“And Canio, when he learns that Nedda really has a lover, goes mad with jealousy.”
Don Pierino nodded, lost in thought.
“Yes; fiction and reality become confused. Canio plays the betrayed husband and, when he finds out the truth, he tears off his costume, singing ‘No, pagliaccio non son!’—no, I am not a clown—and then stabs his wife.”
Ricciardi again saw the image of the clown in tears, blood gushing from the gash in his carotid artery, his hand outstretched, singing . . .
“Io sangue voglio, all’ira m’abbandono . . . ”
“ . . . in odio tutto l’amor mio finì!’ don Pierino finished for him, clapping his hands and laughing delightedly. ‘Bravo, Commissario! So you’ve been studying! Very nice, that quote, and particularly apropos, since the two operas are performed together. In fact, they tell the same story and the characters are closer than you might imagine.”
Ricciardi looked at the priest, not following.
“Which characters, Father?”
“Canio and Alfio, of course! The lines you just recited, right?”
“But isn’t it Canio who sings that in Pagliacci?”
“Are you pulling my leg? No, no, Alfio sings it in Cavalleria Rusticana. He too is a betrayed husband. They’re his last lines as he leaves the stage, before the intermezzo. He sings them at the end of his duet with Santuzza, who reveals that his wife is betraying him with Turiddu, whom he kills in a duel at the end of the opera. But, if you didn’t know . . . where did you hear it?”
Ricciardi was now staring into space, leaning slightly forwards in his chair. A whole new perspective had opened up, filling in many pieces of the puzzle.
“What was it you said before? The baritone . . . ”
“Alfio is a baritone, yes. He has to have a deep voice, to reflect the hard work . . . ”
“No, no, Father,” Ricciardi raised a hand, interrupting him. “What you said about the other baritone, Silvio: you said, ‘a character who is not particularly significant.’ Is that right?’
Don Pierino was confused. ‘Yes, that’s what I said. But he’s not the one who sings the lines you quoted. Are you all right, Commissario? You look pale.’
“And who decides, in life, who is ‘particularly significant’? Every man is particularly significant as far as he’s concerned, isn’t he, Father?’
Ricciardi seemed to be talking to himself, even though he addressed the priest.
“How many times, in the confessional, have you listened to the feelings and emotions of people ‘not particularly significant’? Every day, from morning till night, I see the mayhem and delirium wrought by the emotions of people like that.’
Don Pierino protested vigorously.
“But I’m not referring to real people! This is the stage. You don’t have to tell me that, of all people. Our Lord was the first to affirm that all men are equally significant. Your lords and masters, on the other hand’—he pointed to the two photographs on the wall—‘are you sure they attach the same significance to the murder of any common pushcart vendor in the Quartieri Spagnoli as they do to Vezzi’s murder, for example?”
Ricciardi, surprised by the vehemence of don Pierino’s reaction, smiled sadly.
“You’re right, Father. You’re right. That’s not what I meant, but I owe you my apologies in any case. I can see how you might think that, but that’s not what I was trying to say. The point is that, day after day, I witness the suffering that people intentionally inflict on other individuals. It’s difficult for me to think of love as anything but the prime motive of these crimes. Believe me, Father, if it’s not love, it’s hunger, in which case it’s simpler. Hunger is understandable, one can easily grasp it. It’s straightforward, immediate. Love isn’t; love takes other paths.”
“I can’t believe you really think that, Commissario. Love has nothing to do with this butchery. Love moves the world, it’s the love of fathers, of mothers, of God especially. Love is wanting what’s good for those you love. Certainly not bloodshed and pain: that’s damnation.’
Ricciardi stared at the priest with blazing eyes; he seemed to be nearly shaking from a raging fire within.
“Damnation. Believe me, Father, when I tell you that for you damnation is only a word. Believe me when I tell you that damnation is the relentless perception of sorrow, day in and day out. Other people’s sorrow that becomes your own, that stings like a whip, that leaves wounds that won’t heal, that go on bleeding, that infect your blood.”
The Commissario’s voice was now a whisper, his lips barely moving. It was a sharp hiss and don Pierino instinctively leaned back in his chair, somewhat horrified.
“I see it, do you understand, Father? I see it. I feel it, the sorrow of the dead who remain attached to a life they no longer have. I know it; I hear the sound of the blood draining away. The mind that deserts them, the brain clinging by the fingernails to the last shred of life as it runs out. Love, you say? If you only knew how much death there is in your love, Father. How much hate. Man is imperfect, Father, let me tell you. I know it all too well.”
Don Pierino stared at the Commissario, wide-eyed. Somehow he understood that Ricciardi was speaking literally, not metaphorically. What was in that man’s heart? What were those transparent, desperate eyes concealing? The Assistant Pastor felt an immense compassion, and a human revulsion.
“I . . . I believe in God, Commissario. And I believe that if He gives someone a greater cross to bear than others, He has His reasons. If this someone can help his neighbour more, if he can help a lot of other people, then perhaps his suffering is justified; perhaps it has some meaning, all this sorrow.”
Ricciardi slowly regained his composure; he leaned back in his chair, sighed faintly, closed his eyes and reopened them. Once again he assumed the expressionless face that characterized him. Don Pierino felt relieved, as if for a moment, only a moment, he had had a glimpse of hell.
“You should know, don Pierino, that you have been a great help to me. I promise you that, as we initially agreed, the information you have given me will not be used to send an innocent man to prison. Everything will be verified with the greatest attention.”
“I am pleased to have been of help to you, Commissario. I ask one thing in return, however: promise me that you will come and see me, once this dreadful affair is resolved. And that we will go to the opera together. At your expense, of course.”
Ricciardi made his usual wry face, which don Pierino had learned to recognize as a smile.
“It’s a high price for me, Father. But I can make you that promise.”
XXV
When Maione heard Ricciardi’s voice calling him, he could tell from the tone that the investigation had switched gears. Experience had taught him that, with no chance of being mistaken. There was a precise moment during an interrogation, an encounter, a word that led the Commissario to see the truth, find the solution. And at that moment, the predictable exclamation was: ‘Maione!’ The Brigadier was pleased, for himself and for the Commissario who, once the operation was over, would be able to enjoy a moment of fleeting, illusive peace.
Rubbing his hands, like an old hunting dog that starts wagging his tail when he hears the rifle taken down from the rack, he popped his head in the doorway: ‘You called, Commissa’?’
Michele Nespoli was twenty-five years old, from Calabria. His family was poor, despite owning a small plot of land and a flock not far from Mormanno, in Sila. Of nine brothers and sisters, he was the third, the first male. From an early age, along with a strong character that was also impulsive and cheerful, he had demonstrated a great passion for singing and had proved to have a beautiful voice. No village feast took place, no gathering of farmers or shepherds, at which Michele was not asked to sing. And when he began to make his angelic voice heard, everyone would smile and stop arguing or even just talking. Neither wine nor playing cards were a
sufficient distraction: his voice stopped hearts.
It was therefore natural for the family, and most of the village, to contribute their limited resources to send Michele to study singing at the Conservatory of San Pietro a Majella, in Naples, the largest music school in Southern Italy and among the best in the country.
Growing up, Michele strengthened the timbre of his voice, cultivating a keen intonation and excellent expressivity. Still, as in all areas of life in which one must also earn a living, a little diplomacy and an aptitude for adulation would have been helpful.
Both were completely alien to Michele, however, who on the contrary tended to be quick-tempered and excessively arrogant. He showed this when he reacted to the suggestions of an elderly vocal exercise instructor—a man inclined to give good grades in exchange for cordial behaviour—by slapping him in public. For a few terrible weeks he was suspended from his studies and feared that he had impulsively thwarted years of sacrifices made by him and his fellow villagers. How could he possibly go back to the village? How would he explain it? Fortunately, his indisputable talent salvaged his diploma. But by then he had the reputation of being a quarrelsome, unreliable individual and had a hard time finding engagements to at least support his staying in the city.
It was the start of a period of grim hardship. By day he worked as a waiter in bars, at night he sang on the waterfront or in restaurants, to the accompaniment of drunken clapping. But he was Calabrian and persistent: he would not give up. He had come to Naples as a boy to become a singer and, by God, he would become a singer.
As time passed, however, he began drinking. He told himself ironically that it was to keep up with those who applauded him in the taverns. In actuality he wasn’t tired enough at night to fall asleep right away, and the ghost of his failure danced about jubilantly. So to knock himself out he resorted to the cheap wine that he came by, gratis, by singing a little longer than he’d agreed to. He just had to be careful not to overdo it while he was performing, not to affect his diction: otherwise people would laugh at him, something which he detested. He had begun his downfall and would have slipped even deeper, had it not been for what happened on the evening of 20 July 1930.
Ricciardi was very clear about what had to be done now. After the conversation with don Pierino he had realized the true import of the Incident’s message, as it regarded Vezzi. Naturally he knew that it was just an inkling, a mere hunch. But it was now apparent to him that the murderer would have had no need to return, once he had escaped through the window, unless he was involved in the performance. Therefore, they had to look at everyone allowed backstage during the opera: singers, extras, stagehands and technicians.
It must have been a man, if he wore Vezzi’s overcoat—given the tenor’s imposing bulk—and jumped from the window: only four or five feet, granted, but still a good jump. And returned to Vezzi’s dressing room at the risk of being spotted, to then go out again without his disguise.
They had to look for something: first of all a pair of shoes with traces of grass from the royal gardens, maybe even a little mud; the crime scene inspection the night of the murder had shown signs of someone landing in the flower bed, marks deep enough to suggest an individual of a certain weight. Perhaps a bloodstained garment or two: given the condition of the dressing room, it didn’t seem possible that the murderer could have avoided getting splattered.
Ricciardi got Maione to confirm that the theater had been under guard since the evening of the murder and that, consequently, no one could have carried out any objects or clothing. Then he gave the Brigadier some specific instructions.
“Check the theater’s prop room and the wardrobe department, without alarming anyone or putting them on the alert; we need to see if one of the singers, extras or even just a stagehand switched his shoes or clothes. If he did, and wasn’t able to dispose of the soiled items somehow, they must still be there. And we have to find them.”
“Anyone in particular, Commissa’? Who should we be looking at?”
“Males. Males of considerable height and weight.”
On 20 July 1930, at eleven o’clock at night, Michele Nespoli was singing Santa Lucia Luntana in Trattoria della Mattonella, in the Quartieri Spagnoli. That evening he had started drinking earlier than usual. The summer’s fierce heat reminded him, by contrast, of his mountains, the dark, silent Pollino which he sang to from the window of his house in Sila. And of his mother, her rough caresses.
The entire room was charged with the song’s poignant melancholy. Everyone there had loved ones who had boarded ships for distant lands, pe’ tterre assaje luntane, loved ones whom they would never see again. Some leaned their head on the table and wept uncontrollably, though to some extent this was due to the wine that flowed profusely. It was then that a man, whom they later found out had just been released from prison, spoke sharply to Michele, ordering him to sing a different song immediately. Michele, in the middle of the last stanza, his eyes full of emotion, paid no attention and insisted on finishing the song. The man, unsteady on his legs after knocking his chair to the ground, took a knife from the table and shouted again that Michele should stop singing immediately. Looking him squarely in the eye, with a gaze that was both proud and mocking, the singer ended the song with a superb high note; whereupon the man rushed at him, roaring like a beast and brandishing the knife.
There was a brief scuffle; none of those present considered intervening, maybe because their senses were dulled from the food and wine, though more likely to avoid getting in any trouble. The fray lasted all of maybe thirty or forty seconds. When it was over Michele sat on the floor, breathing heavily, his left arm badly slashed. But the man who had attacked him was no longer moving and the knife he had been holding earlier was now sticking out of his chest. Around them a terrible silence had fallen. The owner of the trattoria came up to the singer and said: “Guaglio’, you must leave now.”
And she opened the door for him. With great effort, Michele went out, staggering, and disappeared into the nocturnal maze of the Quartieri Spagnoli.
The prop room was adjacent to wardrobe, on the fourth floor of the theater. Ricciardi had already seen it, on his earlier visit to Signora Lilla’s realm. Managing the props, which included weapons, hats, footwear and so on, was not wardrobe’s jurisdiction, however, but that of a spry, spirited old man named Costanzo Campieri. Maione found him at his post and learned that he almost never went home.
“Brigadie’, I have no family; all I have is this job. Plus, I’m responsible for the items, and that’s no trivial matter. In these times of hunger and desperation, there are people who would kill for a pair of shoes.”
“Let’s talk about Wednesday night. Was there any unusual activity? Are stage props generally switched?”
Campieri scratched his bald head.
“Sometimes it happens, something can break during the performance and you replace it, if possible, between scenes. Either that or you fix it, if you can. I once repaired the pharaoh’s headdress in Aida while the singer was still onstage, after it got crushed in back. I’m an artist, that’s for sure. Another time . . . ”
“Right, you’ll tell me about it another time. Let’s go back to Wednesday. Did anyone switch something?”
“No, no one came up here. But something strange did happen. I noticed it yesterday, when I made my inspection.”
Maione’s ears perked up.
“What was it?”
“I found a pair of shoes in place of another. Ordinary shoes, for a man, large, size eleven. Black, standard. Exactly the same as the other pair.”
“If they were identical, what made you notice them?
“The fact that I keep the shoes spotless. And the soles of the ones I found had bits of grass and mud on them.”
Michele remembered almost nothing from the moment he left the trattoria to when he awoke in an unfamiliar doorway. He vaguely remembered hearing whistles as the
police arrived, but he might have imagined it. He had definitely lost a lot of blood and his arm was hurting.
What woke him was the cool feel of a wet handkerchief that had been placed on his forehead and the softness of the cloth that had been propped under his head. He opened his eyes and saw something very strange: a woman studying him up close. A sweet oval face, blue eyes that looked worried and a mouth that was a little pouty; her long hair came to her shoulders and she wore a simple white nightgown. Michele was spellbound, like when the eye is captured by an image that it can’t stop seeing.
“Lie still, don’t move: you’ve lost a lot of blood. As soon as you’re able to, stand up and come with me. I won’t be able to carry you upstairs.”
The voice was a whisper, but he could tell the tone was caring and urgent. Making a determined effort, Michele drew himself up into a seated position.
“I can make it now. I’d better go, I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”
She placed a hand on his uninjured arm to detain him.
“You can’t go, it’s swarming with cops out there. They’re searching up and down, something bad must have happened. I don’t want to know about it. Right now though, I told you, you shouldn’t even think of moving, otherwise, given the blood you’ve lost, you could die. Later on, when you recover, if you want to go to the police on your own two feet, it’s no business of mine and you can go. But for now, I’m obliged to help you out of Christian charity.”
Her argument was convincing, and Michele, moreover, had no desire to go out into the night and meet a doomed fate, when all he’d done was defend himself. And so, leaning on her arm, which was surprisingly strong for such a petite young woman, he let himself be led into the building and up the stairs.
The woman lived alone, in a tiny apartment converted from the attic of the old building. The lavatory they used was on the floor below. In the months Michele remained there, he ran into several people, men and women, who smiled at him without saying a word. He discovered that there was an unspoken solidarity among individuals who live in certain districts, based on omertà, an unconditional code of silence toward the outside world. He didn’t know what the girl had told them about him, how she had explained his presence or if she had; but in some strange way he felt sure he was safe.
I Will Have Vengeance Page 13
