When the music announced the beginning of the show, Ricciardi and Maione withdrew into Fedora’s dressing room and prepared to wait in that sweetly perfumed air, surrounded by bouquets of flowers and feather boas.
Renzullo excused himself: he needed to go and make sure that the revue, operating without its protagonists, was functioning decently all the same. Before leaving, he couldn’t help but express a hint of satisfaction, however melancholy: “Sadly, we’ve had to turn down requests for tickets from a hundred or so people. If it goes on like this, and if we do at least as well, we’ll have a sold-out house until the middle of next month. Let’s hope so, Commissa’. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed.”
After the impresario left them alone, Maione partly shut the door and said: “Now I’d like you to explain, Commissa’, because I’m not sure I understand. First of all: Why do you want to see the artists one at a time? Wouldn’t it have been enough to just talk with those who were on close terms with Gelmi and Marra? What do you think the others know about them? Second: Why is it important that they come talk to us in this specific room? Third, and this is the most important thing of all: Why are we still investigating? At this point it seems obvious to me that we’ve already arrested the guilty party, and we have further confirmation from the sheet of paper that you found in the dressing gown.”
Ricciardi responded with a faint smile. Even if he acted a little put out, deep in his heart he was always happy when Maione asked for an explanation. Those requests helped him to straighten out his thoughts.
“It was, in fact, the note that convinced me that it’s worth my while to dig deeper. In the meantime, the place where we found it already tells us something: Fedora kept it in the pocket of an article of clothing that, in all likelihood, she wore between one change of clothing and another. That means we can assume that she had no intention of taking the message outside of here, and that the recipient was someone whom the victim regularly frequented here in the theater, which narrows the field.”
Maione tapped his hat, in place of his head.
“That’s why she wrote: ‘till tomorrow.’ She knew for certain that she’d see the person again the following day . . .”
“Exactly. And the correspondence must have been conducted on a daily basis, and in fact she added ‘again, tonight’ and ‘don’t worry,’ as if bidding them farewell prior to a momentary separation.”
The brigadier was perplexed.
“Yes, Commissa’, but what is this embroidery that the actress was going to wear at night? A gift?”
“That we still don’t know, but it’s fundamental to find it out, if for no other reason than to discover whatever motive her husband might have had. And since I’m convinced that none of the artists would ever talk about such a sensitive matter in front of their colleagues, I chose to give them all a chance to meet with me alone. That way, they can avoid reciprocal accusations and all sorts of malicious gossip. Have you noticed that there’s already a division between those who maintain Gelmi’s innocence and those who believe that he’s guilty?”
Maione threw both arms wide.
“I’ll say. But I think that’s relatively normal, given the environment. There are those who’re just grateful to have been cast or hired, who’re thinking to themselves, ‘Now we’re all going to be fired,’ and those who want to take advantage of this opportunity to get their moment in the spotlight.”
As the performances unfolded on the stage, the audience warmed up in its enthusiasm. Propelled by the force of desperation or perhaps by the desire to seize an opportunity, the troupe was giving its all, and the audience seemed to sense the fact.
At a certain point, actors, dancers, and musicians began filing past the two policemen. Their discomfort at finding themselves among the clothing and possessions of the dead woman was easy to discern. Their faces looked warm and uncomfortable, their eyes darted evasively. They mostly recounted the same basic concepts, each in different words: Commissa’, I barely ever crossed paths with Signora Fedora, at rehearsals or onstage. We almost never spoke; she was kind and always had a smile on her face, but she never confided in me. No, I never heard anything about any illicit or secret love affairs. Did I know whether she was on normal terms with her husband? I really couldn’t say. I mind my own business. I’m just here to work.
There were a few though who really did have something to say. The first was the tall, skinny violinist, the one who had defended Gelmi in front of everyone.
“My name is Franceschelli, Commissa’. Renato Franceschelli. I’ve known Michelangelo for thirty-five years, we started out together, and since then each of us has taken his own, very different path. Still, every chance he’s had, he reaches out to cast me. Or at least, he did until now. Commissa’, he’s innocent, I’m sure of it; he wouldn’t hurt a fly, he’s a gentleman, a kindhearted person, the finest lead actor you could imagine. Did Fedora have someone else? Truth be told, I have no idea: she was young and beautiful, and there were plenty of men buzzing around her, in part because they assumed that Michelangelo, at his age . . . Well, you follow me, right? But I’ve never seen her in any compromising situation with anyone else. She certainly never mentioned anything to me about a secret lover, nor do I think that she said anything of the sort to anyone else.”
Franceschelli’s version was more or less the same as that put forth by the most experienced artists, the ones who’d worked with Gelmi the longest.
There was a more varied array of opinions among the younger artists.
The dancer with the chestnut hair simply spoke her farewells and left.
On the other hand, the blonde dancer with the prominent nose, still out of breath from the cancan that she’d just performed, threw restraint to the winds: “Gelmi is a drinker, Commissa’; he’s a heavy drinker. There are days during rehearsals when he can barely stay on his feet. When a person wraps his arms around a bottle, he’ll start to see phantoms of all kinds, and maybe he imagined something. I don’t know whether Fedora was seeing another man; whatever the case, if she was cheating on that old drunk, I can hardly say that I blame her. We’re women, and we need human warmth: gratitude is surely a fine thing, but life is life. He killed her because of some deranged fixation, trust me.”
Pio Romano took a softer line.
“Let me tell you, lately Fedora seemed different, but I can’t swear on a bible that she was being unfaithful. Sure, Gelmi was . . . a bit distracted, and the more time went by, the further apart they grew. Sooner or later, perhaps they would have split up, but to think that he might have murdered her . . . Perhaps he wasn’t himself, Commissa’. It happened at times.”
Two dancers, the brunette and the redhead, came in together to save time and avoid missing their entrance onstage. Their versions failed to match up entirely.
The first one introduced herself as Clelia and said: “I don’t think Gelmi was happy. He was afraid of losing her: she was a diva, she had hordes of admirers. When she walked out onto the stage, none of us counted for a thing anymore.”
The other one, Italia, took a harsher approach: “That’s what bothered him most, if you ask me: she alone existed for the audience. They adored her, and even outside of the theater, out on the street, men couldn’t stop looking at her. Maybe he was jealous.”
Ricciardi asked: “Is it possible that Fedora had a special bond with someone else in the troupe?”
The two young women exchanged a glance of surprise. It was Clelia who answered the question: “You mean with someone here, in the Teatro Splendor? I’d rule that out, Commissa’. We would have noticed, wouldn’t we, Ita’?”
“Yes, of course. Also, why would any of us risk their career like that? No, if she had a lover, he wouldn’t have had anything to do with the revue.”
Among those who established a certain distance were Meloni and Pittella. As usual, the spokesman for the duo was the guitarist: “We were the last ones hired; we owe everything to the lead actor and it would be best for us if we just mind our own business. Yes, we knew that he liked to take a drink now and then. We could smell it wafting off him during rehearsals; we sat close to him. His voice would sound a little slurred, too, even though, thanks to his professional training, he always managed to keep on key. We had fewer interactions with Signora Fedora, because she didn’t sing as often. Let me say it again, we never spent time with them outside the theater.”
The young man had little to add, but what he did say was rather harsh.
“He’s an old man who drinks too much and sleeps the day away. She was beautiful and full of energy. If you ask me, there was nothing wrong with her deciding that she wanted a new lease on life. But the lead actor was jealous, and so he killed her.”
Meloni hushed him up with an angry glare, and the mandolinist shut his mouth like a mousetrap.
The last one to enter the dressing room, after the comic number ended, was the actor with the threadbare tailcoat and the dented top hat. Third only to Gelmi and Marra, he was the best-known name in the cast, at least in the city: his name was Vincenzo Zupo, stage name Zuzú, and he specialized in the macchietta, those humorous songs rife with double entendres that brought out belly laughs from the part of the audience made up of young men and soldiers.
To see him onstage, he looked like a sort of marionette; he was capable of simulating awkward, disconnected movements that were bizarre and hilarious. When not in his onstage persona, his presentation was that of a sarcastic and melancholy man, with big sad eyes that stood out over the greasepaint.
“Commissa’, we actors are strange people. Over the years, out of the habit of depicting all sorts of exaggerations, because that is how you might best describe the emotions we portray onstage, we eventually start to exaggerate offstage as well. And we talk ourselves into believing it’s all true: the tears and the shouts, the laughter and the betrayals. Perhaps poor Michelangelo fell victim to a dream and forgot the difference between reality and imagination. Fedora was an actress, too, and she too made believe for a living. Perhaps she dreamed up a great love of her life and believed in it. This sort of thing happens in the theater world. Outsiders don’t understand it, they think that we’re normal people who practice an unusual profession. In fact, it’s the other way around. We’re unusual people who practice a normal profession.”
Ricciardi took the time to study that sad and asymmetrical face, as if it were a metaphor for the words that the man had just uttered: comic verve on the outside, subdued melancholy on the inside.
“But Zupo, could this dream, this illusion of love actually lead someone to commit a real-life murder? After all, by now whatever success Gelmi still enjoyed depended on Fedora.”
The actor displayed an unhappy smile.
“I told you, Commissa’. We stage people tend to get a bit confused. We think we can transport our acting into life, thereby transforming it into a sort of revue. But life rebels against that. And after all, there isn’t just one kind of love. There can be many types, and when they get mixed together, they can become dangerous.”
To emphasize his point, he performed a movement with his hands and shoulders, miming the act of mixing. Maione chuckled and even Ricciardi couldn’t keep a look of amusement from appearing on his face.
“One last question, Zupo. In your opinion, could there have been an embroidery that Fedora wore at night as a sort of promise of love?”
Zuzú opened both eyes wide. He took his time to think it over, and then, at last, he spoke.
“We embroider continuously. A poem, a song, even a comic sketch, if it’s well executed, resembles nothing so much as an embroidery. It might be a lovely undergarment, a nightgown, but even a glance, a word, a sequence of notes. We embroider, Commissa’. No matter what.”
After the comedian left the room, Maione sighed: “He was the last one, Commissa’. To judge from the applause, it strikes me that Gelmi’s and Marra’s orphans have managed to pull it off. Whereas we’re back at square one.”
Ricciardi massaged his temple.
“Who can say, Raffaele. We’ve gathered information that may turn out to be useful later. As far as I’m concerned, I learned what I needed to know, and I’m even more convinced that we need to investigate Gelmi’s motive. No one has really figured out why he pulled the trigger, or at least, no one has said why.”
Maione lifted his hand to the visor of his cap.
“Agreed, Commissa’. With your permission, I’ll let you head back to the office to finish up your day, and I’ll swing by the hospital to see the doctor and find out whether he can give us the findings of the autopsy. Then I’ll head home, again, with your permission: when New Year’s is in the offing and she has a banquet to cook, Lucia becomes a real wild woman; I’ve got to go rescue my poor children. Do you know what she told me yesterday? She said: ‘You’re off gallivanting around at the theater all day, and I’m stuck in here slaving away.’ Have you ever heard of such a thing?”