“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.”
XX
So, there’s another one. Marelli too, Ricciardi thought when he found himself alone in his office, had excellent reasons for disliking Vezzi. And excellent reasons to keep him alive and in good health, at least until the end of the season. I wonder what life must be like, he thought, if you’re surrounded by people who hate you, yet who depend on you. Maybe you’d think you were a malevolent deity, to whom the faithful offer sacrifices to ward off lightning or drought. Or maybe you’d feel lonely; even more lonely.
In any case, Marelli too had an alibi that could easily be verified: the theater. Ricciardi made a note and called Maione in.
“Verify Marelli’s presence at La Scala on the twenty-fifth. Send a phonogram to the Questura in Milan. Is Signora Vezzi out there?”
“Yes, Commissa’. She hasn’t raised her veil for a moment, and she hasn’t said a word. She’s sitting there, straight as a rod, not even looking around. It’s a little unsettling, to tell the truth. Shall I send her in?”
“Yes, have her come in. You can even go home if you want to, I think we’re done for today.”
“Okay, Commissa’. Just in case, I’ll wait until you’re finished with the signora, should you need anything.”
Ricciardi, noblesse oblige, waited for Signora Vezzi at the doorway to his office. He was therefore able to see her coming from the end of the hallway, where the waiting room was. Tall, wearing black, a coat with a fur collar, a hat with a veil that covered her face. He discerned a full, generous figure, though her walk was lithe and confident, not heavy. A compliant bearing, but tense. As if she might easily run off at any second.
She stopped in front of him a moment and tilted her head slightly to one side. The Commissario was aware of her gaze under the veil that concealed her features. He stood aside to let her enter; he held out a chair for her and, after she was seated, walked around the desk and sat down in turn. A wild fragrance, like spices, pervaded the room.
For a moment the woman was still. Then, with a slow, determined gesture, she raised her hands to her hat and took it off. A face with regular features, fair complexion. A hint of make-up accentuated full lips, large, dark eyes, a straight, not-quite-long nose; a well-proportioned oval, with a slight dimple on the chin. Signora Livia Lucani, now the widow Vezzi, was very beautiful and she knew it. She looked at the Commissario with curiosity, so different was he from what she had expected.
Seated across from her, his hands clasped before him, Ricciardi watched her face steadily, his eyes expressionless. He wondered what was behind that arrogant look of hers.
Pride, maybe. An echo of sorrow. But not a recent sorrow, not the death of her husband. Rather, something from further back. At times Ricciardi preferred the dead: they said the same thing over and over, but at least they spoke. The living, instead, just looked at you, and you had no idea what they were thinking. Especially women.
After a moment or two, though it seemed much longer to him, Ricciardi spoke.
“Signora, first of all I offer you my personal condolences along with those of the Questura. I want you to know that we will do everything in our power to ensure that the person who committed the crime is punished.”
“Thank you, Commissario. Thank you very much. I’m sure you will.”
Livia had a deep, modulated voice. Ricciardi thought it was natural, they’d told him that she had been a singer, a contralto. Still, he was surprised just the same. A low, rich sound. But also mellow, extremely feminine.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Signora, for having to ask you certain questions. They are designed for the purpose I mentioned. But if it becomes too painful for you to answer, if you are tired from travelling or simply if your grief . . . what I mean is, I don’t want to be intrusive. All you have to do is tell me, and we’ll postpone the questioning.”
“No, Commissario. My journey has been anything but tiring. Besides, now is the time and it can’t be helped. Will I have to . . . see him? See my husband?”
The way she referred to him: there was a bit of fear in the woman’s tone. Certainly not love, nor regret.
“I’m afraid so, for identification. You’re his next of kin. It’s the law. He’s not here, however. He’s at the hospital. We’ll take you there tomorrow morning.”
“How did it happen? I mean . . . they didn’t tell me. How was he struck? Did they . . . disfigure him?”
Dread. Fear of not being able to face the horror. Ricciardi knew this feeling, he encountered it often. As if it hadn’t been another human being who attacked. What should I tell you, Signora? About his final song of love that turns to hate? Or about the blood I can see gushing out of the pierced artery?
“No, Signora. A single wound, fatal, not to the face. Perhaps accidental, not intentionally inflicted. A scuffle. We don’t know yet. But no disfigurement, no.”
Livia brought a trembling gloved hand to her face. She didn’t want to cry and she would not cry. She had exhausted her tears years ago. But she was afraid that seeing the corpse of the man whom she had once loved would be too much for her. Beyond that she couldn’t help feeling intrigued by the man seated before her. Those steady green eyes, so strange in that dark face. The sharp nose, the nostrils quivering a little. The line of the eyebrows, slightly contracted at the c
entre, almost a natural scowl. The thin, tight lips, the instinctive twitch of the jaw. And that strand of hair over his face, like a boy, softening the overall impression of harshness. He reminded her of an unmounted emerald, cold and indifferent, but magnetic and compelling. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Ricciardi, seemingly unaware of the woman’s persistent observation, was studying her in turn, trying to get a sense of what she was feeling. If hunger and love, along with any variation of those needs, lay at the bottom of every crime, then a woman, a beautiful woman, could be the source of a motive. Though geographically distant, a wife could provoke displeasure, jealousy or envy and trigger all kinds of reactions. Ricciardi had seen many such women, and he knew that he would meet many more yet to come.
This one, moreover, was a woman who could drive any man crazy. Reading into those deep, expressive dark eyes, Ricciardi saw great vitality along with a profound intelligence and an awareness of her own beauty: a mixture more potent than any explosive.
“How long had it been since you’d seen your husband, Signora?”
“Three months, I believe. Not since Christmas, more or less.”
Ricciardi stared at her.
“It doesn’t seem normal, does it? I know. But my family was never a normal one. With Arnaldo it wasn’t possible to be a family. He . . . well . . . he should have remained single. In actuality, our entire marriage was expedient for him. For his career. Not to mention that, in these times, you can’t have a career, public visibility, without a beautiful family. And so, you need a marriage. A beautiful public marriage.”
“And you, Signora? How was it expedient for you?”
Livia did not seem to notice the sarcasm in Ricciardi’s voice. She was gazing straight ahead, unseeing, following the thread of memories.
“Expedient? The advantage of marrying a genius, the greatest of all time. And the man you love. Whom you think you love. Or whom you once loved, perhaps. Are you married, Commissario?”
“No. I’m not. What is it like to be married? Explain it to me, Signora.”
“I don’t know. During all those years, I don’t recall ever feeling that he was mine. The house, of course: the furniture, the social events. The important people, the Party, the people in power. Paintings, sculptures. Awards. Travelling, smiling for the press, the flashbulbs. Aeroplanes, even. Sleeping cars. More smiles. But only outside the walls. At home, it meant waiting alone. Waiting for what?”
“And him? He, meanwhile?”
Still staring into space, Livia recalled the loneliness.
“He was always on the go. I protested when he came back, I asked him to explain. How dare you? he would say. ‘Remember your role. I have to live, I am the great Vezzi. Let me live, let me go.’ And love . . . ”
“And love?”
“Love dies. The arms that held you tight become barriers that keep you out. The face that you caressed with your eyes, in sleep, becomes the sign of your end. As well as the end of your aspirations, of your career. I was talented, did you know that, Commissario? Truly talented. I sang in New York, in London. Even here at the San Carlo, in 1922, I performed in L’italiana in Algeri. But then I sacrificed it all on the altar of the great god Vezzi. I don’t know why he married me, why it was me he wanted. I’ve asked myself that question hundreds, thousands of times over the years. He could have had anyone he wanted, women of title, heiresses to great wealth, but he wanted me. I was engaged to a Florentine count when we were introduced, but he paid no attention whatsoever. He started courting me, showering me with roses, letters, messages; he seemed obsessed. I saw him get like that on other occasions, afterwards: it’s how he was. When he wanted something, anything, he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t live until he got it. That’s how it was with me.”
Ricciardi listened intently. He was looking for the seed of revenge in Livia’s words, but he didn’t find it.
“But don’t you feel bitter or angry, over your life? Don’t you feel robbed of something that belonged to you?”
The woman looked up and found herself staring into those green eyes. She drowned in them, for a long moment that stretched out markedly. She saw in them a familiarity with suffering, she recognized a sense of sorrow.
“Have you lost someone, Commissario? Did you ever lose someone you loved dearly?”
For a moment Ricciardi said nothing. He saw again the man in the park at San Martino, the yellowish foam bubbling out of his mouth, his hands tightly gripping his stomach as he kept saying, “I can’t live without you,” while the woman hanging from a tree asked, “Why, my love?” over and over again.
“Let’s say I’m familiar with this kind of loss, I’ve seen many such cases in my work, and I know about absence.”
“Well then, if you know about absence, you know that it becomes a condition. You get used to it, if you survive. I got used to it. Six years ago I had Arnaldo’s child. I thought I would recapture the signs of joy and lost love. But it was not to be. The same God who had sentenced me to life imprisonment took away the joy that He had given me. Is it better to be blind from birth or to become blind? Not to know colours or at least be able to remember them? I asked myself that too, a thousand times. All these years, always asking myself the same questions.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“He died of diphtheria, at the age of one. Arnaldo wouldn’t forgive me, as if I had killed him. ‘You weren’t even able to be a mother,’ he told me. He needed a son as much as he needed a wife; even more so. Continuity, succession. Then too, a proof of virility, of the quality of his seed, to offer the Party, the nation. Such idiocy. Don’t you think it’s sheer idiocy, Commissario? Or are you one of those who believe in these things?”
“No, I’m not one of those. And then? What happened afterwards? You never grew close again?”
Livia sighed, running a hand through her hair.
“No. But then we were never close. Besides, if a child brings you together, losing him can tear you apart completely. Assuming our marriage ever existed.”
She paused to follow a thought. Then she looked directly into Ricciardi’s eyes.
“Have you ever seen a ghost, Commissario?”
“Who knows. Perhaps, at times. But maybe we all see them.”
“I live with the ghost of my child. He keeps me company, I talk to him. I think I see him, sometimes. I feel him in my arms, I feel his weight.”
“And your husband? What happened, afterwards?”
“He went his own way, once and for all. He no longer even tried to keep up appearances. We’d see each other at official events, and I went to hear him sing a couple of times. He had his affairs, I had mine. No apologies, not anymore.”
Ricciardi raised an eyebrow.
“Your affairs?”
Livia lifted her chin, proudly.
“I’m a woman: mortally wounded, but still alive. I needed to feel appreciated, yes. To see if I was still able to attract a glance, a smile. If I might still receive a bouquet of roses, a love letter. Besides, was I supposed to remain faithful? To whom? To a man who didn’t come home for months? And who didn’t think twice about humiliating me, appearing in public with other women? You should have seen it, the commiseration on the faces of our friends, our important acquaintances. Maybe I too was hoping to hurt him a little.”
“Forgive me, Signora. I didn’t mean to offend you; these are matters that don’t concern me. It was to see if there might be someone who for some reason wanted to get rid of your husband. To have you for himself, perhaps.”
“No, Commissario. I haven’t been seeing anyone for months. You can easily verify it. I spent all week in Pesaro, at my parents’ house. Alone. As always.”
When she said goodbye to Ricciardi, Livia turned and, before lowering the veil over her face, unexpectedly smiled at him. A radiant, very tender smile. She tilted her head to the side and gave
him a long meaningful look.
“I’m staying at the Excelsior, Commissario. Should you need me for anything further, send for me. In any case, I will be here tomorrow morning to identify the body at the hospital.”
XXI
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!”
I Will Have Vengeance Page 10
