Glass Souls

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  The older man took him by the arm, as if about to lead him somewhere. Ricciardi reacted by pushing his hand away with a brusque gesture and making a show of brushing off his sleeve. The man replied with a sort of malignant grin and affectedly showed him to a door.

  They entered a space where the air was cool, immersed in shade. Ricciardi caught a whiff of stale air and mold. They walked across a large room that, when the plant was in operation, must have been a manufacturing floor. They came to a flight of stairs, climbed it, and came to another door.

  The younger man knocked discreetly.

  A voice replied from within.

  “Come in.”

  The room was moderately large, without windows or any other openings. The younger man remained outside the door, with a broad stance, arms folded. The other man led Ricciardi to a table at which four men sat, and took up a position to Ricciardi’s right.

  To the left was a little man with a truculent expression and a scar on his forehead; beside him was a fat man smoking a cigar that put out a pestilential stench; then there was a distinguished looking man with white hair, elegantly dressed; all the way to the right was a very young man, little more than a boy, in a black shirt. No, these weren’t criminals. At first Ricciardi thought that he ought to feel reassured now, but instead he felt a wave of great anxiety wash over him.

  He decided that he would be the first to speak.

  “Gentlemen, I don’t know who you are or what you want from me. But I should warn you that I’m a police officer and that my prolonged absence will surely be noticed by my colleagues, and therefore . . . ”

  The white-haired man interrupted.

  “We’ve brought you here precisely because we know who you are. In every sense of the word.”

  The other three men all chuckled, as if they’d just heard a funny joke. Ricciardi felt a surge of irritation.

  “Then would you care to explain to me, Signor . . . ?”

  The man shook his head.

  “No, Commissario. Our names should be of no interest to you.”

  Ricciardi refused to allow that matter to be dismissed so cavalierly.

  “I believe I have the right to know with whom I’m speaking, don’t you agree?”

  The fat man with the cigar answered him. He had a strong northern accent that Ricciardi was unable to place.

  “We are people who have the security of our nation at heart, my good man. And who are convinced that that security rests also upon common decorum and healthy habits.”

  Ricciardi looked at him, perplexed.

  “I have no idea what you’re driving at. I think there must be some mistake.”

  The young man with the black shirt suddenly spoke up, narrowing his eyes.

  “There’s been no mistake, Ricciardi. If anything, there’s been a criminal act, a series of illegal behaviors that require our immediate intervention. Fascist cities are orderly places, full of manly Roman pride. Not places that will tolerate behavior that is aimed at undermining the general order, and I’m speaking in moral terms as well.”

  Ricciardi felt his head spin: this was starting to seem like a nightmare.

  “And what am I supposed to have done? What behavior . . . ”

  The man with white hair snapped the fingers of his right hand in the direction of the man with the scar on his forehead, who then spoke up in a high-pitched voice, practically falsetto.

  “Now then, we have here a number of surveillance reports. Let me first state that this surveillance activity became necessary as a result of a complaint filed with one of our functionaries. And from these reports there emerges an unmistakable picture of your personal inclination to pederasty.”

  The word dropped into the silence like a hand grenade. Ricciardi said: “What? Have you lost your minds?”

  The man in the black shirt replied flatly.

  “No. The deviant, the sick man, the one breaking the laws of nature is you. And as such, we’ll have you surgically removed, as we would any ordinary abscess.”

  The man with the scar on his forehead went on, leafing through a stack of paper on the table in front of him.

  “We see no indication that you’ve had any relationships with women over the past six years. No one has seen you frequent a brothel or receive prostitutes at your own place of residence. You aren’t engaged to be married, nor do we see any evidence you ever have been.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” asked Ricciardi.

  The little man continued to speak in his squeaky voice.

  “On the other hand, you spend a great deal of time with a man, a certain Bruno Modo, a physician at the Pellegrini hospital, who is already under our regular surveillance because he is suspected of political activity against the state. You’ve met with this man, without any other company, and no more than two evenings ago you were at his home, where the two of you remained alone.”

  Ricciardi shouted: “But he was drunk! I just helped him get into bed, he couldn’t stand on his own two feet!”

  The fat man with the cigar laughed raucously.

  “Ah, so you admit it! You helped him get into bed, and how else did you help him out?”

  The man with the snowy hair, who was clearly the highest-ranking man at the table, went on talking in a tone that actually seemed conciliatory.

  “As you can imagine, Ricciardi, in cases like this, we proceed with extreme caution; if someone wishes to practice this horrible vice discreetly and silently and minding their own business, never kicking up a fuss and avoiding public display as you do, and I have to give you credit for it, then we tend to overlook it. But you’re a representative of the state, in fact, you’re a commissario of police. Men like you are supposed to set an example.”

  The young man in the black shirt completed the thought.

  “Which is why we have no intention of allowing this abhorrent behavior to continue. Nor can we afford to resolve this through a public criminal trial, heaping ridicule upon the very institution that you, infamous faggot that you are, work for. So we’re going to cart you off and dump you on a deserted beach where you can remain for all the years that it takes to turn you normal again, that is, if you ever were.”

  Ricciardi couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He took a step toward the young man, and the man standing beside him grabbed him firmly by the arm.

  “You can’t do that, without any evidence! These are just conjectures, your diseased imagining and fantasies! Who . . . ”

  The little man with the scar on his forehead scanned the sheet of paper in his hands.

  “We do possess the eyewitness testimony of a respected and prominent member of this city’s better society, a woman who is, in fact, honored to call herself a personal friend of Il Duce’s own family. This woman stated to one of our functionaries that she had attempted to have personal relations with you, but that you refused to do so. Is this true?”

  Livia. Had it been Livia who said this about him? How could that be?

  “I . . . well, yes, but that was a very particular situation; she had drunk quite a lot and . . . ”

  The young man in the black shirt spoke over him, contemptuously.

  “I just screw the drunk ones all the better. Or was she ugly, the lady in question? Perhaps she wasn’t attractive?”

  The man with the white hair smiled.

  “No, no. Quite the opposite. I would say that as of now, the lady in question is perhaps the most attractive woman in the whole city.”

  The man with the cigar sighed in exasperation.

  “Gentlemen, what are we waiting for? Let’s toss this degenerate onto the first outbound ship heading for you-know-where and just scratch this off the list. What’s more, Commissario, where we’re sending you, you’ll find a bunch of people just like you. You’ll be very happy there, I assure you.”

 
Before Ricciardi could even retort, the door swung open. The man who had driven the car that brought him there entered the room, walked over, and leaned down to whisper something in the ear of the white-haired man, whose face took on an annoyed but also slightly uneasy expression. After taking a moment to reflect, he said: “All right. If it’s really all that urgent, show them in.”

  The other three men looked at him curiously, but he said nothing more.

  The door swung open once again and, hobbling on a cane, Carlo Maria Fossati Berti, Duke Marangolo, entered the room.

  At his side was Bianca di Roccaspina.

  LI

  The sight of the new arrivals only sharpened in Ricciardi the sensation that he was in the throes of some nightmare or a weird, unpleasant delusion. What could Bianca and the duke be doing there? How could they have found out that he’d been dragged into that absurd excuse for a trial, without arguments or evidence, and with a prefabricated verdict ready to be handed down? Who had warned them, and why?

  He tried to speak, but no words came out. The contessa’s gaze was calm, as if running into each other in a place like that was the most normal thing in the world. Marangolo, on the other hand, didn’t even seem to have noticed him. He had his eyes fixed on the man with white hair, who had stood up to greet him. The others remained seated at the table: the man with the scar on his forehead leaned toward the man with the cigar and whispered something to him.

  The man with white hair said: “My dear friend, as you can see we’re in the middle of something, but we’ve almost finished and . . . ”

  Marangolo raised a hand to interrupt him.

  “But this is exactly why I’m here, Iaselli. You’re about to make a terrible mistake, and I’m here to stop you.”

  The man with white hair turned beet red.

  “No names, if you please! This is a confidential meeting, and . . . ”

  Marangolo burst into a small laugh.

  “Oh, of course, your confidential meetings. I know very well how those work. Well, since you’re not bothering to do it, I will. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Carlo Maria Marangolo. The Duke of Marangolo. The fact that I am here is a clear sign that someone very important authorized me to come, so I’m not going to waste your time and my own explaining my credentials; you can look into that matter after we’ve taken care of the matter at hand, perhaps by placing a call to that number in Rome that I feel sure you all know by heart.”

  The young man in the black shirt stood up, glowering, and addressed Iaselli.

  “Could someone explain to me what’s happening? If everyone knows where this meeting is happening, then we might as well have gone and held it at the police tribunal! I have no time to waste. Who are these people?”

  Marangolo glared at him.

  “Young man, I’ve already introduced myself. And believe me, I’m not someone who goes out and about much, especially not to come to places like this. But just to put matters in a very clear light, I think you should know that I am someone who can arrange for you to be dismissed immediately from the rank and position you have been given rather too hastily, Colonel Sansonetti.”

  Upon hearing himself addressed by name by that complete stranger, and in a low and menacing tone, to boot, the young man sits down again immediately, glowering.

  Iaselli was uncertain.

  “I beg of you, Marangolo, no names. And no one here is questioning your authority, but . . . ”

  Paying no mind to the interruption, the duke went on, in a more conciliatory tone.

  “All right then. As I’ve told you, I’m here to make sure a terrible mistake isn’t made. And with that aim in mind, I inform you that the charges of homosexuality that you are discussing with reference to the Baron Malomonte are . . . ”

  The man with the cigar asked Iaselli: “Who is this Baron Malomonte supposed to be? Aren’t we talking about this guy, Ricciardi?”

  Marangolo cracked a half smile.

  “They’re the same person, my sincere compliments for the thoroughness of the information you’ve collected, Your Excellency Rossini.”

  Iaselli was disconcerted.

  “No names, if you please . . . ”

  The man with the scar turned red in the face and said: “The information is quite complete, Signore. It wasn’t divulged in its entirety because that wasn’t thought necessary.”

  Marangolo turned to look at him as if he’d only just become aware of his existence at that moment.

  “I don’t know who you are, but I can certainly guess. And I take note of the fact that you have redacted the name and the identity of this man who has been so absurdly accused, while the other conjectures—as I have been informed by a very authoritative source, the same source that allowed me to come here—were very carefully constructed. I wonder what the reason for that might be.”

  The little man slapped his hand down on the papers.

  “It’s all documented, Signore, all of it. We have a very reliable surveillance system, nothing can elude our notice . . . ”

  “I know all about your system. I was present when it was created; it’s based on informants, not on surveillance. But let’s drop that matter. Here is the way matters stand: If I give you my word of honor that Commissario Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, Baron Malomonte, is innocent of homosexuality, will that be sufficient? Can you take it on trust?”

  The little man with the scar protested.

  “No, we most certainly don’t trust you! Here we have proof: reports, movements, certifications!”

  The young colonel, too, though remaining cautious, shook his head.

  “It seems to me that the overall situation is quite clear. We cannot leave a pederast in that position of responsibility, as a representative of the state. We’re responsible for these matters, after all.”

  The man with the cigar put in his two cents.

  “No, it’s not sufficient. I don’t want to cast any doubt on your word, Duke, but . . . couldn’t you be mistaken? We have . . . proceeded for much less solid evidence, with other subjects.”

  Iaselli, who had remained standing, seemed extremely uncomfortable.

  “You see, Marangolo, here a great many . . . structures are represented. And I can assure you that we do serious, extremely serious work to keep the country clean.”

  Marangolo seemed unsurprised.

  “I imagined that would be your reply. Too bad. Well, in that case, I’m going to have to ask the Contessa Bianca Palmieri di Roccaspina to tell you why she accompanied me here today.”

  Everyone’s attention turned to Bianca, who took a step forward out of the shadows, entering into the cone of light from the lamp that hung from the ceiling.

  Ricciardi, who had witnessed the exchange of remarks with growing hope and ever increasing attention, only to be disappointed at the end, noticed a new glow in the contessa’s beautiful face. She no longer wore her usual black dress, but a sky-blue dress with buttons up the front and a belted waist that clung to her figure, giving her a profound and unfamiliar new sensuality, accentuated by the high-heeled shoes. The little cloche hat brought out the coppery highlights in her hair. She looked like another woman.

  The real difference lay in her expression, thought Ricciardi. On her lightly made-up face there glowed a new confidence. The commissario had never seen her so aware of her own beauty and the natural elegance that she wore like a crown.

  She smiled at Marangolo, who gazed at her in adoration.

  Then she said: “Buongiorno, Signori. I’ve come here today to give you a piece of information concerning myself, which I would never have expected to be called upon to make public, but to all appearances, it has now become necessary, unfortunately. Commissario Ricciardi and I have a relationship. A romantic relationship.”

  She had uttered those words with the utmost calm, as if she were telling them about the last equestrian c
ompetition she’d attended. Her tone of voice, warm and deep, betrayed no uncertainties or inner travails.

  The first one to snap out of it was the little man with the scar, the only one still left without a name. He shuffled through the papers still in front of him and stammered: “That’s not what I see here. Not according to my information. That’s impossible, your meetings with Ricciardi only began in the past few days, and . . . ”

  Marangolo upbraided him.

  “It’s clear that your famous system, the perfect surveillance network that you boast about, has some defects.”

  Bianca smiled and turned to Ricciardi, who stood there openmouthed.

  “You see, dearest? We were very good at going unnoticed.”

  The eyes of the little man with the scar narrowed to a pair of slits. He was oozing mistrust from every pore.

  “And how long has it been going on, this alleged relationship?”

  The woman retorted, unruffled.

  “Two years. It’s been two years, hasn’t it, Luigi Alfredo? I confess that I was tired of all the subterfuge and chicanery, but we couldn’t do any differently, until now.”

  Rossini, who had lit another cigar, seemed almost amused.

  “What about the other woman, the one who filed the accusation of homosexuality? The one with whom he was unwilling to . . . ”

  Bianca gave him an indignant glare.

  “I don’t think the explanation is especially challenging. Luigi Alfredo knows perfectly well that if I were to learn he had cheated on me, I’d claw his eyes out of his head with both hands.”

  Ricciardi did his best to think quickly. What Bianca was doing for him constituted a sacrifice of unimaginable proportions. She was giving up the one thing that remained to her, and which was supposed to serve as the foundation for all her hopes of building a future for herself. Why would she be doing this? And most important of all: Could he allow her to do it?

  “Bianca,” he said, “there’s really no need for you to do this. Leave it be.”