The silence that followed her words closed in like a fog. Maione thought he could hear his heart pounding; he felt a crushing pity for Filomena, for Gaetano, for Rituccia. And for himself, too.
Then his thoughts went to Lucia. He imagined her locked in a cramped cell, a prison made of memories; hanging from a trap by her paw, ever since that accursed evening three years earlier. And he thought: What am I doing here?
He got to his feet, gazing into her magnificent eyes, the eyes of a stranger, glistening with tears, and that beautiful, Madonna-like smile. And he realized that he loved Lucia, even more than he loved her when he glimpsed her at the fountain at the age of sixteen, washing a sheet and singing, that he’d never seen anything lovelier since then, and if he were to die someday he wanted it to be with that face before his eyes.
He said good-bye to Filomena. The word he used was arrivederci, until we meet again, but what he meant was addio, good-bye forever, may God be with you. She told him addio, hoping it meant arrivederci. Maione walked out into the street and turned his footsteps toward police headquarters.
LIX
Only a couple of hours had gone by, but when they met again in Ricciardi’s office, they were two different men than they had been when they’d left it.
The commissario was morose, with a fixed glare, and a crease of sorrow furrowing his brow. The brigadier, in contrast, seemed as if he had untied a knot that had been preventing him from breathing. He seemed to be at peace now, untroubled, though there was a faint hint of sadness in his eyes. He had entrusted a boy he’d met in the vicoli, a friend of one of his sons, with the task of letting Lucia know that he’d be working late. An old tradition to be revived; but he had emphasized that the messenger was to remember, as he made him repeat several times, that he wouldn’t eat before he came home. He missed his home; he hungered for it.
The window was open and the salt air was blowing in from outside. Needless to say, Ricciardi was looking out of it.
“I want to know who killed her, Calise. I want to know who and I want to know why. Work aside, I mean. I want to know whether it was for money or for passion.”
Behind Ricciardi’s back, Maione nodded. And he chipped in a thought of his own.
“I want to know too, Commissa’. Because she was a poor old woman and someone killed her and then kicked her dead body all around the room. Because, even if she was a loanshark and cheated people out of their money with tarot cards, she still had the right to go on breathing. And because I’m a cop.”
Ricciardi turned around and looked Maione in the eye.
“That’s right, Maione. We’re cops. Let’s go see what this actor has to say for himself.”
As they walked the short distance, they explored the issues at hand.
“Just for the sake of discussion, Commissa’, just thinking out loud here. Let’s say that the professor can’t stand the idea of his wife leaving him and losing all that money of hers, which really is a lot of money, after all. Let’s say he goes to Calise and pays her to tell the signora to get rid of the actor. Then let’s say that when he goes to settle up, they get into a fight and the professor loses his head. Or better yet, Calise wants to make more money off him and she blackmails him with what she knows about his private affairs.”
Ricciardi nodded as he walked.
“Or let’s say that Iodice can’t pay her what he owes and is on the verge of desperation. Let’s say Calise threatens him, intent on ruining him, making him lose his pizzeria, everything he owns. That she’s going to take the bread out of his children’s mouths.”
Maione shook his head.
“No, Commissa’, no. A father with a family would think it over before risking that kind of ruin. Because if he doesn’t kill her, he can still always find a way of putting bread on the table, even if he does lose the pizzeria. But if he flies out of control, then his children not only don’t eat, they lose their good name, the family honor. It wasn’t Iodice, I’m sure of it. If you want to know the truth, I’m more inclined to think it was the signora, so emotional, so desperate to sweep aside the one obstacle to her great love affair.”
“Sure. And it could just as easily have been our friend Passarelli, the funny little man with the ninety-year-old mamma and the sixty-year-old fiancée, who might not have wanted another old woman around. Or Ridolfi, who could have just pretended to fall down the stairs. It could have been anyone, and that’s the truth. We’re still completely at sea here.”
Maione smiled.
“True, but my top candidate is still the professor; let’s not forget Teresa and the shoes. If you ask me, it was him.”
Ricciardi shrugged.
“Still, I wouldn’t overlook the ladies entirely. Remember: the doctor said that a young woman, or a very strong one, could have done just as much damage as a man. And I for one wouldn’t want to go up against Petrone or Signora Serra, with their lovely little tempers.”
They had reached the theater, where the crowd was bigger than they’d expected. The play had been running for quite a while, and it was a weekday, but the playwright’s reputation was growing; word of mouth was evidently very effective. What’s more, this was the next to last performance before the production relocated to Rome. In short, the atmosphere was one of festive anticipation.
Ricciardi and Maione identified themselves and had an usher accompany them to the stage door. Inside, in the narrow hallway that ran along the dressing room doors, they brushed past actors and actresses already dressed in costume, with pre-show jitters showing in their faces. The actors were talking excitedly but silence fell when one of the doors opened and a face poked out. Maione recognized the playwright and chief actor from his picture in the paper.
The man’s face was white with powder and there were two spots of pink rouge on his cheeks, his collar turned up in a fashion popular ten years earlier, a wide, colorful tie, and a jacket with a conspicuous patch on the side. In sharp contrast with his ridiculous getup, his expression was dour: a thin mustache and thin lips, arched eyebrows, a broad forehead with a single vertical crease running down the middle. The brigadier had read that he was just thirty, but now, up close, he struck him as a much older man.
As he stared at them, the playwright spoke to a shorter, cheerful-looking man who vaguely resembled him.
“Are these gentlemen friends of yours? Have you decided to start letting strangers backstage, along with everything else? What have you got in mind now, one of your floating card games in the dressing rooms?”
Spreading his arms wide in a show of helplessness and speaking to a small crowd of actors standing not far off, the shorter man looked heavenward with a smile as he replied.
“Of course, put the blame on Peppino. It’s Peppino’s fault, even if it just starts raining. No, I don’t know these gentlemen. I’ve never seen them before. But if it’s an order, I’ll start a floating card game. That’d be more fun than standing here listening to you whine about everything.”
The tension became palpable and the playwright slammed his dressing room door shut. Peppino, as he had identified himself, shrugged, snorted, and addressed the two policemen.