that that was the only solid, incontrovertible fact of the whole affair.