From her very first words about the accident, a doubt began to stir in Don Pierino’s mind. It all seemed too absurd: the similarities between this story and that of his friend Commissario Ricciardi were too strong. And, gradually, as Enrica went on, a hope sprang up in his heart that he could never have imagined, a hope that love and happiness might soon enter the life of that strange, forlorn green-eyed man. A lovely Christmas present, Don Pierino said to himself. In fact, Christmas had brought a beautiful gift.
Enrica went on with her story, as the priest’s mind worked quickly: she was saying that she felt bound by that promise, even though the tata had gone to see her to try to persuade her not to exit his life for good; that in any case she felt uncertain, because she didn’t know for sure how the man felt about her, and she had wondered whether the woman she’d seen him with might not be better suited to be near him; that nevertheless, even if she thought rationally about all these things, every night that she went without opening the shutters she felt herself die a little bit inside.
“Padre, what should I do? I made a promise, and you’ll tell me that I have to keep my promise; I made it voluntarily, and I’d do it again. So why do I feel as if I’m dying?”
Don Pierino brought his hands together in front of his face and shut his eyes. Then he opened them again, and his gaze was one of absolute determination.
“Signorina, you promised something to the Madonna that wasn’t yours to promise. You promised the sacrifice of another person’s love; you promised his loneliness, his unhappiness and your own. That’s not what the Madonna wants; that’s not what God wants, for His children.”
Enrica listened, her eyes open wide and red from crying and insomnia.
“I’m sure that in your heart you know what’s right and what’s wrong. Our faith wasn’t made to erect barriers, walls, or iron bars between us and love; it was made to increase the presence of love in our lives, so that we can give of ourselves and live in a state of communion, and start families that can help to keep us from feeling alone on dark winter nights. What kind of God would He be, if He wanted to lock those who can feel love in a cell of solitude?”
The girl listened to the priest, raptly.
“So what you’re saying is that . . . in other words, I ought to . . .”
“You ought to fight for your own happiness, the way everyone else does, and always has. While respecting your fellow man, in the love you feel for your neighbor and for life, which is the greatest gift that has ever been given to us. You ought to speak and listen, smile and show all the love you feel inside to someone who, perhaps, lacks the strength to encourage you.”
Enrica had begun to smile. Don Pierino decided that the girl was one of those people who completely change expression when they smile, as if they were smiling with every single part of their body.
“So what you’re saying is that I should push myself; I should gather my courage, and fight for my happiness. Is that it? I should take the initiative.”
The priest realized that the young woman was no longer talking to him; she was now talking to herself. He shifted in his chair until he was comfortable, once again with his fingers knit and resting on his belly, and a contented expression on his face.
“You’ve understood perfectly. Now if he happens not to want the same thing, if he makes a different choice, then you’ll find another path to happiness, believe me; there are so many of them. But the important thing, for you, is to be certain that you’ve done everything within your power to attain happiness. Simple, no?”
Enrica stood up. From behind the lenses of her glasses, her eyes radiated with a new glow.
“Yes, Padre. Quite simple. That’s what I’d never seen before, what I didn’t know how to see. In reality it’s all so simple. If you want to be happy, then you have to do what it takes to be happy. I thank you, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Don Pierino smiled.
“No, I thank you, for having chosen to confide in me. And, please, let me know how everything goes.”
XLI
The air had turned chilly by now.
Maione and Ricciardi were numb from the cold by the time they reached the Largo del Leone, even though the wind had stopped blowing and they’d walked briskly from police headquarters in an attempt to stay warm. The brigadier had long since given up even trying to suggest they catch a trolley; his superior officer had taken off on foot directly, his head pulled down into the lapels of his overcoat, striding toward their destination at a rapid gait.
They had gotten a bite to eat along the way, a sfogliatella puff pastry for Ricciardi and two panzarotti turnovers for Maione: handheld foods chosen in order to save time and get as far ahead with their investigation as possible, since it wasn’t long until sunset. They knew that when Christmas came, everything would come to a halt, and the sleepy twelve-day period leading up to Epiphany would lower a curtain of silences and closed doors on the case. It could provide a crucial advantage to the murderers, and enable them to get away entirely.
Maione couldn’t see the reason for another visit to the crime scene. He thought it seemed like a waste of time: he still needed to go by the borgo to question the men in Boccia’s fishing crew, and before nightfall he wanted to make another stop to take a look at what the hands that had murdered his son were up to, hands that were now occupied with the skilled work of carving faces on Via San Gregorio Armeno. Just as a way of drawing a little bit closer to the decision to ruin his own life and that of the murderer, in keeping with the absurd moral code by which he’d lived.
Ricciardi, however, wanted to see the doorman again. All right, the man was drunk more often than not, and he didn’t seem especially efficient, but Ricciardi hadn’t yet questioned him about the scene of the crime; and perhaps this time, if he was a little more sober, he might remember something else.
They were in luck: Ferro was at his post, and this time he looked more cognizant of his surroundings. He’d just finished putting up the manger scene in the building’s lobby, and he seemed proud of himself. He was surrounded by a small knot of children, who were expressing their admiration with sharp whistles, sighs, and occasional bursts of applause.
When he saw the two policemen coming toward him, the man changed expression. His gaze became worried and mistrustful. He shooed away the children with a wave, as if they were flies, and walked toward Ricciardi and Maione.
“Buonasera. May I help you?”
The two men exchanged a look of surprise. The doorman didn’t seem to have recognized them.
“Hello, Ferro. You have to accompany us into the Garofalos’ apartment.”
Ricciardi had been intentionally brusque; he wanted to see how the man would react. Ferro narrowed his eyes.
“Ah, Commissario, forgive me, the light was behind you and I didn’t realize who you were. I just set up the manger scene; in the end I decided that, since it was done, I may as well put it up in the lobby. I was showing it to the children who live here.”
Maione broke into the conversation.
“While you’re showing us upstairs, Ferro, I’d like to ask you if anything has come to mind over the past couple of days. If there was anyone who came to call, whether you heard any discussions or arguments, that kind of thing.”
Ferro had pulled a bunch of keys off a rack and was climbing the stairs ahead of them.
“Now that I think about it, yes, Brigadie’. A couple did come, a man and a woman, I’d say three, maybe four days before . . . before the incident, shall we say.”
“What were they like, these two? Did they tell you their names?”
“No, they really didn’t tell me their names. And I didn’t ask, because I only saw them on their way out; when they went up, I . . . I had stepped away for just a moment.”
“And how did you know that they had gone to see the Garofalos?”
“I asked them afterw
ard. Out of curiosity.”
All right, then, thought Maione: the Boccias’ visit had been confirmed.
“Had you ever seen them before? Or did you see them again after that?”
“No, Brigadie’. Neither before nor after. Just that one time, and I couldn’t tell you how long they were here, because . . .”
Maione finished his sentence for him:
“Because when they arrived, you weren’t here yourself, right.”
Ferro had opened the door and stepped to one side, without looking into the apartment. Ricciardi gave him a hard stare.
“Go ahead, Ferro, lead the way. We’re right behind you.”
The man looked at him with terror in his eyes.
“Commissa’, I’d really prefer . . . I mean, I’ll just wait for the two of you out here, on the landing.”
Ricciardi met and held his gaze.
“No, you won’t. You’ll accompany us inside, and you’ll lead the way.”
His tone made it clear that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Maione took a step toward the man, who closed his eyes halfway, opened the door, and prepared to enter.
The interior was steeped in shadow, with only dim light filtering in through the partially drawn curtains. On the entryway floor you could still clearly make out the stains from the blood that had gushed out of Costanza Garofalo’s slit throat. Ferro staggered and grabbed the doorjamb to keep from falling, while Ricciardi was engulfed by the sight of the woman’s translucent image, which smiled, eyes lowered, as it asked: Hat and gloves? Waves of black liquid oozed from the fatal wound.
“Jesus, but is that . . . is that blood, over there?”
Ricciardi studied the man’s expression. He didn’t seem to be pretending: he’d turned pale and looked like he was about to faint and slam face-first into the floor.
Maione stepped over to him and grabbed him by the arm.
“Come on, Ferro. Show us to the bedroom.”
The man balked, running a hand over his face as if trying to conceal the sight of the blood from his eyes; then he headed toward the hallway at an unsteady gait. Ricciardi watched him, noticing that the doorman demonstrated a certain familiarity with the interior of the apartment. Leaving aside how upset he was, he moved with a fair degree of confidence. The commissario noted that he was very careful where he put his feet, avoiding the spatters of blood that marked the way between the two corpses, even though those drops were scarcely visible in the dim light.
Once they reached the bedroom, at the sight of the large black stain on the sheets, Ferro let himself drop down into a chair with a faint lament.
“Oh, Madonna. Holy Virgin Mary, help us all.”
Ricciardi turned his back on the image of Garofalo repeating: I don’t owe a thing, not a thing, and spoke to the doorman.
“I wanted you to see it with your own two eyes, Ferro. And now I’m going to ask you whether you have any idea, any idea at all, as to who could have done this.”
The doorman began to weep, softly. He murmured, as he stared at the bloodstain:
“No idea, Commissa’. If I knew anyone who could do this kind of thing, I’d run away from them as fast and as far as I could, believe you me. And that poor little girl, she was so pretty the other day, with her braids . . . and now she’ll never see her mamma and papà again as long as she lives. Centurion Garofalo was . . . well, he had a very particular personality, God rest his soul. Maybe not everyone loved him, maybe he could make you angry sometimes, but to kill him like that . . . No one, Commissa’. No one on earth would be capable of it.”
But in fact, evidently, someone on earth had been capable of it, Ricciardi thought.
“Let’s take a little walk through the other rooms. That way we can see if they took anything that you remembered but that we couldn’t know about.”
The point of this was to see whether the man’s reaction betrayed anything. They’d checked everything during the first on-site investigation, and if anything were missing, they’d be able to tell from the empty space on the item of furniture or on the walls.
Ferro seemed relieved to be getting away from the scene of the murders, and he led Maione and Ricciardi through the other rooms in silence, walking robotically. When they walked past the nativity scene in the room next to the bedroom he sighed, but he didn’t seem to notice Saint Joseph’s absence, or the figurine of the Virgin tipped over against that of the ass.
They finished their tour of the apartment and met up back at the front door. The doorman held his breath at the sight of the marks left behind by the woman’s corpse, stepped over them, and walked out onto the landing where he loudly inhaled a chestful of air. He pulled a crumpled cigarette out of his pocket; he tried to light it with a match but couldn’t because his hand was trembling too violently. And so he gave up, and finally vomited in a corner of the staircase.
XLII
They decided to take the waterfront route. It wasn’t any colder there, and there was no wind blowing that the trees in the Villa Nazionale might help to break; they might as well enjoy the sight of the sea, finally placid, embracing the falling darkness.
Ferro’s reaction and the few additional bits of information they’d gathered during their interview with the doorman were the subjects of the sporadic phrases that Maione and Ricciardi exchanged along the way.
“Commissa’, as far as I could tell, he was truly upset. He really couldn’t handle it; you could see he wasn’t used to the sight of blood.”
Ricciardi, on the other hand, had some misgivings.
“His reaction seemed a little theatrical, don’t you think? And besides, today he was stone-cold sober; the things that happen to you when you’re drunk seem different when you revisit them after sobering up. I don’t know. But when he walked past the manger scene, he didn’t even change his expression.”
“That’s right. And he admitted that he’d seen the Boccias when they came to talk with Garofalo. For the moment, that’s the one sure thing we have, eh, Commissa’?”
Ricciardi nodded, walking along with his head down.
“True, the visit from the Boccias. And they’re a couple, so that would provide an explanation for the two different hands that killed the centurion, except for the fact that the ‘light’ hand, the one that inflicted the shallower wounds, was a left hand, according to Modo, and it looked to me like Signora Boccia was right-handed. But that doesn’t necessarily rule her out. And Lomunno could have had an accomplice.”
Maione agreed:
“And our friend the doorman, here, could have done something stupid when he was drunk that he can’t even remember now. It could mean everything and it could mean nothing. Mamma mia, there are times when I get really sick and tired of this job.”
They skirted the beach, with the sea on their right and the road with cars and carriages moving past on their left. The pedestrians were few and far between, and the ones they saw walked hunched over from the cold.
The fishermen who had no fishing boats of their own had gathered in small knots on the sand. It was the time of day when they brought in their nets. This time of year, it was an operation that had to be done twice daily.
Small one-oared dinghies headed out some six hundred feet from shore, leaving one end of the nets onshore and tossing out the large swathes of mesh, which the women repaired early in the morning and at night, stitching up the rips made by the currents. Once the nets had been cast, the dinghies returned to shore, unrolling their cables on the sidewalk that ran along the beach. At this point the men, barefoot and with their trousers rolled up to their knees, hooked the cables of the nets to a canvas shoulder strap and, in groups of four or five per side, began hauling first on the cable and then on the net, walking back into the area reserved for strollers and then advancing gradually as the net came in to shore, bringing with it the hope of another day of survival for all the men’
s families. As they hauled in, the children would wrap up the cables around large spools on the beach.
At other times of the year, when demand was lower than at Christmas, this grueling task was performed only in the mornings; but now a crowd of potential customers in search of affordable fish—which they knew they could get here because there was no markup for wholesalers and retailers—was waiting on the street, so the additional effort was likely to be worth it.
Maione, slowing his pace, turned toward Ricciardi.
“They certainly put in a hard day’s work, these fishermen. And these are the ones who fish off the beach. Look at that, Commissa’, as cold as it is, they’re barefoot in the water; their legs are black from the chill.”
“Yes, it’s tough for them,” Ricciardi agreed. “But even the ones who go out on the water, like Boccia—you’ve seen what a hellish life they lead. And then someone like Garofalo comes along and eats you alive, and suddenly you can’t even make ends meet.”
They’d come even with the borgo, in the shadow of the dark and imposing castle. Ricciardi nodded his head in Maione’s direction.
“This is where we split up. You see what you can find out from Boccia’s fellow fishermen, who at this time of day are probably returning from their day out on the water. I’ll go down to the port and ask around about how Lomunno spent his morning on the day of the murder. But you go directly home once you’re done; there’s no point in dropping by police headquarters again. If we come up with anything new, we can write our reports tomorrow.”
Maione nodded.
“At your orders, Commissa’. Tomorrow’s already the day before Christmas Eve. Christmas is upon us.”
“Yes, the holidays are here. And I’m afraid we haven’t accomplished much so far. Good luck.”
Christmas is upon us.
That thought prompted the usual mix of feelings in Tata Rosa: anxiety about the things she still had to get done around the house, anticipation for the festivities, worry about the year that was coming to an end and the year that was about to arrive in just a matter of days.
By My Hand Page 22
