Ricciardi found that Maione had not yet left, so he asked him to accompany Livia to her hotel. But he also asked him to check with the Questura in Pesaro, to verify the woman’s continued presence during that period and whether she was really alone.
Then he decided to go home. He was cold.
Along the way he tried to bring some order to the facts and details he’d acquired during that long day of interrogations. He felt a familiar sense of uneasiness: like when you’ve forgotten to do something, or lost a certain item, or haven’t considered a particular aspect. Someone had said something important, something essential, and he couldn’t seem to bring that something to a conscious level, to be able to use it. But who? And what was it?
The wind had picked up again, blowing relentlessly; the only sounds along the deserted street were the banging of a shutter, the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the cobblestones and the wind howling in the doorways. His tata had prepared his supper and was waiting for him, sewing something for some distant relative in Fortino. When she saw him she began airing her usual concerns.
“A new case, eh? Another murder. I can tell right away—your face changes. You become obsessed. When a man works, he works. But when he’s home, he should think about himself. Not you though, always thinking about murdered bodies, blood and knives. Why don’t you think about starting a family instead? They’re imposing a tax now, those who aren’t married have to pay it. What are you going to do, pay a tax? What is it that you don’t have? You could catch the best woman in Naples, with your good looks and your wealth. And you’re still young. You think you’ll be young forever? To me it seems like just yesterday that I was a beautiful guagliona and now I’m a decrepit old lady. And who did I spend my whole life looking after? A man who doesn’t even want to have children! Not even a scrap of satisfaction for this poor little old woman. It’s shameful!”
Ricciardi, resigned to the background sounds of Rosa’s grumbling, went on eating as he reflected. He had delineated Vezzi’s personality, there was no doubt about that. A disreputable, dreadful individual, the quintessence of the worst a man could be. Gifted with an incomparable talent and the appeal that brought with it. But who was attracted by that appeal? Those who were part of his world, which in fact he never ventured out of. Yet he had a beautiful wife, and one who, at the beginning, was in love with him. Is it possible he hadn’t understood the tragedy his wife had experienced when she lost her baby? No question about it, Livia was beautiful; on that score there could be no doubt. Even he, who normally paid little attention to these things, had been aware of it. Captivating; there was something feline about her. Certainly not reassuring.
“ . . . A nice quiet woman. Someone who will take care of you when I die—which, if you ask me, will be soon seeing how these old bones of mine ache. God knows the effort it takes to keep up this house. And then the washing and ironing, hanging the clothes out to dry, sewing on the buttons you’re always losing. And preparing supper that ends up getting cold because you never come home in the evening. What kind of a life is that?”
Can a man go so far as to kill for a woman? He had seen men kill for much less than Livia’s eyes, her perfume. But who could have entered the area of the dressing rooms during the performance? An outsider would have attracted everyone’s attention, but someone who was part of the surroundings, part of the theater, could have gone unnoticed. Entered, then left the dressing room? How? Ricciardi smiled distractedly at Rosa, kissed her on the forehead and went off to his room.
The sea was roaring on the rocks, driven by the wind. From the third-floor window of the Hotel Excelsior towering sprays of greyish foam could be seen in the darkness, along with fishing boats anchored far from shore, bobbing wildly in the waves. In the shadows of her room, Livia smoked as she watched the storm-tossed scene.
She could have gone out. Marelli, Arnaldo’s manager, had invited her to dinner. He had hinted that, now, she could even go back to singing; that Vezzi’s name would no longer be an obstacle but would, on the contrary, offer excellent exposure. That, now, the hurdle of being in the great tenor’s shadow no longer existed. Now. The key word was “now.” Now she was free.
But did Livia feel free? Or would she see another ghost now? His breath, his hands. Arnaldo’s voice. The man he was at the beginning, the man he had become at the end. Maybe it could not have been any different, for a man like him. She was afraid to see the body: afraid that it might not be him after all.
She didn’t know why she had spoken about him today with the Commissario. It had been a long time, she thought, inhaling the smoke, since she had talked to anyone about him. Even her parents, always solicitous and there for her, who since Carletto’s death called her “poor Livia”, hadn’t heard her speak of Arnaldo for years. Nor did they ask about him, having certainly understood the situation. Yet today, in front of a stranger and at such a grave time, she had revealed her most secret emotions.
Livia recalled what she had sensed in Ricciardi: that he was resigned to suffering. The suffering of others, which he had made his own and which had become a way of life. It wasn’t hard for her to admit that she was attracted by that man, by his cold, expressionless eyes. She had turned down Marelli’s dinner invitation, it would have to be another time. Her career had waited this long, it could wait another night.
She smiled bitterly, in the darkness, thinking about those green eyes. Outside, the wind and sea howled.
In the warm, brightly lit kitchen, Enrica was cleaning up after dinner with her family. The usual chaos reigned, as if a battalion of hungry mercenaries had passed through.
Sounds came from the other rooms: her sisters and brother making a racket, her baby nephew crying, her father arguing with her mother, sister and brother-in-law. Enrica didn’t mind straightening up after supper, patiently and doggedly. Her mild, stubborn nature found its chief expression in being orderly. She didn’t want any help and smilingly declined the offers of her mother, who had arthritis, and her younger sister, who had the small child to think of. All she asked was that they stay out of the kitchen and let her take her time. This was her little kingdom. That’s how Enrica was: calm, smiling and not very talkative. Not turning around, she glanced towards the window. Still nothing.
That evening the voices of the adults were rather excited. Politics, she thought. Always politics. As the years passed and the regime became more entrenched, people’s views grew further and further apart. Enrica’s father, a liberal, was convinced that freedom was being progressively eroded; that it was difficult for those who saw things differently from the majority to express their opinion without incurring some act of violence. That the economy was stagnating, as evidenced by the fact that his daughter and son-in-law, with their baby, were forced to continue living with them instead of on their own.
But her brother-in-law, a clerk in his father-in-law’s shop, and an enthusiastic member of the Fascist Party, retorted that this was a defeatist attitude; you had to have faith in the decisions of Il Duce and the hierarchies who would do what was good for the country; and sacrifices had to be made now in order to be unsurpassed in the world in the future. Because that was Italy’s destiny, since the time of Rome: to predominate, for the good of mankind. They should feel proud to be Italian, and accept those sacrifices confidently. Once that destiny was fulfilled, there would be prosperity and well-being.
Enrica hated to hear them arguing. But she knew they loved each other and that this dispute too would end with a glass of cognac, in front of the radio. As far as she was concerned, she didn’t know what to make of the subject: she seemed to think her father was right, yet she had the feeling that this did not make him happy. She glanced briefly at the window. Still nothing.
She herself, she knew, was a cause of concern for her parents. She felt it more and more often in her mother’s caresses, in her father’s sighs when he looked at her; her younger sister had been married for over a year after a five-year engagement. For some time now she had been turning down invitations from her girlfriends, who wanted her to come dancing with them on Saturday afternoons. Enrica wasn’t beautiful; she was tall, wore glasses for myopia, she wasn’t particularly graceful in her movements, and her legs were too long. Still, she had an extraordinary way of smiling, tilting her head to the side and lowering her eyes, and several young men had asked her sisters and girlfriends about her. Politely and quietly, though not allowing any objections, she would refuse the invitation without offending anyone. She liked to read, to embroider. To listen to music on the radio. Romantic music, the kind that made you dream. Sometimes she went to the movies and she had even seen a ‘talkie’ a few months earlier; enthralled by the sound, she had wept. Her father, touched by it, had teased her a little. She put a plate in the cabinet, near the window. She looked out. Nothing yet.
She kept the truth to herself. She didn’t want to tell anyone how, in her heart, she didn’t feel free to accept the young men’s overtures. Oh, she knew they would laugh. They would say she was the usual naïve dreamer, that reality was a different matter. The reality was that she was twenty-four years old and still single. That it was pointless to embroider a trousseau that in all likelihood would never be put to use. That if she wanted a family with children and a house, she’d better get a social life, without wasting any time.
But there was more she would also have to tell, for the sake of completeness: about the window opposite and the curtains that opened every evening, though not always at the same time; about that moment at the street vendor’s cart, when she’d found herself looking into the most desperate eyes that she had ever seen in her life. How every night she felt those same feverish eyes on her, for hours. From behind a windowpane in winter, and unobstructed in summer, when the scent of the sea reached Santa Teresa, borne by the hot wind from the south. And how that gaze was everything, a promise, a dream, even an ardent embrace. Thinking about it, she instinctively turned to the window. The curtain opposite was open. Lowering her eyes and blushing, Enrica hid a small smile: good evening, my love.
Ricciardi watched Enrica. He enjoyed her slow, methodical, precise movements.
Something was missing: a detail, some aspect. He was certain that he was close to a solution, or at least to the path that would lead to the solution. A phrase: a phrase that he had heard, that he had filed away in a corner of his memory and no longer remembered.
Enrica was stacking the dishes in the sink carefully, from the smallest to the largest.
The facts, let’s see, from the smallest to the largest. He remembered the important ones easily, no need to concentrate. Focus on the seemingly insignificant ones.
Enrica wiped the table clean with a dishcloth.
Let’s go over the things they said: who did I talk to first?
Enrica arranged the chairs around the kitchen table.
Don Pierino, who described the operas’ plots.
Enrica folded the dishcloth, after shaking it out.
The priest had also talked about Vezzi, about how great he was. His voice had actually trembled.
Enrica was now sweeping the floor, clearing away the crumbs from supper.
He remembered don Pierino’s excitement, yet the Assistant Pastor had not seen the rehearsals; he had been specific about that.
Enrica had finished straightening up and looked around, satisfied.
Don Pierino had said that he had heard the voice on recordings and in other performances. Not this time, however.
Enrica was getting her embroidery box; she would move the chair near the window and turn on the lamp. It was the brightest moment of Ricciardi’s day: seeing her sitting there as she began embroidering with her left hand, her head slightly tilted to one side. It made his heart tremble.
Don Pierino telling him: “Seeing him up close, yesterday, made my heart tremble.”
In the darkness of the bedroom an extraordinary thing happened: the sombre Commissario Ricciardi, in his flannel robe, hairnet on his head, smiled and said, in a whisper: “Thank you. Goodnight, my love.”