Bambinella smiled fetchingly, but with a hint of sadness in her eyes.
“Sure, Brigadie’, I’ll be a good girl. But there’s something I want to say to you. Beauty can make you lose your head. A beautiful face can do it, but so can a beautiful soul. You have a wonderful family; don’t let yourself get sucked into anything. If you don’t mind my telling you so.”
Maione stood stock still in the doorway.
“Well, I do mind. This is strictly a professional matter, as far as I’m concerned. Take care of yourself.”
And he left and hurried home.
XXXIV
The following morning was the fourth since the first gust of new spring air had swept through the narrow lanes just off the waterfront. The air was growing warmer by the hour, overcoats had vanished almost entirely, and straw hats were starting to appear here and there.
Inside the apartments that now had their windows open, jackets and skirts that had lain forgotten all through the long winter were being brought out of hiding; and people were singing and quarreling loudly, to the greedy delight of the old gossips eavesdropping from their balconies.
Out on the street, the breeze, fortified with the scent of the sea, was having fun lifting hats off heads and snapping branches. Men and women who for months had walked past each other without so much as a glance now eyed one another intently, exchanging silent messages concealed behind a smile. Slumbering feelings, sluggish from the cold, began to reawaken: attraction, tenderness, envy, and jealousy.
Along the streets of the city center, where the smell of horse manure had intensified, street vendors hawked their wares with reinvigorated spirit. The air was filled with promises, and among them twirled the invisible springtime.
The sun was shining, the air was soft and fragrant, and perhaps all was not lost.
Attilio filled his lungs with the faint breeze that was coming in through his bedroom window. For the first time in days he went back to thinking that he might be able to steer his life in the direction he had hoped.
Not that things had gone better than usual at the theater the night before; quite the opposite. That damned pompous ass had been, if possible, even more cutting and abusive than was his wont. He had even come up an offensive moniker for his character: the “fop.” Just one more way to undercut him, to belittle his talent. And, as if that weren’t enough, the box remained empty.
He shuddered at the thought that he might not even be able to take refuge in Emma’s adoring eyes if the audience laughed at him.
That man had been there at the stage door, come to make him a deal, and his heart had raced in his chest, in spite of the fact that he had nothing to fear. Still, he’d turned his offer down, contemptuously. Let no one think that Attilio Romor could be bought.
And yet, that encounter had made him realize something: that there might be another way. And he was determined not to let that opportunity slip through his fingers.
He stretched his arms, making his pectoral muscles pop underneath his sleeveless T-shirt and suspenders. He shot a dazzling smile at the woman lingering over the laundry she was hanging out on the balcony across the way. Let her enjoy herself too. The sun was shining and the future was bright.
Ricciardi was reading over the list of the last people to see the Calise woman alive. A message from beyond, written in the dead woman’s own hand. Not the only message he had received from her. ’O Padreterno nun è mercante ca pava ’o sabbato. God Almighty’s not a shopkeeper who pays his debts on Saturday.
He took his time, studying the shaky handwriting of the names.
Passarelli: male, muther.
Colombo, female, new, love.
Ridolfi, joolery, wife.
Emma.
Iodice, pay.
It had been a quiet day for her. Some of the pages of the black notebook with red trim contained as many as ten names, and the average was six or seven. Perhaps one of those sessions had gone on longer than usual. Perhaps the old woman had read her own fate in the cards.
Ricciardi loved cold air and would throw open the windows to let the spring breeze in as early as possible. The smell of salt air wafted up from the large market piazza, bringing with it the voices and songs of the new season.
Maione stood gazing out the window, rapt in thought. That morning he felt a pain inside him, though he couldn’t have said exactly what it was. Bambinella’s words came back to him, stirring a vague sense of remorse. Impressed into his brain was the recent memory of Filomena’s still-bandaged face and her sad smile. When she had found the shaggy-haired brigadier on her doorstep that morning, she had said to him: Brigadie’, you’re making me get used to hearing you say hello. Maione had replied: Then get used to it, Filome’.
“Maione, what are you doing, dreaming on your feet?”
“Commissa’, it’s nothing. I just haven’t slept well for the past couple of nights. Maybe because it’s getting warmer. Now we’ll have a lot more work on our hands, same as every year. That’s how it always is in the spring. No?”
Ricciardi nodded, with a sigh.
“That’s what experience tells us. Let’s hope for the best. Now then, tell me all about your date.”
Maione opened his eyes wide and went on the defensive.
“What date, Commissa’! I just stop by to say hello, to see how she’s doing with the wound. There’s nothing personal between us, for heaven’s sake. I just drop by to see if she needs anything, but I’d never dream of. .”
Ricciardi looked at him with a certain intensity.
“What on earth are you talking about? I mean the chat you had with the Petrone woman to decipher this list. Listen to me, Raffaele: I’m not somebody who pries into other people’s business, except when it’s my duty. But there is one thing I want to say to you: I was there for your. . that terrible moment for you and your family. I met your wife and your children. I remember Luca. Believe me when I tell you that what you have at home can’t be bought at any store on earth.”
Maione looked down at the floor.
“Why would you say such a thing to me, Commissa’? What did I make you think? I’m a lucky man, and I know it. It’s just that ever since. . since that thing you mentioned, we don’t talk anymore. Me and Lucia. That is to say, it’s not like we don’t talk at all. It’s just that she’s always somewhere else. Even the kids look at her funny. She doesn’t say anything. She just looks straight ahead of her; who knows what she’s looking at.”
“What about you? Don’t you reach out to her? Don’t you talk to her?”
Maione smiled sadly.
“I have, Commissa’. I still do. But it’s like talking to a wall. Sometimes I act like a lunatic, walking around the apartment talking to myself. It’s as if the two of us could only talk to each other through Luca. Luca’s memory. And we never say his name.”
Ricciardi looked at him.
“It’s not as if I can tell you how things work in a family. You know I don’t have a family of my own, and I never did, not even as a child. I grew up with my Tata, and I live with her still. I love her, but I can’t call her a family. You know what I think? I think it’s easy to stick together when everything’s going well. The hard thing is when you have to climb over the mountains, and it’s cold out, and the wind is howling. Maybe that’s when everyone should huddle a little closer together, to try to find a little warmth. Take it from someone who lives out in the cold. And who doesn’t have anyone who can give him warmth.”
Maione stared at Ricciardi in astonishment. He’d never heard him talk so long, and certainly not on topics having to do not with an investigation, but with himself, his life, and his family. Maione knew that he wasn’t married-or, rather, that it was as if Ricciardi were married to his own solitude.