“Okay, fine, I promise that afterward I’ll let you cry on my shoulder as long as like. Actually, you know what? I’ll treat you to a pizza. Even though, with all the overtime you’re taking in thanks to us, you’re getting paid three times what I earn. But now, just tell me how Iodice is doing.”
“Ah, is that his name, Iodice? Well, I can’t say if he’ll make it. The knife blade missed the artery by a hair and that’s kept him from dying for the moment. But it went right into his lung. Plunged straight in, like the guy meant it, up to the handle. It was a good thing the men who brought him here had the brains not to try pulling it out; that would have done massive damage. It was a long and difficult operation, and he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s asleep now, and we need him to stay that way for the next twenty-four hours, so forget about trying to talk to him. We’ll see how he is tomorrow. That is, if he lives until tomorrow. Now tell me, who stabbed him?”
Ricciardi was trying to guess what could drive a man to do such a thing, if not the certainty that his situation was hopeless.
“He did it himself. Like those Japanese warriors, you know. Those ritual suicides.”
Modo shook his head.
“Incredible. The more I work with the dead, the less I understand the living.”
XL
Ricciardi went back out into the courtyard. The two women watched him from afar, trying to decipher his expression but lacking the courage to approach him. He walked over to where they were standing.
“Signor Iodice is alive, though he’s in very serious condition. The doctor who’s caring for him is, believe me, the best there is. If anyone can keep him alive, it’s him.”
The woman burst into tears. The mother looked like a marble statue. Ricciardi went on talking.
“Now both of you go home to your children. Let him get some rest. They won’t let you see him until tomorrow anyway. If there are any developments, I’ll make sure they let you know right away. As for me, you can find me in my office tomorrow morning, in case there’s anything you want to tell me.”
The older woman linked arms with the younger one and, bowing her head, began walking toward the gate.
Ricciardi walked over to the small knot of his fellow policemen, waiting for him off to one side. He gave them what news he had and told Camarda and Cesarano that they could go home now.
Left alone with Maione, he drew a long sigh.
“There’s nothing more we can do tonight. Have you heard anything new about that other woman, what’s her name, Signora Serra di Arpaja?”
Maione was taken aback.
“But, Commissa’, this Iodice. . he might as well have confessed, don’t you think?”
“Maione, I can’t believe I’m hearing you talk this way. You have more experience than I do. There’s no doubt that Iodice had some reason or another to give in to despair. But it’s quite a leap to go from there to the fact that he killed Calise, no? And so we’ll continue the investigation and then, if and when Iodice comes to and confesses, we can call this case closed. If not, we don’t. Understood?”
The brigadier bowed his head.
“You’re right, Commissa’. Forgive me. Anyway, the summons for the Serra woman has been delivered. She should be at headquarters tomorrow morning. Now what do we do, go home?”
“I promised Modo I’d treat him to a pizza. How about you, you want to come with?”
Maione pulled his watch out of his pocket and glanced at it hastily.
“No, Commissa’, I’m sorry. They’re waiting for me, it’s already late.”
Ricciardi looked him in the eye. Then he nodded his head.
“All right, you go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”
They walked together through the bright lights of the Pignasecca market, the doctor trudging wearily and the commissario with the wind in his hair. The doctor pushed his hat back on his head and lit a cigarette.
“Say, haven’t you noticed this gentle warm breeze? It’s springtime, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. A joyful soul like you can hardly have missed the fact.”
Ricciardi snorted in annoyance.
“Could you tell me what you find so damned funny about the fact that you’ve just spent hours digging around inside the body of a man who stabbed himself in the heart? Did you know that he has three children? And the whole thing started with the late Calise, who was kicked across the floor of her room. If that’s springtime, you can have it, thanks very much.”
Modo laughed.
“You kill me! What are you saying, that human lunacy is dictated by the seasons? Why don’t you take a look at our government, for example!”
Ricciardi feigned a despairing expression.
“No, I beg you, not politics! I’d rather go home and suffer through Tata Rosa’s pasta and chickpeas!”
“Okay, fine, if you’re happy giving up your freedom in its entirety, I won’t try to change your mind. But the best thing to do is laugh about it, that’s what I was trying to tell you. Do you know that it’s been three or four years since I last prescribed a purgative, just to avoid being taken for a Fascist?”
Ricciardi shook his head with a smile.
“Look, Bruno, if you keep this up, one of these days I’m going to find an order on my desk to arrest you and ship you off to internal exile on Ventotene. I’m not worried about that so much, but if they ordered me to stay there to keep an eye on you, then suicide wouldn’t be drastic enough.”
They’d reached the pizzeria. Ricciardi looked around.
“A place like this. Filled with smoke, hot air, the smell of food. Everyone has their own dreams. And this is the dream that Iodice is dying for. Was it worth it?”
Modo played a little with his cigarette.
“You know something, Ricciardi? When I perform an autopsy or a last-ditch operation like the one I did today, I think the same thing every time. There’s a moment when a person starts to die. No, I’m not talking about the death itself. What I mean is, there’s a moment when an irreversible process is triggered that leads ineluctably to death. Maybe it takes years, but there’s no stopping it. A glass of wine, a cigarette. The proverbial drop that makes the glass overflow. I find tumors, pulmonary lesions, ruptured livers. Or it could even be a word, a glint in the eye. A love affair. A child. Who can say when someone starts dying?”
Ricciardi listened, fascinated in spite of himself.
“Unfortunately, we can never get hold of that moment, never catch it as it passes.”
Modo smiled, suddenly looking much, much older.
“No, my friend. And that’s a blessing. That’s how we can go on living. Can you imagine if each of us were aware of having triggered the irreversible process that eventually leads to death? During the war, I saw the corpses of lots of men, torn to shreds by shrapnel from Austrian mortar shells, and I wondered what they’d been thinking, what dreams they were nurturing when they enlisted. I always found myself wondering whether at the end, in the instant that they realized they were about to die, whether any of them understood that it had been that dream, that ideal that had killed them. And that’s why all these lunatics you see strutting around the city, singing about death and war, fill me with pity.”
Ricciardi laid a hand on his friend’s arm.
“All kidding aside, Bruno. I understand where you’re coming from, and maybe, I’m saying just maybe, I’d even be inclined to agree with you. Still, and this is a point you have to concede, I think it’s naïve and foolish to open yourself up to a world of trouble, serious trouble, just for the fun of hearing yourself talk. Think of all the people who rely on you, on your work, on your hands.”
“You’re right. It’s not worth it. Let this nation of idiots take it up the ass, if they like it so damned much. Perhaps the moment in which we as a people triggered our own irreversible process has already come and gone.”