For that reason, the minute he saw the nondescript girl arrive at her father’s shop, he’d immediately combed his hair and started off after her, intending to seize this opportunity to invite her out for a cup of coffee.
At Gambrinus, of course.
Ricciardi had changed his habits, though only by a little. For the past month, he’d stopped sitting at the inside table that faced the plateglass window overlooking the Via Chiaia and instead sat outside, under the awning.
The reason for the change had nothing to do with the arrival of the brutal summer heat: it had just happened that, exactly a month ago, in fact, a husband whose wife was cheating on him had decided to take justice into his own hands by murdering his wife’s lover with a bullet to the head. At the moment of his premature demise, the unfortunate victim, a young lawyer, had been sitting with a newspaper in his hands and a cup of coffee on the table in front of him, right next to the table where Ricciardi usually sat to consume his rapid daily lunch. The commissario hadn’t been present when the horrible scene unfolded, but that did nothing to interfere with his clear and unmistakable view of the lawyer, who went on reading his newspaper, with half his face reduced to a pulpy mess of blood and bone fragments, and repeating:
“Now how long is it going to take her to get free of that stupid chump and come join me?”
But instead of her getting rid of him, once and for all, now it was the allegedly stupid chump who was sitting in a dark jail cell somewhere, mulling over such issues as faithfulness and vendetta.
Since the sight wasn’t particularly appetizing, Ricciardi had decided to migrate to an outdoor table which, for a habitudinarian like him, had not been a pleasant experience. But that day, the tables on the sidewalk were all taken and he was forced to venture back inside. He hoped that he wouldn’t be forced to share a table with the dead man: he didn’t want company at all, much less the company of such a monotonous conversationalist.
As soon as he stepped through the door he caught a whiff of perfume. His sensory memory was faster than his conscious one, so he glimpsed the lithe figure, the limpid eyes, and the catlike stride even before he thought of Livia, immersed in that exotic spicy scent. He looked around and there she was, smiling, sitting in the corner opposite the dead man but like him, waiting for someone to arrive. Standing next to her was a man in a white suit, one hand resting on the back of a chair, in a friendly pose.
Ricciardi took in the situation at a glance: the man’s stance and attitude immediately suggested an idea of unwanted intrusiveness; Livia in contrast was looking in his direction, with a radiant smile on her face, in an implicit call for aid. On impulse, he headed straight for the table and, before he could get a word out, he once again heard Livia’s voice, just as harmonious and musical as he remembered it:
“There, you see: the person I was waiting for. I’m here for him, and only for him.”
The walk to Gambrinus with Sebastiano was surreaclass="underline" Enrica had gone to the shop in the first place to tell her father in no uncertain terms that she never wanted to see the young man again, and now she was going with him for a cup of coffee, like a pair of lovebirds on their first date.
When Sebastiano had come in, with the paltry excuse that he needed change for a large bill, she’d been left aghast. When he invited her to the café, she’d launched Giulio a pleading look, but he’d given his permission with a fatherly smile, in part to stave off the inevitable quarrel with his daughter; and now here she was walking the short length of sun-drenched street in the least desirable company imaginable. Moreover, she’d been unable to refuse the man’s arm, which he’d offered with that stupid smile of his the minute they stepped out of the store.
She was furious with herself, for having lacked the courage to simply refuse the invitation or at least the promptness of mind to invent a serviceable excuse; furious with her father, for allowing that idiot to dare to take such liberties; with her mother for having woven the web in which she now found herself tangled; and with Ricciardi, for taking so long to make his intentions known.
She just hoped that she didn’t run into anyone she knew.
XIX
Livia and Ricciardi sat looking at each other, in intense silence. The woman could not have received a more definitive answer to her doubts about what she would feel at the sight of him: she experienced the familiar but almost forgotten hollow pit in her stomach, her heart had begun to race, and she could sense that her face was red with pleasure and embarrassment. The man in white had withdrawn, foiled, once he saw that the unmistakable electric charge between the two of them firmly precluded any chance for a rival.
The commissario was tangling with a distinctly new sensation, and he decided that he had encountered a greater variety of strange new emotions in the past two days than in all the rest of his life. To see Livia there, so far from where he’d assumed she was, and even more beautiful than he remembered her, had made a deep impression on him. He didn’t know what to say. As in a trance, he’d sat down at her table and now he was watching her as she smiled at him, as if they’d only been apart for a moment. The last time they’d looked each other in the eye, a rough wind was tossing the waves off the Via Caracciolo, blowing her hair and streaking her face, along with tears of grief and frustration. Going against his own deepest instincts, perhaps, Ricciardi had said farewell to her, certain that he’d never see her again. He felt sure deep down that, even though he was probably going to live the rest of his life alone, if there was a place in his heart, that place belonged to Enrica.
But now he had to admit that he was happy to see her, smiling and beautiful as she was; but he was also vaguely worried, because of the twinge of danger and instability that the woman had always radiated.
“What are you doing here?”
Livia’s smile didn’t once fade as she looked deep into those wonderful green eyes that had stirred her so powerfully all those months ago. She was searching for a spark of pleasure, a modicum of cordiality on his part: but she saw nothing. Not yet, anyway. But she had no intention of giving up easily.
“I could tell you that I’m here to do some sightseeing: this city of yours is famous around the world, isn’t it? I could tell you that I’ve come to make peace with a place that brings to mind sad, painful situations. Instead, I’ve decided to tell it straight: I’ve come to see you. To see you again.”
The grand piano in the lobby was playing a song about an ungrateful heart and the dead man on the other side of the room kept asking when his lover would get there. The waiter, recognizing Ricciardi, had brought a sfogliatella and a coffee to the table without his even ordering it. Ricciardi know how to interrogate suspects and arrest criminals, he knew how to interpret the dying words of ravaged corpses; but he didn’t have the slightest idea of how to respond to Livia. It suddenly dawned on him that his mouth was hanging open and he snapped it shut with a faint pop. He said, in a much brusquer tone than he intended:
“You could have asked first, maybe written a letter. Why are you so sure that I wanted to see you again?”
Livia laughed, as if Ricciardi had just made a joke.
“Let’s just say that it never even occurred to me. That I choose to believe that you’d feel some inclination. Or that at least you’d be courteous enough to welcome me with a smile.”
The commissario felt as if he’d been slapped in the face, even if Livia’s gentle voice and her smile couldn’t conceivably suggest any ill will on her part.
“Forgive me; of course I’m happy to see you. I was just wondering why you’d make such an. . unusual choice of location for your holidays, that’s all. Can I order you something?”