Blood Curse

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Ricciardi shook his head.

  “Well, in your opinion, which is it: do I want to know or don’t I?”

  Maione put on a false air of contrition.

  “Then I’ll get right to it, Commissa’. The signorina who’s sitting in your office has been to see Calise every week for a long time now. She showed the doorman a sheet of paper with that address, along with the name; he was the one who told her which streetcar to take the first time she went.”

  Ricciardi and Maione went back into the office. Teresa, with the package clutched to her chest, was waiting for them, staring into space. The commissario addressed her politely.

  “Tell me, Signorina, what can we do for you?”

  The woman spoke in a low voice, little more than a murmur.

  “My name is Teresa Scognamiglio, Commissa’. The dead woman was my aunt, my mother’s older sister, may her soul rest in peace. I gave it a lot of thought, before coming to see you; I care about my job and I don’t want to be sent back to my village in the countryside. And I know that after coming here today I’ll never be able to go back to work there. But I couldn’t keep quiet. My aunt’s spirit in the other world wouldn’t leave me alone, it was making me crazy just like my grandmother, God rest her soul.”

  Her eyes had filled with tears, which began streaking down her cheeks. Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a glance. The brigadier comforted her in a fatherly tone.

  “Signorina, tell us what you have to say. We’re all ears.”

  In response, Teresa simply set the newspaper bundle on her lap and started unwrapping it. She pulled out a pair of elegant men’s shoes with the soles encrusted and stained. She set them on Ricciardi’s desk, side by side, perfectly aligned. Then she looked up.

  “I know who it was. I know who killed my aunt.”

  LII

  Teresa’s words froze them both in place. The two policemen looked at each other, then they looked at the shoes, and then Teresa. Ricciardi decided to break the spell.

  “And . . . ? Who was it?”

  In the room, silence. Outside, a truck drove across the piazza, with a festive series of loud, irregular bangs. Maione and Ricciardi knew that Teresa was perched on the edge of the irrevocable. Once she uttered that name, she’d never be able to go back, and nothing would be the way it had been before. She drew a deep breath.

  “It was my employer. Ruggero Serra di Arpaja. The professor.”

  And she began to tell her story.

  It all started more than a year ago. Teresa had just arrived from her country village, with a pressboard suitcase full of things that, over time, she’d thrown out, as the family with which she’d found employment “civilized” her, as the signora had put it. She had the right to take the afternoon off once every fifteen days, but for the first few months of her new job she chose to forego it; she didn’t want to run the risk of being thought a lavativa, a layabout, the worst crime a maid could be accused of.

  The first time she left the palazzo, she went to the address that she had for her Aunt Carmela. Her aunt had stood in at her baptism as her godmother, and the family had considered her a disgrace, then a source of pride, and finally a living legend. Carmela had run away from home at a very young age to seek her fortune; she alone had rebelled against the iron law of grueling work and submission that had long subjugated the women of the village. Her name could only be spoken in a whisper, and horrible tales were told about her.

  When she finally came face-to-face with that ancient, pain-racked woman, Teresa was at first disappointed, but then, as she sat and listened to her over a cup of hot milk, she discovered that the tales of her village’s rustic mythology had actually understated the case. Her aunt had managed to amass a genuine fortune, and what’s more, she had done it by reading tarot cards! The kind of thing that back home was the province of quacks and mountebanks at the monthly cattle fair.

  And just how had she pulled it off? By exploiting the gullibility of the well-to-do, people like her employers. To her, whose image of the couple she worked for verged on celestial, it seemed unbelievable: those illustrious gentlemen and ladies who held the world in the palms of their hands and did with it as they pleased, who possessed automobiles, fine clothing, jewelry, and even had electric lighting; well then, even they were putty in the hands of the fortuneteller, like so many marionettes made to dance by a puppeteer.

  Over the course of that unforgettable afternoon, Carmela revealed the entire organization to her niece, including the help she received from Nunzia, the mother of the little mentally handicapped girl who was sitting there listening, with a vacant smile on her face and a streamer of drool hanging from her mouth. Together they laughed at the stupidity of those people, delivering Carmela’s fortune right to her doorstep.

  At the end of that afternoon, after telling her aunt about the lives of the Serra di Arpaja family, Teresa bid her aunt good-bye and left with a feeling of contentment, promising to come see her again soon.

  That same evening, while she was waiting for the streetcar that would take her back to the palazzo, and during the rest of the week that followed, an idea took shape in Teresa’s mind, eventually transforming itself into a full-fledged plan.

  “Putting the Serra di Arpaja family in contact with Carmela Calise,” said Ricciardi.

  “Yes sir, that’s exactly right,” Teresa confirmed.

  The girl was perceptive and clever, and possessed the gift of being able to go unnoticed, to fade perfectly into the background. By virtue of this talent, she soon managed to penetrate the psychology of the couple she worked for, quickly becoming aware of their incompatibility. The man was old and self-absorbed; the woman was beautiful and emotionally starved.

  “At a certain age,” she told the two policemen, “a woman must have children, just like a cow. Otherwise, she goes crazy.”

  “The ideal victims of the award-winning enterprise of Calise and Petrone,” Maione put in.

  “Yes,” Teresa admitted. But that time, for some reason unknown to Teresa, Calise didn’t want Petrone involved. She asked the girl to keep her informed of just one thing: when the signora was planning to go to the theater, and which theater she would be going to. That was easy; Emma frequented every theater in town with her girlfriends, and she never missed a show.

  And so, one week after another, Teresa gave Carmela the information and Carmela gave Teresa a little money. Teresa sent the money home so she could buy a farm where she could live like a noblewoman when she returned to her village.

  Very soon Emma started paying calls on Carmela. The trap had snapped shut. Teresa had no idea how her aunt had pulled it off.

  The old woman became an obsession for the signora. She went to see her two or three times a day. The chauffeur complained about having to drive the enormous black automobile through the vicoli of the Sanità; then she’d started going there on her own, in her new red convertible. She was so euphoric that she even ventured to talk to Teresa about it, at night, as she was having the maid brush her hair before bed.

  Still, there were certain aspects of the operation that the girl had never quite been able to understand: the money, for one. Emma had told her that Carmela refused to take money, and she’d only been able to give a tip now and again to the porter woman. In the signora’s opinion, this was clear evidence of the fortune-teller’s honesty; she was an honest-to-God missionary. And yet, Teresa was regularly paid the amount they’d agreed upon. So what was her aunt getting out of it? Teresa couldn’t puzzle that one out. Nor could she understand why Emma had recently gone from a state of euphoria to one of terrible depression. She described Emma’s bedroom for them: filthy, disorderly. She told them about the wine and the vomit.

  It had been two weeks since she’d heard, through the door, a violent argument between man and wife; it had been occasioned by her return home at dawn, something that had been happening more and more frequently. That time the professor had been waiting for her, wide awake, sitting in the front hall, and he’d given hi
s wife an open-palm slap in the face. Emma’s only response was to spit in his face, just like they did back in her village, Teresa told them. Then she had fled to her bedroom. Ruggero had chased her, and managed to get inside and shut the door behind him.

  This was followed by a heated dispute, in the course of which he had forbidden his wife from paying a call on “that old witch” ever again, or else “he’d see to shutting that woman’s sewer of a mouth once and for all.” Emma replied that “he wasn’t a real man” and therefore he’d “be too feeble even to knock on her door.” She insulted him for his lack of virility, and her husband fled in tears, passing right by the girl without noticing her. Just as he usually did.

  As soon as she could, she’d gone over to warn her aunt; but she had told Teresa not to worry, a smile on her face. She had the situation under control, she’d said. Then, terrified that she might lose her job, Teresa stopped going to see her. Until Emma, her face ravaged by tears, told her she’d learned about the murder from the newspaper.

  “But the day before that, Commissa’, the professor came home very late at night; it was practically morning. He looked like a lunatic, his hair was standing straight up, he was shaking and sobbing. He was filthy and disheveled, he who was usually as well groomed as a mannequin on Via Toledo. He hurried to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. It was a long time before he came out. When I went in to clean the room, this is what I found,” and she pointed to the shoes, neatly lined up on Ricciardi’s desk. “If you ask me, that’s blood that they’re covered in. My aunt’s blood. Blood of my blood.”

  Ricciardi kept his green eyes fixed on the now silent girl’s face; she was as calm and still as if she’d just finished reciting a rosary. Then she came to with a start, as though waking up from a dream. He looked at Maione, who was standing beside him, mouth agape.

  The brigadier looked back at him.

  “Now, who’s going to tell Dottor Garzo?”

  LIII

  It was Ricciardi who told Garzo, the minute Teresa left. She’d been afraid to return home and share a roof with the murderer. But the commissario and Maione made it clear to her that there was no danger until formal charges were filed; in fact if anything, her absence would put the professor on his guard, giving him time to prepare an alibi. Once this whole affair was over, Teresa could take possession of Carmela’s apartment or, as an alternative, return to her village.

  Maione and Ricciardi went to report to their superior officer, not without a hint of malevolent satisfaction as they savored the thought of the look on the deputy chief of police’s face.

  On some level, his reaction came as a disappointment. Once they were done relating Teresa’s story, and after the professor’s shoes had been exhibited by Maione as if he were displaying the ampoule containing the miraculous blood of San Gennaro, Garzo laid his head back on the immaculate head cloth that covered the top of his armchair and shut his eyes. He seemed to be asleep, but there was a worrisome pink spot on his neck, under his now bloodless face.

  After a minute or so, he opened his eyes and smiled.

  “That doesn’t mean it was him.”

  “What do you mean, it might not have been him, Dotto’? Even though the housemaid told us all the hows and whys and wherefores, and even brought in his bloodstained shoes?”

  “Maione, calm down and listen to what I have to say.” And, counting off the points on his fingers: “The girl never actually saw the professor kill Calise; nor did she hear him explicitly state his intention to murder her. We also have no confession. Instead, we have an alibi: the Serras were at dinner with none other than His Excellency the Prefect of Naples that night. Last of all, a pair of muddy shoes are certainly not proof of murder. For all we know, that could be the blood of a dead dog, that is, if it’s blood at all.”

  Ricciardi nodded.

  “Fair enough, Dottore. You have a point. But you do have to admit that Serra had both the motive, which we can easily verify with testimonies from the other servants, and the opportunity, given that according to Doctor Modo, Calise was killed after 10:00 P.M., by which time the dinner at the prefect’s house would have long been over. Moreover, his evasiveness during the interview . . .”

  Garzo snorted in annoyance.

  “Evasiveness is subject to your interpretation, Ricciardi. Let’s not forget that we’re talking about a person unaccustomed to being questioned like any common criminal. I don’t see any weak spots in the professor’s position with respect to Iodice’s. On the one hand, we have the accusations of a servant and an angry outburst, while on the other we have a debt that Iodice had been unable to pay and a suicide that is tantamount to a confession. Are you so sure that a court of law would find against Serra?”

  Maione let out a muffled roar, like a caged lion. Ricciardi, in contrast, silently went over Garzo’s reasoning, which had a certain logic. He needed time. Deep down, he felt sure that given a choice between Iodice and Serra di Arpaja, the latter was more likely to have been the killer; but the way things stood right now, it was no contest.

  “Well then, Dottore, how do you intend to proceed?”

  Just as the commissario had expected, Garzo’s face went pale again.

  “Me? What do I have to do with it? You’re in charge of the investigation, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me what it is you intend to do.”

  Checkmate, thought Ricciardi.

  “Right, Dottore. Right. Well then, I think that we should go on investigating: check out what Teresa Scognamiglio told us, flesh out the information we already have. Just a few more days, to get a better idea of what happened, and to make sure headquarters is safe from this wretched individual.”

  Garzo drummed his fingers briefly on the desktop.

  “Fine, Ricciardi. I’ll give you a day, or actually two, since it’s still early morning. But I want charges brought by tomorrow night. The press has started putting pressure on the chief of police, who, as you know, is allergic to pressure.”

  Ricciardi nodded and left the room, followed by a fuming Maione.

  Filomena closed the shutters over the only window in the basso on Vico del Fico; a weak light filtered in through the slit over the door. She sat down at the table, smiled at the two people sitting with her, and with a firm hand and slow gestures, she removed her bandages.

  Gaetano took a sudden sharp breath and moaned softly, as tears began streaking down his face. Rituccia, her pallor glowing in the darkness, watched calmly, her expression unchanged.

  Filomena ran her fingertips over the scar, following its sharp, raised contours. She reached out for the old shard of mirror that she kept for brushing her hair. She looked at her reflection for a long time. Then she laid the mirror down and walked over to her son to give him a kiss. Gaetano took her face in his hands and started to sob.

  Rituccia stood up, walked over to the woman, and solemnly kissed her on the slash across her face.

  Maione was pacing back and forth in Ricciardi’s office, railing against Garzo, while Ricciardi stood silently in front of the window.

  “Oh now, did you hear that idiot? We take him for a fool, and just when I think he’s fallen asleep, he takes us by surprise and out he comes with all this legal mumbo jumbo, like he’s the lawyer’s lawyer! I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it myself! And of course, since the professor from Via Santa Lucia is rich, he must be innocent, while poor Iodice, God rest his soul, filthy, weaselly, lower-class pizzaiolo without two pennies to rub together, must surely be guilty! And after we got the whole story from Teresa Scognamiglio, who heard everything with her own ears!”

  Ricciardi spoke without lifting his gaze from the piazza below.

  “As much of a fool as you like, and certainly convinced that it was poor Iodice who did it. Still, what he said wasn’t so stupid. The truth is that all we have are clues, in both cases. Both of them had a good motive for murdering Calise. Both of them had an opportunity to murder her. Both of them saw her dead: as we know from Serra di Arpaja’s sho
es and Iodice’s promissory note. But what we don’t know for sure is which one of them watched her die.”

  Maione stopped. He was unwilling to surrender to the evidence of the facts.

  “Yes, but Serra can defend himself and Iodice can’t, Commissa’. So before we lay the blame on the dead man, we should make sure that the living one is innocent. Am I right?”

  Ricciardi stood in silence for a few seconds. He was looking out the window.

  “Have you ever thought, Maione, about all the things that you can see out a window? You can see life itself. You can see death. You can see, but you can’t do anything about it. So who is he, the man who watches? You know who he is?”

  Maione waited, listening. He knew it didn’t fall to him to reply.

  “The man who watches is the man who isn’t living. He can only watch other people’s lives go by; he can only live through them. Someone who watches is someone who just can’t handle it, who’s given up on living.”