Maione was dragging his feet.
There was no respite from the heat, even after sunset. In fact, it got worse.
If by day you could blame the sunlight, that terrible pitiless light that showed no mercy, that wounded eyes and skin and made you wish you could just soak in a basin full of ice water, or made you dream of the worst possible winter, with downpours and windstorms, anything rather than that inferno without peace; if by day you could put the blame on the damned cowardly sun, which extended its fiery fingers down into even the hidden spots where you might hope to find a hint of cool shade; if by day you could complain and hope to find some reciprocal understanding in cafés and in the atriums of the apartment buildings; by night, when the light, the sun, and the scorching heat might all have been expected to retreat, then the suffering was simply too much to bear.
So just think, the brigadier said to himself, how it is if the soul is torn with grief.
Maione was worried. Worried that his anxiety would be visible, that his sadness would show to the outside world. He expected the women who put their chairs outside, in the street, seeking respite from the muggy heat of the bassi and launching into the endless conversations with their neighbors that would last until dawn, to say to him: Buonasera, Brigadie’, what happened? You have an expression on your face that’s too terrible to even look at.
Instead, no one noticed a thing. Everything seemed perfectly normal.
At last he arrived, after beating every record for slowness. The stairs, the children staging the usual ambush; the hello, the girls kneading dough, Lucia at the stove. Everything as it always was. He went into the bedroom to take off his uniform and his sweat-soaked shirt, and his gaze fell on Lucia’s purse, which wasn’t in its usual place. I don’t want to see it, thought Maione. I don’t want to notice that her purse is on the chair instead of in the armoire.
In the kitchen the usual cheerful atmosphere prevailed. Lucia said to him: “Hey, how did your day go? Are you tired?”
Impossible that they can’t see it on my face, thought Maione.
“A little, yes. We went to Vomero to question someone, and we took the funicular. How about you?”
A moment’s hesitation. Just an instant, or had it been an illusion?
“Me? Yes, I went out, this afternoon. I went to buy a couple pairs of shoes, for Maria and Benedetta, the old ones were falling apart.”
Really? With what money?
“And right nearby, I found a great deal on shirts for you, Raffae’. You need lighter fabric, in this heat. Maybe I’ll buy you some tomorrow.”
Was this just a way of assuaging her conscience? In Maione’s mind, through a link that was at first wholly subconscious but which then caused a sharp pang in his stomach, he saw Sisinella in her nice apartment, with all her dresses and jewelry. Money. Money, comfort. I knew it wouldn’t last forever.
“No, thanks. I don’t need them, I’m happy with the ones I have, if you have time to iron them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? When have you ever found your shirts left unironed?”
Little Immacolata whined: “Papà, you know that mammà goes out and won’t take me with her?”
Maria mocked her: “Mammà goes out . . . and why should she always take you with her? You’re a big girl now. You see that you aren’t even ticklish anymore?”
And she scratched her on the belly; the little one laughed and spat out some of her pasta.
Maione slammed his fist violently down on the table, making all the plates bounce and knocking over a couple of glasses: “That’s enough! That’s enough, I said! How on earth were you raised, in this house? Can’t a poor man get some peace and quiet the one time all day he sits down to eat at his own table like a civilized human being? All of you, go to your rooms. On an empty stomach, without dinner! And I don’t want to hear a fly buzz!”
Around the table, seven pairs of eyes as large as saucers stared at him. The littlest one started to cry and Maria took her in her arms, continuing to stare at her father with a frightened gaze shot through with reproach. The six children left the room, heads bowed, leaving six plates full of food.
Lucia’s blue eyes were wide open in astonishment, and her lips were pressed tight. Their economic situation must truly be dire if it led her husband to an outburst like that, something that he had never done in all their years together, not even in the terrible days following Luca’s death.
Maione stood up. His chin was quivering with rage; a muscle was twitching uncontrollably on his jaw.
He opened his mouth to speak, staring dementedly at his wife. Then he turned on his heel and went to get his jacket.
He’d better go out.