They sent an officer to bring in Aurelio Pittella, the mandolin player who, along with his colleague, the guitarist Elia Meloni, had witnessed Fedora Marra’s murder from a privileged point of view. All that would have been necessary was an urgent request to come to the office, but the brigadier thought that the sight of a uniformed officer might help to communicate the gravity of the moment; the time for reluctance and partial answers was over.
Pittella therefore showed up at Ricciardi’s office escorted by Camarda, who had spoken not a word to him the entire way. The musician was looking around in bewilderment, continuously licking his lips. There was something awkward about him: his tall, bony physique made him look like a child who’d grown up too fast.
The commissario invited him to take a seat, scrutinizing his physiognomy in search of the secret allure that would have won over the resistance of a woman like Fedora, the constant target of a bevy of admirers and suitors. Perhaps it was the large, dark eyes, which were given a faintly feminine touch by the long eyelashes, or else it was the intense and emotional expression; maybe the hands, with their long, sensitive fingers; maybe the shy and frightened demeanor, as if of some wild and untamed animal finding itself in a bewildering, strange setting. Or else it could be the simple naïveté of youth.
As usual, Maione took up his position, standing next to his superior officer’s desk, motionless and wearing the typical sleepy-eyed expression that came over him when he was engaged in the utmost concentration. He was well aware that his imposing bulk unfailingly put their interviewees in a state of unease, reminding them that it might be best to stick to the whole and unvarnished truth. Perhaps in this case the extra encouragement might not prove necessary, but it could certainly do no harm.
Ricciardi said: “Pittella, let’s get down to brass tacks. According to the evidence in our possession, we have sound reason to believe that Fedora Marra was carrying on an affair with a member of the troupe. Even though we have no solid confirmation concerning the identity, we presume that the person in question is you.”
Aurelio said nothing, focusing his eyes on the policeman’s face as if Ricciardi were expressing himself in some incomprehensible foreign language.
Ricciardi went on: “That fact is not in and of itself definite in terms of the criminal responsibility for the murder; we have no doubts about who pulled the trigger. But this would allow us to establish a motive, and proving premeditation is a fundamental step to prevent the hypothesis of misadventure from being put forth during the trial . . .”
Pittella murmured: “How can you talk about misadventure. That miserable bastard shot her down like a dog, in cold blood.”
Maione cleared his throat, letting it be understood that he did not care for interruptions when his superior officer was speaking. Ricciardi nodded.
“We ourselves suppose that to be the case, but in order to be certain about it and, far more importantly, in order to persuade the judge, we need proof. And you can help us.”
The other man still seemed unwilling to cooperate.
“How do you know that I was Fedora’s lover? No one ever suspected.”
That was an aspect which needed to be cleared up immediately, otherwise they were likely to get nowhere. Maione stepped in: “We found a note that Marra had written for you. Now talk, please. We don’t have all day.”
The threatening tone of voice startled the mandolinist who, after a momentary indecision, spoke again: “I didn’t deny anything . . . I just wanted to understand how you’d figured it out, that’s all.”
Ricciardi asked: “Tell us how it began, how long it had been going on, and whether anyone else knew about it.”
Aurelio was twisting his hands, clutching them together in his lap as if they were endowed of a will of their own and he was struggling to hold them still.
“It had been less than a month, Commissa’. I . . . well, you can imagine that I could never dream of hoping that a woman like her . . . I mean, she was Fedora Marra, no? The Fedora Marra, the celebrity, the international star, and she was looking at me, an ordinary posteggiatore . . . It just so happened that there was a table full of people sitting outside the trattoria, and Elia and I were performing; usually, those people don’t even bother to turn around, they just toss us a tip and . . .”
In certain situations, it was important to let the flood of memories flow without restraint. Maione and Ricciardi had experienced it on more than one occasion, and so neither of them interrupted Pittella, neither one thought of telling him not to wander off topic. They just waited to hear what would come next.
“But that time,” Aurelio went on, “they stopped talking to listen to us. I hadn’t even recognized them, but Elia had, and he elbowed me to make it clear we ought to give it our all; as I told you before, Gelmi even started singing along with us. Then they made two or three requests, and toward the end I struck up Scetate. I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off her: she was gorgeous. And later, she told me, when . . . Later, in other words, she said that it had all been on account of that song, that I had truly awakened her with my mandolin, as the lyrics of the song put it, from a slumber she had no idea she’d fallen into alongside her husband.”
Ricciardi asked: “Was she the one who suggested you be hired?”
“No, Commissa’. It was Gelmi. He was enthusiastic about us, he wanted to cast us in at least two numbers. He liked us because we were commoners but also virtuosos; he used those exact words. Me, in particular. That put me in a slightly awkward position with Elia, who is a maestro, an accomplished musician. But Elia was happy about it, too; this was a great opportunity and we had no intention of letting it slip through our fingers.”
The commissario persisted: “Then what happened?”
Pittella looked down at the desktop.
“At the end of the auditions, Fedora asked me to stay on a while longer. She said that she wanted to sing Scetate with my accompaniment and no one else present. That struck me as odd, because it’s a song sung by a man, but I suspected nothing, Commissa’, you must believe me. Her husband let her have her way, though he never included the song in the lineup. She didn’t object, but she wanted to rehearse it anyway. Afterward, I understood the reason why.”
Maione broke in, roughly: “When?”
Pittella blushed; he looked like a little boy forced to confess a misdeed to his father.
“About a month ago. One evening we were alone at the theater. She pretended she was lightheaded, and she asked me to bring her some water; and she insisted that I accompany her to her dressing room. Brigadie’, I felt . . . I was afraid, but . . . Fedora was irresistible.”
And you’re a young man in a world very different from the one you were born into, Ricciardi mused. A world where it’s inconceivable to say no or turn to leave when the lead actress, the star, wishes to bestow her favors upon you.
“And it had been going on since then, hadn’t it? Had anyone noticed anything?”
Pittella’s eyes opened wide.
“No one, Commissa’, are you joking? I was risking my job and my future! If Gelmi had had even the slightest suspicion, I’d have been out on my ear, and everyone in the world of theater and music would have known why. It would have been a black mark against my name that I never could have erased: the end of any chance of ever getting work on a stage again as long as I lived! I could just as well resign myself to going back to playing in the street. I would never have let word leak out!”
Maione persisted: “What about Marra? Could she have confided in a girlfriend or anyone else?”
Aurelio shook his head, decisively.
“No, no, Brigadie’, she would never have done that either. Even less likely. She cared very much about sparing her husband any public ridicule, she told me that over and over. She respected him, she cared for him. If you ask me, she wasn’t planning anything different in the future. It’s just that she liked me, that’s all. Maybe because I was . . . or, that is, because I am young. Maybe it helped her to believe that she, too, was still young. Sure, she could have had anyone she pleased, but someone outside of the theater staff would have been harder to conceal.”
What the young man had to say matched up nicely with the idea that Ricciardi had developed of the situation. Love of my life had been the woman’s thought. Who knows whether, as she lay dying, her gaze really had been turned to her husband.
“All right, Pittella, you’ve kept your secret. And you believe that Fedora did the same thing. But is there anyone, among those who were closest to you, who might have picked up on anything?”
Once again the musician shook his head.
“No, Commissa’, I’d rule that out. We were very careful. Only two people could even have imagined, but neither of them ever hinted at it. So . . .”
Maione demanded, brusquely: “Who, Pitte’? Who could have imagined? Come on, don’t make us force those words out of your mouth.”
The other coughed once.
“Well, one would have been Elia. We always played together, except for Scetate. He never said anything to me, but I could tell he was worried, because his professional future was bound up with mine. Ten days ago or so, he asked me whether he had any reason to worry. I reassured him, and that was the end of that.”
Maione prodded him to continue.
“And the other person?”
Pittella shrugged his shoulders.
“The only person who stayed late at the Teatro Splendor was Signora Erminia. Fedora had to make her leave if she wanted to take me to her dressing room. She might have guessed, but she never said a word about it.”
The brigadier tried to obtain the piece of information for which they’d summoned Pittella to the office.
“But either one of them could have informed Gelmi or anyone else.”
The man promptly denied that possibility.
“No, I’m sure they didn’t. Elia was terrified of Gelmi in particular; if Gelmi had been sure of the affair, he would have had us both fired.”
“What about Erminia?”
“No, not her either, Brigadie’. She knows that Fedora would have fired her if she’d breathed a word. Marra was the most prestigious name in the troupe, even if the lead actor was officially Gelmi. Reporting such a wild piece of gossip, for Erminia, Elia, or anyone else, would have spelled the end of their careers. It was in no one’s best interest.”
That was true. But it was every bit as true that people don’t always act in accordance with their own best interests.
Ricciardi ran a hand over his forehead.
“How many times were you together, and where?”
The mandolinist stared at his hands, clamping his lips. Maione expected him to say nothing; instead, after a while, he looked up and murmured: “A dozen times, more or less, and always in her dressing room.”
Ricciardi nodded his head in Maione’s direction, and the brigadier, having received the message, dismissed the young man: “All right, Pitte’. You can go. Make sure you say absolutely nothing about this conversation. Are we clear?”
The young man stood up; he was visibly relieved. He was about to leave when Ricciardi, who hadn’t budged from his seat, stopped him: “One last thing. You also have a relationship with another member of the troupe, isn’t that so?”
The phrase exploded like a bomb. Maione turned to look at the commissario with a stunned expression. Pittella first turned pale and then bright red.
“What does that matter? It’s my own business, don’t you think?”
Ricciardi was cutting.
“No, not if we’re talking about a murder. It might prove to be unimportant, but we need to consider every possible lead.”
After a lengthy hesitation, the young man replied: “There’s a . . . there’s a woman. I want to marry her; I’d never have betrayed her, if it hadn’t been for . . . I can’t lose this job, Commissario. I’m ashamed of myself, it’s true, but I can’t afford to lose this job. And I don’t want to lose her, either.”
Ricciardi’s lips curled into a sad smile, filled with melancholy.
“I understand you, Pittella, I understand. But nonetheless I’m going to have to ask you who this person is.”
Pittella, in a rush, uttered the name.