“Thanks for the advice,” said Ricciardi. “I’ll leave when I’ve been given the information I need.”
“Maybe you didn’t understand: you need to get out of here right away, otherwise we’ll see you out in our own way, which will even spare you the trouble of taking the stairs.”
The threat was accompanied by a nod of the head toward the window. A single nervous laugh was heard, and was immediately stifled; the mocking smile on the man’s face faded. Ricciardi acted as if he hadn’t heard a word.
“I’m here to talk to Ettore Musso di Camparino.”
The other man took a step back, as if he’d just been slapped; a confused muttering arose from all the little knots of men. Many of them exchanged what looked like frightened glances.
The man recovered and took a step forward, lips tight, eyes wide, angry. He laid a hand on Ricciardi’s arm: both of the commissario’s hands were still in his pockets:
“Now that’s enough! I told you that you need to beat it, and. .”
From behind the group of men, which had formed a menacing circle around the two of them, came a calm voice:
“Mastrogiacomo, cool down. That’s enough now.”
The little crowd parted as if a lion tamer had just snapped his whip. Standing in a doorway, through which a desk piled high with papers could be seen, was a thin, smartly dressed man who looked to be around forty. The squadrista took his hand off Ricciardi’s arm as if it was red-hot, and suddenly looked very confused.
“Yessir. But, forgive me, Dotto’, I thought that. .”
The man at the door looked at Ricciardi with curiosity. He gestured vaguely in Mastrogiacomo’s direction, and the man fell suddenly silent. Without taking his eyes off the commissario, he said:
“Bring two coffees to my office, please. Prego, Commissario: come this way.”
And Ricciardi followed him into his room.
The large-bloomed rose is very beautifuclass="underline" a solitary flower that only blooms in pairs. It requires a great deal of care. I have to make sure it’s exposed to constant humidity, because it’s very delicate; if it’s too dry, it won’t bloom properly. There’s nothing sadder than finding crumpled, heat-scorched leaves and petals on the ground.
Flowers are sensuous. The color and texture seem to be that of flesh, velvety, iridescent. And the care you devote to them should be the same as if you were caring for the flesh of a loved one: devout, impassioned. You must maintain the silent spell of love, sprinkling the flowers with drops of water, watching as they pearl up on the convex shapes of the petals, like beads of sweat on your lips after making love.
Last night I dreamed that I’d been locked up. Without me here to care for them, all the flowers shed their petals and the plants withered and died, only to be replaced by rapacious wild weeds. If they ever did cart me off, no one would tend to you, my exquisite roses; or to the begonias, or the oleanders. It’s quite sufficient to see the cold and indifferent care that is bestowed on the hydrangeas, down in the courtyard, in spite of all the instructions I constantly give that dull-witted doorman with his oversized schnozzola and his tribe of children. What useless people.
All care would be lost, every last shred of honor pertaining to this house, if they were to take me away. You, too, Mamma, in the hereafter, would suffer, I’m sure of it. And yet I wouldn’t say a word. I wouldn’t try to defend myself.
Because love, Mamma, comes before anything else. And if I had to defend anything at all, I’d defend my love.
My first, great love.
The man led Ricciardi into his office and shut the door. The room was shrouded in shadows, the shutters on the windows were pulled to and partially closed; the furnishings were limited to a desk and two chairs. The walls were covered with shelving that rose all the way to the ceiling, piled high with fat files marked with letters and numbers. Facing the door he’d just walked through, the commissario saw another closed door, emblazoned with a portrait of a helmeted Mussolini.
His host sat down and pointed Ricciardi to the other chair. He stared at him intently, with his small, expressionless blue eyes. After a minute he spoke:
“Now then: Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, commissario with the mobile squad for the past three years or so. Born in Fortino, province of Salerno, thirty-one years ago. Orphaned of both father and mother. You’re an odd duck, did you know that? Filthy rich, acres and acres worked by tenant farmers, with a vast income. And yet you work for pennies, really, and you show no signs of seeking advancement in your career. An interesting man, I’d say.”
In his turn, Ricciardi leveled his gaze at the man speaking to him, without so much as blinking. The man’s accent was northern, possibly Ligurian or Piedmontese; his voice was chilly and remote, like a scientist delivering a lecture.
“You know who I am. I’m impressed, and even flattered by all this attention. Would it be too much for me to ask you to tell me who you are?”
“My name is Pivani, Achille Pivani. I’m. . let’s just say that I’m a Party official, a temporary guest in this lovely city of yours.”
He fell silent again, as he drummed his fingers lightly on his desktop. He sat straight-backed, his shoulders not touching the back of the chair. A muscle twitched on his temple, as if he were chewing without moving his jaw. After a short while, he asked Ricciardi:
“May I ask what you’re doing here?”
The commissario smirked.
“What’s this? You know everything about me and yet you don’t know what I just asked your oversized trained ape?”
Pivani shook his head.
“I know, I know. I owe you an apology, even if, believe me, I had nothing to do with it. Mastrogiacomo. . some of our militants are eager to please me, in a sense. And so they take certain initiatives, in keeping with their nature. They’re like a bunch of mischievous children, street urchins, really.”
Buffoonish clowns, thought Ricciardi.
“No, Pivani. They’re not street urchins: they’re criminals. With blood on their hands. It doesn’t matter what happened to me last night, but what they’re doing every day, and they’re becoming bolder and bolder. And they get this boldness from you and those like you. You’re their accomplices, and you know it. If not actually the masterminds behind them.”
The commissario’s tirade, even though it was hissed in something close to a whisper, had been violent and unexpected. Pivani blinked. He seemed to think it over, then he admitted:
“You have a point; I’ve even told them at the highest level that these men can become a problem. You must understand that even an elevated and noble idea like Fascism can become, in the hands of some ordinary idiot, a weapon to settle old personal grudges. It’s already happened elsewhere, and it’s starting to happen here, too. But that’s not our intent, please believe me. When we find out about something, we take care of it ourselves.”
Ricciardi had no intention of showing any sympathy.
“Then you know that your man Mastrogiacomo, or whatever his name is, and his friends, murdered that unemployed man in Via Emanuele Filiberto. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do know. Even though I have no evidence, or even a criminal complaint.”
Pivani leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
“Are you certain of it? Absolutely certain?”
Ricciardi nodded. The man picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote something on a sheet of paper.
“I’ll take care of this, Commissario. I’m not here to shed blood.”
“Then why are you here? Aside from bringing order and civilization, of course.”
Pivani gave no sign of having caught the irony.
“My. . organization is assigned to identify the enemies of the Party. You should think of me, of us, as. . colleagues, in a certain sense. Except, we’re less fortunate than you. We can’t work in the light of day, the way you do.”