The church of Santa Maria degli Angeli was freezing. The wind whistled relentlessly down the nave and inside the dome, where light filtered in from a sun that shed no warmth. In the pews in front of the altar several old women intoned an endless chant in the mangled words of a forgotten language, imploring God’s mercy and that of the saints.
In the back, a woman was hiding in the shadows. Her head was bowed, and her blonde hair and her face were concealed by a large black shawl. She was hiding her beauty, her body, her blue eyes. She would have liked to pray, but she didn’t have the heart.
She looked up at the fresco on the dome, stained with dampness, depicting paradise.
The woman smiled sadly. A ruined paradise, wrecked to pieces. A longed-for paradise, painted in vivid colours and then lost. It seemed like the story of her life. She had imagined a new life, a new love. She looked around and saw the beautiful illustrations of the life of Mary. The purity, the innocence. Whereas she . . . she had not entered to seek forgiveness: she wasn’t sorry about the betrayal. She had gone there to think about how she could have fallen into hell after being so close to paradise.
Exactly twenty-four hours after Vezzi’s murder, Ricciardi returned to the Questura. As expected, he found both Maione and Ponte outside his office. The air was electric, there had obviously been more than a few words between the two. The Brigadier’s eyes were bloodshot, the clerk’s lips were quivering.
“Finally, sir! I don’t know what to tell the Vice Questore anymore. The Brigadier here is taking it out on me. I’ll cover for you as much as I can, but . . . ”
“What do you think you’re covering, you ass-licker’s lackey? You have to let us do our job, can’t you get it into your head? How are we supposed to get anywhere if we have to report every five minutes?”
Ricciardi thought it appropriate to intervene.
“Never mind, Maione. I’ll take care of it. You go and pick up the manager and the wife, who are about to arrive. Ponte, come with me to Garzo.”
This time the Vice Questore did not get up to welcome Ricciardi. Nor did he tell him to sit down.
“So then, Ricciardi. I’m only going to ask this once. Where are you with it?”
You. Not we.
“I’m investigating. If there were any new developments I would have reported to you, of course. Isn’t that what we agreed?”
“You’re not the one asking the questions!” Garzo snapped. “Do you have any idea of the pressure we’re under? We get phonograms from Rome every hour. It’s all the newspapers are talking about. Il Mattino called to vigorously protest the way you treated a reporter, a certain Luise, this morning at the theater. Those guys will retaliate, Ricciardi: you know that, don’t you? It doesn’t take much to go from ‘brilliant investigator’ to a ‘bumbler’ groping in the dark. What am I supposed to tell the Questore? And what is he supposed to tell Rome? Vezzi’s death has sparked more contact between Il Duce’s office and the city’s High Commissioner than last year’s earthquake. You must, I say must, give me something.”
“I don’t speak without having something to say, Vice Questore. Never. If I give you a fact it means I have one.”
Garzo’s confidence was crumbling.
“But I don’t know what to tell them! Please, put yourself in my shoes. I can’t let them see that I don’t know anything!”
“Tell them it’s probably a crime of passion. Isn’t there always passion behind a crime? Tell them that. Whatever the solution turns out to be, you’ll have been correct.”
Garzo lit up.
“You’re right, Ricciardi. Bravo, bravissimo! This will satisfy them, for a while. But I urge you: don’t keep me in the dark. If you should uncover anything else, please, tell me immediately.”
“Of course, you have my word. But keep the press and Ponte out of my way.”
“Consider it done. Keep up the good work, Ricciardi.”
Returning to his office, Ricciardi tried to organize his thoughts. Vezzi had come to Naples with Bassi, in an official capacity, just before Christmas; he had stayed a few days, had rented the room at the Pensione Belvedere. He had been there on the day of the dress rehearsal as well, that was the reason he was late. The long blonde hair on the dressing gown. Ergo, a woman: and a woman to keep carefully hidden.
There seemed to be several people with good reasons to want to see him dead, or at least take their revenge: the orchestra conductor, for example. Or Bassi himself, continually humiliated. Or any of the baritones, sopranos and valets.
But Ricciardi had the idea that the people in the theater would be unlikely to give vent to their egos that way: opportunity, first of all. And then being used to acting, to fiction. No, he couldn’t see a singer or an orchestra player plan and implement such a fierce crime out of resentment. Besides, all aspects of the murder pointed to impulse: the scuffle, the broken mirror, all that blood. Whatever had happened, it was certainly not a premeditated crime. And the tenor was alone in his dressing room before being killed, putting on his make-up and getting ready to perform. Vezzi’s vezzo, his fixed routine. So who could it have been? Ricciardi knew that he had to look for the two old culprits: hunger and love. One or both of them. Hunger and love: at the root of any killing.
Maione popped his head in the door.
“Commissa’, the manager and the signora are in the waiting room. Who do you want to see first?”
Mario Marelli was a businessman; you could tell from his clothing, the way he spoke, his gestures. Even his facial features: a square, strong-willed jaw, a prominent nose and clear blue eyes under bushy eyebrows. His well-trimmed hair, sleeked back with pomade, was barely greying at the temples; a dark tie, perfectly knotted, graced an impeccable white shirt with a rounded collar. The buttons of his waistcoat appeared beneath a double-breasted, brown pinstriped jacket, and a gold watch chain hung out of the vest pocket.
“Commissario, I won’t waste your time and mine by pretending to be grieving. Vezzi was a dreadful individual, as you have probably gathered; and if you haven’t, I will tell you so. I never met a single person who liked him, in the ten years that I rendered my services on his behalf. Aside from the powers that be in Rome, of course. When it came to licking the feet of those in power, he was bravissimo.”
“How come you weren’t with him, in Naples?”
“I had been here for the preliminary arrangements, before Christmas: that’s when the terms of the contract, payments and all the other terms and conditions are settled. Later, at the time of the performance, it’s not necessary for the manager to be present. In this case, the less time I spent with that degenerate, the better off I was. So I made damn sure I didn’t go with him.”
“As far as you remember, when you came before Christmas did Vezzi go off on his own for a period of time?”
“Vezzi? For the entire time. Maybe I didn’t make myself clear: he left it to me to deal with the contract negotiations, and speak with the management, the orchestra, the theatrical director. He only saw to what concerned him personally. The wardrobe people, his dressing room, his make-up. All he was interested in was his costumes, his make-up and singing. The rest of the world had to revolve around him. We were in town for four days, and I saw him maybe three times, each time briefly. Oh, once I think we dined together, in that restaurant in Piedigrotta, the famous one. I remember it because he sent the fish back twice, he didn’t like the way it was cooked. I can still see the look on the owner’s face. What a bastard.”
“What are the reasons behind your resentment? It seems to me that relations between you were particularly difficult and therefore not solely professional.”
“It was impossible to have a good relationship with Arnaldo Vezzi. In fact, the only way to relate to him was to be a doormat and comply with everything he said. This might be acceptable, it’s happened to me other times, but not under certain specific circumstances when the position becomes untenable.”
Ricciardi leaned forwards slightly.
“For example?” he said.
“For example, when he got drunk in Berlin and showed up at the Chancellor’s an hour late. Or when he was discovered in a hotel with a thirteen-year-old girl, the hotelkeeper’s daughter. Or again when, in Vienna—in a fit of anger over what he said was a delayed opening bar—he smashed a fifty-thousand lira violin on the floor, after tearing it away from an orchestra player. Shall I go on?”
“So how did you keep up a professional relationship? On what basis?”
“Simple: on the grounds that he was a genius. An absolute genius. Apart from the voice, which was extraordinary, his feeling for the stage, his ability to perform any role perfectly, immersing himself in the character. And I mean becoming one with him: he donned the soul of the character he was playing, he identified with him completely. I have a theory: I think he was able to do it because he didn’t have a soul of his own. So it was like writing on a clean slate, a tabula rasa; he had no feelings of his own to keep hidden. A snake.”
“And so?”
“So there was no greater tenor in the world. Representing him was simply a matter of directing traffic. We could have had roles booked for ten years, if he had wanted to.”
Ricciardi frowned, puzzled.
“But then his death is a serious loss to you, isn’t it? You’ve lost an important client. If for no other reason than that, you should be grieving.”
“No, Commissario. If you haven’t already heard it from that imbecile, his secretary, I’ll tell you myself: Vezzi had decided not to avail himself of my services anymore. He said, very magnanimously, as he always did, that he could command the same fees and save ten per cent besides. Sadly, I must admit that he was right.”
“So, practically speaking, he had fired you.”
“Practically speaking; but starting next season. I would still have gone on representing him until the end of this season. So all the complaints, the claims for penalties, the fines—they all still came to my office, unfortunately.”
Ricciardi still wasn’t quite clear.
“But the artistic decisions, the operas he would sing, the dates—did he coordinate them with you?”
“Who, Vezzi? It’s obvious you didn’t know him,” Marelli said with a bitter smile. “Certainly that’s how it should be and that’s the way it is with all the other artists I represent. But not with Arnaldo. He did whatever he liked, whenever it occurred to him. Subject to later changing his mind and deciding otherwise, leaving dozens of people and their jobs hanging. Look, Commissario, my only regret in this matter is missing the chance to see what would have happened next season, when Vezzi would have tried to manage on his own. Take my word for it, I’m sure he would have ended up paying twice his earnings, at least, in fines and penalties. Only I know the effort it cost me to try and repair the damage he caused.”
“How come you agreed to represent him, if he was such a difficult personality?”
“Do you follow opera, Commissario? No? Well, let me explain something to you. My generation, let’s say those now over forty, will remain hooked on opera forever. Like our parents and grandparents. Hooked on the passion, joy and sorrow we see onstage, whether from the gallery, the orchestra or, for those fortunate enough, the box seats. It was and is an opportunity to meet people, a way to acknowledge renowned, thrilling music.
‘But things are changing: just look around. The radio, dance tunes. Jazz, the music of American Negroes. And especially movies. Have you had occasion to see a sound film yet? In Naples you have two sound theaters, I believe. In Milan there are already four, in Rome there are actually six. And sound films have been in Italy for only a year or so. People today want to act, not listen. It’s no longer enough to sit and watch, or at most applaud or boo: they want to dance, sing along, whistle. They want to be part of the scene, watching the two stars kissing passionately, from up close. Or they want to go to the stadium and see twenty guys in shorts, working up a sweat. Where will that leave opera, in the future? Of less and less interest, I’m telling you. Less and less.
‘That’s why a Vezzi, when one comes along, must be safeguarded and protected. Because a talent like that only comes along once every century. Someone like Vezzi fills the theater, each time he sings. Even if he sings the same thing a hundred times over, people will go to hear him a hundred times. Why? Because each time people hear something new, something different. A different marvel. So, better a Vezzi with all his temper tantrums and flaws, his nasty remarks and the humiliation he inflicts, than a thousand decent, conscientious professionals, hard-working and respectful of others’ work, but without true talent. That type will always have a half-empty theater, mark Marelli’s words; and Marelli has a certain experience, Signor Commissario.”
Ricciardi nodded, his expression wry. He had already heard that speech.
“So then, in your opinion, who could have killed him?”
Marelli gave a brief, joyless laugh.
“Oh, just about anyone. Anyone who’d had a chance to see his vicious black soul, even for just a moment. I myself felt the urge to strangle him at least a thousand times. But who would strangle the goose that laid the golden egg? Not a businessman.”
“Speaking of which, on the twenty-fifth you—”
“I was at La Scala, where they were performing La Traviata. Two of my artists were in it. Talented young men, serious professionals. They’ll never fill the theater on their own, but those two will still be with me next year.”