Ricciardi saw exactly what he’d been dreading: from the balconies and windows of the surrounding buildings women and children were peering down, attracted by the unusual bustle.
Il Paradiso, as was appropriate given the activity that took place in that house, was tolerated because it was discreet: the windows were covered, the entryways were private, the tradesmen came in through the side entrances, the girls displayed themselves only to the customers, going out rarely if at all, alone and at special times of day. Even the music was played in an interior room, and couldn’t be heard from outside. Everyone knew of the existence of the bordello, but no one spoke of it or mentioned it by name: this was a respectable neighborhood.
Naturally everyone had heard about the murder, even though the newspapers—which for years had been ordered to maintain complete silence on all reporting that implied violent crime—had made no mention of it; still, news had its own ways of traveling, and Il Paradiso was constantly kept under close surveillance by the neighborhood gossips in search of prurient tidbits.
And now, unbelievably, they were daring to hold a funeral. Of course there was no priest—I would certainly hope not!—nor was there a black carriage pulled by horses decked out in tall black plumes: still, there could be no question that this was a funeral procession, even if it was so early that no stores were open and there was no one in the street.
In haste and hurry, the neighborhood mothers shooed their children into windowless rooms in the apartments to keep them from seeing, and then ostentatiously slammed the shutters shut, only then to peek out from behind the closed curtains. A few men leaned over, shaking their heads, and from one balcony a burst of laughter could be heard.
The casket was set down carefully inside the van; then the men stood aside and out the front door of the apartment building, in double file like nuns emerging in procession from a convent, came Madame Yvonne and all the women who had worked with Viper.
No one could have had a word to say against the sobriety of the women’s attire. Black dresses, hats with veils or shawls over the head to cover the hair. No hair dye, no low necklines, no legs appearing through a daring slit in a skirt; no high-heeled shoes, no heavy makeup. Aside from Bambinella, who was keeping well out of sight, half-hidden in the shadows cast by the building, and aside from the lack of male presence, you would have said it was the perfectly normal funeral of a respectable citizen who hadn’t been able to afford an expensive service.
The silence was absolute, and the cutting gazes from the windows created a palpable tension. One of the girls approached the dark wood coffin and caressed it slowly with her gloved hand. After her, all the other girls, one at a time, said their own personal farewell to a woman who had been the city’s most celebrated prostitute: perhaps, as Bambinella had put it to Maione, each of them was thinking that the young woman’s fate could easily have been her own, or perhaps it was simply sadness at the thought of a young life cut short.
Ricciardi noted that Ventrone, as he had told them, was not present, and that Pietro Coppola had managed to keep his brother from attending, just as he’d promised. Not even the ghost of Viper’s mother: the commissario had hoped the woman might have a change of heart.
The doctor went over to the accordion player, who, in order to hold onto what must have been a prime spot on the street, was already there at the crack of dawn, and murmured something into his ear; he slipped the man a banknote, and the accordionist thanked him with a tip of his hat. Then he began playing a very famous tango.
The melody, so out of keeping with both the hour of day and the somber occasion, caused a stir of surprise in the little procession and also in the few people who had remained at their windows to watch; a few slammed shutters even opened up again, revealing astonished faces. The melody was beautiful, and the setting—the gray light of that damp, grim morning; the white faces of the girls little used to the sun shaded under black hats—made it heartbreaking.
The doctor went over to Maione and Ricciardi and shrugged:
“It’s the music that I’d like at my own funeral. You know it, don’t you?”
Ricciardi nodded vaguely.
“I’ve heard it on the radio, certainly. But why this song in particular?”
“Because it’s about a bordello, a place where people exchange love in secret, an apartment on the third floor of a building in Buenos Aires. It’s called A media luz. In half light, in the shadows.”
When the song came to its chorus, the doctor began singing along in a low voice.
“Y todo a media luz, que es un brujo el amor, / a media luz los besos, a media luz los dos. / Y todo a media luz, crepúsculo interior. / ¡Qué suave terciopelo la media luz de amor!”
Many of the girls turned to look at the doctor, who was singing in little more than a murmur. One of them blew him a kiss on the tips of her fingers. The doctor responded with a slight bow.
Maione asked:
“Dotto’, what do those lyrics mean?”
Modo ran a hand over his face. He seemed deeply moved.
“They’re words, Brigadie’. Nothing but words. They mean: ‘And everything in the half light, because love is a sorcerer / In the half light the kisses, In the half light the two of us / And everything in half light in the interior twilight / What soft velvet is the half light of love!’”
From a balcony, impossible to figure out which, a red geranium was tossed. A pair of shutters slammed shut, a cracking sound like a slap. A girl was dead. A whore was dead.
The driver turned toward Ricciardi, who nodded his head. The man went over to Madame Yvonne, who looked like a mountain dressed in black, and whispered something in her ear. The woman turned toward the girls and clapped her hands to indicate that the service was over.
Just as the women were assembling to return to their building, a group of four men turned the corner from the vicolo; they were dressed in black, and they were laughing uproariously for some reason, mocking the biggest man in the group, who was clearly not enjoying it.
They were wearing black shirts.
As they lurched downhill they found themselves practically face to face with the little line of girls; they exchanged glances of confusion, clearly drunk and returning home from a night out carousing. One of the four, perhaps recognizing the staff of a place he frequented, said:
“Hey, wait . . . Are those the whores of Il Paradiso? All of them out in the street? What are they doing out here?”
Another member of the crew gave the accordionist a shove, sending him head over heels with a clattering honk. The instrument crashed to the pavement in spite of the man’s attempt to cushion the blow, and he emitted a strangled shout.
A third man, the one who seemed to be having the most trouble remaining upright, laughed and uttered a vulgar compliment as he grabbed the bottom of the girl nearest to him, who screamed. From one of the windows came a cry of: “Bravo!” and the man made an off-kilter bow in response.
The other men, unwilling to be outdone, reached out their hands, as rapacious as foxes in a henhouse. The women clutched at one another for safety and Lily dealt a slap to the Fascist who had first grabbed a girl; caught off guard, he slipped and fell. His friends began to mock him and he stood up, offended, and slapped the woman hard in the face.
It all happened in just a few seconds.
Dr. Modo was the quickest to react: he grabbed the closest one, who fell, dragging another of his comrades to the ground. The other two turned their attention away from the women and moved toward the doctor, menacingly.
That was when the dog took up a position between Modo and the Fascists, baring its teeth, raising its hackles, emiting a hollow snarl. One of the men pulled a knife: the situation was critical.
From the shadows of the entryway across the street emerged the considerable bulk of Brigadier Maione, who had waited until the last possible moment in hopes that the situation might right itself without his intervention. Before taking action he had whispered an aside to Ricciardi, who had already started to step forward:
“Commissa’, wait, please. Let me take care of this.”
He placed himself in front of the doctor, and brought his hand close to the holstered revolver on his belt. He spoke to the four men:
“Gentlemen, let’s calm down . . . Are you sure it’s in your best interests to pursue this?”
There was a terrible moment of silence: from the windows and balconies by this point at least a few dozen spectators were looking down, and the girls and Madame Yvonne had all withdrawn to the entryway and were watching the scene from there. The Fascists were annoyed at having to backtrack, but the enormous policeman seemed resolutely determined to stand up for the doctor.
After a long hesitation, the tallest one put his knife away with studied and ostentatious lack of care. The oldest, who seemed to be in charge, spoke to the physician:
“We know you. You’re that doctor from the Pellegrini hospital. The one who likes to let his mouth run and always spouts nonsense. So you like politics, eh, Dotto’? You’d better be careful, though. If you practice the wrong kind of politics, you could wind up having a nasty accident.”
Modo looked at him hard for a long time. Then he spat onto the pavement, just a few inches from the tip of the man’s boots, and the man leapt backward in disgust, red-faced with anger and humiliation. The Fascist nodded his head, ostentatiously, never taking his eyes off Modo, as if he were memorizing that face.
He signaled to the others and then headed away up the street, followed by his three comrades.
After a pause, the driver hastily closed the van’s door, got behind the wheel, and set off for the cemetery. The women went back inside, but not before expressing their appreciation and gratitude to the doctor.
Bambinella went over to Maione:
“What a man!” she exclaimed in an adoring voice. “You just slayed me, I’m covered in goose bumps!”
The brigadier made as if to punch her and the femminiello, with a lilting giggle, headed off into the back alleys.