I Will Have Vengeance (24 page)

“Go on.”

There was a momentary silence. The woman knew the Commissario would not let up until he had learned the truth. All she could do was tell him how it had happened and place her hope in the glimmer of humanity she perceived in those gleaming green eyes. She thought back to three days before; she relived her grief for the hundredth time.

“I went straight to his dressing room. He had already put on his make-up. How strange he was with his clown's face. Not that I didn't like him. I still liked him. He smiled at me, nervously. He seemed distant. I thought it was because of the performance. A great singer is great because he's always tense before measuring up to his own talent again. I looked at him, smiled at him. And I told him. Just like that, simply: we were going to have a child. He looked at me, with the powder puff in his hand. He looked as though he hadn't understood. Then he frowned and asked me why I hadn't been careful. I didn't understand: wasn't it the most beautiful thing in the world? Wasn't he happy too, the way I was happy? He said there was nothing to worry about, he would give me the money. I didn't get it, what was he talking about? Killing our baby? Hadn't he already lost a child?

“He clawed my arm, he hurt me. He shouted that I mustn't dare talk about his son. I reminded him of his promises, it was he who had told me that we would be together, forever.

“He let go of my arm then, stepped back and began to laugh. Softly, at first. A little chuckle, like when you think of something funny. Then louder and louder: unrestrained, vulgar peals of laughter. He was gasping, saying ‘You and I, together . . . someone like me, with someone like you . . . may I introduce my new wife, Madame Needle-and-Thread . . . my son, the son of a seamstress . . . ' and he laughed and laughed. He was doubled over . . . ”

. . .
doubled over, on his knees
. . .

“ . . . He looked like he had lost his senses. He had his hand stretched out, as if he wanted to hold me off because I was making him laugh . . . ”

. . .
hand outstretched, as if to ward off
. . .

“ . . . And all the while, he laughed and laughed. He laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes. He was crying, that's how hard he was laughing . . . !”

. . .
tears, rolling down his face
. . .

“ . . . He wouldn't stop! And I felt my feelings for him change. I felt his deceitfulness. Outside, from the stage, I heard Michele singing. I heard Michele's love and the laughter of the Pagliaccio in front of me. I could feel my hatred coursing through my veins, infecting me.”

. . .
Io sangue voglio, all'ira m'abbandono, in odio tutto l'amor mio finì
. . . I will have vengeance . . . and all my love shall end in hate . . .

“ . . . And then my hand seized the scissors I had around my neck, my seamstress' shears, and I stabbed him hard, a single blow, to the throat. I don't know if I meant to kill him. Maybe I just wanted him to stop laughing.”

. . .
A blow with the scissors. That's what was missing when I saw you. And with your left hand, because you're left-handed like my Enrica. Therefore on the right side of the clown's neck as he stood in front of you. In the carotid
. . .

“He stopped laughing, in fact. He was gurgling with his hand at his throat, that oh-so-precious throat. I sat on the sofa, under the gushing blood. I wanted to see how a Pagliaccio dies.”

. . .
The clean cushion, the only one. You were sitting on it. Watching the clown die. I will have vengeance
. . .

“ . . . Then, as though in a dream, I opened the door to leave. At that moment, Michele came down from the stage. I don't know if God exists, Commissario. But it's truly strange that just at that moment, with all the coming and going there is from the dressing rooms during the performance, Michele, my Michele, should be the only one who saw me. And he saw me wide-eyed, my smock drenched with Vezzi's blood, the scissors in my fist, torn from their ribbon. He pushed me back into the dressing room.

“He looked around, he understood. By this time Vezzi had no more blood, but he was still wheezing, a death rattle. So Michele punched him in the face . . . ”

. . .
Haematoma too small for a fracture, the doctor had said; the victim had no more blood
. . .

“ . . . and he told me to take off my bloodstained smock. Then he wrapped the scissors in the smock, broke the mirror and propped Vezzi on the chair. He took the sharpest fragment and stuck it into the wound on his neck, all the way in, holding it with the stained smock. I watched as though I were looking out of the window. Then he told me to wait there, and locked the door. He took Vezzi's coat, scarf and hat from the armoire and put them on. He grabbed the smock and scissors and shoved them under his coat. And he jumped down from the window . . . ”

. . .
To get rid of any trace of you at the crime scene. So that no one would think it might have been you
. . .

“ . . . I waited with the body. I felt like I was in a dream. After a minute, or maybe a year, I heard Michele's whisper outside the door. I opened it, to let him in . . . ”

. . .
After he had bumped into don Pierino on the stairs, who mistook him for Vezzi
. . .

“ . . . He told me he had to switch his shoes, which were muddied: otherwise he would leave tracks on the stage, where he would shortly return. That's when I woke up: I realized I had to hurry, that I could save my child from ruin. This time, he waited for me in the dressing room and I went up to the fourth floor. I said I had come straight from the sick nun's convent and I asked Maria to lend me her smock . . . ”

. . .
Too big for you, as I recall
. . .

“ . . . I got the shoes and brought them down. No one notices us seamstresses when we come and go. I held them under the smock, which was too big for me. Michele put the clean ones on and gave me the muddy ones and I went upstairs again to put them back in place. He took care of the keys . . . ”

. . .
The locked door, that Lasio had to break down
. . .

“ . . . Then I took the costume and told Signora Lilla that it was ready. I had finished it. I had made the final adjustment, the final cut.”

. . .
The final cut
.

T
he wind was whipping through the Galleria, relentlessly. Now that Maddalena was silent, it sounded even stronger. Time seemed to stand still. The woman stared into space and saw her own ghosts; the only thing keeping her moored to the present was her hand resting on her stomach.

Ricciardi shifted in his chair and drew her attention.

“Signorina, listen to me carefully. Your destiny, that of Nespoli and above all that of your child are forever bound. You cannot think of building the child's life around a lie and on the punishment of an innocent man.”

Maddalena went on staring into space.

“I know a lawyer who owes me a favour. He'll see to defending Nespoli, who, if he sticks to his current story, hasn't a chance. If he were to change it, however, there could still be some hope.”

The woman roused herself and looked at the Commissario.

“Hope? For Michele? What hope?”

“Honour killings are punishable by imprisonment up to a maximum of three years. You will have to say—and this is my condition for letting you go free—that Nespoli intervened because Vezzi tried to sexually assault you and you called for help.”

“And me? My child?”

“Nothing at all will happen to you. You're a victim. The concealment of evidence will fall on Nespoli and impact his sentence. You must say that you two were about to be married. That you told Vezzi that when he made his first advances, which you firmly rejected. That you didn't tell us everything right away because you were afraid, because you're pregnant, and the child is Michele's.”

Maddalena started.

“But it's not true, I know it!”

“Believe me, the child can only benefit from it. In any case, you have no choice. The alternative is prison.”

The woman lowered her head, considering the gravity of the situation. She had no other options.

“I understand,
Commissa'
. It's only fair, it has to be this way. I'll wait for Michele. But will the judges believe these things? Vezzi was an important figure and we're just modest people. What hope do we have?”

She looked at Ricciardi, and all of a sudden big tears began to flow from those limpid blue eyes.

 

As he skirted the Royal Palace, struggling against the stiff wind that hampered his progress, Ricciardi was thinking about hunger and love. This time the two old enemies had joined forces to perpetrate their crime. He had left Maddalena, vulnerable and alone, with her kerchief covering her blonde hair and the assurance that tomorrow, after work, she would appear at the lawyer's office. Ricciardi himself would inform him of events. And it wouldn't cost her anything. Then he decided that the long day wasn't yet over.

The sky was clear, swept by the wind. The moon and stars lit up the deserted street, while the lights hanging in the centre of the road swayed wildly. Love. A sometimes fatal illness, but a necessary one. Maybe you can't live without it, Ricciardi thought as he walked against the wind, his hands in his coat pockets. Eyes peered at him from dark alleys, recognized him and decided that he was not an opportune prey for the final pickpocket of the day. Now he was at the corner of Via Partenope. To his left the sea's high waves crashed on the reef. On the right were the big hotels.

 

At home, in her kitchen, Enrica had finished doing the dishes with her usual meticulous attention. She had already checked the window across the way a number of times: its curtains were closed. Tonight she felt an anxiety that wrung her heart, though she didn't know why. She felt alone, abandoned. Where are you tonight, my love?

 

Livia watched the sea's fury from her window on the third floor of the Hotel Excelsior. She was smoking and thinking. Tomorrow she would leave the city and try to resume her life once again. Would she find the strength? She glanced at her suitcase, already packed and ready to go. What am I taking away from here? And what am I leaving in this city, with its sea howling in the wind?

Her thoughts did not go to Arnaldo; she felt as though she had never known him. What she saw through the smoke was a pair of feverish green eyes. The arrogance, the disillusionment in those eyes. The loneliness and yearning for love deep in that soul. And the sorrow: that immense sorrow. Why didn't you let me relieve that sorrow? Inhaling a last mouthful of smoke, she looked again at the riotous sea. In the surge of foam that sprayed on to the street, she saw a figure walking against the wind. She recognized it. And her heart leaped into her throat.

The clerk at the hotel reception desk did not want to notify Signora Vezzi. That wet, dishevelled man, his green eyes raging with fever, frightened him. He was thinking of calling a couple of porters to help chase him out, when the signora stepped out of the elevator, breathless. Livia's eyes were lit up, shining. She had thrown her coat on over her dressing gown, run a comb through her soft, thick dark hair, slipped on some shoes and rushed down. Her heart was pounding in her ears, her mouth was dry. He had come to her.

 

Enrica sat down in her chair and took out her embroidery box. Another glance at the window. Nothing. Her anxiety would not let up. She felt like crying.

 

Ricciardi looked at Livia: she had never seemed so beautiful. The luminous eyes, the full lips smiling broadly. He told her that he had to speak with her. It was important. She asked him where he wanted to talk, and he said, “Let's walk.”

Outside, they found themselves accompanied by the wind and sea. The lights hanging in the centre of the road swayed, illuminating at times one side or the other. Livia shivered and clutched Ricciardi's arm. He began to speak.

“The truth is not what it seems, sometimes. In fact, it hardly ever is. It's a bit like the strange light of these lamps, you see, Livia: sometimes it falls here, sometimes there. Never on both sides at the same time. So you have to imagine what you don't see. You have to intuit it from a word, spoken or unspoken, from a trace, an impression. From a note, sometimes.

“Those who do my kind of work have another eye: they're able to see things that others can't see. And that's how it was this time, Livia. It didn't seem right that someone like your husband should have died because of an insult, a remark. And in fact, he did not die for that reason. Do you want to know why your husband died? He died because of hunger and because of love. That's why he died. I'll tell you about it.”

Livia listened to Ricciardi's voice, mingled with those of the wind and sea. She no longer felt cold. She was walking down dark streets, eating scraps in doorways, surrounded by rats and stray dogs. She was learning to sew beside an elderly nun. She wanted to sing, in a village in the mountains, in Calabria. She slapped an elderly professor at the Conservatory. She felt the hands of a horrible old goat of a tailor on her. She fell under the spell, once again, of a rich and famous tenor. Once again she carried his child in her womb, a child who was still alive, and not yet born. And again, all that blood.

Ricciardi's voice lulled Livia; she wasn't even aware of the tears streaming down her face along with the sea spray carried by the wind. She walked along, clutching the strong arm of the sorrowful man with the upturned coat collar, sensing all his love for the suffering of others.

 

“Do you see, Livia? If there isn't someone in court to say who Arnaldo Vezzi really was, they'll slam this young man in Poggioreale and never let him out again. And the girl will remain alone, because in this city no one will want a penniless, dishonoured woman. And the child will be fodder for the criminal world, in the best of cases, if he doesn't die first, under the wheels of a carriage or killed by some disease.”