She sang the verse a second time:
Tell her that she’s a rose of May
That I can’t sleep or think
That I think of her always, that she’s my life. .
“No. No one, Brigadie’. There hasn’t been another man since the day my husband died. It’s been two years.”
That voice. Confident, stern. And distant, too, as if she were speaking from the bottom of the sea. Maione shivered and felt as if he had just uttered a loud oath in the middle of the city’s cathedral, just as the bishop was raising the consecrated host.
“Forgive me, Signora. It was never, never my intention to cast doubt on your good name. In that case, is there someone who wants you, who’s threatening you? Tell me; point me in the right direction.”
“Brigadier, you’re going to be late for work, and so will I. I’m certain that you have much more important matters than mine to attend to. Don’t worry; I’m not afraid. Nothing is going to happen to me. Nothing else.”
Maione studied her in the dim light. There was an absurd amount of certainty in Filomena’s scornful gaze, as if she had no doubts about what she was saying. He sighed and put his cap back on his head. He took a step back.
“That’s fine, for now. If that’s how you want it. . but I’ll have to keep coming back, until I’m sure that neither you nor your son are in any danger. If anything occurs to you, send for me. It only takes five minutes to get here from headquarters.”
He turned to go and almost bumped into the woman whose scream had first caught his attention two days earlier, the same woman who had so effectively expressed her contempt for Filomena. This time she was holding a bowl and glaring at the brigadier.
“Donna Filome’, it’s Vincenza. May I come in? I brought you a cup of hot broth. Is there anything you need?”
Maione decided that sometimes bloodshed helps to change people. He waved a farewell and left.
The man who had just stepped out of the front door of the adjoining basso felt like his head was about to explode. He’d tied one on the night before. And the night before that. Cheap wine, smoke, bawdy songs, all to help him find the strength to sleep without la schifezza-the filthy mess-which always made him feel the next day the way he did this morning.
But a poor man who’d lost his wife, he thought to himself as he hurried toward the construction site where he worked, what’s he supposed to do, stop living? Or should he go out and find another wife? And who would take him anyway, a man like him, with a small daughter, and penniless to boot?
Salvatore Finizio, first-class bricklayer, widower. A man who had nothing to smile about and very little to eat, who had to take care of his daughter, Rituccia, feed her and clothe her. And so if wine and weariness made him forget about poor dead Rachele every once in a while, was that such a sin? If God Almighty is truly God Almighty, He’ll understand. And He’ll forgive. Madonna, what a headache.
XXV
Ricciardi couldn’t seem to get that dream out of his head. He could still hear his mother’s voice, a voice that in reality he was unable to remember, telling him to be a good boy, to study. Study what?
Sitting at the desk in his office, he turned the heavy lead paperweight over and over in his hands, a piece of a mortar shell brought back from the front, a gift from the overseer on his estate in the country.
His papers, all those sheets and scraps that lay scattered over the wooden desktop. Instead of jotting down notes on little pieces of paper, he should have put his mind in order, should have procured himself a notebook and written in it. A notebook, like the appointment book that old Calise kept. God Almighty’s not a shopkeeper who pays His debts on Saturday.
The flash of light that illuminated his mind was followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder, like in a rainstorm. Ricciardi sat there, astonished, with the chunk of lead in his hand, contemplating his own stupidity.
“Maione!”
He had raised the roll-up shutter halfway, just as he did every morning. He knew perfectly well that the other merchants on Via Toledo had their salesclerks open shop and didn’t come in themselves until later. How conscientious Don Matteo De Rosa is, bravo! they’d say to each other behind his back, snickering. A salesclerk you were born and a salesclerk you remain, even now that you’re the boss. They thought that he had no idea what they were saying, that he didn’t realize, but he knew exactly what he was doing.
As he tidied up the rolls of cloth on their wooden poles, he took a quick look at his reflection in the mirror the customers used. Sure, he had a bit of a belly. And his hair was starting to go, slowly but surely. Not even all that slowly, come to think of it. But his mustache was dark and beautifully curled; and his handsome checkered vest with the gold watch chain made it clear to anyone who might wonder that Don Matteo De Rosa was the boss now.
He’d always known that he’d be in charge one day, even back when he was working for old Salvatore Iovine, the leading fabric merchant in Naples. Iovine was a man who had obtained everything he ever wanted from life-everything, that is, except a male heir. And Matteo had won the heart of Iovine’s daughter Vera, a homely monster with a mustache a few hairs short of his but a fuller beard, a woman who was impossible to look at, even from a distance, but who had more suitors than Penelope, because of her immense wealth.
And so, when old Iovine died, spitting blood onto a scrap of beige fabric that was a masterpiece of the weaver’s art, Matteo was left to run the business. Yes, it’s true that the old man had left everything to his daughter. But he was the man of the family, wasn’t he? So he said, let her stay at home in the dark, since even the sunlight was disgusted at the thought of touching her; he would look after the shop.
And everything had gone smoothly until Filomena. Just the thought of her name made his heart rejoice. Filomena.
She’d come in one morning, wearing a black dress made of rough, cheap cotton, a shawl over her head, as if she were covering up some astounding homeliness. Are you looking for a shop clerk? she inquired. Let me see what you look like, he replied. And with a sigh, she pulled back the shawl.
Matteo De Rosa lost his heart and his soul the instant he laid eyes on the face of Filomena Russo. He realized then and there that he’d never be able to rest until he got his hands on the body of that goddess descended to earth. So he hired her; of course he hired her. He told her: every morning at eight o’clock on the dot. And every morning at eight o’clock on the dot he was there, too, while the other salesclerks never arrived before eight thirty. They would often come in to find him flushed, his hair all mussed; he knew that she was a widow, a poor, desperate woman with a son to bring up. He couldn’t understand why she refused his advances. All the other female sales assistants would have given their eyeteeth for the opportunity: the padrone’s mistress, just think of the advantages. But not her.
He’d tried everything: gifts, money, threats. Nothing worked; she rejected it all. All he managed to do was to fill those moonlit eyes with showers of tears. The more she rejected him, the clearer it was to Matteo that he could not live without her. So he finally told her it was time to make up her mind: otherwise she’d have to find herself another job. That is, if she could find one at all; no one would hire a salesclerk fired from the famous De Rosa fabric shop. Capisci, Filomena? Choose Matteo or choose to starve, both you and your son. I’ll expect your answer tomorrow morning.