It was just then that Maione, before heading off downhill toward the harbor, recognized Capece’s silhouette, his face covered by dark glasses and a downturned hat brim. He recognized him from his posture more than his facial features: his shoulders hunched and his legs slightly stiffened by the terrible psychic suffering of the past few days. He signaled to Ricciardi, who nodded back and set off after him: he was interested to see where he’d go.
You follow him, and you do your best to ensure that he won’t see you. It’s not a problem for you, you’ve become quite the expert in going unnoticed; for so long, you’ve simply erased yourself out of your own thoughts. Your oblivion has given you this one last gift: it’s made you invisible.
You carefully selected a dark, nondescript dress, a hat that’s out of fashion, your shapeless old shoes. You blended into the crowd. You recognized him just before you saw him, you can still sense him with your flesh, you have no need for eyes or ears when it comes to him.
You watched him for a long time, from a distance. You saw the pain in the small, unimportant gestures. No one could understand and in fact, no one did: only you understood. You smiled as you realized that, in that piazza crowded with people, there were really only three people: him, you, and her. As always, the way you’ve been accustomed to having it, for years now. You followed him as he walked, under the implacable sun, without stopping, without staggering. She takes a step, he takes a step. You take a step. And of course, no one saw you. No one recognized you. It was just the three of you.
But for her, it was the last time. You smile again, under your hat, while the heat makes the walls of the distant palazzi shimmer.
After all, you owed him that much.
Ricciardi stepped closer to Don Pierino.
“Father, I just wanted to say hello. I imagine this was no ordinary funeral for you.”
The little priest was sweating copiously beneath his tunic and his vestments. He had a deeply sad expression on his face, uncustomary for him.
“As you know, Commissario, a funeral is always painful, it’s a natural thing. It’s the very commemoration of pain and sorrow, of abandonment, of absence. It’s my job to console, to make it clear in a dark moment that the separation is only temporary. There’s no death, there’s no absence. We’ll all meet again, in a better world. You may not believe it, Commissario, but it’s possible to see the dead again.”
Ricciardi grimaced.
“And who says that I don’t believe it, Father? No one knows better than I do that the dead don’t vanish, that they leave a visible trace of their sorrow and pain. It’s to provide solace for that grief that we exist. We, and the law.”
Don Pierino shook his head.
“There’s another justice that cancels grief, Commissario. And it’s not of this world. In any case, this time I felt practically useless. Certainly, I saw a sister of mine down the road that leads to a more beautiful home. But all around me I sensed neither love nor grief. Not enough, at least. And no one was offering comfort, except for the good-hearted Mariuccia Sciarra who suffers the grief of simple souls, which vanishes as quickly as it came.”
This was exactly the aspect that Ricciardi wanted to explore in greater depth.
“And yet, Father, it seems strange to me. The duchess was certainly not well loved; but from what I heard she wasn’t a bad person either, not the sort of person who had done so much evil that she’d have no one close to her. Not even in the midst of all these people.”
The priest was still wearing the same sad expression.
“Sometimes we do evil without even knowing it. It’s one of the devil’s cleverest tricks, Commissario: it surprises me that you, who deal with it on a daily basis, wouldn’t know that. He mixes evil in with good, pain in with love. And he conceals it, he makes it indistinguishable. And so, if you love without regard for anything, you can cause pain to someone else; by laughing you can make someone cry. Think about it, Commissario. I wonder if the solution to your doubts lies in this fact.”
After saying these words, Don Pierino climbed onto the seat of the hearse and set off for Poggioreale. This last part of the journey was for him alone.
I followed you. I waited for you to go out, I knew you thought I was with my friends. But I lurked in a doorway and I waited.
I’ve learned to recognize the tone of what you say even when you don’t speak, you know that, Mamma? The expression of your eyes, the movement of a hand. The rooms you go into, the rooms you avoid. You learn over time. Then we think about the same things, even if we don’t talk about them: and when we think about the same things, we think the same way.
This morning I knew that you meant to go out and I even knew where you were going to go. I understood it from the creaking of your dresser door, the armoire that you never open, the one with your old dresses. I heard you climb up on the chair to get something from your hat rack. I even heard you sing under your breath, when you thought I was still asleep. And I was right.
Step by step, on the far sidewalk, hiding behind other people: but I could have just walked ahead of you, certain as I was where you’d be going. I got there: all those people. I almost lost you. But he was there too, I saw him even before I saw you. And I found a place to wait, at the far end of the room, I watched the two of you, close and yet so distant. I followed you both, step by step, again, without losing sight of you once, each of you with your grief, each of you with your absence. And me, with mine.
We were all walking together. But each of us was walking behind a different funeral procession, Mamma.
Each of us mourning a different death.
Maione had followed Capece through the vicoli, and it quickly became clear to him that the man was wandering without a destination.
Every so often the journalist would stop, pull out a handkerchief, and mop his face; sweat and tears, thought the brigadier. At a certain point he saw him slip into a cantina that sold wine. He waited for him for half an hour, and when it became clear that he wouldn’t be coming out in any condition to do anything dangerous to himself or anyone else, he left.
The duchess’s funeral had been a truly saddening experience for Maione. It reminded him of his own Luca’s funeral, which he could still remember through the mists of the horrifying pain that he’d felt then and still felt now. Fewer people had attended, perhaps, and he certainly couldn’t afford eight horses or a band playing the funeral march: but he was certain of one thing-the love that he’d felt surrounding him, from his family, his colleagues, and the entire quarter. He thought back to the interview with the duke, the gasping voice, the terrible heat, the suffocating odor of death in the room; but he also remembered the man’s words, which had struck home to his soul. A man dies when his life no longer means anything to anyone else. Maione’s simple soul had continued to reflect on this phrase, uttered by a man who was about to depart this world in utter silence. He’d decided that if this principle was true, then so was its opposite; in that case his Luca-whose off-kilter laugh he heard every day of his life, whose cap, tipped back on the back of his head at a rakish and decidedly non-regulation angle, he could see vanishing around every corner, whose expression he recognized every day on the faces of the boy’s mother, brothers, and sisters-had never really died at all.
Two hours later, as he left the sixth tavern, Maione finally decided that this investigative tactic wouldn’t lead to anything for a number of reasons. He couldn’t hope to overcome the mistrust that the proprietors felt toward the police, since every one of them had something to hide or at least something to be ashamed of; the customers that came in every night were too numerous and unpredictable for them to remember someone who, in all likelihood, was also not particularly interested in chatting; and last of all, the ones who were willing to talk to him still felt they had more in common with a man wanted by the law than they did with a policeman, and they tailored their answers accordingly. Conclusion: he’d sweated like a pig, he’d salivated gallons at the sight of all kinds of delicious food, and he’d come up with nothing.