“It’s him,” Livia breathed out, her tightly clasped hands white from being gripped so hard. Ricciardi took one hand from his coat pocket and slipped it under the woman’s arm; she leaned on it so as not to fall.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was prepared. I thought about it a great deal. But maybe it’s not possible to prepare oneself, is it?”
The doctor sighed, faced with a situation that was all too familiar to him. He covered the body again and nodded to the attendant who stood waiting nearby. The man wheeled away the stretcher and no one ever saw Arnaldo Vezzi again in the flesh.
In the small room opposite the mortuary, the doctor offered Livia a cigarette, which she lit with trembling hands.
“How absurd. Such greatness, so many dreams. The magic of an incomparable voice. The hubris, the omnipotence. Then, all this silence.”
Dr. Modo sighed.
“That’s always the way, Signora. Regardless of who the person was. The same dignity, the same silence. Whether it’s war or illness. No matter how many people are out here waiting, in there they are always alone, in silence.”
Ricciardi listened and thought about it. Silence, did you say, Doctor? You can’t imagine how much they still have to say. They sing, laugh. Talk. Shout. Only you can’t hear them. It has to do with the ear: they emit a sound that you don’t hear. But I hear it. Loud and clear.
Livia thanked the doctor, and he told her to consider him at her disposal. Retrieving the body, for the funeral: Marelli, the manager, would see to it. Etcetera, etcetera. The unvarying rhetoric of death.
The return trip was different. Livia was noticeably relieved, for a number of reasons. She was beginning to realize that an important chapter of her life was in any event closed. In that city that wasn’t hers, lashed by that strange, unseasonably cold wind, she had perhaps regained the freedom that she had stopped searching for years ago. Even Arnaldo’s face, harrowed by death, no longer seemed hateful; she thought that perhaps in time she would be able to remember the few positive things about him, the happy moments from the time they had met and the early years of their marriage.
“Do you believe in fate, Commissario?”
“No, Signora. I don’t. I believe in people and their emotions. In love, hate. Hunger. Sorrow, above all.”
He looked steadily straight ahead as he spoke, his head sunk between his shoulders, huddled in the upturned collar of his overcoat. Livia observed his sharp profile, the rebellious strand of hair falling over his face. She sensed his remoteness, as if he were speaking from another world or from another time.
Maione drove in silence, not even cursing the urchins who ran into the street barefoot, chasing a ball of rags or newspaper, propelled by the wind. He was studying the Commissario in the rear-view mirror, surprised by his words: he had never heard that tone, so rapt in thought.
The woman went on. “Well then? In your opinion, how many chances does a person have in his life, to construct a little happiness?”
“As many as he wants, Signora. Maybe none. But illusions, those for sure. Every day even, every moment. Illusions though. Only illusions.”
Livia saw that Ricciardi’s mind wasn’t with them, that it was wandering elsewhere. So she fell silent, until they reached the Questura.
When they got there Maione asked the signora if she needed a ride to the hotel. The woman said she would prefer to walk a little, even in that wind; she needed some air. She approached Ricciardi.
“Commissario, for the moment I will remain in the city. I don’t feel like going home just now. I’ll wait for the investigation to be completed, if it doesn’t take too long. You know the name of my hotel. Should you need me, you know where to find me.”
“Of course, Signora. I’ll keep it in mind, I assure you.”
Another hint fallen on deaf ears. Livia thought of the many times when a smile or a word had been enough to encourage someone. She didn’t know why those eyes, that voice, troubled her so; and she didn’t know how to make Ricciardi understand that she would have liked to meet him, to talk about something other than her husband’s murder.
She decided to be more direct.
“What is it, Commissario? There always seem to be two dialogues between us: a spoken one and an unspoken one. Why don’t things work with you the way they do with other men? Maybe you have no feelings?”
Maione, a few yards away, had a coughing fit. Ricciardi replied drily: “I wish, Signora. I would live a more peaceful life. But you have your sorrow and you should look for another port to shelter you from the storm.”
Livia stood there looking at him. The wind fluttered the veil of her elegant hat. The deep dark eyes filled with tears which the sight of her dead husband had not aroused. She turned and walked away.
XXIII
When they reached the office, Ricciardi told Maione that he needed to speak with don Pierino, the theater director and Bassi again. The secretary, by now clearly worried, was the first to arrive.
“Good morning, Commissario. Forgive me, but frankly I’m beginning to be puzzled by your continuing to summon me. I’ve told you everything I know. What more do you need from me?”
“Do you have something to hide, Signor Bassi? If so, then I suggest you speak up. Otherwise all you have to do is answer our questions honestly, now and whenever we need you to, and you’ll have nothing to fear.”
The man sighed, his shoulders hunched, his expression resigned.
“Of course, of course. I have nothing to hide, God forbid! What do you want to know?”
“Let’s talk about Christmas. About the trip to Naples around December twentieth. I want to know Vezzi’s movements during that time, or at least those you know about.”
“Well let’s see. We left the morning of the twentieth, and we arrived late that night. We came from Milan. Signor Marelli, the manager, was with us. We were to return the evening of the twenty-first: all we had to do was settle the terms of the contract, take a look at the set designs, get fitted for the costumes, things like that. Instead, we left later than we intended, on the night of the twenty-third; we nearly spent Christmas in Naples. I remember changing the ticket reservations twice.”
Ricciardi listened intently. “How come, why the changes?”
“Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea. The Maestro decided it. As usual he didn’t say why. All we could do was accept it and adjust our plans accordingly.”
“But did it have to do with the theater? That is, matters concerning the staging maybe, the orchestra . . . ”
Bassi gave a nervous little laugh and adjusted his glasses on his nose.
“The theater, not a chance! He was only there on the morning of the twenty-first. A distracted glance at the set designs, a few words with the theater director, the costume fitting with wardrobe, then he disappeared for three days. No, Commissario, take my word for it: the theater had nothing to do with it. It was a different matter. Affairs of the heart, if you ask me. Not that I have any proof, of course.”
“And where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He came back to the hotel late at night and went to bed without even saying hello, as he usually did. Signor Marelli and I spent two days playing cards in the lounge of the Vesuvio.”
Bassi had nothing more to say and was told he could go. Ricciardi was thinking; Maione broke the silence.
“I can verify the ticket changes and the actual travel times for all three of them at the railway station. The theater director isn’t here yet: maybe he wants to make you wait to show how important he is. Should I tell you, as soon as he gets here?”
“Definitely. By all means go to the station.”
The Brigadier hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. “Commissa’, if I may . . . there’s something I’d like to say.”
“Tell me. What is it?”
“I’ve been working with you for three years
now. As you know . . . since Luca . . . my son . . . In short, during this time I’ve come to care about you. It’s true that no one wants to work with you: they say you’re not human, actually. Because you don’t talk much, you’re distant, and you work too hard: you never stop until you find out who did it. But I like working this way. It’s what makes our work unlike other jobs.”
“So?”
Maione hesitated, but he was determined to finish the little speech he had prepared.
“So, no one thinks more of you than I do and no one knows better than me how you put your heart and soul into your work. Still . . . you’re over thirty, but you could be my son. I’ve lost my own son, and sometimes I look at you and think how skilled you are and, deep down, good as gold. I can feel it. I know it. But you’re alone, Commissa’. And alone, we die. If I hadn’t had my wife and children, these past few years, I would have died a hundred times over. Our work gradually expands, and little by little it can fill our entire life, like a cellar when it gets flooded. It’s a mistake.”
Ricciardi heard him out in silence. Perhaps he should have reproached him for getting too personal, but the Brigadier’s enormous discomfiture moved him to pity. The man was red-faced, rubbing his foot on the floor, staring at his clasped hands. Ricciardi decided to let him continue.
“I talk about it sometimes with my wife. She knows you, she remembers you, you know, from the funeral. You paid your respects to her. And we both say it’s a shame that a man like you is alone. Always working. And I thought, sometimes, you know, there are men who don’t like women, who aren’t interested in them. I thought that you, no offence, Commissa’, might be that way. But today, with that signora. Holy Mother of God, what a beauty! And with her husband just dead and all, though he was a bastard, we’ve heard that from everyone. So then, like a father to a son . . . You can even say to me, ‘Maione, how dare you! Mind your own business.’ But if I hadn’t spoken up just now, and told you, I’d have it on my conscience. Take half a day off, Commissa’, and take the signora out to eat!”
He took a deep, liberating breath, like someone who’s lifted a weight off his chest. Ricciardi stood up from his chair and went over to him. He put his hand on the Brigadier’s arm as he had the day he told him that his son had died with his father’s name on his lips.
“On the contrary, I thank you. I know you care about me and, in my own way, I care about you, too. I apologize for being brusque at times: I have a strange personality. But believe me, I’m fine the way I am. And give my regards to your wife.”
Maione looked into his eyes for a moment, smiled and left.
The theater director Spinelli was quite agitated, as usual. He entered the office like a fury, stopped suddenly, and looked around.
“Here I am. I came immediately. Good day, Commissario. Is there anything new? I should be kept informed about the status of the investigation. After all, I feel that my position gives me certain rights in this regard.”
As always, Ricciardi was more abrupt than he needed to be. He felt it was the right approach to keep someone like that at bay.
“When we have news, you’ll know it, Director. For now, simply answer the questions I’m about to ask you.”
Once again, Ricciardi’s harshness had the power to silence the theater director, who assumed his usual air of indignation.
“I am at your disposition, Commissario.”
“Last December, Vezzi came to the city with Bassi and Marelli to finalize contractual details for the performance of Pagliacci. Is that correct?”
“Of course, it’s all recorded. I keep an up-to-date engagement book, should I have to account for my work at the Royal Theater. I remember it clearly. They arrived on the evening of the twentieth, we had been expecting them since morning but that was nothing new with Vezzi. They came to the theater on the twenty-first, and stayed the entire morning.”
“Did they speak with you?”
“I welcomed all three, as is my duty. Then I lingered with Marelli to see to the administrative issues, let’s say. Vezzi and Bassi, on the other hand, were with the stage manager, the wardrobe people and the production director, looking over the sketches, being fitted for costumes, things like that. They left at lunchtime.”
“Do you remember any episode, anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. I only recall that a small crowd of stagehands, singers and orchestra players had gathered, having learned that he had come. Vezzi was a true legend in these circles. They wanted to meet him, to get his autograph. He got irritated and insisted on being left alone. He only met with the people I mentioned earlier.”
“And then?”
The theater director looked at him, raising an eyebrow somewhat arrogantly.
“Didn’t you hear me? They left, before one o’clock. They even refused my invitation to lunch together. I don’t even know when they left the city.”
XXIV
A plausible dynamic of events was taking shape in Ricciardi’s mind. Not so much the facts—too many loose ends still eluded him—as the emotions that had been generated. That was the way he worked: he created a scheme, a geography of the emotions he encountered. What he was able to gather from the Incident, the feelings of the individuals he questioned, the surprise, the horror of those present. Then he tried to piece together the victim’s soul—its dark and light sides—from the words and looks of the people who had known him.
He didn’t elaborate on the witnesses’ words: there was the risk of remembering them wrong and, in any case, taken out of the context in which they were said they lost their meaning, their importance. Instead his memory focused on the speaker’s attitude, his expression and passion: on the emotion that emerged, and above all that which remained beneath the surface. All told, he sensed rather than heard.
In Vezzi’s murder, his being surprised by death, he sensed a single violent urge that was nonrecurring. An isolated wave of hatred, purposeful and clear, leaving destruction on the shore as it receded. And he sensed the clown caught off guard, with his last doleful song. But Ricciardi also felt that the song’s words and its tone were discordant: that the victim’s mood was one of sorrow and regret, whereas his song spoke of vengeance.
Over time he had learned that the Incident could also lead him off course in solving a crime. One time a murdered girl’s final words had concerned her father and the investigation had proceeded in that direction. But the father she was referring to was a priest, and the man who ended up in jail was not the killer. Since then he tried to consider whatever meaning words might offer, without ruling anything out.
It was because of this dissonance, the jarring note he sensed between the song’s words and the emotion, that he had summoned don Pierino again. He didn’t know if it was the opera expert he wanted to meet with or the father confessor, capable of understanding people’s souls though with parameters quite different from his own.
When Maione brought in the priest, Ricciardi stood up to greet him.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Father. I really need to talk with you.”
The priest, as always, smiled.
“My dear Commissario. I have already told you that for me it is a pleasure to be of help to you. How are things going?”
“Not particularly well, I’m afraid. I think I understand a few things, but there are still a few points that are obscure to me. Talk to me, Father. Tell me about Pagliacci and this character that Vezzi was playing. Canio, right?”
Don Pierino settled back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly, raising his eyes to the window that was rattled by the wind.
“Canio, yes. The raging clown. Well then, the original drama about jealousy is, as you know, Othello. Verdi’s music, Boito’s libretto based on Shakespeare’s tragedy. The Moor of Venice, you recall. There we have a crescendo of emotions, culminating in Othello’s suicide after he has smothered Desdemona for her presum
ed infidelity. In reality, Desdemona is innocent. It was all a scheme contrived by Iago, the traitor.
“In Pagliacci, as in Cavalleria Rusticana, things are different: the woman is guilty, there actually is infidelity. It’s a betrayal between a man and a woman, it’s real, part of everyday life and, as Tonio says in the prologue, it can happen to anyone. There’s nothing strange about it, nothing exotic. There are no riches, no soldiers, no gondolas or doges.”
Ricciardi listened with the greatest attention, looking steadily at the priest.
“So, Canio, although he’s a clown, is certainly not a cheerful character.”
“Exactly, Commissario. In fact, if I may say so, I think the character Canio is one of the saddest of any opera. A man condemned to make people laugh, who instead is obsessed with not appearing ridiculous. It is hearing himself reminded by Beppe, Arlecchino, to perform, while he’s suffering from jealousy, that finally makes him lose control.”
“And, onstage, he kills his wife and her lover.”
“Exactly. Here too there is a traitor, Tonio, the hunchback clown. His deformity represents wickedness, malice. But actually—though it’s for selfish reasons, because he has designs on Canio’s wife—he tells the truth: Nedda, Colombina, does have a lover. And that’s the beauty of the libretto, the real drama takes place right onstage, the province of fiction. Almost as if to say that life always comes through, in the street, in the home, and even onstage.”
“So Canio kills Tonio and Nedda?”
Don Pierino laughed.
“No, no! Nedda’s lover isn’t Tonio. It’s Silvio, remember? I told you about him earlier. A young man from the village, not one of the troupe. Canio kills Nedda and then Silvio when he climbs onstage to help the woman.”
“So the lover doesn’t perform with Canio. Is that right?”
“Yes, exactly. He’s a character who is not particularly significant, a baritone.”
I Will Have Vengeance Page 12
