What emerged was a story of furtive encounters and letters burnt after being read, stolen kisses and hidden tears. It was strange for Ricciardi, too, accustomed as he was to receiving confessions and peering down into the desperate abyss of loneliness, to hear someone talk about love in that atmosphere choked with files looming high in the semi-darkness, with the odors of tobacco smoke and ink and dust mingling in the air, and with the relentless heat.
The love that Achille told him about was hopeless, and it had no future; a love that was above all a threat, a love that never saw the light of day. In spite of everything, however, it refused to die, obstinately outliving every rational attempt to put an end to it. A hundred times they’d left each other, promising never to meet again, and a hundred and one times they’d sought each other out again, with the feverish urgency of need and the creeping sensation of a new defeat. Pivani relived that pain, twisting his hands, staring into the dark, his voice firm, little more than a whisper.
He couldn’t rule out the possibility that someone at party headquarters might suspect something about the excessively close friendship between a member of the Fascist hierarchy and the young philosopher: but fear of the secret police was too great for anyone to voice their suspicions. The proscription lists, prison, and the chance of being forbidden all employment all lurked menacingly in the offing; it was so much easier to go along with the situation, so most of them simply did their best to comply with the demands of that dangerous little man from the north, with all his mysterious power, frequently called on the phone by the party’s most prominent figures in Rome—figures to whom he often gave terse, irrevocable orders. And so while Ettore, a few days earlier, was telling Achille about being questioned by Ricciardi and how worried he was, Mastrogiacomo had memorized the name—Ricciardi—as he was taking coffee to Pivani’s office; then, when the doorman reported to him that the commissario had been asking questions about who might be visiting the party headquarters at night, he’d taken it upon himself to intervene, determined to win merit in the eyes of his superior officer.
Ettore deeply hated his stepmother, Pivani made clear; but an act of violence like that wasn’t part of his nature. He was a man of letters, gentle, sensitive, a man who loved flowers and possessed no weapons. The picture that emerged from Achille’s description, as well as the alibi that he himself was providing, let Musso off the hook and left a great many obscure points in the duchess’s murder.
“I understand, Pivani. And I realize all the implications of your story, both public and private. Still, I have to warn you that, unless we’re able to identify a guilty party in this murder, it may be that you will be subpoenaed to testify, and you’ll be expected to repeat what you’ve told me here today; otherwise it will be easy for anyone, especially after Musso’s little scene at the funeral, to target him for the murder. You realize that, right?”
Continuing to stare into the empty air, Pivani smiled sadly.
“And what would you do in my position, Ricciardi? Would you just hang back and watch him being sent to prison, suffering the shame of seeing his venerable family name dragged through the mud, like some ordinary brute, some untutored criminal? And just to save my own hide, to boot? No; I’d gladly come testify. Perhaps it would even be a form of liberation, after all the sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, after the thousands of fears that the story might get out and ruin our miserable existences. I am—we are—in your hands, Commissario. Our only chance is that you find the murderer.”
Ricciardi got up from his chair.
“No easy matter, I assure you. The duchess was a prominent woman, as you know. I’m being strongly pressured to move quickly; otherwise they’ll take the investigation out of my hands, and it will be my duty to hand over everything I’ve found to my successor.”
Pivani had put on a pair of reading glasses and was opening a file that lay before him on his desk.
“I can’t give you any classified information; or at least, nothing that you can use openly. The organization I work for, as you know, officially doesn’t exist; what do you call an open secret, you Neapolitans? Pulcinella’s secret, is that it? All the same, I can tell you something that might prove useful. Among the people we have under surveillance is a certain Mario Capece, the journalist who was the duchess’s lover. He isn’t dangerous, but he never misses an opportunity to scatter to the four winds his opinion that the regime has silenced the press.”
Ricciardi nodded.
“Sure, he told us the same thing; but that doesn’t strike me as open dissidence. It’s more like nostalgia for the past, as far as I can tell.”
Pivani smilled, looking over his eyeglasses at Ricciardi.
“You always try to defend people, eh, Ricciardi? It seems to me that you, too, are much more kindhearted than you’d like people to believe. I know that Capece is no seditionist. But people are reluctant to mind their own business and no one ever misses an opportunity to make a favorable impression on us. So we received a number of reports and we were obliged to put him under a soft surveillance. We aren’t having him followed, so I can’t tell you whether or not he was at the Musso di Camparino home the night of the murder; but he wasn’t at the newspaper, there we have a . . . we can say that with confidence, in other words. But what I can tell you, and it certainly might be a useful piece of information, is that his son, Andrea, a sixteen-year-old boy, did something peculiar. Here it is, let me read it to you: ‘The above-named Andrea Capece, sixteen years of age, late at night on Tuesday, August 25th, emerged from his home carrying a package wrapped in newspaper; he walked down the vicolo next to the residence in question, entered a ground floor storage area in the building at number 104, and came out again six minutes later, only to return to his home.’ Since the one under surveillance is the father, and we have no desire to alert him to our interest, we decided not to institute a more in-depth investigation: in other words, we didn’t go to see what was in the package. But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on him, on that boy. After all, even a child can pull a trigger.”
Ricciardi stood up. The interview was over; he said farewell with a nod of the head and walked to the door. Ricciardi already had his hand on the handle when Pivani spoke again:
“One last thing, Ricciardi. Tonight, I’ve been talking to myself, here in my office. Just musing aloud, nothing more. Maybe I saw a ghost, and I just started talking. Aside from that willingness to testify that I promised you if it should happen to come, God forbid, to a trial, none of the information that I’ve given you must ever have a source: otherwise, I won’t be able to do anything on your behalf. Nor will I want to. Is that clear?”
Ricciardi nodded. But Pivani still wasn’t done.
“And as long as I’m chatting with this ghost, I want to give him one other little tidbit of advice. I know that you’re fond of Dr. Bruno Modo, the medical examiner. You’re right, he’s a decent man, one who’s willing to treat someone in need, even if that someone can’t pay for his services. So if you want to help him out, tell him to be careful what he says in public; especially when he’s had a glass or two too much to drink. It really would be a pity if something bad were to happen to him.”
When he got back to police headquarters, everyone had left for the night, except for a very worried Maione, sitting on the bench outside his office door and fanning himself with his cap. As soon as he saw Ricciardi arrive, he leapt to his feet.
“Commissa’, what on earth happened to you? All this time! I sent Camarda to see if you were at Palazzo Camparino, I went back myself to the Capece home to see if you’d forgotten to ask them something. I even called your place, to see if by any chance you’d turned up there. By the way, Signora Rosa is waiting up for you, she says that she made you pasta and squash for dinner.”
Ricciardi grimaced and put his hand on his stomach.
“You just had to tell me that, didn’t you, to make me lose any desire to go home at the end of a long day? When Rosa makes squash, it takes me two days to digest it. You’re right, though, I forgot that you’d be here waiting for me; and I hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten. Come into my office, I’ll tell you the news.”
He rapidly brought the brigadier up to date on the information that was pertinent to the investigation. He told him nothing about the illicit relationship, nor did he even mention Pivani’s name, both because the less his friend knew about it, the less danger he was in, and because he wouldn’t have known how to reveal to him—out of shame and respect—the depth of that relationship and the suffering that accompanied it. He told him that he had been to the Fascist Party headquarters where, by chance, two nights earlier he had seen Ettore go in, and that he’d learned that the duke’s son was collaborating on a number of secret operations now underway, and that he had been told that Ettore was in those offices the night of the murder, as well.
Maione listened openmouthed; when Ricciardi was done he blurted out:
“Excuse me, Commissa’, but what were you doing in the middle of the street two nights ago, when you saw the young master going to visit the Fascists? And why didn’t you tell me about it, why didn’t you have me come with you? They’re very dangerous people to deal with. And who did you speak with, at Fascist headquarters? Those people take care of their own, it’s obvious that they gave him an alibi: it’s like asking a water vendor if the water is cool!”
Ricciardi raised both hands.
“Oh, oh, don’t jump on me! First of all, I didn’t think I’d be able to talk to anyone, I just swung by there to get it out of the way while you were going to get changed. And the other night, it was so hot out that I couldn’t get any sleep, and that’s why I was out walking. When I went by tonight, they finally let me speak with an important figure there, and it struck me that he didn’t even like Ettore very much, and I think he told me the truth. We’d have to check it out, let that be clear. But it would explain why Ettore wouldn’t tell us where he was. In any case, it’s late now, we’ll talk it over tomorrow. You go home and get yourself something to eat, you must be starving by now.”
Maione put on the expression of a suffering man:
“Commissa’, you can’t begin to imagine just how hungry I am. All right, good night. But do me a favor: the next time you think you might be going someplace dangerous, would you be so good as to let me know?”
In the drawing room, after dinner, Enrica did her best to avoid looking at Sebastiano as he was about to sip his coffee. From the very first evening he’d come to her home, she’d noticed a horrible thing: the man held the handle of the porcelain demitasse with two fingers, extending his pinky—that in itself struck her as intolerable—and then he pursed his lips as if he were about to kiss the rim of the cup, another equally ridiculous act, and finally he inhaled his coffee with a loud sucking noise. She could have strangled him.
What would everyone think if they knew that Enrica, the fragile, delicate, shy young woman whom they all loved for her gentle nature, was actually considering first-degree murder? The thought made her smile and the clueless Sebastiano interrupted Operation Espresso to respond with a loving glance. Conceited fool, thought Enrica, and smiled again. And to keep her mind off the sucking sound that was about to fill the room again, she recalled the conversation that she’d had that afternoon with the hairdresser, and all the questions that the woman had asked about Enrica’s supposed engagement, a piece of news that she’d denied categorically. That same hairdresser, she mused, also did the hair of Luigi Alfredo’s housekeeper; how nice it would be, if the woman’s curiosity had been prodded by him: that would mean that he was still interested in her, that the damned woman from the north was nothing more than a friend, and that she still had a prayer of a hope.
She shut her eyes, bracing herself for Sebastiano’s horrible sucking sound: she decided that there was no way that she could spend her life waiting, every time he drank a cup of espresso, to hear the gurgling of the unfortunate liquid as it flowed from the lovely demitasse down into the grotto of his gaping maw.
She was certain that when Luigi Alfredo drank a cup of coffee, he made no noise at all. And that he kept his pinky finger unextended, like a real man.
Lucia went to meet Raffaele the minute she heard the key turn in the lock. She’d sent the children to bed when she realized that he’d be home late, and she’d kept his dinner warm: a bowl of vegetable soup. He let himself drop into the chair, dripping with sweat from the long uphill climb from police headquarters and the stairs up to the top floor. She peered into his face with genuine concern: he seemed tense and nervous to her. She wondered what he had on his mind. Or who.
Instead, her husband looked at his soup bowl, sifting the vegetables with his spoon. After a while he asked her how she’d spent her day. She told him that she’d gone to do her grocery shopping and then she’d spent the afternoon cleaning and shelling the vegetables that she’d used to make that soup. By the way: Ciruzzo, the fruit and vegetable vendor, sent his regards.
He looked up at her as if he’d received an electric shock. He dropped his spoon into the soup and stood up, saying:
“This soup is revolting. Sometimes I think I ought to do like the commissario does and eat out more often. I’ve lost my appetite, I’m going to bed. Buona notte.”
Astonished and humiliated, Lucia watched him leave the room, wondering what on earth she had done wrong.
Ricciardi had hardly eaten a bite. He’d pushed the pasta around in the bowl for ten minutes or so, his mind clearly chasing after faraway thoughts. Rosa had watched him, standing at the threshold of the kitchen door, the whole time.
When he stood up from dinner, giving her a sidelong glance and bracing himself for the usual furious scolding, she astonished him by clearing the table in silence. To his astonishment, there was not so much as a single pointed comment on his lack of consideration for a weary old woman who had worked all day to put delicious food on the table for him when he got home.
Actually, his aged housekeeper was much less worried than she had been for the past few days; the hairdresser had come back to her, in accordance with her instructions. After all, the woman was eager to collect the second half of the tip that she’d been promised, and she came bearing good news. Excellent news, in fact: the young Colombo woman wasn’t engaged and, even better, had no intention of getting engaged. It was her parents, worried about the girl’s age, who were pushing her to get to know the son of the proprietors of the shop next door to theirs; they were hoping that sooner or later love might bloom, spontaneously.
The danger was still clear and present, thought Rosa as she washed the dishes; but there was at least at little hope.
Ricciardi had retired to his bedroom, resolute that he wouldn’t look out his window, even by chance: he didn’t want to suffer the disappointment of once more seeing the shutters across the way closed. Of course, his determination faltered, and he sat in the dark watching the little corner of the Colombos’ drawing room that could be glimpsed from his bedroom window. He saw the infamous young man, by now comfortably ensconsed on the sofa, drinking an espresso; indignantly, he wondered whether the man ever planned to go home, if indeed he had a home. Across from him sat Enrica, hair neatly gathered in a bun, eyeglasses, hands in her lap. She was smiling at him, or at least that’s how it looked to Ricciardi.
Until recently, and every night for many months before that, he’d seen the figure of a woman who had hanged herself on the floor above Enrica’s apartment. Every night, as he looked at the sweet image of Enrica embroidering, he’d had to behold the chilling contrast with this body dangling lazily from a rope tied around the hook holding up the chandelier. Rosa had told him that the woman was a newlywed who’d discovered the truth about her unfaithful husband; when she’d furiously confronted him, he’d beaten her and then abandoned her.
Ricciardi had seen, all too clearly, the neck stretched out by the dislocation of the vertebrae, the blackish tongue, cut halfway through by the final spasm of the jaws, dangling out of her mouth, the bulging eyes, protruding from the sockets; the large stain of urine and feces released by the sphincter onto the white wedding gown, which she’d insisted on wearing for this last macabre dance with death. The woman had repeated to Ricciardi, every night, her invective against the woman who had stolen away her husband. Against the other woman, and not against the man who had betrayed her:
“You damned whore, you took my love and my life.”
She again came to mind now, nearly three months after she’d slowly dissolved into the night, leaving behind only an aura of sadness at first, and then, finally, nothing. She came to mind as he watched Enrica smile at her man and then look away, perhaps thinking of the future they might have together, their children and, someday, their grandchildren: the future that his fundamental nature, however, made impossible for him.
He felt the now familiar stab of pain in his stomach and a powerful surge of nausea. He thought of the hanged woman and himself, two fates not really as far apart as one might think. And the new pain, the dull and selfish suffering that now had a name he couldn’t even bring himself to utter.
The summer night was busy with the buzz of people talking in the street, sitting in front of the doors to their ground-floor bassi, to escape the heat. Somewhere a piano was playing, and he could hear singing, but he couldn’t make out the words. The music was heartbreaking, perfectly suited to Ricciardi’s sorrow. He looked at the man drinking coffee in Enrica’s home, unsuspecting, all smiles: and for the first time, he hated someone with every fiber of his being. He hated that man because the place he was sitting belonged to him, just as the woman that he was smiling at belonged to him; that life, and that normal world, those dreams and that future all belonged to him, too.
He coldly contemplated that hatred, as if it were a strange animal he’d never laid eyes on. A disease that could prove fatal. A disease that could make you kill.
Suddenly, in the heat of the night, surrounded by the sound of faraway music, Ricciardi understood who had killed Adriana Musso di Camparino. And why.