And so, Umberto Passarelli, who cautiously entered Ricciardi’s office with a courteous “May I come in?” had decided to adjust his usual strategy in accordance with a wait-and-see attitude.
He was a skinny little man, his perennial nervousness betrayed by any number of tics, the most irritating of which consisted of squeezing his left eye shut while simultaneously pulling his lips back on the left side of his face: it looked as if he were winking and starting in fright at the same time. Diminutive gold eyeglasses, stiff collar, shirt cuffs dotted with tiny ink stains.
A careful comb-over had been raked across his otherwise bald pate. The light breeze that came in through the window immediately began toying with it, lifting it now and again. Ricciardi was reminded of the procession on the Feast of Pentecost back home in his village, where the participants acted out the arrival of the Holy Ghost with fluttering strips of cloth on their heads.
After taking down his identifying information, the commissario asked the accountant whether he was aware that the Calise woman had been murdered.
“Yes, of course, I read about it in the newspaper. Such a shame. Quite inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient?”
“Why certainly, Commissario. You see, now I-and who knows how many others like me-will need to find someone else who can help us. And it’s no easy matter, believe you me,” he said, with a wink of his eye, “finding someone you feel you can trust to tell you what to do.”
Ricciardi furrowed his brow.
“What do you mean, ‘tell you what to do’? Did you do whatever the Calise woman told you?”
The man’s left eye quivered.
“Of course I did, Commissario. Otherwise, why would I go to see her? After all, with what I paid. .”
“And just how long had you been her. . her client?”
“For a year. I’d go to see her roughly once a week.”
“On what pretext? That is to say, what was she giving you advice on?”
The corner of the man’s mouth jerked toward his neck.
“Well now, you see, Commissario, I live with my mamma. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a wonderful woman, an extraordinary person, and she has no one but me. So I have to look after her, and it isn’t always easy, because she has serious health problems, she’s very old, and she has a bad temper. If you ever heard her yell. . it’s enough to wake up the whole neighborhood.”
“I understand. And what does the Calise woman have to do with your mother?”
“Nothing, it’s just that I’m a very methodical person. I like to be able to plan my schedule, know what’s going on, set dates.”
“And so?”
Eye, mouth.
“And so, it would help me to know, that is, more or less, you understand, when my mother will shuffle off this mortal coil. My fiancée-because I’m engaged, in case you weren’t aware-a lovely young lady who is infinitely patient, will need some advance notice to prepare her trousseau, and then there’s the ceremony-you have no idea how much is involved. I don’t want to make you think that I’d like for Mammà to die, heaven forbid. Still, a couple needs to be able to think ahead. There’s also the period of mourning to observe, at least two years for a mother. And of course the apartment is full of medicine; she doesn’t like the furniture; some changes will need to be made. We’ll have to get the nursery ready as well.”
Maione, who had done his best to hold himself back throughout the interview, broke in.
“Ah, you have children?”
Comb-over, mouth, eye once, twice.
“No, but both my fiancée and I would like to have a big family.”
“And just how old is the young lady?”
Eye, mouth, eye. An instant later, an uncertain tremor in the comb-over.
“She’s two years older than I am, sixty-two. But she looks so much younger than her age. For now, I can’t even take my pension and retire, until. . until. . things are sorted out.”
Ricciardi shot Maione a look of reproof.
“And how did the Calise woman seem when you saw her? Did you notice anything unusual about her, was there anything she said. .”
Passarelli put on a thoughtful air, enlivened by a crescendo of tics.
“No, Commissario, I don’t think so. Maybe a little quieter than usual. Not so much as a hello, just the daily update on Mamma’s health. But on that she was extraordinary! Just think, she told me the same exact things the doctor had said the day before! I couldn’t breathe a word about her to Mamma, but if I could, we could have saved the doctor’s fee entirely!”
Ricciardi looked at the heaving shoulders of Maione, who had turned to face the window. The commissario shook his head.
“All right, Passarelli, you can go. Make sure we know how to get in touch with you, though; we might need to talk to you again.”
The accountant stood up, sighed, winked, twisted his mouth into a grimace, sketched out a courtly bow, and turned to leave. As he left the office, his comb-over waved good-bye charmingly from a distance.
XXXVI
In front of the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie the sidewalk was crowded with busy people rushing in all directions, the stores were still open, and the air was soft and sweet.
Sitting on the church steps, calm and composed, was Rituccia. She was waiting. If you looked at her closely, you could tell that she wasn’t begging for coins. She’d have selected a more strategic location if she were, closer to the church entrance or right by the street. Instead, the little girl sat just outside the cone of light cast by the streetlamp swaying over the middle of the street, where she was unlikely to be seen at all. She’d turned twelve, but she looked younger than she was, and she knew that was an advantage; the less she stood out, the better. That’s how it had been ever since her mother had died, when she was still just a little girl, left alone with her father.
Alone with her father.
She felt a long shiver run through her in the already warm air.
She’d given a lot of thought to what had to be done. To how to fix things. For Gaetano and for herself.
The solution would be painful and difficult. It wouldn’t be easy to do what was necessary, and the aftermath would be hard as well. Not because she’d be lonely. If anything, that part would come as a welcome change. She sighed.
She saw him hurrying through the crowd, out of breath. His floppy cap covered his swarthy face and his hands were still spattered with mortar, as were the trousers he wore, which ended mid-calf. Thirteen years old already, but Gaetano Russo also looked younger than his years, unless you looked in his eyes.
He sat down next to her, as usual without so much as a hello. Just two children sitting on the church steps, but in their eyes they were a hundred years old between them. She looked at him, and he finally spoke.
“Things have gotten better. They did what you said they would, both the guappo and that pig at the place where she works.”
She smiled briefly. Simple. Men were all the same.
Tears welled up in Gaetano’s eyes.
“She was so beautiful. And now. . damn them.”
She squeezed his hand.
“What about the rest?”
He lifted his head and looked at her. His dark eyes, glistening with rage and tears, glittered in the darkness like the eyes of a wolf.
“Everything just like we said. You’re sure? Tomorrow?”
She nodded. Her eyes still, staring straight ahead of her. Mamma, understand what I have to do. If you can see me, I’m sitting on the steps of a church. If you can hear me, you know what’s in my heart. And what’s on my body, almost every single night. Ever since you went away. I have to do this, Mamma. You understand, don’t you?
A gust of wind came up from the sea. Perhaps that was what drew out the solitary tear that rolled down her cheek.