I Will Have Vengeance (15 page)

Right, Ricciardi thought. Why indeed?

 

Her fragrance reached him first. Ricciardi looked up from the report he was writing, struck by the heady, distinctive wild scent of spices. A second before he connected the perfume to the person, Maione stuck his head in the door.

“
Commissa'
, Signora Vezzi is here.”

Ricciardi asked him to show her in and Livia entered the office. She wore a sober black suit, the mid-length skirt hugging the supple lines of her hips. The jacket, buttoned to the neck, enclosed an ample though not overstated bosom. She carried the fur-collared coat on her arm, her handbag slung over her shoulder. Her hat, tilted slightly sideways, had its black veil raised. Her face bore no signs of what, Ricciardi imagined, must not have been a restful night. The large dark eyes were bright and alert, the light make-up softening her expression. The full lips assumed a faint smile.

“The way I left you, that's how I find you, Commissario. Don't you leave the office at night?”

Maione, who had remained standing in the doorway, raised an eyebrow.

“Physically, yes, Signora. But only physically. How are you? Do you feel up to it?”

“Certainly, Commissario. That's why I came; as difficult as it may be.”

Ricciardi instructed Maione to call for one of the Questura's three cars and to notify Dr. Modo that they were on their way to the hospital to identify the body.

The brief ride took place in silence. Maione drove, something which did not come very naturally to him. His imprecations against unexpected obstacles were the only words uttered in the car.

Livia had lowered her veil and was breathing softly; she could feel Ricciardi's presence beside her, his tension palpable. The Commissario was thinking about the information he had obtained from don Pierino shortly before. It was clear that the man who had bumped into the priest was not Vezzi. First, because by that time the tenor must already have been dead. And then because Vezzi would surely have been wearing his make-up and the scarf would therefore have been smeared with greasepaint; instead it was spotless. But then, why come back in? Once having fled through the window, why not melt away in the dark rather than risk being seen? And finally, how could the killer be sure that the corpse had not been discovered in the meantime? Still too many murky aspects. But Ricciardi was convinced that he had scored an important point in the match against the murderer.

At the hospital, in the mortuary, they found Dr. Modo in his white coat. The medical examiner was visibly struck by Livia's statuesque beauty, as he offered his condolences.

“Thank you, Doctor. I wish I could say that I am inconsolably saddened. Instead, I feel a dull regret; a kind of melancholy. Nostalgia for a bygone time, perhaps. But no sorrow.”

“I'm sorry, Signora. I'm very sorry. There is nothing sadder than dying without leaving any sorrow.”

Ricciardi stood aside, listening to them. He thought about the tears running down the clown's face, tracing two dark lines in the white greasepaint. He saw his half-closed eyes, his slightly bent legs, he heard the words of his final song. Of course there had been sorrow: the sorrow of loss, the sorrow of someone being robbed of years and years yet to be lived.

An attendant pushed the stretcher holding the body, which was covered with a white sheet. They took their places, Livia and Ricciardi on one side, Modo on the other. The doctor lifted the edge of the sheet covering the face of the rag doll that had been a man: all three remained silent, studying the waxen face. Their eyes ran from the small swelling on the cheekbone, the size of a small coin, to the gash on the right side of the neck. The eyes and mouth were slightly parted, as if the corpse were feeling a subtle pleasure, as if he were hearing a music heard only by him. In the centre of the throat, the incision resulting from the autopsy, closed with cross-stitches.

“It's him,” Livia breathed out, her tightly clasped hands white from being gripped so hard. Ricciardi took one hand from his coat pocket and slipped it under the woman's arm; she leaned on it so as not to fall.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I thought I was prepared. I thought about it a great deal. But maybe it's not possible to prepare oneself, is it?”

The doctor sighed, faced with a situation that was all too familiar to him. He covered the body again and nodded to the attendant who stood waiting nearby. The man wheeled away the stretcher and no one ever saw Arnaldo Vezzi again in the flesh.

In the small room opposite the mortuary, the doctor offered Livia a cigarette, which she lit with trembling hands.

“How absurd. Such greatness, so many dreams. The magic of an incomparable voice. The hubris, the omnipotence. Then, all this silence.”

Dr. Modo sighed.

“That's always the way, Signora. Regardless of who the person was. The same dignity, the same silence. Whether it's war or illness. No matter how many people are out here waiting, in there they are always alone, in silence.”

Ricciardi listened and thought about it. Silence, did you say, Doctor? You can't imagine how much they still have to say. They sing, laugh. Talk. Shout. Only you can't hear them. It has to do with the ear: they emit a sound that you don't hear. But I hear it. Loud and clear.

Livia thanked the doctor, and he told her to consider him at her disposal. Retrieving the body, for the funeral: Marelli, the manager, would see to it. Etcetera, etcetera. The unvarying rhetoric of death.

The return trip was different. Livia was noticeably relieved, for a number of reasons. She was beginning to realize that an important chapter of her life was in any event closed. In that city that wasn't hers, lashed by that strange, unseasonably cold wind, she had perhaps regained the freedom that she had stopped searching for years ago. Even Arnaldo's face, harrowed by death, no longer seemed hateful; she thought that perhaps in time she would be able to remember the few positive things about him, the happy moments from the time they had met and the early years of their marriage.

“Do you believe in fate, Commissario?”

“No, Signora. I don't. I believe in people and their emotions. In love, hate. Hunger. Sorrow, above all.”

He looked steadily straight ahead as he spoke, his head sunk between his shoulders, huddled in the upturned collar of his overcoat. Livia observed his sharp profile, the rebellious strand of hair falling over his face. She sensed his remoteness, as if he were speaking from another world or from another time.

Maione drove in silence, not even cursing the urchins who ran into the street barefoot, chasing a ball of rags or newspaper, propelled by the wind. He was studying the Commissario in the rear-view mirror, surprised by his words: he had never heard that tone, so rapt in thought.

The woman went on. “Well then? In your opinion, how many chances does a person have in his life, to construct a little happiness?”

“As many as he wants, Signora. Maybe none. But illusions, those for sure. Every day even, every moment. Illusions though. Only illusions.”

Livia saw that Ricciardi's mind wasn't with them, that it was wandering elsewhere. So she fell silent, until they reached the Questura.

When they got there Maione asked the signora if she needed a ride to the hotel. The woman said she would prefer to walk a little, even in that wind; she needed some air. She approached Ricciardi.

“Commissario, for the moment I will remain in the city. I don't feel like going home just now. I'll wait for the investigation to be completed, if it doesn't take too long. You know the name of my hotel. Should you need me, you know where to find me.”

“Of course, Signora. I'll keep it in mind, I assure you.”

Another hint fallen on deaf ears. Livia thought of the many times when a smile or a word had been enough to encourage someone. She didn't know why those eyes, that voice, troubled her so; and she didn't know how to make Ricciardi understand that she would have liked to meet him, to talk about something other than her husband's murder.

She decided to be more direct.

“What is it, Commissario? There always seem to be two dialogues between us: a spoken one and an unspoken one. Why don't things work with you the way they do with other men? Maybe you have no feelings?”

Maione, a few yards away, had a coughing fit. Ricciardi replied drily: “I wish, Signora. I would live a more peaceful life. But you have your sorrow and you should look for another port to shelter you from the storm.”

Livia stood there looking at him. The wind fluttered the veil of her elegant hat. The deep dark eyes filled with tears which the sight of her dead husband had not aroused. She turned and walked away.

W
hen they reached the office, Ricciardi told Maione that he needed to speak with don Pierino, the theater director and Bassi again. The secretary, by now clearly worried, was the first to arrive.

“Good morning, Commissario. Forgive me, but frankly I'm beginning to be puzzled by your continuing to summon me. I've told you everything I know. What more do you need from me?”

“Do you have something to hide, Signor Bassi? If so, then I suggest you speak up. Otherwise all you have to do is answer our questions honestly, now and whenever we need you to, and you'll have nothing to fear.”

The man sighed, his shoulders hunched, his expression resigned.

“Of course, of course. I have nothing to hide, God forbid! What do you want to know?”

“Let's talk about Christmas. About the trip to Naples around December twentieth. I want to know Vezzi's movements during that time, or at least those you know about.”

“Well let's see. We left the morning of the twentieth, and we arrived late that night. We came from Milan. Signor Marelli, the manager, was with us. We were to return the evening of the twenty-first: all we had to do was settle the terms of the contract, take a look at the set designs, get fitted for the costumes, things like that. Instead, we left later than we intended, on the night of the twenty-third; we nearly spent Christmas in Naples. I remember changing the ticket reservations twice.”

Ricciardi listened intently. “How come, why the changes?”

“Oh, I haven't the faintest idea. The Maestro decided it. As usual he didn't say why. All we could do was accept it and adjust our plans accordingly.”

“But did it have to do with the theater? That is, matters concerning the staging maybe, the orchestra . . . ”

Bassi gave a nervous little laugh and adjusted his glasses on his nose.

“The theater, not a chance! He was only there on the morning of the twenty-first. A distracted glance at the set designs, a few words with the theater director, the costume fitting with wardrobe, then he disappeared for three days. No, Commissario, take my word for it: the theater had nothing to do with it. It was a different matter. Affairs of the heart, if you ask me. Not that I have any proof, of course.”

“And where did he go?”

“I don't know. He came back to the hotel late at night and went to bed without even saying hello, as he usually did. Signor Marelli and I spent two days playing cards in the lounge of the Vesuvio.”

Bassi had nothing more to say and was told he could go. Ricciardi was thinking; Maione broke the silence.

“I can verify the ticket changes and the actual travel times for all three of them at the railway station. The theater director isn't here yet: maybe he wants to make you wait to show how important he is. Should I tell you, as soon as he gets here?”

“Definitely. By all means go to the station.”

The Brigadier hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. “
Commissa'
, if I may . . . there's something I'd like to say.”

“Tell me. What is it?”

“I've been working with you for three years now. As you know . . . since Luca . . . my son . . . In short, during this time I've come to care about you. It's true that no one wants to work with you: they say you're not human, actually. Because you don't talk much, you're distant, and you work too hard: you never stop until you find out who did it. But I like working this way. It's what makes our work unlike other jobs.”

“So?”

Maione hesitated, but he was determined to finish the little speech he had prepared.

“So, no one thinks more of you than I do and no one knows better than me how you put your heart and soul into your work. Still . . . you're over thirty, but you could be my son. I've lost my own son, and sometimes I look at you and think how skilled you are and, deep down, good as gold. I can feel it. I know it. But you're alone,
Commissa'
. And alone, we die. If I hadn't had my wife and children, these past few years, I would have died a hundred times over. Our work gradually expands, and little by little it can fill our entire life, like a cellar when it gets flooded. It's a mistake.”

Ricciardi heard him out in silence. Perhaps he should have reproached him for getting too personal, but the Brigadier's enormous discomfiture moved him to pity. The man was red-faced, rubbing his foot on the floor, staring at his clasped hands. Ricciardi decided to let him continue.

“I talk about it sometimes with my wife. She knows you, she remembers you, you know, from the funeral. You paid your respects to her. And we both say it's a shame that a man like you is alone. Always working. And I thought, sometimes, you know, there are men who don't like women, who aren't interested in them. I thought that you, no offence,
Commissa'
, might be that way. But today, with that signora. Holy Mother of God, what a beauty! And with her husband just dead and all, though he was a bastard, we've heard that from everyone. So then, like a father to a son . . . You can even say to me, ‘Maione, how dare you! Mind your own business.' But if I hadn't spoken up just now, and told you, I'd have it on my conscience. Take half a day off,
Commissa'
, and take the signora out to eat!”