As if to dramatically underscore the woman’s words, a gust of wind blew through the Galleria, shaking the window of the café.
“And you’re sure of that?”
Maddalena smiled sadly.
“With someone like me, you have to ask that, right? With a woman like me, the child can be anybody’s. The first guy who comes along. But not your girlfriend, right? You wouldn’t ask your girlfriend a question like that.”
Now it was Ricciardi who smiled sadly.
“No, I wouldn’t. Not that or any other question. Excuse me. Go on.”
“That day, Signora Lilla had a backache. Actually it wasn’t true, she just didn’t want to deal with Vezzi. No one wanted to have anything to do with him. When he’d come to Naples, two years earlier I think, he had got two people fired; he said they were incompetent. That’s how he was. Only he existed. Measurements had to be taken for the Pagliacci costumes; they had to be ready for the current performance. We always work like that, two or three months in advance. At Christmas, Vezzi arrived, then in January, the other members of the company came. Anyway, he was extremely particular; he wanted to see everything, the staging, the props, every single thing. Especially his costumes.
“I was talking with Michele when he arrived. Outside the entrance to the theater. I remember it as though it were today. I hadn’t seen him before. He stepped out of the car with two others: he was tall, big, and wore a hat and scarf. He wasn’t handsome, but he was rich. You could tell, Commissa’: someone who was loaded, not with money, not only that, but with power. A man who could do anything he wanted. Anything at all. At any time. He looked at us as he went in. At me and Michele. At me. And he smiled, the smile of a ferocious animal. I know that smile, Commissa’: men give me that smile just before they lay their hands on me. When they realize that a woman no longer has any place she can run to.”
“And Nespoli, didn’t he look at you that way?”
“No. Not Michele. Michele treats me as if I were a princess. For him I am a princess. I’ve always been one. And it was Michele who told me that he was Vezzi. His voice was shaking with excitement. He said to me: “Do you know who that is? That’s Vezzi, the god among tenors.” That’s just what he said. The god among tenors. And he acted like he was god, Commissa’. If he wanted something, he took it; then, when he didn’t want it anymore, he threw it away. And if he couldn’t take something away from someone else, it was of no interest to him.”
“And you, he had seen you with Nespoli.”
“Yes, he had seen me with Michele. And he told me later that he had seen how we looked at each other, specifically how Michele looked at me. He said, ‘The young man’s eyes were burning: he looked like he wanted to eat you.’ And he, being god, couldn’t stand to have a man look at a woman like that in his presence, because he had to be the only one. That’s what stray dogs are like, I’ve dealt with them in the streets. That’s how he was. Worse than a dog. Dogs don’t laugh.”
“And then what happened?”
“What happened was that Signora Lilla sent me to Vezzi’s dressing room, to do the fitting. ‘You go, Maddalena,’ she said. ‘The way I’m feeling today, I’ll get myself thrown out of the theater, with that ill-mannered lunatic.’ Instead, with me he was very kind. He didn’t take any liberties, or lay a hand on me. He talked, he talked a lot. He told me that he was lonely and sad. That he no longer even spoke to his wife, hadn’t for years. That with all the people he had around him, there wasn’t a single person who really cared for him. That if he ever had the good fortune of being with a real woman again, he would never let her go. That he wanted a son.”
Unexpectedly, Maddalena laughed. A bleak laugh, one that held tears. Ricciardi looked out of the window.
“He wanted a son. He had lost his, he said, because his wife hadn’t taken care of him, she hadn’t noticed his high fever in time. He was good, Commissa’. He was so good at acting. Maybe, after years of singing onstage, he thought that life was all an act. All a game. And I, clever Maddalena, the one who had survived hunger, thirst and disease, who had battled dogs, rats and men, fell for it. The next day, I sent word that I wasn’t feeling well, I told Michele that I was going to visit an elderly nun who was sick, and I spent the day in the Vomero, with him. And the next day as well. We forgot about the world, in that room in the Vomero.”
“The Pensione Belvedere.”
Maddalena gave him a tired smile.
“You know about that, too. Did you go inside the room, did you see it? Then you’ve also seen the place where I was happy, the only place in my life where I was truly happy. He called me his blonde fairy, he caressed my eyes and stroked my hair. He told me that my suffering was over, that he would leave his wife and the entire world to be with me. That he would give it to me on a silver platter, the world.”
“And you believed him.”
“And I believed him. Because I wanted to believe. Because such things can happen, even in life. A friend of mine married a hardware dealer; she used to live above a brothel at the Sanità and now she acts like a great lady and if she sees me on the street she pretends she doesn’t know me. Couldn’t that happen to me as well?”
“And what about Nespoli, didn’t you think of him?”
Maddalena’s expression was stricken, as if she’d felt a sharp pain.
“Michele . . . we were two poor devils, Michele and me. What future could we have had? Even if he were successful, where could he go with someone like me with him? What future was there for us? Anyway, I wasn’t his. I had become Arnaldo’s, from the very moment he’d looked at me. When he left, he told me that he would put his affairs in order and come back for me. That I must not say a word to anyone, meanwhile, because otherwise his wife, who knew important people, would take steps to prevent us from being together. That I must be careful and wait patiently. And I waited patiently. I believed him. I thought he was a harsh man because he was lonely, and that with me he would become the sweetest man in the world. And I watched him leave and I went back to my everyday life. Which was no longer enough for me, however.”
“Nespoli included.”
“Including Michele, yes. It all seemed so . . . paltry, so empty. Even things that before had seemed heavenly. I was dreaming of jewels, furs. But more than anything, I dreamed about Arnaldo, a prince who made me feel like a queen. And Michele . . . Michele wanted to marry me. I didn’t feel I could say no, tell him it wasn’t possible; he frightened me. Michele is dangerous: he has a peculiar temperament, he can become violent. I told him it was better to wait until he became a success.”
“And then you discovered . . . ”
“Yes, a month later. I was so happy, Commissa’! I thought I would be giving Arnaldo the son he had lost, that I would be offering him a family and contentment. I didn’t try to contact him, I didn’t write to him. I knew he would be coming, that the performance was scheduled for this time, and I waited. I waited so I could tell him myself; I wanted to see the expression on his face. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world.”
“Did you approach him right away, when he came?”
“Yes, of course. I went up to him as soon as he got to the theater, the second day he was here, to prepare for the dress rehearsal. He told me we had to be careful, that his secretary spied on him and reported back to his wife, that we would see each other the following day, the day of the rehearsal, at the Pensione Belvedere. I told him which tram he should take, if he came in a carriage or by taxi everyone would notice. And we saw each other there.”
“Did you tell him then?”
“No. He was tired, edgy. I didn’t want to tell him when he was that way. It was such a beautiful thing, so important that I didn’t want to throw it away. He fell asleep and when he woke up it was so late that he nearly missed the dress rehearsal. I said goodbye and told him I loved him. Then we went to the theater, separately.”
Ricciardi leaned forward, aware that they had reached the critical point.
“And so, we come to the night of the twenty-fifth.”
Maddalena visibly shuddered and glanced around. Then she looked steadily at Ricciardi, placing a hand on her stomach again.
“I have to know what you intend to do, Commissario. I don’t have only myself to think about. I won’t let my child be born in prison: you know what happens. They give the baby to an institution and if he survives, he survives the way I survived. I won’t let my child have the kind of life I had. Well then?”
Ricciardi knew that Maddalena was right and he also knew that her child was innocent. He thought about Nespoli, however, and the tear that had run down his cheek that morning. And about Vezzi’s tears. Did he have the right to grant pardon on their behalf?
“I don’t want to see a baby born in prison either. That much I can tell you. But I don’t want to see an innocent man sent to prison for thirty years, whose only crime was to love a woman. One who used him.”
Maddalena flushed.
“I was only trying to protect my child. I wanted— I want to give him a better life.”
Ricciardi had not taken his eyes off those of the woman for one second.
“Go on.”
There was a momentary silence. The woman knew the Commissario would not let up until he had learned the truth. All she could do was tell him how it had happened and place her hope in the glimmer of humanity she perceived in those gleaming green eyes. She thought back to three days before; she relived her grief for the hundredth time.
“I went straight to his dressing room. He had already put on his make-up. How strange he was with his clown’s face. Not that I didn’t like him. I still liked him. He smiled at me, nervously. He seemed distant. I thought it was because of the performance. A great singer is great because he’s always tense before measuring up to his own talent again. I looked at him, smiled at him. And I told him. Just like that, simply: we were going to have a child. He looked at me, with the powder puff in his hand. He looked as though he hadn’t understood. Then he frowned and asked me why I hadn’t been careful. I didn’t understand: wasn’t it the most beautiful thing in the world? Wasn’t he happy too, the way I was happy? He said there was nothing to worry about, he would give me the money. I didn’t get it, what was he talking about? Killing our baby? Hadn’t he already lost a child?
“He clawed my arm, he hurt me. He shouted that I mustn’t dare talk about his son. I reminded him of his promises, it was he who had told me that we would be together, forever.
“He let go of my arm then, stepped back and began to laugh. Softly, at first. A little chuckle, like when you think of something funny. Then louder and louder: unrestrained, vulgar peals of laughter. He was gasping, saying ‘You and I, together . . . someone like me, with someone like you . . . may I introduce my new wife, Madame Needle-and-Thread . . . my son, the son of a seamstress . . . ’ and he laughed and laughed. He was doubled over . . . ”
. . . doubled over, on his knees . . .
“ . . . He looked like he had lost his senses. He had his hand stretched out, as if he wanted to hold me off because I was making him laugh . . . ”
. . . hand outstretched, as if to ward off . . .
“ . . . And all the while, he laughed and laughed. He laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes. He was crying, that’s how hard he was laughing . . . !”
. . . tears, rolling down his face . . .
“ . . . He wouldn’t stop! And I felt my feelings for him change. I felt his deceitfulness. Outside, from the stage, I heard Michele singing. I heard Michele’s love and the laughter of the Pagliaccio in front of me. I could feel my hatred coursing through my veins, infecting me.”
. . . Io sangue voglio, all’ira m’abbandono, in odio tutto l’amor mio finì . . . I will have vengeance . . . and all my love shall end in hate . . .
“ . . . And then my hand seized the scissors I had around my neck, my seamstress’ shears, and I stabbed him hard, a single blow, to the throat. I don’t know if I meant to kill him. Maybe I just wanted him to stop laughing.”
. . . A blow with the scissors. That’s what was missing when I saw you. And with your left hand, because you’re left-handed like my Enrica. Therefore on the right side of the clown’s neck as he stood in front of you. In the carotid . . .
“He stopped laughing, in fact. He was gurgling with his hand at his throat, that oh-so-precious throat. I sat on the sofa, under the gushing blood. I wanted to see how a Pagliaccio dies.”
. . . The clean cushion, the only one. You were sitting on it. Watching the clown die. I will have vengeance . . .
“ . . . Then, as though in a dream, I opened the door to leave. At that moment, Michele came down from the stage. I don’t know if God exists, Commissario. But it’s truly strange that just at that moment, with all the coming and going there is from the dressing rooms during the performance, Michele, my Michele, should be the only one who saw me. And he saw me wide-eyed, my smock drenched with Vezzi’s blood, the scissors in my fist, torn from their ribbon. He pushed me back into the dressing room.
“He looked around, he understood. By this time Vezzi had no more blood, but he was still wheezing, a death rattle. So Michele punched him in the face . . . ”
. . . Haematoma too small for a fracture, the doctor had said; the victim had no more blood . . .
“ . . . and he told me to take off my bloodstained smock. Then he wrapped the scissors in the smock, broke the mirror and propped Vezzi on the chair. He took the sharpest fragment and stuck it into the wound on his neck, all the way in, holding it with the stained smock. I watched as though I were looking out of the window. Then he told me to wait there, and locked the door. He took Vezzi’s coat, scarf and hat from the armoire and put them on. He grabbed the smock and scissors and shoved them under his coat. And he jumped down from the window . . . ”
. . . To get rid of any trace of you at the crime scene. So that no one would think it might have been you . . .
“ . . . I waited with the body. I felt like I was in a dream. After a minute, or maybe a year, I heard Michele’s whisper outside the door. I opened it, to let him in . . . ”
. . . After he had bumped into don Pierino on the stairs, who mistook him for Vezzi . . .
“ . . . He told me he had to switch his shoes, which were muddied: otherwise he would leave tracks on the stage, where he would shortly return. That’s when I woke up: I realized I had to hurry, that I could save my child from ruin. This time, he waited for me in the dressing room and I went up to the fourth floor. I said I had come straight from the sick nun’s convent and I asked Maria to lend me her smock . . . ”
. . . Too big for you, as I recall . . .
“ . . . I got the shoes and brought them down. No one notices us seamstresses when we come and go. I held them under the smock, which was too big for me. Michele put the clean ones on and gave me the muddy ones and I went upstairs again to put them back in place. He took care of the keys . . . ”
. . . The locked door, that Lasio had to break down . . .
“ . . . Then I took the costume and told Signora Lilla that it was ready. I had finished it. I had made the final adjustment, the final cut.”
. . . The final cut.