The contessa turned to look at him, with a supremely sweet smile.
“Luigi Alfredo, thank you so much for worrying about me. But I cannot permit that, in order to protect me, you expose yourself to this terrible injustice.”
The young colonel, who still couldn’t resign himself to the idea that he’d been wasting his time, decided that this was the time to intervene.
“A contessa, no less. And unless I’m mistaken, a contessa with a husband in prison for murder, am I right? A fine example of the debauched aristocracy of this filthy mess of a city. In any case, the information that you’re giving us makes you an adulteress, is that clear to you? Adultery is another shameful aberration we intend to sweep clean.”
Marangolo turned pale, as if he’d just been slapped.
“You damned idiot, how dare you speak in these terms to a woman like the contessa? In the first place you ought to know that adultery, according to our legal code, can only be punished if there is a formal complaint on the husband’s part, and we are quite certain that he has other matters on his mind at the moment. In any case, I won’t allow a buffoon of your caliber to dare to spit out certain insults. Shall I remind you of the circumstances in which your father, no more than three years ago, was found among the other clients at a clandestine brothel during a police raid? As long as we’re talking about vices and virtues.”
The duke’s tirade landed with considerable impact and was followed by the embarrassed silence of those present. The young colonel turned ashen, his eyes blazing with rage. Then he jerked to his feet, overturning his chair, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Rossini giggled once again and spoke to the man with the scar.
“Well, I think we can go now, no? And it also strikes me that you may need to do some work on your intelligence network. I think I’ll discuss that with Rome, someone is going to have to pay for the time we wasted today. Have a good day, Duke . . . ”
One at a time, all the members of that improvised secret tribunal filed out of the room. The last one to leave was Iaselli, the man with the white hair, who extended his hand to bid Marangolo farewell. The duke declined to shake it.
Once they were alone again, Ricciardi addressed him.
“Marangolo, I don’t know how to thank you. It’s incredible to be the subject of an accusation and be unable to do anything to prove your innocence.”
The man smiled, sadly.
“No, Commissario. It’s incredible that anyone should consider something so private and personal to be a crime, something that hurts no one. Love, you know, is love. It doesn’t need to find concrete form, any final achievement, to remain itself. It’s love and nothing more.”
Bianca caressed his arm.
“Carlo Maria, if it hadn’t been for you . . . ”
The duke waved his hand airily.
“Forget about it. They’re a herd of imbeciles and don’t deserve the power they’ve been given. Luckily there are people in Rome who have profound reasons for gratitude toward me, and they don’t forget the fact. I need to go now, I think that Iaselli is waiting for me. I’ll leave you my car to get back.”
He bade them farewell with a smile and left, limping slightly.
LII
As he was riding back to the center of town in the duke’s automobile, Ricciardi felt exhausted.
That day truly had been an overwhelming experience; the commissario’s thoughts turned to all the people he’d charged with a crime, all the people he’d put behind bars on the basis of conjectures and deductions. He believed himself to be a conscientious policeman and he had never brought unfounded charges just to solve a case successfully; but now that he experienced the immense frustration of being unable to defend himself, he wondered whether he’d ever, albeit unconsciously, played the role of the insensitive jailer or the dull-witted accuser.
Sitting next to him, Bianca kept her eyes on the road, a half smile playing over the face in which there still glowed the light that had practically transfigured her just a short while before, in that dark room where his life had come so dangerously close to being destroyed. Ricciardi couldn’t stop looking at her.
“Contessa, I hardly know what to say. You were just . . . Without your help I’d have had no way out and right now I’d be aboard a vessel heading who knows where, without even having had a chance to say goodbye to those who are dear to me. I’ll always be grateful.”
Bianca locked arms with him, with a faintly coquettish gesture.
“Now that we have a relationship, Baron, well known to those idiots, if no one else, we might also be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”
Ricciardi was bit intimidated.
“Certainly, and thank you for that as well. I don’t know if you really understand what you did, or whether it was a momentary impulse. You accused yourself of a crime and endangered your good name and reputation for a stranger. Would you care to explain why?”
The contessa went back to looking out the car window, with a smile.
“As a girl I always wanted to be an actress. Sometimes, with a friend or two, we’d put on performances, just for fun. People like me, born into certain families, can’t choose their own path, but I’d have gladly trod the boards. Once, a friend of my father’s, a famous actor, begged him to let me try, perhaps under a different name. He told him he’d never seen such unmistakable promise. Today, you gave me a chance to dust off this old love of mine, and I had a rollicking good time. So really it’s me who should be thanking you. But did you like me? Was I good?”
There were no more shadows in Ricciardi at this point. He flashed her a smile of pure admiration.
“Good? You were fantastic. I would have believed you myself, if I didn’t know the truth. But I would have kept you from doing it. I’m amazed that Marangolo . . . ”
Bianca interrupted him.
“Listen, it was Carlo Maria himself who warned me and asked me to take the exact steps that I did. He learned of what was happening from one of his many mysterious friends and came straight to me. He said that this was the only solution, and that there was no time to waste. Just think, he brought me the dress and the hat, as well as the shoes and the pocketbook. By the way: How do I look?”
She assumed a languid pose, like a diva, her gloved hand holding her hat in place. Ricciardi continued the game.
“Those gentlemen are no doubt still wondering why on earth such a lovely woman should be in a relationship with me.”
“You’re too gallant, Commissario.”
“But let me ask you again, do you realize what you’ve done? Aren’t you afraid that there will be consequences?”
Bianca turned serious and fell silent for a while. Then she said: “You know, I thought about Romualdo. About what he did. He confessed to something he’d never done, and in so doing, it’s as if he’d changed the hand he’d been dealt; a metaphor that he might appreciate. I know that he’s in prison, and that he may never walk out of there alive. But if this was his only chance at cultivating a dream, the dream of a new happiness with a person that he loves, then he did the right thing. I’d tell him myself, if I could, I’d tell him that I understand what he did. A chance at happiness, even if it’s through suffering, is worth much more than the certainty of unhappiness. He did the right thing.”
Ricciardi decided that what the contessa was saying had the ring of truth. It really was true.
The woman continued.
“And today I did the same thing. Out of gratitude to you, certainly: You chose, without payment and for no good reason, to investigate so that I could have a reason, a motivation for everything that happened. And this motivation became a handle that allowed me to reach out for my new life. That’s no small thing. But I’d be a liar if I said I did it only for you. I also did it for myself.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
Bianca turn
ed to look at him. Once again, Ricciardi drowned in those twin lakes of such an impossible color, familiar and alien at the same time.
“You see, a good name, a reputation, a certain seriousness can all become a suffocating cage. But now that people find out I have a relationship—and people will find out, because even though the gentlemen present in that room won’t be allowed to tell every detail of what happened, they’ll still have the irresistible temptation to let the news get out—I’ll no longer be a widow in mourning. And perhaps I’ll be able to go back to living my life. A little.”
They’d arrived in the area surrounding police headquarters and the chauffeur pulled over to let Ricciardi out.
The commissario took Bianca’s hand and bent low to kiss it, without actually touching it.
“Then what can I tell you, Bianca? Grazie. From the bottom of my heart, grazie. I hope to see you again.”
The woman seemed to light up from within.
“Why, of course, you’ll see me again. We have a relationship, remember? We’re practically engaged, illicitly speaking. You owe me a little attention, Baron Malomonte: perhaps we could even go out together, one of these evenings. Certainly, it would have to be your treat, you know that I’m not wealthy like your lovely Roman girlfriend.”
Ricciardi felt a stab of sorrow. He hadn’t thought about Livia since he’d made the sorrowful discovery of her accusation. He told himself that perhaps he should arrange to see her, to ask for an explanation. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that she had willingly put him in this kind of trouble to avenge herself. And for what, after all? For his decision not to take advantage of her?
He smiled at Bianca and said to her: “It will be a real privilege, Contessa. I need a female friend, you know. Women are a genuine mystery to me, and perhaps you could help me understand a little something more about them.”
She fluttered her fingers in farewell.
“Or maybe I could help to muddle your ideas even more. Ciao, Commissario. Remember that I expect an invitation from you.”
She tapped on the glass separating the driver’s compartment. Ricciardi watched as she drove off laughing.
LIII
Enrica returned from her walk at a slow pace, her head bowed, lost in her uncertainties.
She really hadn’t needed to go out at all, but at least one advantage had come with Manfred’s arrival: now, if she said she needed to go out to do some shopping or be on her own for a while, no one had the nerve to raise an objection. So she had got in the habit of going out in the afternoon and strolling down the main street, plunging herself into the crowd in a cocoon of welcome anonymity.
She didn’t do anything special on her walks: she’d look in shopwindows, get an espresso, stop to listen to some street musician playing the violin, accordion, or mandolin. She breathed in the air of her city, observing the housewives hanging sheets from one building to another and calling across the space between; families joined by a clothesline and a pulley, as good a way as any to feel close.
She knew that her mother would be only too glad to go with her on those walks, to fantasize about ceremonies and gigantic additions to the elements of her dowry, but Enrica had become very good at dodging her invitations. She didn’t want to engage in that kind of conversation.
She liked Manfred, of that much she was certain. He was handsome, athletic, and well read. The difference in age wasn’t a problem at all, in fact, if anything it was a source of attraction, ensuring a bottomless store of stories and memories she could listen to with enjoyment; because the major knew how to cast a spell with his stories.
She felt gratified by the gazes of the other girls when she walked arm in arm with him; she, who had always been alone, who was accustomed to receiving the silent but unmistakable commiseration of her few girlfriends, her sister, and, above all, her mother for the fact that she was still, at her age, unmarried and unengaged, had become deeply envied even by people who met her out on the street.
There were times when she wondered what it was about her that attracted someone like Manfred. She knew that she was intelligent, well above the average of the women who were interested only in home economics; and that she wasn’t bad to look at or devoid of elegance. But she wasn’t an eye-catcher, at least not like the notorious lady with whom Ricciardi went out nights.
She thought for the umpteenth time about that absurd encounter down by the sea. But then, hadn’t everything about her relationship with that man always been absurd? And wasn’t the sentiment that she’d cultivated for no good reason, from a distance, in silence and in dreams, every bit as absurd?
Perhaps her thoughts of Ricciardi were the thoughts of a little girl, she told herself. Perhaps he was the dream and Manfred was the reality that waited upon awakening. And after all, he wasn’t bad to wake up to, was he? Actually, to be objective, he was even better than the dream.
I just have to work at it a little, she thought as she walked toward the last corner before home. She was good at doing her homework, and she’d always been highly disciplined. If she made a decision, she would be able to stick to it. She just had to make up her mind, and then . . .
Just as she was thinking these thoughts, Ricciardi emerged from the shadows and came to a halt before her. His bangs were plastered to his forehead, as if he’d been sweating, and he was breathing hard. He was very pale, the collar of his shirt was unbuttoned beneath the loosened knot of his tie, his hands were in the pockets of his overcoat.
She stopped, stunned and a little frightened. It was almost dinnertime and there was no one out on the streets. She opened her mouth to talk, but he stopped her.
“No. No. This time, you listen to me. Every time I just stand there and don’t know what to say, but now I want you to listen to me. Is that all right? Can I go ahead?”
Enrica didn’t know what to say so she just nodded.
“All right, then: Sacrifice. Because if a person cares, or wants to care for someone, then he wants them to be happy, doesn’t he? Otherwise, it makes no sense. And if he wants them to be happy, it might even be that he needs to choose to keep his distance. That’s natural, isn’t it? It’s natural. But then a person shouldn’t be unhappy, and if a person is unhappy then it stands to reason that the other person will be unhappy, too, so a person wonders: Is it worth it? And a soul might surely be made of glass, but sometimes it will shatter into a thousand pieces. And the hand gets burnt and the moth still won’t stay away. Or you might miss the moth, after all.”
Enrica looked at him, wide-eyed.
“And in that case, a person ought to resign themselves, and you ought to be relaxed at least. But a person, in fact a person just keeps feeling worse and worse. And it’s as if one person in a room were two people, and one of them talks and has a point, and then the other one talks and he’s right too. Which is why a person might start to seem crazy, and maybe a person really is. And a person can make all the decisions in this world, but then they’re down by the sea and . . . ”
His voice broke, as if he were out of breath.
She slowly shook her head, but he stopped her again.
“No. No. Because I don’t know what all this sea is even good for. I don’t know. But I can try and find out, you know? That’s exactly the profession I practice: I find out things. And I’ll be able to do it, I’ll find out what the sea is good for. I’ll do it.”
He took a deep breath and, unexpectedly, he smiled. It was the first time Enrica had ever seen him smile, and she decided in a flash that Manfred, with his blond hair and his athletic physique, with his uniform and that exotic allure of his, could never ever be as beautiful, not even half as handsome, as that one smile under those eyes as green as the sea.
Ricciardi nodded at her one last time and said goodbye. Then he turned on his heel and headed for home.
Enrica stood there, wondering what had just happened and whether it had really happ
ened at all, or if it had just been a dream.
Then she thought about the sea.
EPILOGUE
The young man wonders how long he ought to wait before standing up and leaving. The old man stopped playing more than ten minutes ago, leaving the incredible beauty of his music suspended in the air along with the heartbreaking sorrow of the story he has told.
Then the old man set down his instrument and without a word laid his head on the back of the sofa and shut his eyes.
The young man remained motionless, observing the profile as it was slowly swallowed up by the shadows. The aquiline nose, the haggard cheeks. The hairs of his eyebrows, the small, recent scar from a cut on his throat, the whiskers to be shaved by those shaky hands.
The young man wonders how it can be. How can it be that someone capable of transmitting such powerful emotions, splitting his listeners’ hearts in two, should decide to stop playing in public. He had asked that same question of the person who’d acted as the intermediary for this meeting, and in reply he’d only received a shrug and a strange smile.
His heart has slowly resumed its normal beat, after the song. Now, yes. Now he understands.
In the minutes he’s spent watching the old man breathing regularly, the young man has decided that he wants to learn. That he wants it with every ounce of will in his body, so that he can learn to play and sing like that, even if only just once. It’s necessary, because that vague sense of incompleteness that he’s felt till now is nothing compared to the certainty that now possesses him.
Just as he’s about to get up and leave, the old man begins to speak as if in a dream.
The sacrifice, he says. The renunciation. What you want, and what you ought. But what you can’t bring yourself to do. Luckily, you can’t bring yourself to do it.
He opens his eyes and turns around.
The poet and the young woman, in the end, got together. Amidst jealousies, sufferings, and terrible quarrels that went down in history, they stayed together for eleven years as lovers and eighteen years as a married couple. Until he died, and she went insane with sorrow. The moth never managed to reach safety after all. The hand hadn’t been able to shoo it away.
Glass Souls Page 37
