In the hospital, it had been a tough day. As long as he could remember, Bruno Modo had been aware that holidays tended to awaken in people their worst emotions and most damaging feelings.
Time took care of the rest. When people had to work hard and survival was the daily objective, there was little time left for anything else. And the work itself sapped what energy might be left over for arguing, quibbling, confronting the phantoms of the thousand torments that life produced in such vast quantities, and which were tucked away under the carpet in the hopes they might simply disappear. But it was during the holidays that those same phantoms returned to the surface, like something filthy and foul-smelling tossed into the murky harbor waters.
A candle had set fire to the clothing of two little girls who’d been playing tag around a table. To be exact, the younger sister, Teresa, had slipped and grabbed the tablecloth in her fall, dragging the lighted candle with it. The elder sister, Maria, terrified of a scolding from her mother—who was locked in a drag-out argument with their father in the next room—had thrown herself on her sister’s burning body in an attempt to douse the flames; the only thing she achieved thereby was to transform herself and the other girl into a single, brightly glowing bonfire. The parents’ shouts drowned out their daughters’ screams, and therefore help came too late.
Burns far too serious to recover from. The very best prognosis, and Modo was by no means sure that it really would be the best outcome, was that the little ones would live on, but remain disfigured. As things stood now, however, the chances that they’d both survive were flickering like a dying flame. The flame of a candle, to be exact.
Four patients had been admitted for injuries associated with fireworks; these were the vanguard of the army of injured patients expected after the night separating New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day: so, have a happy end and a happy beginning. For the moment, in that small, advance scouting party, the casualties involved the loss of a hand, an eye, and three fingers, as well as extensive burns on one arm. Modo would willingly have kicked them from one ward to the next, if that hadn’t meant simply increasing his own workload.
Three other patients were the aftermath of a brawl between small-time hoods, or guappi, in the city quarter: a substantial number of stab wounds, but no one in grave danger of their lives; only many, many stitches to be sutured. The true stars of the evening’s entertainment thus far, however, were two women from the Spanish Quarter. They’d decided to duke it out because allegedly one of them had courted the other’s husband. That would have been at least a relatively unremarkable occurrence had the two rival women not been more or less eighty years of age, and the object of their jealousy eighty-five. The man in question sat in the waiting room, eyes downcast, awaiting news: though no one could say whether it was news of his wife or his lover that he was awaiting. The two women continued to scream fanciful and elaborately framed insults from one room to the other, to the utmost amusement of patients and nurses who practically seemed to be jotting down notes for future memory.
Whenever he could, Modo went to see Lina.
Sister Luisa, who continued to blame herself for having underestimated the severity of her condition, had devoted herself to Lina’s care to the virtual exclusion of all other patients, reporting dutifully to the doctor. Lina’s respiration remained labored, and the rough expansion of an area of her chest confirmed that there must be, at the very least, a double rib fracture. At least one piece of good news: the hard cast on her arm was holding up well.
With a view to monitoring the consequences of the various traumas, especially to the head, Modo had refrained from administering morphine: the result had been a steady, lugubrious moan of discomfort.
Unfortunately, heartbeat and blood pressure, which Sister Luisa measured on an hourly basis, left little room for optimism: the heartbeat never dropped below a hundred beats a minute, and the blood pressure never rose above 90. And those suspicious numbers pointed to an endocranial problem.
Modo was tormented by the memory of his last meeting with his sweet friend. As was their custom, he had talked about the situation in the city, how oppressive it was to live under a regime that was decidedly anti-democratic, the fact that the populace was growing increasingly poor and discontented, to the absolute indifference of the public institutions and the aristocracy. Chatter, to think back on it now. Idle, pointless chatter.
More taciturn than usual, Lina had listened to him without the gentle, ironic smile she generally wore during his chaotic monologues. At a certain point, he had asked her whether she had something else on her mind. He’d made an extremely disagreeable wisecrack, which he’d regretted instantly and which now echoed through his mind like the aftermath of a grave and grievous misdeed. He’d said to her: After all, I am paying you, am I not? If nothing else, I’d ask you to pay attention.
A stricken expression had appeared on the woman’s face, as if she’d received an undeserved insult, but she’d apologized and explained that her mind was elsewhere, focusing on a family problem. Modo had asked her to talk to him about it; Lina, however, had preferred not to discuss the details and urged him to continue his political sermon, kissing him sweetly on the cheek.
The doctor realized that he was now caressing the same spot on his face, bristly with whiskers he hadn’t had a chance shave. Then he felt it turn wet and salty.
At the end of the convulsive morning’s work, he’d had a brief conversation with Maione. The brigadier had told him he’d managed to pick up a few nuggets of information, and he now knew where Lina had been beaten and how she had made her way to the hospital. Modo had been overwhelmed by a bottomless sense of anguish when he learned it had been Lina herself who’d begged to be brought there specifically. Maione thought it was important to go to the address he’d been given by Mamma Clara, in order to understand the connection between that place and the assault. The doctor told him about Lina’s mention of a family problem, and the brigadier had nodded as if that fact confirmed a theory of his.
Maione had offered to go there, alone, at the end of his shift. But Modo, tired though he was and in need of a rest, insisted on accompanying Maione to the Masseria del Campiglione so he could be there too.
By now it was nearly time. Modo made sure his patients were all stable and under control, and gave instructions for the coming night to Sister Luisa and the sleepy colleague who would be standing in for him. Modo expected to return to work after his expedition with Maione.
Before leaving, he went one last time to take a look at Lina. The ward room was shrouded in dim light; nuns and nurses moved between the beds like beneficent nocturnal birds. Every so often a moan filled the air, but otherwise silence reigned supreme; even the two octogenarian rivals in love had resigned themselves to a sleep inhabited by difficult dreams.
Modo bent over the bed and touched her forehead to see if she had a fever. He felt he could at least rule out that further complication. Suddenly, the young woman’s unfractured hand emerged from under the sheets and grabbed his wrist, making him start. One eye, red and bloodshot, stared at him.
The doctor leaned down toward the poor thing’s face, seeing that the split lips were trying to articulate sounds. His heart pounded violently in his ears: he had despaired of her ever regaining consciousness.
At first he couldn’t make out what she was trying to say. She was mumbling and he could guess how much pain that effort was costing her. Modo understood, or thought he understood: “Bruno, don’t do a thing. Don’t do a thing.”
He hastened to reply: “Lina, don’t worry, I’ll care for you and you’ll get better, but help me now. How is your head? Can you see?”
The woman tightened her grip, as if she were irritated.
“It doesn’t matter to me, it doesn’t matter to me. Don’t you do a thing, you understand? Leave him alone.”
“What do you mean, don’t do anything? I have to care for you, Lina. But tell me what happened. Who did this?”
The woman moaned without releasing his wrist.
“If you can, save me. But leave him alone. Swear it to me.”
The doctor felt a sense of helplessness fill him.
“Damn it, Lina: who am I supposed to leave alone? What are you . . .”
Then he realized that her eyesight was failing, and that a tear was rolling down her cheek.
She muttered again in a frantic tone: “Swear it, Bruno. Swear it or I won’t fight anymore.”
“No, no, for heaven’s sake, don’t give up. I’ll swear, I’ll swear on whatever you want. I don’t understand, but I’ll swear. And you stay here with me. Do we have a deal, Linare’? Do we have a deal?”
She slowly moved her chin in an imperceptible gesture of consent, while her breathing again grew heavy. Her grip loosened and Modo tucked her arm back underneath the sheets.
He stood there, watching over her for a while. Then he signaled to Sister Luisa, who came trotting in response.
“Sister Lui’, I’m going to . . . to run an errand. I’ll be back as soon as possible. You, if you would, just check her pressure and heartbeat in an hour and write them down in her chart.”
The nun nodded, gazing at Lina’s silhouette.
“Who could it have been? Who can hate so much that . . . that they’d do this?”
Modo shrugged and turned to go.
In the hospital courtyard, Maione was waiting for him, leaning against the automobile.
“Oh, Dotto’, buonasera. I checked out the car from police headquarters, so we’ll get there quickly. It’s not exactly around the corner.”
The doctor looked him up and down. The fact that Maione was the closest thing that Ricciardi had to a friend had earned the brigadier Modo’s esteem.
“But you have to do me a favor,” he said. “Let me drive. Otherwise I’ll get carsick and vomit on the driver.”
Maione’s eyes bugged out.
“If that’s the way things are, I’ll give you directions. For that matter, I’ll confess to you that I’m a little tired of driving in this fog: people just jump out in front of you, and even if you’re an accomplished driver like me, things could go wrong. I just rammed a market stall out front and sent it flying. Good thing it was closed.”