“Oh, sweet Mary, mother of God, Signo’, are you real or am I dreaming? No, because if this is a dream, I never ever want to wake up again!”
In spite of herself, Livia smiled at how spontaneous the compliment had been. She was accustomed to attracting looks from men, but it was rare for anyone to give vent to such an instinctive outburst of gallantry.
“Wait, Signo’, don’t be in such a hurry. You shed such magnificent light that, with you here, my grapes look like molten gold. If you stay a while, I won’t have to move to follow the sun this morning!”
A couple of passersby burst into laughter, and Livia joined in. She took a couple of coins from her change purse and extended them toward the young man, who in return pulled a sumptuous bunch of grapes out of the nearest bag.
“Signo’, I implore you, take a taste: then your beauty will infuse all the rest of my grapes, and I’ll sell them all in less than ten minutes, and I can go spend the rest of my day making love to my sweet Rosetta!”
An elderly man, just a few dozen feet away, put a monocle to his eye and upbraided the youth.
“Hey, youngster, go slow there with the impertinence! Signo’, forgive him. You are no doubt from some other city and you can’t be accustomed to our ways, but here the youngsters never seem to know when enough is enough.”
But she was now laughing, and could hardly restrain her mirth. She took just one grape from the cluster that the young man was extending in her direction and popped it into her mouth with a bit of coquettishness; then she waved her gloved hand and continued on her way, well aware that she had more than a few pairs of eyes glued to her back. The grape vendor pretended to lose consciousness, slumping to the pavement, drawing peals of slightly envious laughter from his small audience of housemaids lining the railings of the balconies above, while the elderly censor, in memory of his long-lost youth, heaved a rapt sigh after Livia’s sashaying hips.
After she turned the corner, the woman headed for a small café. Recently, the circumstances of her meetings with Falco had changed. Until three months ago, she had had to place a blank sheet of paper into an envelope and deliver it to a nondescript address not far from her home, to a stony-faced concierge who never uttered so much as a word; and within a few hours that man whose duty it was to protect her would materialize before her as if he had simply been waiting tirelessly for her summons. But now Livia was to leave a calling card at the cash register of that café, and the following morning she would go and sit at one of the tables, certain that a few minutes later she would see him.
She took a seat inside the café. Though the sun was already high in the sky and she could have comfortably sat outside, cirumstances recommended the greatest discretion. Before she had a chance to order, and without having heard the tiniest sound, she sensed the presence of Falco, standing behind her. She smiled and tilted her head toward the empty chair across the table.
The man took a seat, silent and anonymous as always. Livia studied him, attentively. Of average height, his thinning salt-and-pepper hair brushed back, a gray double-breasted suit and a hat of the same color, a light beige overcoat draped over his arm, two-toned shoes and white socks, a slender walking stick. He had a knack for becoming practically invisible, in all things identical to the dozens of financiers, professionals, and good-for-nothing time-wasters loitering in the sunny streets, in the tailor shops choosing a fabric for their shirts, outside of the theaters waiting for a matinée, or in the front halls of the expensive bordellos.
But Falco was quite another matter. Quite another matter indeed.
“Buongiorno, Signora. This morning you’re even lovelier than usual, and you’re usually stunning. To what do I owe the privilege of seeing you?”
Livia smiled, cheerlessly. Every time she saw him, something about Falco left her vaguely uneasy. Oh lord, he was always well behaved and gallant, to be sure; and she had discovered that he had an artistic and cultural sensibility of the highest order. Not long ago, when she had finally made up her mind to sing once again in public, she had glimpsed him, applauding in ravished delight, his face twisted with deep emotion: only to vanish seconds later so suddenly and completely that she was left wondering if she’d ever actually seen him.
What made her uneasy was the fact that Falco (and she didn’t even know if that was his first name, his surname, or neither of the two) belonged to a government organization that had no public presence, that was, in fact, very, very secret. That he had been assigned to protect and assist her by someone quite high up, at the very apex of the party structure, because she was a personal friend of Il Duce’s daughter. That the man carried out that task with excessive zeal, to the extent that she often thought she had caught sight of his silhouette on the street or in the theater or at the movies, to say nothing of the drawing rooms where the highly exclusive receptions that she often attended took place.
Still, she had to admit that the man had the gift of discretion, to say nothing of invisibility; no one ever seemed to notice him.
She waited until the waiter had taken their orders, then she said: “It’s been a while since I last saw you, Falco. Or since I was last aware that I was seeing you, perhaps I ought to say. Evidently, I’ve been a good girl.” The man flashed her a fleeting smile.
“Good, but not quite good enough, Signora. But then, you wouldn’t be yourself and I wouldn’t have the very welcome charge of keeping an eye on you, if you were too good of a girl. Still, as you know very well, we know how to keep to the shadows.”
Livia’s mouth tightened.
“If you ask me, you lay claim to a duty to which you have no right. I don’t understand what it is you’re supposed be protecting me from.”
Falco turned to gaze across the street; a small crowd of barefoot scugnizzi, or street urchins, was laughing as they played at yanking the skirts of passing ladies, and then dodging the straight-armed slaps to the back of the head that ensued.
“Protect you from what, you ask. That question has every right to a thoroughgoing answer that not even I can give you, unfortunately. But first of all, from this city. Which is actually quite a dangerous place.”
The woman heaved a sigh of annoyance.
“Don’t tell me that you too are going to start telling me how dangerous this city is. Sometimes I think it’s just an excuse for people to claim the right to stick their noses into other people’s business. I’ve been here for a year now, and I don’t think I’ve ever once been at risk of anything worse than a couple of wolf whistles as I walked by.”
For a moment, Falco said nothing. Then, without taking his eyes off the scugnizzi, he said under his breath: “The day before yesterday you left the theater at 10:14 P.M. The car driven by your chauffeur was waiting for you, as usual, at the corner of Via Madonna delle Grazie, just a short distance from the theater’s front doors, but you told Arturo that you preferred to walk, because it was such a beautiful evening.”
Livia felt the usual lump in her throat from the oppressive nature of that surveillance.
“This show of confidential information tells me only that you tail me obsessively,” she hissed. “It seems to me that the worst danger looming over me is you and your colleagues!”
As if he hadn’t heard a word, Falco continued in the same tone of voice: “They started following you when they saw that you weren’t going to ride in the car. There were two of them, we know them well. One of them comes up next to you with a knife, the other one grabs your purse and jewelry. They’re very fast, but sometimes they like to have a little fun, so they take the ladies they rob into an atrium and take advantage of them: one claps his hand over the victim’s mouth while the other one . . . the other one does what he’s going to do. It wasn’t my shift, or I would have stepped in sooner. My . . . my friends instead waited for them to make a move, to make sure they knew exactly what their intentions were. We aren’t vigilantes.”
Back out on t
he street, the scugnizzi scattered all at once like a flock of sparrows, heading in different directions. A moment later, two constables strolled into view, walking with their hands in their pockets and their ties loosened, chatting idly.
“Why should I believe you?” Livia murmured under her breath. “I didn’t hear anything, no one approached me during my walk, and I arrived home safe and sound.”
Falco’s mouth twisted into a grimace.
“No one can make you believe me. All that matters to me is the knowledge that those two gentlemen are never going to bother you again, and that in all likelihood, when and if they ever recover, they are most likely going to find some other way of earning their living. But they’re not the only ones, believe me. At least on this one point, believe me.”
Livia shuddered and moderated her tone.
“I know that you do your duty, there can be no doubt about it. And I thank you.”
Falco returned his attention to her and his eyes lit up for a moment. A shaft of sunlight came through the front door of the café and struck Livia’s dress. He admired its extreme elegance. An electric blue skirt suit, clinging tight around her narrow waist, where a velvet belt ran, latticework gloves in the same shade, an apricot-colored blouse whose collar ended in a long scarf that rested softly on the jacket. A small satin hat, in the same shade of blue, was adorned by a large camellia that echoed the blouse.
The man thought about how enchanting she was, and how difficult it was to maintain the proper level of professional detachment required by his job. He nodded, pretending to have forgotten the attack of just moments ago.
“What can I do for you, Signora? Usually, when I receive your summons, it’s a source of delight at the same time that it casts a shadow of concern. Is there something on your mind?”
Livia burst out laughing, attracting curious glances from a couple of matrons having tea a few tables over. She regained her composure and said: “I can just imagine your concern, Falco. It’s true, I do have something in mind, and it’s no easy thing for me to tell you what it is, it’s a request that might strike you as . . . bizarre, perhaps. I’ve thought long and hard about whether it’s right to trouble you. But you would be able to gather the information I need in a flash, while I, if I asked the people around me, housekeepers, concierges, and suppliers, would never really be confident of the result, and above all, it would take me too long. And it’s a well-known fact that we women don’t have much patience.”
Falco nodded, gravely.
“I understand. And now my concern has grown, after hearing this preamble. But I have orders to work with you and help as much as I am able, as you known. Tell me more.”
Livia sipped her coffee, as if searching for the right words. As she did, Falco savored the perfume wafting off her, a wild, pungent essence. He had looked into the matter and learned that she had it concocted for her by a perfumery in Rome, an exclusive arrangement. Money well spent, he thought to himself.
At last, the woman spoke.
“You know all about him. We’ve discussed this matter many times before, and you’ve never concealed that you don’t care for my interest in him one bit. For official reasons, I’d have to imagine. But you also know that he is what convinced me to move to this city.”
Falco said nothing, expressionless as a sphinx. Livia went on: “I know that he likes me. I know it. I can sense it. And believe me when I say that I can tell if a man likes me or not. Yet there’s something that’s keeping him from opening up, from coming to me. Something that’s stopping him. Something. Or someone.”
Falco tightened a muscle in his jaw, but betrayed no sign of knowledge. Livia continued.
“Last fall, as you may recall, he was in a car crash. He survived by some miracle. I rushed to be at his side, in the hospital, and I made sure that he was all right. I went back every day, and taking turns staying with him were his tata—the woman who died just recently—and Brigadier Maione. Only those two. But the first time, just as I arrived, there was another person waiting to learn of his condition. I only saw her that one time, she never showed up again. I only remembered about her later. She was next to Rosa, the tata, and on her face was an expression of absolute terror. She was praying, I believe.”
Out in the street a vendor of franfellicchi, the bits of colorful, sugary cooked honey that children went wild about, strolled past. Without warning he started hawking his wares, splitting the air with his shouts: “Cinche culure e cinche sapure, ccà stanno ’e franfellicche! Five colors and five flavors, get your franfellicchi!” The women at the nearby table lurched in surprise, and then burst into laughter.
“I know exactly what she looks like,” Livia resumed. “A tall young woman, with glasses. Dressed quite simply, I doubt she even wore makeup, but with delicate hands. Not a housemaid, in other words. Perhaps a young schoolteacher, or an officeworker. She clearly was on some terms of acquaintance with the tata. And she was certainly worried about losing him: then and there I assumed she was a relative, then I reconsidered. No spectacular beauty, not remarkable to look at, but the kind of woman men find reassuring. Quite young.”
She had uttered that last word with reluctance, almost as if it had been a doleful confession.
“The kind that men fall in love with, you understand. Not the kind they want for a night of fun, or to show off at the theater or in high society. The kind that, in the end, they marry.”
Falco wondered whether Livia was still speaking to him, or whether she were just thinking aloud. But the woman looked him square in the eye and whispered, with determination: “I want to know who that woman is. I want to know everything about her, where she lives, what she does. Whether he loves her, and if so, how and to what extent. Once he told me that his heart was pledged. Is that young woman the pledge he had in mind?”
Falco opened his mouth and then, abruptly, shut it again. He looked away, in embarrassment.
“Signora, I don’t know whether . . . in other words, and surely you understand, this is a matter that lies outside my professional duties. Gathering information about questions of the heart does not lie within my purview in your regards.”
Livia laughed, mockingly.
“Are you quite certain? After all, Falco, everything that concerns me has to do with questions of the heart, and you know that very well. The matter isn’t complicated: either you accept the task of obtaining this information for me, or you’ll never see me again except from the shadows where you lurk. And in that domain as well, I’ll make life very, very difficult for you. Are we clear?”
Falco hardened his gaze.
“Are you threatening me, Signora? I doubt you’re in any condition to do so.”
Livia took a deep breath. Maybe she had overstepped her bounds, and now she realized it. “You’re quite right. But in a strange sense, I feel that you and I are becoming friends. Or something like it. And when a person is in pain, or worried, then she should turn to her friends, don’t you agree? So let me ask you as a friend: Can you help me? And, more importantly, are you willing to?”
Falco stared at her a little longer. Then he slowly nodded.
“Yes, Signora. I can do it and I will. But you must clearly understand that this will be something that remains outside of our professional relationship. This is a highly personal matter. You won’t discuss it with anyone, especially not with . . . with your friends in Rome. This will be something that concerns us, and us alone. For once, I’m going to have to ask you to keep a secret.”
Livia smiled at him, and she looked like a dark-eyed cat.
“I promise. It will be our secret.”
VI
The woman’s words had left Ricciardi and Maione speechless.
The two men gazed at each other, openmouthed, certain that the Contessa of Roccaspina must be joking: a murderer, self-confessed, already four months behind bars; what could he possibly want from them? Ricciard
i, moreover, thought the whole thing seemed especially strange. A noblewoman he’d met once, a couple of years ago, during the course of a rapid investigation, and with whom he had exchanged a few hurried words at most. To call this a superficial acquaintanceship would be euphemistic. Admittedly, she had clearly fallen on hard times and had few resources, but could it really be that she had no one else to turn to?
Maione interrupted his train of thought by slapping himself on the forehead.
“Ah, of course, now I’ve got it! It’s the murder of that guy, that lawyer in Santa Lucia, isn’t that right? I remember, all the papers talked about it, it was quite the scandal. That was a case that idiot Cozzolino looked into, with Commissario De Blasio. And how they crowed about solving the case in a hurry, the two of them! As if a cop deserves special credit when someone comes in and says, I did it, I was the one, then anyone could pull it off . . . ”
Suddenly realizing that he’d put his foot in it, the brigadier gave himself another slap, this time on the mouth.
“Oooh, madonna! Forgive me, Conte’, I didn’t mean to . . . ”
Bianca smiled wearily.
“Don’t think twice, Brigadier,” she said without turning to look at Maione. “I think the same thing. The rapidity of my husband’s confession was enough to put an immediate end to any investigation. The guilty party had been found right away, so why bother to go on looking?”
Ricciardi had no interest in playing word games.
“Signora, you’ll excuse me I’m sure, but we don’t have much time, and it’s not professionally ethical to stand around denigrating the work of my colleagues. There was an investigation, it was concluded, and there’s a prime suspect who, among other things, has made a full confession. I really don’t understand . . . ”
Glass Souls Page 4
