“I couldn’t have put it any better myself, Signora: there’s nobody like Ricciardi, when it comes to suffering. We were just saying, in fact, that . . .”
“. . . that, in fact, this is—or was—a working lunch,” Ricciardi interrupted. “And we were talking about a matter we’re working on, at police headquarters, that the doctor examined just yesterday.”
Livia batted her long lashes.
“Ah, I see. And I’m sure it’s the not kind of thing a bored young woman should hear about, right?”
Ricciardi made a vague gesture with one hand.
“No, I rather doubt it. These are official matters, you see, and . . .”
Modo, on the other hand, couldn’t believe his luck; he was delighted to be holding the woman’s interest, no matter the subject:
“Actually, it’s a very interesting case indeed, Signora. A murder, and of a beautiful woman.”
Livia’s jaw dropped, and she raised a gloved hand to her face.
“My God! And who is this murdered woman? I haven’t read the paper this morning, and . . .”
Ricciardi shot Modo an angry glare.
“Because the investigation is still under way. The doctor was in fact just telling me about the autopsy, but it hardly seems appropriate to talk about it here.”
Livia was looking at Ricciardi, but she spoke to the physician.
“You see, Doctor? Ricciardi not only denies me his company, he even refuses to engage in normal conversation with me. What do you think, why does he behave this way?”
“Signora, only a madman could think of denying any request you might have, trust me. I’ll tell you: someone killed a prostitute, in a fairly well-known cathouse not far from here, on the Via Chiaia. She was a woman well-known in her field, renowned under the name of Viper, like the character in the song, do you know it?” and in a low voice he sang a few bars: ‘Vipera . . . vipera, sul braccio di colei c’oggi distrugge tutti i sogni miei sembravi un simbolo, l’atroce simbolo della sua malvagità . . .’”
The words ran something like this: “Viper . . . viper, on the arm of the woman who today has destroyed all of my dreams, you seemed like an omen, the hideous omen of all her evil.”
Livia looked at him, captivated:
“What a lovely voice you have, Doctor! You know, I was an opera singer myself, and I’m a good judge of pitch: you’re a very good singer!”
Modo blushed like a schoolboy.
“Grazie, really. In any case, this woman was suffocated with a pillow, and it’s Ricciardi’s job to figure out who did it. For my part, all I could do was determine the cause of death. That’s all. We were done with our work and were enjoying a well deserved meal.”
The woman turned to Ricciardi.
“This kind of work could easily kill your appetite, couldn’t it? And do you have any idea, of who it could have been?”
Ricciardi shook his head no.
“No, it’s too soon to say, it only happened yesterday. We’re following a number of leads. Certainly, around a woman like her there naturally swirled a great many passions, powerful emotions; it’s hard to say which of these proved to be the most lethal.”
Modo was chewing again, having procured a clean fork. He pointed it at the commissario.
“There, you see? The blame must be put squarely on emotions. Our good Ricciardi would gladly go without emotions, he’d simply eliminate them. That’s exactly what we were talking about when you arrived.”
Livia was hardly surprised:
“I’m well acquainted with Ricciardi’s views on emotions; I know how convinced he is about the importance of eliminating them from one’s life. Perhaps he’s right, after all. Emotions can bring pain, so much pain. I know it very well: when you tally up the love and the suffering in any life, the balance is always in the red. But then again, it seems to me that it’s impossible to avoid love. Don’t you think?”
The commissario said nothing, staring off into the distance. Modo understood much more than what Livia had said.
“You’re quite right, Signora. From dawn to dusk, every day, I see people in the hospital fighting disease and death just for love’s sake. And so many people come to me in tears, begging me to save the life of the person they love, because that person’s survival is essential to their own. Love can destroy, that’s true: but it can save too.”
Ricciardi stared at his friend. Behind him, the elderly suicide was repeating, for his ears alone: Our café, my love, our café, my love, incessantly. The memory of love, he reflected, outlived him.
“What I do know is that maybe, if it hadn’t been for love, Maria Rosaria Cennamo, known as Viper, might still be alive. And she’d feel the springtime on her skin, instead of the marble of your operating slab, Bruno. And in any case, it doesn’t matter what I think about emotions: the important thing is to find out who felt they were so almighty that they had the right to take her life, a pillow pressed down on her face.”
His tone of voice had been hard and brusque. Livia shot Ricciardi a glance of infinite sadness: and she thought that she would be willing to give everything, that she would give anything, just to bring a little love into that man’s life.
After a moment, trying to steer the conversation onto another track, Modo said:
“It seems like the weather is bound and determined to prove the madness of March, don’t you think? Now it’s actually hot out, and this morning it was like winter again.”
Livia was grateful to the doctor for trying to help out.
“And what nice plans do you have for Easter? I know that there’s a festival at the Teatro San Carlo, I’d love to go but I have no one to accompany me.”
Modo answered regretfully:
“Unfortunately, cara Signora, I have certain misgivings about attending social gatherings. Especially because these days those scarecrows in black shirts can even be found in the temples of high culture, even though they have no real culture of their own, and to see the wonderful floors of our royal opera house besmirched by their filthy jackboots would just break my heart.”
With brutal irony, Ricciardi said:
“Watch out, Bruno. Perhaps Signora Livia, here, with the connections she has, could report your words and have you deported.”
He immediately regretted what he’d said, the instant he sensed the chill that descended over the table. Livia was shocked by that unexpected and gratuitous insult, and tightened her lips. Modo glared at him in disgust.
“You know, Ricciardi, there are times I just don’t understand you. I may talk too much and make no secret of my opinions, that’s true. But of course everyone should be free to have the friends they choose.”
Livia looked at him fondly.
“Caro Dottore, I am indeed friends with a few people in positions of political power, it’s true. But I can ensure you that the last thing we’d dream of talking about is politics, and that my knowledge on the subject is far too limited for me to have any valid opinion; and in any case, I would never, under any circumstances, undertake such a despicable act as informing on anyone. I’m nothing but a stupid woman who loves beautiful things and the opera; and who, to her immense misfortune, still believes that love is not a catastrophe, even though I have excellent reasons to think that it is. I hope you’ll forgive me, I’m no longer very hungry. Buongiorno.”
She stood up, unable to hold back tears of frustration, and strode to her car where her chauffeur stood smoking while he waited for her.
Ricciardi, mortified, tried to stand up and keep her from going, but then fell back into his chair.
Modo gazed at him with a pained expression: his friend had never stirred such feelings of sadness in him.
A waiter looked in their direction as he walked with a tray, tripped over a carpet, and dropped his tray to the floor as he fell.
XIX
When Maione retu
rned to police headquarters, he found an extremely grouchy Ricciardi.
He wasn’t especially surprised: he knew how a crime, especially against a weak and defenseless person like a child, a woman, or an old person, left a deep wound in his superior’s heart, a wound that went on bleeding for days afterward. But this time he detected a different kind of sadness that seemed to come from farther away, from a deeper, darker place.
He gave him a wide-ranging account of his meeting with Bambinella, including the femminiello’s theories of guilt and hypotheses on likely motives for the murder.
“So, you understand, Commissa’? She sat there and started telling me that, according to her, it could have been this person or that and why. Not that she ever expressed an opinion, though.”
Ricciardi thought it over.
“Interesting evaluation of the situation. Practically speaking, this means that Viper’s answer to Coppola’s proposal was decisive. But the real question is this: did the girl give any answer at all? Aside from what her decision might have been, we need to find out what she said, and to whom.”
Maione waved his hand in the air before him.
“In any case, if I may express neither an opinion nor an intuition, but a preference, I’d hope that it was the merchant of saints and madonnas. He disgusted me from the instant I first laid eyes upon him, and finding out that his secret thrill is violence just makes me suspect him even more. People who play around with violence will get serious about it too, Commissa’.”
Ricciardi stood up and went over to look out the window; the late afternoon had finally shaken off the rain once and for all, but the sky was still veiled in gray. The traffic was light and irregular, and the few pedestrians carried furled umbrellas.
“Springtime. The weather changes every five minutes. When things are changing all the time, how can anyone plan or predict?”
Maione waited in silence, not knowing what the commissario was driving at.
Ricciardi turned to him.
“There are a few elements still lacking. I’d like a chance to look Ventrone’s son in the eye, for example, because from what I understand he had it in for his father, and therefore also for the girl because of her relationship with the old man. It’s not too late, the shop is probably still open. Let’s go take a look.”
Outside the office they ran into Deputy Chief of Police Angelo Garzo, Ricciardi’s direct superior, as he climbed the stairs, whistling softly, heading to his office on the floor above.
“Oh, Ricciardi and Maione. How are the two of you? What are you up to?”
Maione decided that the man was even more unbearable when he was happy than when he was angry. An incompetent career bureaucrat with only a few talents: grooming his mustache and licking the feet of the powerful, he reflected; and putting obstacles in the way of people who were actually trying to do serious work.
Ricciardi replied:
“Very little, I’m afraid. We’re investigating the Via Chiaia murder, a young woman who . . .”
Garzo interrupted him:
“Ah, yes, yes, I heard, a whore, right? A very beautiful whore . . . that’s what they told me, of course. Famous, too, what did they call her? The Asp, perhaps . . . no, Viper, that’s right, Viper! I even know the place, I’ve heard about it, Il Paradiso. Now that I think about it, yesterday someone at the home of the Baron Santangelo was complaining about the fact that the brothel had been closed, apparently in the aftermath of the murder, and I promised that I would look into it. What’s the situation now?”
Maione observed Ricciardi; though he was never rude, whenever he talked to the deputy police chief, the commissario clearly betrayed the contempt he felt for Garzo in his every slightest action, from the expression on his face to his posture. Garzo never noticed it, thought the brigadier, only because he was too stupid and full of himself.
“We had to carry out the necessary examinations, Dottore. As you know very well, it was important to be sure we’d gathered all crucial information. The time to examine the scene, then the medical examiner and the photographer. We respected standard procedure.”
Just as he did everytime he found himself speaking with Ricciardi, Garzo began to feel uncomfortable. He’d never liked that man, with his mocking air and those strange green eyes, nor did he like what he’d heard about him: a man without vices, without a social life. Plus, never once had he heard him say: Yessir. Certainly, he cracked cases, and therefore he deserved appropriate encouragement; but there were times when the man simply didn’t know when it was time to obey.
“Come, come, Ricciardi, she was a whore, no? These are women who live in sin, and so also in violence. These are things that come with the territory. Certainly, we need to investigate, but it’s not as if a respectable citizen had been killed. Anyway, has the bordello reopened for business?”
Ricciardi sighed with resignation.
“Not yet, Dottore. But it will be able to open again tomorrow; I issued the authorization.”
Garzo seemed satisfied:
“Fine, that means I’ll be able to tell that old satyr Santangelo that I was able to arrange for Il Paradiso to reopen. Grazie, Ricciardi, and remember: be discreet. At all times, be as discreet as possible.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Maione thought. Then, under his breath, as they walked downstairs:
“What an asshole deputy police chief we got stuck with.”
Ricciardi gave no sign of having heard.
As they walked down Via Toledo and then along Via Chiaia on their way to Ventrone’s shop, Ricciardi thought to himself that the week before Easter was the strangest time of the year. On the one hand, there was the sense of rapt engagement, the prayer and the sharing in the suffering of Christ on the part of the most observant Catholics, who looked to the dolorous end of the Son of God’s time on earth as an occasion to repent and be even stricter with themselves; on the other hand there were the pleasure-loving agnostics, who bridled at the restrictions and obsessively sought ways, more or less clandestine, to have just as much fun as ever, in the proliferation of secret bordellos and gambling dens tucked away in the city’s thousands of back alleys.
In the middle were the others, that is, most of the popolation, caught between the ritual of Christ’s Passion and preparations for the holiday, with all the culinary traditions that entailed.
They passed by Il Paradiso, which was still closed; but they glimpsed Marietta at the little door, giving information to two men who were nodding happily.
The blind accordion player with the perfect eyesight was playing a vigorous polka, to the enormous satisfaction of a crowd of scugnizzi who were dancing to the tune.
A fat priest garbed in glittering vestments, followed by a pair of altar boys, was hurrying from one building to the next, engaging in the profitable ritual of blessing homes; one of the altar boys, forced to balance the pail of holy water and the aspergillum, was hurrying to keep up; the other boy, who was managing much better with only a cloth bag for offerings to carry, was mocking him.
Women were leaning out many of the windows, thrashing overcoats with carpet beaters before putting them away once and for all, or at least so they hoped, once the weather was done being so indecisive.
From certain balconies came the innocent cries of suckling lambs and kids, destined to be sacrificed just a few hours from now to the hot tears of the children who, over the past month, had become fond of those tender little beasts, unaware of their impending fate; on those same balconies the wings of the birds from the Festa di San Giuseppe fluttered frantically, as they sang their beautiful and despairing song.
Life goes on, Ricciardi thought. Life never stops. Except for you, Viper, and for you, elderly lovelorn suicide standing in front of Gambrinus. And for the many like you, whose last passions still hover, floating in air, singing their sad songs for me and me alone.
XX
The other specialized establishments were all concentrated in the streets adjacent to the bishop’s palace, the Palazzo del Vescovo, in Largo Donnaregina, not far from the city’s Duomo: instead Ventrone’s grandfather had guessed that most private chapels could actually be found in aristocratic palazzi in the city’s wealthiest quarter, and that’s where he decided to set up shop. The idea had proved to be a winning one, and three consecutive generations of Ventrones had prospered off the guilty consciences of the heads of titled families, using a new statue or an expensive ex-voto to absolve themselves of a wealth that was too often indifferent to the suffering of others.
Ricciardi and the brigadier stood on the street admiring the objects arranged in the windows. In one, a crucified Christ about six feet tall enjoyed pride of place in the center, while grief-stricken angels, hanging from hooks on the wall, seemed to fly overhead. The Christ’s expression was one of immense suffering and sacrifice. In the other windows, statues of saints alternated with various representations of the Virgin Mary, depicted with a light blue cape and a crown on her head, along with a great many silver ex-votos that recalled all the tragedies in human life that could call for divine intervention, including the pangs of love, for which a heart pierced by one or more swords was available.
The two policemen entered the store and found themselves in a huge room where hundreds of objects related to Catholicism were on display, including the unsettling presence of many life-sized statues whose dolorous eyes, both stern and pleading, looked down on them. Maione, somewhat irrationally, took off his cap and made the sign of the cross.
A tall and very slender young man, dressed in black, was assisting an elderly woman who wore a hat capped by a long black plume. With a demure air and a soothing voice, the young man was saying:
“. . . absolutely, Duchess: your poor late husband, who was, as you’ll surely recall, one of our faithful customers, will certainly like it very much. In an aristocratic chapel like yours, so spacious and elegant, an angel with a four-candle candelabrum is a lovely piece of decor. I assure you that, from the afterlife, he can hardly fail to send you a great many blessings.”
Vipers Page 10
