I Will Have Vengeance (18 page)

R
icciardi heard Maione's report about the muddy shoes in the San Carlo's prop room with no surprise. He knew that the countdown had already started and that the noose was tightening around the killer. He knew that first the clues, and later the evidence, would both point in the same direction, converging on the incontrovertible truth. As they should do. As they always did.

And so, as usual, he gave Maione the first and last name of the individual on whom to start collecting the information required for the investigation. Maione set off at breakneck speed.

Ricciardi, for his part, headed for the church of San Ferdinando: he was on his way to issue an invitation to don Pierino. He wanted to see the opera that evening.

 

It was the beginning of autumn when they kissed for the first time. There had been smiles and then caresses, and then that desperate embrace. They had the same rage, the same yearning to overcome hunger, other people, everything. And now they were no longer alone. Since it was clear by now that no one was looking for him anymore, Michele faced the problem of finding a job.

Pride prevented him from being a further burden on his sweetheart's meagre resources; she had a job but her earnings were certainly not handsome. It seemed obvious that he could not go back to singing in trattorias, where they would certainly have heard about what had happened at the Mattonella. So he began making the rounds here and there, among the numerous construction sites in the city, offering his services as a simple labourer. He found a job on the site of the renovation of a building at Monte di Dio, not far from where he lived.

When he went home in the evening, he was exhausted. Physically weakened by the heavy work, he missed the music that had always nourished his soul. And once again, before he fell asleep, the ghosts of the people who had sacrificed so much for him demanded an accounting of what he was doing and, more to the point, what he wasn't doing. But then, in the moonlight shining through the window, he would look at the serene face of his woman and find the justification for everything, and he too would fall asleep.

Still, it was she who was aware of how frustrated Michele was by the situation. One day, when he came home in the rain, she greeted him with a broad smile and told him that, through a friend, she had got him an audition with none other than the orchestra conductor at the San Carlo, Maestro Mariano Pelosi. It was 10 November.

 

When don Pierino saw Ricciardi standing there, he was concerned. The Commissario had a cold gleam in his eyes, his jaw muscles were twitching and his tightly pressed lips seemed even thinner than usual. His hair, whipped about by the wind, fell over his face, setting off his eyes and making him look even more determined.

“Commissario, so soon! I didn't expect to see you again today. Please, come in. Come and sit down in the sacristy.”

“Thank you, Father. I'm sorry to bother you again. But I'm here to keep a recent promise.”

“What's that?”

“Will you come with me to the performance this evening? It's important I see it.”

Don Pierino assumed a sad expression.

“So, it's work-related, the reason you want to go to the theater. That wasn't what I had in mind when I made you promise that you would go to the opera.”

Ricciardi lowered his gaze for a moment. When he looked up at the priest again, his eyes had lost their feverish expression.

“You're right, Father. It is for work and it doesn't absolve me from my promise. I remain obliged to you, and I renew my promise to go and see your favourite opera, at the earliest opportunity. But tonight I'd like to ask you to accompany me just the same, if you're free. I would feel more at ease somehow.”

The Assistant Pastor smiled and placed a hand on Ricciardi's arm.

“All right, Commissario. I'll accompany you, as you wish. And I will still help you. I would just like you to be more lenient with yourself, once in a while. And look deep in your heart to find the good feelings that, I know, you feel.”

Ricciardi nodded gravely.

“I'll see you tonight, Father. And thanks again.”

 

For Michele it was an enormous thrill to find himself on the stage of the San Carlo. Naturally in his years of study at the Conservatory he had attended numerous operas, gripping the railing of the gallery, holding his breath, and singing the baritone parts in a silent whisper. He was well aware of how suited his voice was to strong roles, those with great emotional impact, and he knew that having kept his vocal cords in shape by singing in taverns would help him perform at the audition in acceptable condition.

With him were a dozen or so candidates. The role being offered was for several operas that would be performed during the season, with a supporting company associated with the theater. The pay was good, but the chance of reviving his dream far exceeded any monetary gains. If he were to get the engagement, the spectre of failure that was constantly with him would finally fade.

He sang with all his heart, with all his soul:
Rigoletto
, his favourite role, came to life with his powerful voice. No one performed with his rage, his passion. Admiration and surprise glowed in Pelosi's eyes, though he had heard many, many singers in his decades-long career. Michele turned out to be the best and got the part.

On the way home, Michele was beside himself with joy. As he embraced his woman, he thought he was on cloud nine.

 

Since he would have to go to the opera, Ricciardi stopped at home first. He didn't want his
tata
to be unduly worried, fearing her subsequent reaction. This did not spare him a vehement protest however. Rosa pointed out that his failure to keep to a set schedule would cause him stomach problems, and that he had put her on the spot by not warning her in advance, since she had nothing ready for him to eat.

It wasn't true: cold meat and boiled vegetables immediately appeared on the table and Ricciardi thought he ought to go home early every night. To avoid stomach problems.

When he had finished eating, he went to change his clothes, putting on a dark suit. Then he opened the curtains of his bedroom window; even if just for a moment, he didn't want to miss his tacit appointment. He didn't have the slightest idea that Enrica knew he watched her, so her startled surprise as she was setting the table for supper escaped him. He enjoyed the girl's slow, graceful gestures, her charming domestic dance, the facility of her left hand, the femininity of her slightly tilted head as she judged the distance of a plate from the cutlery and the latter from the glasses.

He had to make a great effort to tear himself away from the sight of her. But the encounter he would shortly have summoned him: he couldn't miss the evening at the theater.

*

As arranged, Maione was waiting at the entrance of the Questura. Ricciardi questioned him with his eyes. The Brigadier shook his head.

“There's not much. He lives alone, in an apartment near the Conservatory. But he's only been there a few months, no one knows where he was before. He's studied there a short time, it's his first year, but they say he's good, very good. The rest, tomorrow. I put two men on it: Alinei and Zanini.”

“All right. Keep me updated, moment to moment. Now let's go. Don Pierino must already be waiting out there.”

The San Carlo had resumed its usual appearance: there was less elegance and sophistication compared to opening night, but more genuine passion and knowledge in the audience. As he waited for Ricciardi, Don Pierino observed the faces of the spectators who gradually converged on the theater's main entrance; he amused himself by trying to predict which row number each of them would be seated in, based on their clothes, their age and the expression on their faces. He liked the theater more, on those evenings. He could sense the love for opera, the familiarity with the scores, and it didn't even bother him if loud whistling sometimes chastised a mistake made by one of the singers, though he himself was more indulgent. How could you be critical of those who were trying to give you such a beautiful gift, such feeling?

When the Commissario arrived, accompanied by Brigadier Maione, the priest went to meet him, in high spirits.

“My dear Commissario, good evening! Even if you're here for work, you won't fail to be enchanted by the theater's atmosphere!”

Ricciardi, casting a quick glance around, took him by the arm.

“Quiet, Father! Tonight there is no Commissario and no work. No one must know I'm here. Show me the way you usually get in.”

Confused, don Pierino apologized with a look and indicated the end of the portico, where a recessed niche hid the small door of the side entrance. The three men walked in that direction and went in. Patrisso, the caretaker, came towards them, not recognizing them at first.

“I'm sorry, gentlemen, this is a service entrance, you can't . . . oh, don Pierino, is it you? And . . . Brigadier, Commissario, good evening! How can I help you?”

It was Maione who spoke up.

“Good evening, Patrisso. Why is the door is still open on this side?”

“This entrance is for stage personnel and materials and such that are brought in up until a quarter of an hour before the performance starts. Then we close up on this side. If someone has to go out, there's the little door in the lobby that leads to the royal gardens. In an emergency, let's say. I was just about to lock up now.”

Ricciardi wondered if the entry of a murderer could be considered an emergency. Yes or no, that's what the little door to the gardens had been used for on the night of the opening.

“Listen, Patrisso, does it ever happen that someone, one of the singers maybe, might enter or leave during the performance?”

Patrisso shrugged.

“
Commissa'
, how should I know? I told you, we lock up and we go to support the staff at the main entrance. Of course, I think some may go out to smoke. They can't smoke backstage because it's dangerous. You wouldn't believe how much these singers smoke. And they make their living on their voice. Or else they may go out to get a breath of air, or stretch their legs. Not with this wind, though. A chill is a singer's worst enemy.”

The three men listened attentively. Ricciardi was mentally reconstructing the possible events on opening night; by now he was confident he knew how things had gone and even who the murderer might be, at least allowing for a certain margin for error. Any additional information would be able to confirm his theory. This did not mean that the Commissario was satisfied, only that he was getting closer to the truth.

He thought about Vezzi's image that still haunted the locked dressing room: knees slightly bent, hand outstretched, the desperate song of an aria that wasn't his. And the tears, the tears streaming down his painted face. An immense, ultimate sorrow, that did not allow for pardon. He was the executor of an extreme vengeance, his own doom. With Maione and don Pierino, Ricciardi headed for the narrow staircase leading to the area backstage and the dressing rooms. He was thinking about death.

M
ichele Nespoli was ready, even though he would not make his entrance until later: the prelude, the chorus, the sopranos' duet, then him. He wasn't thinking about the opera. He was thinking about death.

He sensed that they would once again prevent him from singing. That was the thing that weighed most heavily on him. And this time he wouldn't even have the solace of that face sleeping beside him, that he could gaze at in the moonlight. Not that he was sorry, no. He had done what he had to do. He had acted, once again, in accordance with his code of honour. With what he had learned from the stories of old men sitting around the fire, during those terrible winter nights in Sila, with the howling of wolves outside the door and the barking of terrified dogs. A code imprinted in his nature, that always made him clash, however, and set him at odds with the world of men. With this city, where the strong were permitted to take advantage of the weak.

Michele Nespoli was a man who loved and this was a sin for which they never forgave him. He loved music, he loved singing. And he loved a woman, whose smile had made him want to go on living.

When he took the engagement he had had to find a place of his own: the intolerant theater management did not approve of cohabitation without marriage; they might throw him out. He had waited until Christmas Day to ask her to marry him. He was looking forward to her surprised, joyful face, the toss of her blonde hair, her embrace. Instead, her face had turned sad, her smile sorrowful. No, she replied: not yet, at least. There were some things she had to resolve, they would talk about it. He had to trust her, wait and be patient.

Michele remembered his acute surprise, the anguish he had felt, anger, too, and the first violent stab of jealousy. But he had no alternative: he loved her, the only way he knew how to love, utterly and completely. He would wait. Meanwhile, it was enough to see her, even from afar.

 

The blonde woman was listening to the music. At first she'd thought she wouldn't go, just to be safe. But then, on second thought, she decided to be there: it would have raised too many questions otherwise, too much talk.

She had to avoid that, absolutely. Avoid having prying eyes aimed at her and her man, having people talk, make insinuations. She had to be there to keep an eye on things, to get some indication, to forestall.

Her senses alert, her eyes vigilant, she followed the performance with extreme attention. She knew every note, every scene. She knew what positions the singers would take, which pieces the orchestra would play. She greeted the friends she met, betraying no emotion, not making a move that was unusual.

She smiled at her man, meeting his eyes, to reassure him: she was there, and she would always be there.

 

Don Pierino didn't get it: even if they were there unofficially, why not sit in the audience? Or, perhaps, in one of the side balconies, from which they would have had a better view of the stage?