I Will Have Vengeance (23 page)

“I worked for a tailor, an old goat who took advantage of me. I let him do it, I had to eat. I waited for it to end. I slept in the doorway of the shop. Then one day Signora Lilla came in. She wanted a length of fabric in a colour that she had seen in the window. All it took her was a moment, one look. She has great foresight, Signora Lilla does. She saw that I was skilful, that I worked hard, and that the man was a pig. She called me aside. The next day I was working at the San Carlo.”

She said it as though she had gone to heaven. In spite of himself, Ricciardi could picture the young woman's life and he felt sorry for her. But in his mind Vezzi's image sang and wept over the years that he had yet to live, that he would not live.

“There was light, warmth, even music. I had never heard music before,
Commissa'
. A few piano chords, the radio from balcony windows left open in the summer. But that kind of music, never. It captures your soul, it makes you feel alive. And then they laughed, they danced. And they paid me besides! To be in such festive surroundings! Me, who until just the day before had been fighting rats and dogs over the scraps! I never wanted to leave. I worked late, I was the first to arrive in the morning. Signora Lilla spoke with a friend of hers who drives a carriage: he had a vacant room above the Quartieri, converted from an attic. A place to live! I felt like a countess.”

The woman's eyes were dreamy, as if she were recounting a fairy tale. The steaming cup of coffee sat in front of her; she hadn't even taken a sip of it.

“My life went on that way for two years. I became very proficient,
Commissa'
: the best. But I didn't want to ruin everything by standing out, things were fine the way they were. I help the other girls when they're unable to do something; I take the more complicated work for myself. That way everyone likes me. I make sure no one notices me, because I know, I learned it well throughout my life, that if they notice you, sooner or later they'll do something bad to you. And I was right.”

A shadow passed over the rapt, stunning blue eyes, like a sudden dark cloud in the sky. Maddalena sighed and continued.

“I found Michele one evening when I came back from work, very late:
La Traviata
was the next day, the costumes for the party scene are difficult. He was on the ground, inside the door, I nearly stepped on him. He looked dead. What could I do? I had been dying too, of hunger, lying in so many doorways. Could I say the hell with him, let him die just to avoid any trouble? No. How would I have been able to sleep anymore? So I helped him. I brought him upstairs. In other neighbourhoods, in other buildings, they wouldn't have let me do that. But here, in this city, no offence,
Commissa'
, those who are hard up are often better than the cops. Needy people, those who are on the run, or hungry, help each other. We survive that way, closely bound to one another. Because we know,
Commissa'
, that if we don't help each other, nobody else will help us. And so, if Michele is alive, he's alive because of me. And because of the neighbours in the building, and those on our street. Because of the district. And he knows it, he's well aware of it. That was what you saw in his eyes.”

Ricciardi was all too familiar with the balance of powers in the city. He was painfully aware of what the woman was saying and of the impossibility of changing the way things were.

“It was all so natural. Michele is handsome, kind and good. He too has suffered a lot and he's still suffering. He recovered, he stayed with me. I care for him, he cares for me, and it's the first time for both of us. I spoke with Signora Lilla, who spoke with Lasio, the stage manager, who in turn spoke with the orchestra director, Maestro Pelosi. No one there knew about us two; I told them that a friend of mine had heard him sing in a trattoria. They hired him right away, as soon as they heard him: the voice of an angel.”

Ricciardi could hear the pride in Maddalena's voice. He was trying to figure out how the woman felt about Nespoli. She was attached to him, of course, but she wasn't quivering with passion.

“They wouldn't have hired him if they'd known he was living with someone he wasn't married to. In these circles that's how it is,
Commissa'
. So he found a place of his own.”

“And as luck would have it, he found it just when you met Vezzi for the first time.”

The woman flinched; she lowered her eyes a moment, then looked up and gave the Commissario a defiant glare.

“That's right: when I met Arnaldo Vezzi. The father of my child.”

A
s if to dramatically underscore the woman's words, a gust of wind blew through the Galleria, shaking the window of the café.

“And you're sure of that?”

Maddalena smiled sadly.

“With someone like me, you have to ask that, right? With a woman like me, the child can be anybody's. The first guy who comes along. But not your girlfriend, right? You wouldn't ask your girlfriend a question like that.”

Now it was Ricciardi who smiled sadly.

“No, I wouldn't. Not that or any other question. Excuse me. Go on.”

“That day, Signora Lilla had a backache. Actually it wasn't true, she just didn't want to deal with Vezzi. No one wanted to have anything to do with him. When he'd come to Naples, two years earlier I think, he had got two people fired; he said they were incompetent. That's how he was. Only he existed. Measurements had to be taken for the
Pagliacci
costumes; they had to be ready for the current performance. We always work like that, two or three months in advance. At Christmas, Vezzi arrived, then in January, the other members of the company came. Anyway, he was extremely particular; he wanted to see everything, the staging, the props, every single thing. Especially his costumes.

“I was talking with Michele when he arrived. Outside the entrance to the theater. I remember it as though it were today. I hadn't seen him before. He stepped out of the car with two others: he was tall, big, and wore a hat and scarf. He wasn't handsome, but he was rich. You could tell,
Commissa
': someone who was loaded, not with money, not only that, but with power. A man who could do anything he wanted. Anything at all. At any time. He looked at us as he went in. At me and Michele. At me. And he smiled, the smile of a ferocious animal. I know that smile,
Commissa'
: men give me that smile just before they lay their hands on me. When they realize that a woman no longer has any place she can run to.”

“And Nespoli, didn't he look at you that way?”

“No. Not Michele. Michele treats me as if I were a princess. For him I am a princess. I've always been one. And it was Michele who told me that he was Vezzi. His voice was shaking with excitement. He said to me: “Do you know who that is? That's Vezzi, the god among tenors.” That's just what he said. The god among tenors. And he acted like he was god,
Commissa'
. If he wanted something, he took it; then, when he didn't want it anymore, he threw it away. And if he couldn't take something away from someone else, it was of no interest to him.”

“And you, he had seen you with Nespoli.”

“Yes, he had seen me with Michele. And he told me later that he had seen how we looked at each other, specifically how Michele looked at me. He said, ‘The young man's eyes were burning: he looked like he wanted to eat you.' And he, being god, couldn't stand to have a man look at a woman like that in his presence, because he had to be the only one. That's what stray dogs are like, I've dealt with them in the streets. That's how he was. Worse than a dog. Dogs don't laugh.”

“And then what happened?”

“What happened was that Signora Lilla sent me to Vezzi's dressing room, to do the fitting. ‘You go, Maddalena,' she said. ‘The way I'm feeling today, I'll get myself thrown out of the theater, with that ill-mannered lunatic.' Instead, with me he was very kind. He didn't take any liberties, or lay a hand on me. He talked, he talked a lot. He told me that he was lonely and sad. That he no longer even spoke to his wife, hadn't for years. That with all the people he had around him, there wasn't a single person who really cared for him. That if he ever had the good fortune of being with a real woman again, he would never let her go. That he wanted a son.”

Unexpectedly, Maddalena laughed. A bleak laugh, one that held tears. Ricciardi looked out of the window.

“He wanted a son. He had lost his, he said, because his wife hadn't taken care of him, she hadn't noticed his high fever in time. He was good,
Commissa'
. He was so good at acting. Maybe, after years of singing onstage, he thought that life was all an act. All a game. And I, clever Maddalena, the one who had survived hunger, thirst and disease, who had battled dogs, rats and men, fell for it. The next day, I sent word that I wasn't feeling well, I told Michele that I was going to visit an elderly nun who was sick, and I spent the day in the Vomero, with him. And the next day as well. We forgot about the world, in that room in the Vomero.”

“The Pensione Belvedere.”

Maddalena gave him a tired smile.

“You know about that, too. Did you go inside the room, did you see it? Then you've also seen the place where I was happy, the only place in my life where I was truly happy. He called me his blonde fairy, he caressed my eyes and stroked my hair. He told me that my suffering was over, that he would leave his wife and the entire world to be with me. That he would give it to me on a silver platter, the world.”

“And you believed him.”

“And I believed him. Because I wanted to believe. Because such things can happen, even in life. A friend of mine married a hardware dealer; she used to live above a brothel at the Sanità and now she acts like a great lady and if she sees me on the street she pretends she doesn't know me. Couldn't that happen to me as well?”

“And what about Nespoli, didn't you think of him?”

Maddalena's expression was stricken, as if she'd felt a sharp pain.

“Michele . . . we were two poor devils, Michele and me. What future could we have had? Even if he were successful, where could he go with someone like me with him? What future was there for us? Anyway, I wasn't his. I had become Arnaldo's, from the very moment he'd looked at me. When he left, he told me that he would put his affairs in order and come back for me. That I must not say a word to anyone, meanwhile, because otherwise his wife, who knew important people, would take steps to prevent us from being together. That I must be careful and wait patiently. And I waited patiently. I believed him. I thought he was a harsh man because he was lonely, and that with me he would become the sweetest man in the world. And I watched him leave and I went back to my everyday life. Which was no longer enough for me, however.”

“Nespoli included.”

“Including Michele, yes. It all seemed so . . . paltry, so empty. Even things that before had seemed heavenly. I was dreaming of jewels, furs. But more than anything, I dreamed about Arnaldo, a prince who made me feel like a queen. And Michele . . . Michele wanted to marry me. I didn't feel I could say no, tell him it wasn't possible; he frightened me. Michele is dangerous: he has a peculiar temperament, he can become violent. I told him it was better to wait until he became a success.”

“And then you discovered . . . ”

“Yes, a month later. I was so happy,
Commissa'
! I thought I would be giving Arnaldo the son he had lost, that I would be offering him a family and contentment. I didn't try to contact him, I didn't write to him. I knew he would be coming, that the performance was scheduled for this time, and I waited. I waited so I could tell him myself; I wanted to see the expression on his face. I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world.”

“Did you approach him right away, when he came?”

“Yes, of course. I went up to him as soon as he got to the theater, the second day he was here, to prepare for the dress rehearsal. He told me we had to be careful, that his secretary spied on him and reported back to his wife, that we would see each other the following day, the day of the rehearsal, at the Pensione Belvedere. I told him which tram he should take, if he came in a carriage or by taxi everyone would notice. And we saw each other there.”

“Did you tell him then?”

“No. He was tired, edgy. I didn't want to tell him when he was that way. It was such a beautiful thing, so important that I didn't want to throw it away. He fell asleep and when he woke up it was so late that he nearly missed the dress rehearsal. I said goodbye and told him I loved him. Then we went to the theater, separately.”

Ricciardi leaned forward, aware that they had reached the critical point.

“And so, we come to the night of the twenty-fifth.”

Maddalena visibly shuddered and glanced around. Then she looked steadily at Ricciardi, placing a hand on her stomach again.

“I have to know what you intend to do, Commissario. I don't have only myself to think about. I won't let my child be born in prison: you know what happens. They give the baby to an institution and if he survives, he survives the way I survived. I won't let my child have the kind of life I had. Well then?”

Ricciardi knew that Maddalena was right and he also knew that her child was innocent. He thought about Nespoli, however, and the tear that had run down his cheek that morning. And about Vezzi's tears. Did he have the right to grant pardon on their behalf?

“I don't want to see a baby born in prison either. That much I can tell you. But I don't want to see an innocent man sent to prison for thirty years, whose only crime was to love a woman. One who used him.”

Maddalena flushed.

“I was only trying to protect my child. I wanted— I want to give him a better life.”

Ricciardi had not taken his eyes off those of the woman for one second.