While Martusciello contemplated the transformation of the subway into a train, Liguori was waiting for Blanca downstairs from Sergio’s apartment.
In the car, they didn’t talk about what they’d be likely to find. Liguori and Nini had studied the receipt down to the finest detail and they had made all conjectures imaginable. There was nothing left to do but wait.
The detective looked at the woman in the bright morning sunlight: Blanca hadn’t slept well, and the skin of her face, even paler than usual, let the network of veins beneath show through. Her movements had lost all sense of harmony, deprived as she was of much needed rest in a domestic environment; and Blanca showed, with her seeking hands, the darkness that at other times she so adroitly concealed.
“I’m tired.”
“You’re just as pretty as ever,” Liguori said, more to himself than to her.
They stood in line outside the locked doors of the postal office. Behind them extended a line of elderly people who looked as if they were waiting for a bus to come take them on a field trip. Even the grumbling about waiting in line rang with sounds of a greeting.
Liguori led Blanca past the sliding doors. They walked up to the service window and presented the receipt. They managed to resist the urge to open the package they’d just been given.
They went to Liguori’s apartment. Blanca, despite her impatience, familiarized herself with odors she’d never forget: the scent of Gay-Odin chocolate, antique wood, musk, tuberose, and dust, lots and lots of dust.
“You don’t open your windows much, do you?”
“There’s not a lot of fresh air in Piazza Sannazzaro. Maybe at night, when the traffic from the grotto quietens down.”
They sat down on a couple of chairs overlooking the sea that was invisible to Blanca. The detective slipped on a pair of thin gloves and opened the package, taking care not to rip the wrapping paper, and lifted like a belated trophy the recording of Vialdi’s last concert. The dedication read To my Julia, whom I adore, Gennaro.
“While I was driving myself crazy to find it, this damned thing was fast asleep, waiting for us just a short walk from the police station. Thanks to Nini. It was mailed from the post office closest to the Piazza Garibaldi train station.”
“Listen, we should just be grateful that Nini didn’t lose the receipt. Organization isn’t her strong suit. Julia Marin must have mailed it to me just before catching her train back to Verona. Before going to meet her death at the Bentegodi stadium. ‘Or else I’ll surprise you, who can say?’ is what she said to me during our first and only conversation. She surprised me all right, and how. There are so many things I wish I could ask her. I wish I could talk to her.”
“That won’t be possible. Now we can only listen.”
“We’ll listen to it the first time together, then I’m going to need some suitable headphones.”
“All I have are these MP3 earbuds.”
“They may not be particularly suitable, but my good ones are buried under the rubble.”
The recording was of poor quality, and certainly justified the idea that someone had judged it inadequate for selections for a live album.
Liguori came away with nothing, except for the clear idea that he’d never buy the record.
Blanca was transformed, her complexion shifted to a light pink hue, her movements once again came to match her intentions. Toward the end of the recording, she froze.
“Go back a minute.” Liguori did as he was asked, for all the “agains” that followed.
It seemed to the detective that Blanca was interested in a meaningless detail. At the end of the concert, a male voice asked Vialdi: He’s waiting for you, do you want me to talk to him? And Vialdi replied: Gigi, be a good boy, you know that after the concert I always want to be alone.
Blanca slipped the earbuds into her ears, let Liguori’s hand guide hers to the controls, and sat there in a state of enchantment deciphering something that struck her as impossible.