Manfred had arrived in uniform and with another bouquet of flowers, this time for Enrica. He was handsome, fair-haired, athletic, and beaming, and also quite talkative, and he had eaten with gusto, moaning with pleasure and paying effusive compliments to the mistress of the house for each individual dish. Then he had opened a capacious leather bag and extracted presents for every member of the family, overlooking no one: carved wooden animals for the littlest one, an elaborate pipe for Giulio, a silk scarf for Susanna, and cigars for Marco. For Enrica he had brought a silver necklace with figures dressed in the folk costumes of Bavaria, and a hand-illustrated book.
He had shown himself to be an interesting conversationalist, and with his perfect Italian, rendered more exotic by that strange, slightly harsh accent, he had expressed a profound love for the art and the culture of that city. You truly are lucky, he had said, to live in such a wonderful country, with a great past and a great future.
He had then explained the extremely favorable view that the new Germany had of the Italian model; in fact, his presence in the city was proof of the fact, he had added. He was going to provide logistical support for a team of German archeologists working on excavations in the area around the volcano, but he was also going to find the time to satisfy his curiosity concerning the countless other treasures of the local area, which he was sorry to say he only knew superficially. He’d accompanied every phrase with a meaning glance at Enrica, and by so doing he fed Maria’s enthusiasm. Enrica’s mother, in fact, was happily surprised to learn that her daughter—a rather ordinary woman, she had to admit deep in her heart—was the object of the attentions of such an extraordinary man.
The young woman, as was typical of her, displayed an absolute tranquility. She smiled at witty asides, she listened, she weighed in with her own infrequent yet apposite observations. She had given in to pressure and was wearing a pink muslin blouse with a floral motif that she had embroidered herself, which offered an opportunity for her mother to emphasize, as if in chance passing, how skillful her daughter was. She also wore a string of pearls around her throat and two small pearl drop earrings, just to make clear—again in compliance with the wishes of her female parent—the importance of that new visit in the bosom of the family, far from the place where the couple had first met.
In other words, Enrica was behaving the way anyone would have expected. You couldn’t expect a bold and shameless attitude from her but Giulio, who was observing her every slightest reaction, had detected signs of genuine interest toward this guest.
He had paid close attention to his daughter the whole time, trying to detect whether, and to what extent, that man might represent the future universe of her emotions, making her a happy wife and mother. This wasn’t an easy thing to figure out, not even for someone who, like Giulio, knew her thoroughly and who frequently, because of their great similarities, could even guess at things the young woman preferred not to show outwardly.
Everything had unfolded in the most impeccable manner imaginable, thought Giulio. The dinner had gone swimmingly. Nothing to criticize. In the excited running commentary that would no doubt continue until late that night and well into the days that followed, Maria would allow as how she was quite contented. And equally contented with the behavior of Enrica, who was now laughing gaily with the others as the major told them of his awkward falls as a young boy, when he had decided to become a mounted soldier in the cavalry.
Still, there had been a moment, a single moment, that hadn’t escaped Giulio’s notice.
It had happened after dessert, a spectacular zuppa inglese alla napoletana. Maria was declaiming the culinary skills of Enrica, who had put together the masterpiece, and had tried to persuade her to explain the recipe. Enrica had retreated shyly from the spotlight, of course, and so her mother had begun to describe how the delicacy was prepared while Manfred, Marco, and even Giulio served themselves a second portion. Ricotta, shaved chocolate curls, sponge cake soaked in rum, two shots of Henry’s herbal liquor to be added to the filling; Maria narrated and the German officer listened raptly, chewing with unmistakable gusto.
Enrica had gotten up to clear away the dirty plates and on her way to the kitchen she had shot a rapid gaze toward the window across the way. It was such a fleeting gesture that it was practically imperceptible, and Giulio was certain that she’d done it without even realizing it. But he had noticed, and he’d seen the slight jerk of her shoulders when she had understood that, behind the drawn curtains, the window was illuminated from within.
Upon her return, the young woman once again had a nice smile on her face and she had once again disposed herself to listen attentively to the conversation, which had in the meantime been enlivened by a comment from Marco, who had appeared to be very pleased with himself when he came out with the observation that the only thing wrong with that dessert was the adjective “inglese,” which means English.
From there the conversation had turned to matters of international relations, with Susanna’s husband advocating his usual extremist positions, maintaining that mainland Europe was suffocated by the unacceptable ambitions of the English—Perfidious Albion—to exert dominion over the continent, while Manfred, in more muted tones, shared his views. In other circumstances, Giulio would have weighed in, arguing against the militarism with which both Italian Fascism and the new government of Germany were imbued, but not on that occasion.
For starters, it would have been rude to their guest, who was after all a soldier as well as a representative of the German nation in Italy, and then there was the fact that the cavalier had other things on his mind. He was trying to figure out what his daughter was concealing in her heart. Whether there was already a war raging in that heart, so tender and inexperienced.
He wondered what Don Pierino would have done, and he wondered what feelings were concealed by those drawn curtains just across the street.
As the Good Lord would have it, the evening finally drew to an end, with the children leaping madly around Manfred, begging him not to go and to tell them more stories about his hometown on the shore of the lake, up north in Bavaria, and its strange customs. The major apologized for the intrusion and for his prolonged stay but, he added, leveling his eyes at Enrica, he had enjoyed himself so thoroughly that he had completely lost all notion of time.
With a low and heartfelt voice, he addressed Maria.
“You know, Signora: I’m a widower and childless. I’ve been alone for many years, always traveling on duty. At times I feel quite sad. But I still dream of having a family of my own, just like your own. And happy, mischievous children, like this one here.”
He took little Corrado out of Susanna’s arms, tickling him till he squealed with delight. When he set the little boy down, he scampered to the safety of his parents with a finger in his mouth, though he continued to look at Manfred without letting him notice.
Manfred went on.
“Sometimes people have certain prejudices against soldiers like me. People assume that we’re superficial, interested only in advancing our military careers and yearning to risk our lives on the battlefield. Believe me, that’s not true. A soldier is a man like any other, and a man needs a home to return to. Otherwise, he isn’t really complete.”
With that brief oration, uttered just as he was leaving, Manfred declared the real reason for his visit. And they were, to the letter, the exact words that Maria had been hoping to hear.
Signora Colombo burst into a broad smile.
“Major, you must surely have realized that you are a very welcome visitor to this home. As long as you are in our city, understand that you can rely upon our family as if it were your own; if you please, you’re welcome to come back here every night. We would all be very happy: first and foremost your friend Enrica, whom we must thank for having brought you here, and of course, my husband. Isn’t that right, Giulio?”
Called into the conversation, the cavalier courteously con
firmed.
“Certainly, certainly. Come whenever you like.”
Enrica had the exact same smile as the Mona Lisa.
Giulio wondered for the umpteenth time what she could be thinking about.
And especially who she could be thinking about.
XXXII
Certain evenings were worse than others, thought Ricciardi.
Not that there was an actual reason why. Maybe it was something in the air. A special sweetness that worked its way under his skin and stretched its fingers to clutch his heart, compressing it in a vise grip that made it hard just to breathe.
And so he’d been relieved to accept the friendly obligation to take Bruno Modo out to dinner. Informed of the unusual development, Nelide, without any change in her expression, had begun to put away the ingredients she was planning to use for that evening’s dinner, and in response to the commissario’s question as to what she would eat when she was alone, she had shrugged her shoulders and decreed: chi cucina allecca e chi fila secca, which meant that she had had a taste while she was making dinner and was no longer hungry.
The proverb meant something else, to tell the truth (those who cook, get to taste, while those who spin, since they have to wet the cotton with their tongue, always have dry mouths), but Ricciardi understood its meaning. Nelide’s habit of speaking in proverbs was helping him to rediscover the dialect of his homeland, which he thought he had forgotten, and really he didn’t mind it a bit.
What he missed about Rosa wasn’t the way she took care of him, it was feeling her eyes watching him; he missed her almost tangible presence in every corner of the house.
And yet, that evening there was something else provoking his anguish.
His mind had latched onto the case that he was working on, a case that might not even exist, with a prisoner accused of murder who might actually be guilty of that murder. His mind was fleeing, but it had nowhere to take shelter. As he was getting dressed to go out, he noticed that the windows in the Colombo home across the way were all lit up.
He’d pulled the curtain open just a hair and had taken a peek.
Quite often, in the past, when the woman he’d fallen in love with was nothing but an image behind glass, a seamstress embroidering, blurred by darkness and distance, before he could even attribute a specific color to Enrica’s eyes, before he had savored the touch of her lips in a sudden, fleeting kiss under an improbable snowfall, before hearing the sound of her voice, he had fantasized about that family.
About how nice it would be to be part of so much untroubled happiness.
They weren’t eating in the kitchen the way the usually did. That evening they were dining in the formal dining room.
Through the balcony door, left ajar to let in a little of the cool September air, Ricciardi had glimpsed a headful of blond hair, a uniform.
And his memory had been assailed by the recollection of a delirious night on Ischia. Through the leaves, a blond head of hair leaning in toward Enrica’s face. For a kiss.
He had suffered over that kiss every bit as much as he had suffered over his tata’s death. A different kind of pain, but every bit as intolerable. It was irrational, it was completely absurd, but that’s the way it was.
So it turns out that the thing had continued. Which meant the relationship was developing, as was only natural. And the family, by welcoming the man into their midst, was now sanctioning the daughter’s preference.
He wasn’t surprised, nor did the sight cause him any additional sorrow. He felt only the burning sting of exclusion.
Once again he found himself looking out at life, his face pressed to a plate-glass shop window.
He went out in a hurry, heading in the direction of the hospital, but he hadn’t even needed to go that far. Bruno met him halfway, strolling down the street with his hands in his pockets, whistling a little tune, his hat pushed back from his forehead and the inevitable dog trotting along a few yards behind him.
“Oh, here you are. One need only step out into the night to meet vampires. Some might run into Count Dracula, others instead might meet up with the Baron of Malomonte, and each of us gets the monsters they deserve. Let’s admit it, in Transylvania there’s quite a different class of creatures, but here at home, as usual, we have to settle for imitations.”
Ricciardi’s reply was quick in coming.
“Listen, if you’re looking for finer company, then you can always go to one of those places you like to frequent. I’m sure the people there would be far more agreeable than I am.”
Modo laughed.
“No doubt about it, it’s true. But it would cost me too much, whereas tonight, as per our agreement, you’re picking up the tab, because it’s a well known fact that you’re filthy rich. Perhaps I won’t be treated to the silvery peals of feminine laughter, but I’ll fill my belly at your expense and if I’m lucky, I’ll get good and drunk into the bargain.”
Ricciardi snickered.
“Yes, yes. I’m convinced that it was silvery feminine laughter you were thinking of. And I never doubted for an instant that I would be left to settle the check. Come along then, show me this new trattoria someone told you about. Let’s see if the wine is really so bad that you can get drunk on less than a liter.”
The doctor tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes, observing his friend’s face.
“What’s wrong with you? We know each other so well that I am able to detect even the subtlest gradations in your customary tedious dreariness. That worries me: does this mean that I’m refining my diagnostic abilities to the point that I can actually distinguish among the various stages of mental illness?”
The commissario took some time before answering. He took a step or two, then said: “You know, there are certain days that are grimmer than others. I’m digging into a case that isn’t a case, and I’m doing it secretly; the story of the loan-sharking lawyer who was murdered in June.”
“Interesting . . . Go on, tell me more. That way, as usual, I’ll open my mind to you and you, through my merit, will solve the case. Every so often it seems to me that it’s an authentic tragedy for the other branches of knowledge that I became such a first-rate doctor: I could have aspired to become anything, even a policeman.”
They stopped outside a door that stood ajar, out of which came the unmistakable laughter and music of a local neighborhood eatery. Ricciardi looked crestfallen.
“No doubt about it: I’ll leave here tonight with a splitting headache, oppressed by third-rate wine, bad music, and your now-proverbial idiotic opinions. Come on, let’s go in. Yank the tooth and the pain is gone.”
Modo patted the dog on the head and then the dog went off to sniff an interesting streetlamp not far away. For a while, he’d wander off to inspect the neighborhood but then, at the right moment, as if by magic, he’d show up outside the trattoria’s front door.
The doctor spoke softly.
“Ciao, dog. You certainly understand humans. And in fact, you chose the finest of them all for your companion.”
During their dinner, which proved much better than they’d expected, the commissario told Modo about Bianca and her husband. He didn’t often share his own thoughts about his work, but this case was so different from all his others that he thought talking about it to someone other than Maione might help him to clarify his thoughts.
The physician listened to him carefully, then seemed once again to scrutinize his face.
“I’m just trying to figure out what drove you to take on this case. All right, I understand that you need something to take your mind off the death of Rosa, and that you foolishly fail to appreciate the delights of the brothel as an adequate pastime, but an old, closed case, long since filed away and forgotten about, with a confessed murderer who refuses to be swayed, strikes me as a pretty stupid distraction even for someone like you. What is it about Piro’s murder that appeals to you
?”
Even the wine, in defiance of their expectations, was good and flowed freely. Ricciardi could hold his alcohol well, and as far as he could remember, he’d never been drunk in his life. Still, when he drank, he became even more somber than usual and so, as a rule, he tended to avoid it. Moreover, he had the disagreeable impression that alcohol only strengthened the Deed, another excellent reason to avoid hoisting a glass.
That evening, however, wasn’t just any ordinary evening. That evening he’d glimpsed a handsome head of blond hair through a window.
He threw back another glass and poured out some more of the amber liquid for Modo.
“I don’t exactly know. There’s just something that doesn’t add up: details, trivia. Starting with the attitude of the Count of Roccaspina. And his wife’s attitude, too.”
The doctor drank and smiled, somewhat vacuously.
“Well, I’d stop and focus a little more carefully on this lady the contessa. Because, as I was listening to you, it almost struck me that you sort of had it in for her. And yet you accepted her summons, and now you’re investigating to confirm or deny what she’s claiming. And why would you be doing that?”
Ricciardi fell silent, staring down into the empty plate before him on the table. Then he said, in a low voice: “She’s suffering, you know. She has beautiful eyes, she’s a young woman, she has a name and a reputation. But she’s suffering. And not out of love, because I can’t detect any love in her words, in her gaze. She doesn’t hate him, but she certainly doesn’t love him. And yet, she’s suffering, and she’s alone. I can’t make any sense of it.”
Modo smiled from ear to ear, and threw himself back in his chair after tossing back his glassful of wine with gusto.
“Aaahhh, now we’ve come to the point. Cherchez la femme! You’re intrigued by the contessa, Riccia’. In other words, you like her. Just wait and see, we’ll find out that a human heart beats in those trousers after all.”
Glass Souls Page 23
