Ricciardi chose a table inside and ordered an espresso. The café was small and not fully visible from the main street, therefore offering a degree of shelter from the eyes of passersby.
Pivani came in almost immediately, sat down across from him, and gestured to the waiter for another espresso.
“I have to tell you, Ricciardi, that if I were to leave this city the thing I’d miss most would be the coffee. It’s so much better here than anywhere else that I’d just have to give coffee up entirely.”
The commissario stared at him without speaking: he had no intention of carrying on a friendly conversation with the man who, in all likelihood, was keeping his good friend under lock and key.
Pivani must have sensed his thoughts, because he said:
“I see you’re angry with me. I understand you. I’d feel the same way if I were in your place. But I assure you that you’re mistaken.”
Ricciardi’s expression remaineded unchanged.
“Are you saying that I should just take it in stride? I should accept the fact that an unmarked car, with three bodybuilders aboard, pulls up and grabs one of the finest human beings I know, a professional who dedicates his life to helping those who suffer, and takes him who knows where under threat of violence?”
Pivani waved his hand dismissively.
“All these inaccuracies. There were four people in the car, not three, including the driver. The car was unmarked because it was rented, and the organization that carried out this operation certainly doesn’t place its insignia on automobiles. Last of all, there was no violence. Your friend, who may be impulsive but is also intelligent, quickly understood that any attempts to escape would be unsuccessful, and so he resigned himself to his fate.”
Ricciardi leaned forward and hissed:
“Pivani, don’t try to sugarcoat the pill: I want Dr. Bruno Modo freed immediately, and allowed to return to the extremely important work that he does for society. This is still a free country and . . .”
The man giggled briefly.
“Oh, is it? I’m honored that you should think so, Commissario. Not everyone would agree with you. Your friend, for instance, certainly wouldn’t. And forgive me, but I doubt that you’re in a position to demand anything. We’re not sitting here, I’ve never met you, and this conversation never took place, nor will it ever, as you well know. For that matter, you know that without having to be told. All I need do is whistle once.”
With those words, he turned and looked at the plate-glass window. Ricciardi saw two well-dressed men out in the street, leaning against a wall and chatting idly.
Pivani went on:
“If we’re here, it’s because I’ve allowed it. And the main reason I’m allowing it is that I’m curious. I’m interested in the human aspects of my . . . my profession: they help me to better understand the things that happen, to interpret them. And to act accordingly.”
Ricciardi’s face was an impassive mask.
“Ah, so then we’re an experiment, is that it? Lab rats. Insects in a maze. But I’d be careful if I were you, Pivani. Rats and insects, in big enough numbers, can be quite dangerous.”
The man laughed happily.
“Look at that, you’re actually threatening me now! Quite interesting. But you didn’t come here this morning to argue with me, did you? You came to secure your friend’s release. And yet you have no intention of begging or pleading, instead you threaten me. Just what are you hoping to gain in this way?”
Ricciardi stared at him, unblinking.
“I’m not threatening you, Pivani. I’m hoping that someone, even in a brutal and slithering organization, will take responsibility for putting a very special man back in the place where he can do his work. That’s all.”
Pivani mulled that over, deep in thought.
“Brutal and slithering, you say. I know it can seem that way. All the same, believe me, compared with our counterpart organizations in other countries, we’re nothing more than a musical combo. I’ve seen things happen, elsewhere, that I wouldn’t even know how to describe to you, so great is the horror that, as you know, all forms of wanton violence inspire in me.”
Ricciardi didn’t want to lose sight of the crux of the matter:
“But don’t you believe that the most intolerable form of violence is to deprive of his freedom a man who hasn’t done anything wrong, who hasn’t hurt anyone?”
Pivani spread both arms wide:
“On the question of whether he’s done anything wrong, if you’ll excuse me, I beg to differ. You’re a man of the law, no? Then you’ll recognize that all rules, however ridiculous and absurd they may seem, must be obeyed. But now we’re wasting time.”
Ricciardi stared at him, baffled.
“What do you mean by that, that we’re wasting time? How do you mean?”
Pivani finished his coffee, a look of bliss on his face.
“Mmm, how delicious. Now then: our organization has a rather complex structure. There are different jurisdictions, various branches that are in charge of different sectors. The one I head is not the one that . . . picked up our friend the doctor.”
Now Ricciardi was disoriented:
“What are you talking about? Then why would you know everything about it, every tiniest detail!”
“That’s quite another matter. It’s my job to know everything, every tiniest detail. As for picking up the doctor, no, that wasn’t us. We were informed of what happened yesterday morning, during that pathetic parody of a funeral for the murdered whore; one of the young men, the dimmest of the bunch, just to be clear, is the son of a rapidly rising Fascist official who works in Rome. He put in a call to his father, and the mechanism that was thus set in motion resulted in the doctor’s arrest. The unmarked car with four men aboard set out from the capital. That’s what happened.”
Ricciardi tried to gather his thoughts.
“So you’re saying that Modo was taken to Rome?”
“I never said that. He may well still be here; but he won’t be here long.”
The commissario wanted more information.
“Then who can I speak to? What can I do to help Bruno?”
Pivani gave him a sad look.
“You can’t imagine how often I receive informants’ reports, how many I’ve received about the doctor. I even decided to investigate in person: I’ve gone to see him work, I’ve eaten where he eats, I even followed him to that place where the girl was murdered. And I’ve seen the two of you together. And I made up my mind that he is a valuable man, a good man, honest and caring.” Here he paused and went on in an undertone: “Whether or not you believe me, I wrote an official opinion. In summary I said that persecuting people like him was counterproductive for Fascism’s image, that we’d only create martyrs and that martyrs are always dangerous. He slipped through the meshes of a net that for now remain fairly large. But yesterday . . . he was unlucky. He ran into the wrong people. And when the brigadier pulled out his revolver, well, that wasn’t very smart: still, though, a knife was pulled as well, and the informant who told us about the incident mentioned that detail too, and one thing balances the other, so your friend Maione got off, because we do make an effort not to kick up too much dust in our dealings with law enforcement. For the doctor, however, there was nothing that I could do.”
The commissario waited. Two young women entered the café, laughing at some joke they were sharing. Pivani looked at them, saddened.
“How lucky the young are, especially in springtime, no, Commissario? The season of flowers. The season of love, for some. But not for everyone.”
Ricciardi was reminded of the pain that Pivani was forced to suffer thanks to an emotional attachment, as Ricciardi had learned by chance some months ago. The functionary fell silent for a moment, then went on:
“I want to make it clear once again that this conversation never took place, but I also want to tell you that among your exceedingly slender group of non-work-related acquaintances, there is a person. This person, whom you keep at arm’s length much more than she would like, has a certain amount of power. I don’t believe that she’s even aware of it, but she’s very much beloved by an extremely important woman, a close friend of hers. They are like sisters to each other.”
A beautiful, tormented face appeared before Ricciardi’s eyes, as it bit its lower lip to keep from crying.
Pivani continued:
“I don’t know what it is that this woman feels for you, Ricciardi. But I would say, to judge from her behavior and above all from the fact that she moved to this city, that whatever it is, it’s quite powerful. The lady is subject, by order of the highest authorities, to close and constant surveillance in order to ensure that no harm can come to her. In the context of that surveillance, she has been assigned a . . . a functionary, let us say. This gentleman, who is in a certain sense a colleague of mine, could serve as a privileged conduit as far as the episode that interests you is concerned. Have I made myself clear?”
Ricciardi nodded, somewhat uncertainly.
“So what you’re saying is that, through Livia, I should get into touch with this person, is that right? By asking to meet, having a talk with him . . .”
Pivani laughed:
“No, no, you’ve got it wrong, completely wrong! He doesn’t exist, any more than I exist. He would never talk with you, he’d even deny ever having had any contact with your lady friend. You mustn’t even try to enter into contact with him, in fact, if you did, that would be highly detrimental to the doctor’s wellbeing, because it would reveal a weakness in the system, which is of course impossible. The only way is to arrange for the lady to speak with him. He is . . . like a guardian angel, he can only interact with her, and no one else.”
Ricciardi thought quickly.
“But what if she were unwilling to help me? What if she had . . . certain reasons to feel resentful toward me?”
Pivani shrugged philosophically.
“In that case, the doctor’s fate would be sealed. I can’t think of any other possible way of saving him.”
The commissario stood up, leaving a bill on the table.
“Let me treat you to this coffee, Pivani. You keep showing yourself to be different than you ought by rights to be. And I have to thank you for your advice. One last question: how much time do I have?”
Pivani pulled a watch out of his vest pocket and held it at arm’s length.
“My God, I’m going blind with old age; I’d say half a day, maybe a whole day. And let me thank you, Ricciardi, for the coffee: if I actually had drunk it—which is to say if we had ever really met, which obviously is something that didn’t happen—I’d have said that it was excellent.”