The dawn of December 31st killed both the last full night of the year and the fog. Just as everyone had begun to grow accustomed to the muffled sounds and the mist that hides ugliness and misery, when it seemed almost natural to see no further than a few yards past the tip of your nose, almost natural to be utterly alone with yourself, the air suddenly turned clear and pitiless, delivering to each the world as it had always been, and the city found itself once again floating between an end and a new beginning.
Aside from sweeping away the fog, of which only the faintest of memories remained, as if that fog had never descended over the city to shadow its people’s thoughts, the wind had also carried off the chill and pushed away the unnatural heat. Much like a beautiful woman who is incurably late for any appointment, the strange metropolis now put on the right attire for such a solemn moment, because—just to make this point perfectly clear—without the chill of winter, that holiday didn’t seem very special.
The few citizens free of care, the few who had no need to plot and scheme in order to feed children who stubbornly insisted on eating regularly, indifferent to the cost and inconvenience, sniffed at the sharp snap of chill in the air and went to retrieve their overcoats, long forgotten in their armoires. Paradoxically, they came outdoors in droves, and traded idle comments about this sudden drop in temperature, the disappearance of the horrible white blanket of mist, and the fact that the word winter had suddenly regained meaning.
In the streets preferred by strollers, the ladies and gentlemen of polite society showed off for the first time their cunning little hats and handsome ties, gifts given at Christmas, and the new outfits stitched by seamstresses for a season that was making itself known so starkly late. Red noses, hands covered with gloves or plunged deep into the warmth of pockets, ears shielded by raised lapels or fur collars, as well as by head coverings of various shape and style, the discomfort of the cutting wind that sliced down to the bone through layers of thick cloth—none of this did anything to quench the smiles or undercut the diffuse sense of satisfaction. It was as if, after a lengthy wait, every actor on the stage of that holiday had finally embodied their role to perfection and the performance could truly begin.
Ricciardi had gone to the office very early. He had slept badly, with a weight on his heart too heavy to be pushed aside. He continued to brood over Enrica’s anguish, her anxiety at the now imminent evening’s entertainment, something she had no choice but to participate in; and he felt crushed by his own inability to reassure her, his own inadequacy. What a coward I am, he thought. Be sincere, at least with yourself. She wanted you to say: All right, let’s give this love the importance that it deserves, let’s bring it out into the light of day. Tomorrow, he ought to have told her with utter conviction, I’ll be the one to come to your home, and well before the German officer: I’ll introduce myself to your parents, I’ll tell them a little bit about myself, my family, and my profession, and perhaps I’ll even hint at the wealth that can assure any theoretical future wife of mine comfort and security. Then I’ll ask them for permission to see you regularly, because I’m in love, more than I’d ever have believed possible, because I can’t imagine a life without you. And then we’ll see what they have to say.
That’s what he ought to have said, but instead he had remained silent, as he embraced a young woman who was disappointed and terrified at the future, denying her the comfort she so badly needed even as he knew that he alone could come to her rescue.
Is this love, what I’m experiencing? he wondered. Wouldn’t it have been better if I’d never even approached her? Perhaps her mother was right, he reflected. Perhaps, forced to accept the courtship of this man, Enrica would surrender and discover happiness, instead of weeping in an isolated alley on the shoulder of a man who lacked the mere courage required to live.
He focused on his work, which had always helped him to forget, which had always been a useful distraction. The quest for the solution to a mystery, the unveiling of a deception—these were the things that gave him the strength to lie to himself.
Maione appeared in the doorway, carrying the little espresso tray.
“Buongiorno, Commissa’. Have you seen? The fog has moved on and the winter chill is here. At least now New Year’s seems like New Year’s and not Easter.”
Ricciardi asked, vaguely concerned: “How did it go yesterday, Raffaele? Did you manage to avoid any accidents?”
The brigadier replied promptly, as he served him his espresso: “Why, certainly, Commissa’. I’m an ace driver, isn’t that obvious? Anyone else would have had serious problems driving with that limited visibility. You couldn’t see a thing. In any case, no damage and the car is in the garage.”
Ricciardi scrutinized Maione attentively. The brigadier’s expression left him in doubt; it seemed to contain an undercurrent of melancholy. But he decided not to insist; if the brigadier had needed something, he wouldn’t have hesitated to confide in him.
“I’ve been thinking about Marra’s murder,” he said, changing the subject. “I may have figured out the meaning of the note that we found in her robe; and it’s all thanks to you.”
“Me? But why?”
Ricciardi set down his demitasse.
“You know that melody you were singing, the one you couldn’t get out of your head?”
Maione heaved a weary sigh.
“Don’t talk to me about it, Commissa’. I even dreamed it last night. My father was obsessed with that song, and that idiot Bambinella stuck it back in my mind, and now I can’t get rid of it.”
Ricciardi raised his forefinger.
“I was referring to a specific verse. The message says: ‘Again, tonight, I’ll wear your embroidery before falling asleep, and in my heart it will be the last thing I hear.’ Do you remember?”
The brigadier nodded.
“Certainly, and . . . Ohhhh, madonna mia . . .”
“Exactly, Raffaele. È ’nu ricamo, ’sta mandulinata . . . ‘This mandolin piece is an embroidery . . .’ What Fedora was going to wear that night was the sound of a mandolin. The last thing she’d hear in her heart.”
Maione stood openmouthed.
“In fact, that’s how it went: she died while the mandolin was still playing. It’s as if she had a premonition.”
Maione’s superior officer confirmed with a nod of his head.
“In and of itself, it doesn’t mean much. By now, it’s clear that Marra was having an affair, and learning the lover’s identity doesn’t help greatly to solve the case. It would however help us to discover something more about the fight with Gelmi that Signora Erminia told us about.”
“Do you think that he might have guessed? And that . . .”
“These are mere conjectures, if we assume that the clue concerning the embroidery is correct, though we can’t say for sure. Let’s summon the young man to come in, but let’s let him think that this is just a normal second step in the investigation. Let’s bring him in and question him here, and see if that softens him up.”
Before Maione had a chance to reply, there came a discreet knock at the door. The brigadier opened the door and his face brightened in a broad smile.
“Oh, buongiorno, Contessa. How are you?”
Bianca entered the room, radiant. Raffaele had never concealed his admiration for the woman who had been so melancholy when he’d first met her, proud and obsessively attached to a long-lost dignity, but who had now become fierce, cheerful, and kind. What’s more, he had become convinced that her frequent visits to Ricciardi at police headquarters and the occasions that, he knew, the two of them had gone out together weren’t entirely unrelated to the change of mood that he had perceived in the commissario. Therefore, alongside his appreciation there was a further form of paternal gratitude.
Bianca returned the greeting.
“Buongiorno to you, Brigadier. We early risers always seem to see each other, don’t we? While all the others are on holiday . . .”
Maione let out a theatrical sigh.
“My dear Contessa, I’d gladly be one of those who are fast asleep, but work calls.”
She gave Ricciardi an ironic glance.
“What about you, Commissario? Would you have gladly stayed in bed this morning, or are you glad to be here, in your favorite place on earth?”
Maione noticed that a faint blush had appeared on Ricciardi’s face. He found that understandable: Bianca was enchanting in her gray-and-black outfit, with a short, dark fur cape over her shoulders and a cloche hat over her copper-hued hair. The commissario, however, was feeling quite awkward, because after frankly and openly confessing to the woman that it was not a good idea for them to socialize, he had supposed that Bianca felt toward him, if not full-blown resentment, then at the very least some annoyance. Coming face to face with her so soon, on the one hand, gave him a sense of relief but, on the other hand, made him suspect he might not have been sufficiently frank in that conversation.
“My favorite place on earth? You’ve misjudged me badly. We have some matters to iron out before the day ends, before midnight on New Year’s Eve, and nothing more.”
The contessa studied him intensely, violet eyes locked with green eyes.
“Seriously? Well, I wanted to ask you something specifically about this evening.”
Maione started to step discreetly out of the office, but she stopped him, waving her gloved hand.
“No, no, Brigadier, please stay. Let me just ask a quick favor of Ricciardi and then I’ll let you return to your official duties. Listen, Commissario. An old family friend, Princess Vaccaro di Ferrandina, has asked me to spend the evening at her home. She lives on the Corso and from her balconies there’s a spectacular view of the whole city; from up there, the fireworks are simply magnificent. I’d very much like to go but, unaccompanied, as you can imagine, it’s out of the question. Would you be so kind as to be my companion for the evening?”
Her tone of voice was lighthearted, but her eyes and hands betrayed her tension. Maione felt a surge of tenderness. Ricciardi replied: “Bianca, I’m very busy and tomorrow I’ll be on duty. Also, I hardly think that we ought to . . .”
The contessa gave a nervous laugh.
“Come, come now, what would it cost you? Do you seriously want to stay at home in the concluding hours of a year that’s been so difficult for me? Be my squire. Unless, of course, you’re already otherwise engaged.”
Maione coughed softly.
“Commissa’, I would have invited you later this evening, but if you wish to grace our table, Lucia would be overjoyed. Contessa, to you I don’t even dare to make the offer, but it goes without saying that if you wished . . .”
Ricciardi hesitated. To go out with Bianca after having clarified the nature of their connection would be a gross contradiction in terms. And yet he deeply dreaded the prospect of witnessing, aghast, what would surely take place that evening in the building across the way. After all, what could be the harm in a little distraction, watching a fireworks display in the middle of a crowd of strangers?
Maione added: “Commissa’, we’d all be happy to know that you’re somewhere nice, and in cheerful company. Make the contessa happy, go on.”
Ricciardi threw both arms wide.
“It’s a general conspiracy, best I can tell. All right, then, but I’ll come by and pick you up latish. I’ll probably have to swing past the Teatro Splendor to complete an investigation.”