Even though his shift at the office didn’t begin until noon, Maione left home early, and was therefore one of the first in the city to notice the unusual atmospheric phenomenon.
There was fog in the air.
In a city where even the climate liked to exaggerate, where there was a regular alternation between the ferocious heat that seized you by the throat and the damp chill that insinuated its way into your bones, where the rain slapped down furiously for a few minutes at a time and the hot wind gusted the scents of Africa and the insanity of the sea, tossing skirts high and making off with hats, well, even there that kind of mist—capable of dulling the senses and transforming a person into the only inhabitant of a world closed in on itself—was virtually unknown.
At the threshold of his front door, Maione looked around, confused. At least the unseasonable heat had a cause, or rather, an effect. A stray dog went past, hugging close to the wall and looking up at the brigadier as if in search of a little comfort, and then continued his way up the street. Maione heaved a sigh and stepped out into the mist.
Lucia had grumbled a bit: she was counting on her husband for the traditional dinner the following day. Not any direct assistance, let that be understood; the cooking was the exclusive domain of Lucia and her two eldest daughters, whom the woman was instructing in the art of preparing both main and side dishes. But Raffaele could take care of the littler ones: take them out to play or entertain them with a fairy tale or two.
Her objections, however, subsided immediately, after Maione told her a story far more appalling than any made-up one. At that point, it was she who urged him to go, and to waste no time in tracking down the bastard or bastards who had savagely beaten that poor young woman. Lucia, thought the brigadier, as he narrowed his eyes to better make out the street ahead of him, was an intelligent and discerning woman, always attentive to the importance and seriousness of his work.
The evening before the policeman had ventured as far as La Torretta, to talk to Mamma Clara. The elderly madam had welcomed him with her usual attitude, at once rough and affectionate: “Brigadie’, what an honor! Are you interested in having some fun? I have a brand new guagliona, a Venetian, who’s a delectable pastry. Come right in.”
Maione had shaken his head, and then he’d given her the bad news. The woman had listened in silence, and tears had started running down her cheeks, even as her face maintained its initial expression of flinty impassiveness. Then she’d said: “Lina is a young woman who’s good as gold, she’s like a daughter to me. She has a kind thought for everyone, the customers adore her and even the other girls love her like a member of their own family; they take shifts on a fifteen-day basis, but she’s full time, a regular. I don’t have family and in my head I’ve always assumed that she’ll take my place when it’s my time to go. This morning she let me know she was taking a day off and left, saying: ‘Till tonight, Mammà.’ That’s what she calls me: Mammà. Ask anything you need to ask, and if there’s anything I can do to help, consider it done. No doubt about it, consider it done.”
Unfortunately no information emerged from the conversation that might amount to a promising lead. The young woman who’d been attacked had never mentioned enemies to Mamma Clara, much less personal problems with customers who might have threatened her; and at work she had never been involved in arguments or disagreements.
“Brigadie’, you know it well: this isn’t an easy line of work. But Lina is special. She understands people. She talks to them. Certain clients, such as Dr. Modo, come to see her for that very reason, and they never even take their clothes off. None of them would have even dreamed of laying a finger on her. Not a chance . . . not a chance of anything like this.”
Then Maione had asked her whether she had an address or name for any relations. At first the woman had shaken her head, but then her face had lit up and she had waved for him to wait. And she’d headed off through a small door. She’d reappeared minutes later waving a folded sheet of paper.
“Here you go. The girls always give me an address I can turn to if anything happens; I don’t know, an accident of any kind. She’d given me one, too, but she’s been with me so long I’d completely forgotten about it. But I never throw anything away.”
Maione had taken the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket. As he was about to leave, Clara stopped him: “Brigadie’, forgive me. I wanted to ask you . . . I mean, I can go to the hospital, right? The doctor wouldn’t be ashamed, would he? I want to be close to Lina, tonight. Like I told you, she calls me Mammà. And if something bad happens to a daughter, a mother needs to be near her. What do you say, can I go?”
The policeman suddenly felt a knot in his throat, and all he’d managed to do was nod his head affirmatively.
He hadn’t slept well. The sight of that ravaged body had persecuted him, appearing before his eyes every time that sleep dared to venture near. It hadn’t been a normal beating. He’d seen plenty of them in his time, and this one was different. Whoever had had it in for the woman wanted to see her dead, and if that was in the midst of indescribable suffering, so much the better.
And so, before going to the address indicated on the sheet of paper, which was on the far side of the city from the brothel, he had decided to meet with someone who might, perhaps, know more about this matter even than Mamma Clara. He had no doubts about the sincerity of the proprietor of the cathouse, but he had learned that sometimes people choose not to confide in those they love best; in part to keep from placing burdens on their shoulders that can prove tiresome, or worse.
He started his long walk up the hill, which the fog made even longer than usual. He put one foot ahead of the other, steeped in a dreamlike dimension; from time to time the cobblestone paving tripped him up. Irregular and pothole-riddled as it was, it required sharp eyesight from even a practiced pedestrian. Perhaps due to the recently past Christmas, or the imminently impending New Year’s Day, the narrow lanes, or vicoli, seemed empty of life. The brigadier felt a twinge of melancholy at the sight of all those abandoned, deserted streets, drained of desires and passions, where solitude reigned unopposed.
Suddenly, somewhere nearby, a man began singing. Perhaps it was a bricklayer at the start of his workday, or even a lover launching into the previous night’s last serenade or else the first of the coming day.
Si duorme o si nun duorme, bella mia,
siente pe’ ’nu mumento chesta voce:
chi te vo’ bene assaje sta mmiez’a via
pe’ te canta’ ’na canzuncella doce . . .
(Whether you sleep or don’t sleep, my lovely,
Listen to this voice for a moment!
The one who loves you so much stands here in the street
To sing a beautiful song for you.)
The refrain was nicely modulated by a fine tenor voice, and Maione, with a smile, felt himself once again the master of his city.
Once he reached his destination, he became suddenly aware of the early hour and wondered whether the person he was going to see would be up and about, resigning himself to the likelihood of a wait; but as he reached the top of the stairs, panting as usual and slightly dizzy as the blood rushed to his head, he found the door left ajar. The song that he’d heard coming from who knew what obscure corner of the neighborhood came to a halt, and a familiar voice spoke: “Brigadie’, come right in! Make yourself comfortable!”
Maione made his way inside through the myriad items of Chinese furniture and bric-a-brac that furnished the small apartment and found himself in a small room whose existence he had never suspected. The room looked out upon a narrow balcony.
“Bambine’, what is this place? I didn’t know you actually had a terrace.”
The muffled atmosphere gave the personage seated out on the tiny balcony in a small armchair an even more surreal appearance than usual. She looked like a ghost of indeterminate gender in the midst of the Amazonian jungle. Her long hair was bound up in a high bun, with just two curls dangling over her ears; her earrings dangled alongside them, undulating back and forth, accompanying every small movement of her head; her long, slightly equine profile; her large, liquid eyes, which accentuated the resemblance to a purebred horse; all of this bundled up in a red satin robe with embroidered flowers, tone on tone, from which extended a pair of hairy, skinny, gracefully crossed legs.
Maione sighed, wondering to himself as he always did what crime he had committed to deserve having to put up with that sight.
“Eh, Brigadie’,” said Bambinella, “there are many things you don’t know about this girl, and let me assure you, many of them are things that yours truly would gladly make available to you, if you wished to find out more; I’m quite sure that they’d make you a happy man. I never let anyone see this room; I come here when I want to spend some time alone, and I’m happy to tell you that that’s not a common occurrence.”
The policeman looked around. The furnishings here were different from the rest of the apartment. Sober, almost spartan. A table, two chairs; a photograph on the wall depicting a smiling priest surrounded by several children dressed in smocks with bows at the collar. Then the little balcony, which looked out from the back of the building.
“Why are you sitting out here? And how did you know I was climbing the stairs?”
Bambinella sighed theatrically.
“But have you seen it, this fog? Isn’t it the strangest thing, Brigadie’? It’s lovely. It seems like a dream to me, some kind of magic. Suddenly everything is gone: the buildings, the alleys; there aren’t even any people. And with the new year just arriving, you realize that? Perhaps the end of the world is coming, and we’re all about to die.”
Maione replied by making the ancient sign of the horns, with extended forefinger and pinkie, a gesture thought to ward off bad luck: “Or maybe it’s just the end of you that’s coming, and about time, too. But why are you saying all these things that bring bad luck today of all days?”
The femminiello shrugged her shoulders, with a graceful movement.
“I mean, a girl can’t entertain a serious thought. Anyway, it’s not as though the alley telegraph stops working just because there’s fog. And, respectfully speaking, you’re quite the sight this morning, with that uniform and those fine broad shoulders of yours that make me think certain naughty thoughts . . .”
“Do me a favor, Bambine’, continue your philosophical line of thinking, that way maybe you can save your life again today. Listen, I need some information.”
Bambinella turned to look at him with a spark of interest.
“If this is about what happened at the Teatro Splendor, why don’t you tell me all about it, because nobody’s talking about anything else in the whole city. What happened? Did Fedora have a boyfriend? Who was it? Mamma mia, how I like that Michelangelo Gelmi, what a powerful, captivating man. I can still remember in that film, what was it called? The Ride of the Bedouin. I must have seen it at least ten times, I’ve seen it! And I’d give him a ride, oooh, such a ride . . .”
The policeman threw both arms wide: “It’s just no good. There’s no way to have a decent conversation with you, the older you get the worse it becomes. We’re working on the theater, but we still don’t know anything specific. In any case, you’re the one who needs to give me information, not the other way around. I need you for something else, though. I should tell you that a woman came in to Dr. Modo’s hospital and she . . .”
Bambinella leapt to her feet.
“Ah. So this is about Lina from La Torretta?”
Maione sighed in resignation.
“And how do you know about that, now? That’s fresh news, from yesterday. Who on earth told you about it?”
The femminiello leaned against the railing, tugging her robe around her neck. Her large eyes darted this way and that, in an attempt to penetrate the layer of mist. But it was no good.
“A couple of friends told me, one of them a customer of mine. They found her at a street corner. They drove her over to just next to Pellegrini hospital. She had asked them to take her there.”
Maione instinctively lowered his voice.
“And where did the beating take place?”
Bambinella had a moment’s hesitation.
“Brigadie’, I can tell you about this thing, but I have to be certain that you’re not going to bring the law into it.”
The policeman clenched his fists.
“And how do you expect me to make you a promise like that? Do you remember, who I am? Don’t play hard to get or I’ll throw you behind bars in the blink of an eye.”
In contrast to his expectations, Maione saw Bambinella glare at him defiantly.
“Then I’ll get dressed and come with you, Brigadie’. Because this time my mouth is stitched shut.”
Maione couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it.
“Why, what’s come over you? That poor woman is at death’s door. She’s not out of danger yet, that’s for sure. Modo is pessimistic; don’t you feel even a twinge of pity?”
Bambinella whispered: “Precisely because I’m capable of pity, I won’t talk to you, unless you can assure me that the law won’t be brought into this thing. Otherwise I’ll clam up even if you take me to prison and torture me there, the way you always do with criminals.”
The uniformed man was shocked.
“You think we torture . . . Have you lost your mind? Who do you take us for, you idiot?”
“It’s one way or the other: either you promise and you’ll find out, or you don’t promise and you don’t find out.”
The brigadier seemed like a steam locomotive on the verge of exploding. He took a long deep breath and hissed through clenched teeth: “I give you my word of honor, damn it all to hell. Now talk.”
Bambinella smiled sweetly and sat on one of the two chairs indoors, gesturing for Maione to make himself comfortable as well.
“Brigadie’, Lina is a friend of mine. We’ve known each other for a very long time, from long before you can even begin to imagine. Among those of us who practice this profession, in brothels or as freelancers, she’s an institution, a saint. Ours may be a profession of sinful women, but if the Lord Almighty was able to forgive Mary Magdalene, then I’m sure that Lina, too, will go straight to heaven.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard. But I’d say that not everyone agrees with you, if what happened happened, right?”
“It’s not quite such a simple matter, Brigadie’. It’s not so simple.” The femminiello appeared to hesitate, and then she began: “My friends sell fish and they were on their way back from Pozzuoli. During the holidays they go there twice a day, because there’s considerable demand, and that’s why she’s still alive today, otherwise she would have died on the spot.”
“Where did they find her?”
“At the Masseria del Campiglione, the farmhouses.”
That was the same place as had been marked on the sheet of paper that Mamma Clara had given Maione.
“Go on,” said the policeman.
“I don’t know much more than that. They spotted her from a distance, and she was already lying flat on the ground. There were two men pounding away at her, but they took to their heels when they saw the delivery van approaching. My friends lifted her up and Lina told them: ‘Please, take me to Pellegrini hospital, to Dr. Modo.’ They had to ask her to say it three times, because it was impossible to understand.”
Maione thought back to that ravaged face, and the fog that lay in wait outside the little balcony suddenly seemed more menacing than before.
“Bambine’, you know who did it. Otherwise, nothing that you’ve told me so far required that promise. If you love your friend, give me the names.”
The femminiello met the policeman’s gaze.
“Brigadie’, precisely because I love her, I can’t do that. I know those names, I can imagine them, but I can’t tell you.”
The policeman shook his head.
“I don’t understand, damn it.”
Bambinella’s eyes filled with tenderness.
“Listen to me. Everyone has dreams of their own. Even a whore, otherwise she’d never be able to put up with this life. And Lina had her dream, in fact. Or, I should say, she has her dream. She’s had it for sixteen years. A dream she’s worked very hard to attain. And who are we, you and I, to take that dream away from her? I’m sure that she’d rather die than lose that dream. And that’s the whole story.”
After that, she got back to her feet and went back outside to stare at the fog. She cleared her throat and in her wonderful light tenor voice began to sing again:
’N cielo se so’ arrucchiate ciento stelle
tutte pe’ sta’ a senti’ chesta canzone,
aggio ’ntiso ’e parla’ li ttre cchiú belle,
dicevano: ’nce tene passione . . .
(In the sky a hundred stars have gathered
All there to listen to my song.
I’ve heard the three most beautiful stars talking,
And they said: “His passion is real!”)
She turned around and saw Maione standing there, mouth hanging open. She shyly put a hand in front of her mouth, coquettishly covering the laugh that emerged, resembling nothing so much as a horse’s neigh: “I dearly love to sing,” she said. “But I only sing here, on my secret little balcony. You wouldn’t have thought it, would you? All the things you don’t know about me. Some time I’ll have to give a nice little private lesson. Arrivederci, Brigadie’. And if we don’t talk before then, have a happy end and a happy beginning.”