The boy leaned forward, turning pale and compressing his lips. His face had taken on the feral rage of a cornered animal, forced to attack in self-defense. His voice was a hiss.
“Whoever the victim, you say. But do you know who she really was, your poor pitiful murder victim? She was someone who took away the happiness of an entire family just to satisfy a whim. Now you see him crying like a baby. But do you know that that man-yes, that man: I will never again consider him to be my father-hasn’t come home in months? Yes, I know what my mother told you. But she’s lost her mind, and that’s just one more piece of fun that the signora, her ladyship, decided to have with us. Now she’s dead. Because she needed to die. And that’s all.”
Once he was done talking, he slumped back into his chair and stared down at the tabletop again. Maione wondered whether he’d really seen and heard it, so sudden had the metamorphosis been. Ricciardi went on, in a harsher tone of voice:
“You can think whatever you like. But we want to know who shot the duchess; and the fact that you hid the pistol tells us beyond the shadow of a doubt that you know.”
A long silence ensued. All around them, the crowd was beginning to swell, the Friday night strollers were reaching some kind of crescendo. The shops were nearly all still open and the ladies with their big fans were lingering before the display windows, commenting on the prices and models of dresses and hats. At last, Andrea spoke.
“It was me. I couldn’t take my mother’s madness any longer, her sobbing. I couldn’t take the shame that my father had heaped on us; the fact that everyone knew, even at school. I couldn’t stand the fact that my little sister still loved him, after what he’d done.”
Another silence. Ricciardi stared at the boy, taking in the harsh glare, the clamped lips. Maione, as always, seemed to be half-asleep; after a while, it was Maione who broke in.
“So, you waited for school to be over and you went to the palazzo, is that it? And you went all the way into the bedroom, where you shot the duchess, who was still sleeping. Four shots, you fired; and then you took to your heels.”
The boy nodded, still staring into the middle distance. Ricciardi shot the brigadier a rapid glance, encouraging him to go on.
“So explain this to me, how did you manage to get away? Why didn’t anyone see you?”
The boy answered in a firm voice, as if he were talking about what he’d done at school that morning:
“There was no one there. Maybe the doorman was at lunch. The front door was wide open, it was hot out, and at that time of day there was no one walking in the street.”
Maione shook his head, sadly.
“Guagliò-youngster-the duchess wasn’t killed during the day; and only one shot was fired. She wasn’t killed in the bedroom, either. None of this was in the newspaper, and for once we owe a debt of gratitude to those who decided to eliminate crime reporting. No, it wasn’t you.”
Andrea’s expression remained unchanged, as if he hadn’t heard a word. But one tear did suddenly course down his cheek. Frustration, thought Ricciardi.
“What can I tell you? I could insist, say that I got my facts backwards. I’m sixteen years old, the punishment would be a slap on the wrist, wouldn’t it? But then I’d get tripped up again, and again: because I wasn’t there, when the bitch was murdered. So I have to admit it. It was him. It was my father.”
Maione settled back in his chair. At last, the case was solved: for once the murderer was the prime suspect. He turned to look at Ricciardi and recognized his expression; he immediately realized that he hadn’t understood a thing.
“No. It wasn’t him. We have an alibi for him, we know where he was at the time of the murder. And we even know who it really was: who you’re protecting. But we need to hear you say it. To keep you from being implicated in any of this, to make sure you come out of this story free of guilt, to make sure we can forget the fact that you hid the pistol. And also to make sure that you understand clearly that a murder is a murder: even when the murderer is perhaps more innocent than the victim. Who was it?”
In the cheerful din of Friday, as the afternoon slowly faded into the evening and Via Chiaia filled up with noise and hopes, Andrea’s face resumed its age and dissolved into grief and uncontrolled sobbing. Through his tears he looked at Ricciardi and said:
“Can’t you see what she’s been through? Don’t you see that the pain and grief have driven her insane? That she doesn’t know what she’s doing and she never will, my poor mamma?”
XL
Prego, Commissario, come right on in. Have a seat, Brigadier: right here, get comfortable on the sofa. Let me shine a little light in here, I’ll open the curtains, the days are starting to get a little shorter; but it’s still hot out, eh? Such terrible heat, you can’t even breathe.
Can I offer you something? And the two policemen outside, can’t they come in? Do they have to stay by the door? You know, we don’t entertain as much as we used to. There was a time when this apartment was like a seaport; my husband was a hub for culture and politics. If you’d seen the prominent personalities who came to see us, you would have been astonished. The children were little, perhaps they don’t even remember the comings and goings, the hubbub and bustle, right, Andrea, Mamma’s little treasure? I was never done making coffee, tea, cookies, and biscottini. Never once did he call ahead, my husband. But I never complained, in fact, I was proud of this man that everyone wanted to know.
Have you met him, my husband? Ah, of course, you were here with him just the other day. He’s a little depressed now, but you’ll see, he’ll be as good as new before long. Because now he’s back in his place, back where he belongs. You see, Commissario, I think that everyone has their own place: and they can only be happy when they’re in their place. Any other place leaves them feeling incomplete and, therefore, unhappy. My husband always used to tell me: Sofia, you are my wisdom. Because Sofia means wisdom, in ancient Greek: Sophia. Did you know that? That’s what he used to say to me. Before. What I mean to say is, before Adriana.
Really, you don’t want a thing? An espresso? You shouldn’t think that I simply accepted it at first, the thing with Adriana. In fact, the first year I was miserable. How I suffered! Like a dog, the way that any woman feels when she loses her man. I fought, of course, what else would I do? At first, I was horrible, I’d make a scene every night, broken dishes, him with his head down, saying nothing. Then I tried using honey, I did my best to lure him back, you must know how a wife would try to lure back a husband, I can’t explain it to you right now, with the youngster listening, but you’re men and you know what I’m talking about.
And I started cooking all the things that he loved best; but he never came home for dinner, he never came home. If you only knew how many kilos of the finest food I was forced to throw away, the stray dogs in the neighborhood were feasting like kings. Here I was, night after night, sitting at the kitchen table and wondering, why, what had I done?
But I hadn’t done a thing, Commissario, not a thing. I’d stayed here, in my place, in my apartment, with my children, waiting for my man to come home. I hadn’t done anything. You can’t imagine what happens to an abandoned woman as she waits. It’s as if she’s come down with some contagious disease. Everyone, friends, girlfriends, relatives-they look at you pityingly, then they try to open your eyes, then one by one they move away, avoiding you as if your sores and wounds disgusted them. And you’re left alone, with no one but yourself, trying to find a reason why, a reason that doesn’t exist.