I Will Have Vengeance (7 page)

So it was in this spirit that he welcomed Ricciardi when the latter appeared at his door, accompanied by the clerk.

“My dear, dear Ricciardi! I was waiting anxiously for you! Please, come in.” He had stepped around the desk, perfectly clear of any clutter except for a single sheet of paper, placed squarely in the centre. He glared at Ponte, hissing, “I told you
immediately
! Get out of here.”

Ricciardi went in, taking a quick look around. Although similar in size to his own, Garzo's office had a very different appearance. It was very neat, and there were no stacks of reports or old file folders; a large bookcase behind the desk was full of austere volumes on laws and statutes, obviously never opened. On the wide back of the brown leather chair, where the head would rest, was a soft green cloth. In front of the desk, two dark red leather chairs, each with a small cushion. A large vase sat atop a low open cabinet, in which a crystal bottle and four
rosolio
glasses could be seen. On the walls, in addition to the two regulation portraits of Mussolini and the King, a standard letter of commendation given to the Questura of Avellino, which Garzo had unduly appropriated. On the desktop, as a final touch to the green leather desk pad and letter opener, the photograph of a woman, not beautiful but smiling, with two serious children dressed in sailor suits.

Of all that ostentatious display, Ricciardi envied only the photograph.

In the corridors it was whispered that Garzo's wife was the granddaughter of the Prefect of Salerno, and that much of his career depended on that marriage. Still, Ricciardi thought, in your life there's a smile. In mine, only a hand that embroiders, seen from too far away.

Garzo, with his persuasive, well-pitched voice, accompanied his words with fluid gestures.

“Please, come in. Have a seat. You see, Ricciardi, I'm well aware of what you may be thinking: that you lack the explicit praise of your superior, that your work is not always appreciated enough, that you don't get the recognition that you would like. I also know that, at the time of the splendid, swift resolution of the Carosino crime, you would have expected a commendation from the Questore, who instead chose the occasion to direct his applause to the entire mobile unit, speaking through my humble person. But, and this should always be kept firmly in mind, my esteem and my regard for you are never lacking. And if a positive situation were to develop, I would be able to prove to you with actions how much I appreciate your cooperation.”

Ricciardi listened grimly, his hands in constant motion. He was aware of how false Garzo's words were, since the man considered him a threat to his position. The Vice Questore would gladly have gotten rid of that strange, silent man, his eyes like daggers: not a friend, never a familiar overture, and according to what they said he had no attachments or particular sexual inclinations that might make him more vulnerable. Unfortunately, he was very capable. Cases that seemed extremely complex, that he couldn't even read in their entirety, were solved by that individual with almost supernatural ability. As if what was whispered around were true: that he conversed with the devil himself, who told him about his transgressions. Garzo thought that, in order to understand crime so well, you had to be something of a criminal yourself. That was why he, a good person, could never figure it out.

“Why did you send for me?” Ricciardi cut him off.

Garzo seemed almost offended by the Commissario's brusque manner, but only for a moment. He quickly resumed his blandishments, in a conciliatory tone.

“Right, right, we have no time to lose. We're men of action. So then, last night at the San Carlo . . . I wasn't there, a work commitment that couldn't be put off. I too never have a moment to enjoy myself. I heard about your timely intervention. My compliments, you too at work at such a late hour. With your officer, Brigadier, what's his name . . . Maione, yes. How did it go? I heard you were a little . . . curt, as they say. Not that it isn't necessary at times, as I well know. But, damn it, the signor Prefect was there, Prince d'Avalos, the Colonnas, the Santa Severinas . . . Wasn't there some way to avoid taking their information? You, Ricciardi, are sometimes too . . . direct. I say this for your own good. You're very capable, you should be more diplomatic, at least with those who count. There have been complaints. Even from the theater director, Spinelli. A bit of a queen, but with important contacts.”

Ricciardi hadn't moved a muscle. He had listened in silence, without batting an eye.

“Feel free to assign the case to someone else, sir. That's the way I work. In accordance with procedures, I believe.”

“Oh, but of course! And I wouldn't even dream of handing over the case to anyone else. There is no one better able to solve this case. That's exactly why I sent for you so early. Where are we with it?”

“We'll begin this morning. We'll do another inspection of the crime scene, take the witnesses' testimony. We'll work non-stop.”

“There, that's good: non-stop. I'll be frank with you, Ricciardi. This is something big, bigger than we can imagine. This singer . . . Vezzi . . . he was the best in his field, apparently. The fans adored him, a real source of national pride. And in times like these, when national pride is of absolute importance . . . It seems that
Il Duce
himself admired him and went to hear him, when he sang in Rome. They say he was as good and even better than Caruso himself. And the fact that what happened took place here in our city has filled the authorities with dismay. But let's be clear about it, it's also an opportunity. If we were to find the perpetrator with our usual speed and thoroughness, as you so often do, well, this would bring me . . . would bring us directly to the attention of the highest offices in the nation, Ricciardi. Do you understand that?”

“I understand that there's a man dead, sir. A murdered man; and a murderer who is walking freely about the city. As always, it will take whatever time it takes. And as always, we will do everything that can and must be done. Without losing any time. If we don't lose any time, that is.”

This time Garzo could not help noticing the cold sarcasm in the Commissario's words.

“Look, Ricciardi,” he said, frowning, “I have no intention of standing here and being disrespected. I called you in to tell you how important this investigation is, for your own good, first of all. As you know, I would not hesitate to ascribe the failure to you, if you should fail. I will not risk my career because of your mistakes. Do well and it will go well for everyone. Fall short and you will pay. You see this?” he said, pointing to the sheet of paper on his desk. “This transcribed phone message comes from the Minister of the Interior. It directs us to disclose every bit of progress in the investigation. The least bit of progress, do I make myself clear, Ricciardi? Keep me apprised, step by step. The signor Questore will in turn report to Rome. Anything else you're working on is on hold.”

At last, Ricciardi recognized the real Garzo.

“As usual, sir. I will handle the matter as usual. With all due attention.”

“I have no doubt, Ricciardi. I have no doubt. You can go.”

Outside the door, the clerk Ponte carefully avoided looking at him.

D
on Pierino had said Mass at seven. He liked the early hour. The eyes of people who sought God before beginning another day's battle. At that hour there was no social distinction amid the pews; men and women dressed differently but shared the same impulse.

That morning, moreover, the weather was strange and beautiful: the wind howled fiercely through the narrow central nave and the light from the tall windows was sporadic, as if to say that it should not be considered a given, but something to be earned through effort, like the fruits of the earth and one's daily bread.

When the Mass was over, don Pierino put on his threadbare overcoat and, holding on to his hat with one hand, headed towards the nearby questura for his appointment with the Commissario. Since the night before, he had been thinking about that intense gaze and what he had seen in it.

Besides a natural concern for one's fellow man, the practice of the priesthood had added the ability to recognize the feelings that lay hidden behind expressions, behind the words dictated by circumstances; so that the little priest had learned to carry on two dialogues simultaneously, one with the mouth and one with the eyes. Offering help to those who needed it and could not find the strength to ask for it.

The Commissario's gaze, those formidable green eyes, were a window on the tempest within.

Don Pierino recalled that, just after taking his vows, he had attended to patients in an old hospital in Irpinia, where children suffering from contagious diseases were shut away in a separate room. The door to this ward had a window, and a child suffering from cholera was always glued to it. He had read a similar despair in the eyes of that child as he watched his more fortunate peers able to be together, playing. The small mark his breath left on the glass conveyed a sense of exclusion, of immense loneliness: being condemned to remain at the margins of other peoples' lives, without ever sharing them.

As he walked against the wind, the priest realized that all in all he didn't mind meeting the policeman, intrigued as he was by that desperate mind.

Ricciardi went to meet don Pierino at the door to his office. He shook the priest's hand—a brief, firm grip—making no attempt to kiss it. He had him sit down in front of the desk which, the Assistant Pastor noticed, held no photographs or any objects that might say something about the life of the man who worked there. Only a strange paperweight, a lump of blackened, half-melted iron, from which a stylized metal pen stuck out, as to pretty up the unsightly object.

“How strange,” the priest said, stroking it briefly.

“A piece of shrapnel; it dates back to the war.”

“Were you in the war?”

“No, I was too young. I was born in 1900. An old friend gave it to me. The grenade almost killed him and he wanted to preserve the memory. That's what they say, isn't it? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.”

“So they say, yes. But help also strengthens you. The help of others, of God.”

“When it's there, Father. When it's there. So then, what can you tell me about yesterday? Have you given it some thought? Do you have any idea of what might have happened? Who might have done it?”

“No, Commissario. I could never come up with an idea like that, not even if I wanted to identify with the individual and, believe me, I don't. Then, too, a voice like that! How can one even think of snuffing it out forever? A gift to us all, straight from God Almighty.”

“Why, Father? Was this Vezzi all that great?”

“Not great. Celestial. I like to think that the angels have voices like Vezzi's, to sing the praises of the Lord in heaven. If that were so, no one would be afraid of dying. I heard him twice, in Verdi's
Il Trovatore
and Donizetti's
Lucia di Lammermoor
; he, of course, was Manrico in the first and Edgardo in the second. You should have heard him, Commissario. He plucked your heart out of your chest, took it to heaven, bathed it in the moon and stars, and returned it to you shining and renewed. When he finished singing I saw that my face was wet with tears; and I hadn't realized I was crying. Seeing him up close, yesterday, made my heart tremble.”

Ricciardi listened to the priest, staring at him over hands joined together in front of his mouth. He sensed his childlike enthusiasm and wondered how opera, mere make-believe, could produce such emotion. He also felt a little envious, because he himself had never experienced such a profound, indulgent frame of mind.

“And this time, how did he sing?”

“No, Commissario, this time he had not yet sung. It was opening night, yesterday: the night of the première. And he hadn't been onstage yet.”

“So how come the performance was already underway? Who was singing, at the time?”

“Oh, I understand your confusion. I should explain. Well then, generally only one opera is performed, in three or more acts. In this case, however, since these are short works, two of them are performed: Mascagni's
Cavalleria Rusticana
and Leoncavallo's
Pagliacci
. They are two operas that date back to the same period, the first is from 1890 and the second from 1892, I believe.”

“And Vezzi only sang in one of the two?”

“That's right, in
Pagliacci
. He plays . . . he would have played Canio, the lead role. A difficult part, I read that he was even greater than usual in it.”

“It was the second opera, then.”

“Yes, very good, the second. That's how they are usually performed: first
Cavalleria
and then
Pagliacci
, which is more compelling and vivid, so the audience's attention is more easily captured. Personally, from a musical standpoint I prefer
Cavalleria
, which has an extraordinary intermezzo. But there are several beautiful arias in
Pagliacci
, specifically in Canio's role. Vezzi would never have played Turiddu in
Cavalleria
, for example.”

Ricciardi listened very carefully. He absorbed the information voraciously, reflecting on the situations that might have arisen the night of the murder.

“But aside from the principal roles, the singers are the same?”

“They could be, but generally that's not the case. In this instance, Vezzi had a cast put together specifically for him; whereas
Cavalleria
was performed by a troupe that appears frequently at the San Carlo. Normally they are so-so, middling to average, but this time they were really very good. It was a splendid surprise. Even though this aspect later became of secondary importance, unfortunately. The evening will certainly not be remembered for the performance.”

“So the rehearsals are separate? The troupes never come into contact with one another?”