The first time was a year and eight months ago. I remember it like it was yesterday-it was raining. One night, after the children were all asleep, I got dressed and went out. It just came over me, I threw on some old thing and I went out, into the pouring rain. I went and stood outside the theater, where I knew they’d be. You know, Brigadier, it’s as if I’d become invisible. Like an angel. If you ask me, the Madonna, and I talk to Her every day, gave me this gift, that I can go unseen. When I want, I dress in dark clothes, I go places, and no one notices me at all. And so I’m free to watch, observe, look, all without being noticed.
That night I saw them, I was telling you. They came out the door, laughing, they’d been to see some comedy. She was beautifuclass="underline" as far as that goes, Commissario, I have to say that Adriana really was beautiful. She was elegant, self-confident: how many men could have resisted her? And he was looking at her.
For me, it was a real discovery: he’d never looked at me that way, not even remotely. Lord knows, my husband loves me, absolutely; but he’d never looked at me that way-never. He was just rapt, as if he were gazing at the sun. She laughed and he was gazing at the sun.
After that night I followed them, every evening. I’d feed the children, give them dinner, and then wait for them to fall asleep: I’m their mamma, my place is to be close to them if they need anything. But then I’d go out and tag along behind them, the two of them, living their lives for a little while, watching them live. It didn’t matter, I was invisible. They were beautiful and happy, the whole city revolved around them. Everyone looked at them, everyone envied them. But they loved each other, and they were happy, and I was happy too because I thought that, a little bit, I deserved credit for the fact that the two of them could be together like that. Because certain kinds of happiness are complete only if they can remain in the shadows; because it’s everyday life that kills happiness.
I must have followed them a hundred times, the two of them went everywhere. I saw that my husband was happy, in a way I’d never seen before.
Then she started getting tired of him.
He didn’t notice. Men are such fools, no offense, Commissario. But a woman is more diabolical, she notices. And I noticed. She started looking around, when he was distracted because he was talking with someone or saying hello, the minute he stepped away for a moment, she would smile, and wink, and take someone into her confidence. She was one of those women who liked having men like her. She attracted attention, she sent signals.
The first time that she cheated on him was seven months ago. He’d stayed at the newspaper, he had to work up a full page on the visit of the Prince of Venice or some other member of the royal family, and she went out all the same, and then she took some man home. I waited out in the street until I saw him leave, practically at dawn. And then there was another, and another still, and the pace was accelerating. Common folk, nobodies. She’d go find them in another part of town, outside of her part of the city; she wanted to make sure that Mario could never find out about them.
Where she lived, well, as you’ve seen: nobody cared what she did. Everyone minds their own business, in that palazzo, and everyone’s careful not to step on anybody else’s toes. The duke never left his bed. I asked the Madonna to gather him to Her quickly, poor man, how he suffers. The duke’s son, every so often a big black car comes and picks him up, and he spends the night away from home. Who knows where he goes. The servants, they only care about a few things: holding on to their jobs and their privileges, that silly doorman with his children who do nothing but eat, the housekeeper who thinks about nothing but the duke and his son.
So I’d see her with these other men during the times of day when my husband was at work, at the newspaper. But if you ask me, Commissario, she wasn’t an evil woman. It’s just the way she was: she liked men. And as long as those men knew enough to stay in their place, my husband was safe and I was happy. It was my job to keep an eye on him, remember? I told you before. That’s my job, the Madonna told me that I’m an angel, my husband’s guardian angel.
But then, one night, I noticed something odd: she sent word to Mario that she wouldn’t be going out, because she didn’t feel well; I know that because I asked the florist when he brought a bouquet of roses to the building, my husband is so thoughtful, if you only knew the flowers he sent me when Andrea, mamma’s little darling, was born. But instead she went out, she went to the theater with a young man. This was ten days ago. A good-looking young man, not much older than a boy, someone I’d seen escorting the occasional rich old woman to parties, when I was standing watch.
And so I started to worry. You know, it’s one thing with a fisherman, it’s quite another thing with a young man from a good family, a young man in a tuxedo who comes from the same social circles. And in fact, even my husband-who is a man, and men never see things until they’ve smacked their noses right up against them, again, forgive me, Commissario-sensed something and caused a scene. I was there, hiding behind the coat check, I told you, I’m invisible and no one ever notices me. And he even took my ring away from her, the ring he’d taken from me when he fell in love with her. And he slapped her in the face, in public.
That’s not right, Brigadier; that’s not right, hitting a woman. That’s not typical of him. It must mean that he was suffering, that he was suffering terribly. And I, his guardian angel, couldn’t let that happen.
He went off, who knows where, to get drunk; but I followed her. I waited for the play to be over, sitting in a seat in the gallery, surrounded by people who stamped their feet, whistled, and applauded, and I never once looked at the stage. I was watching Adriana, who was smiling and whispering and even blowing kisses. And the young man was responding the whole time, because after all the old woman who was with him was fast asleep, head back, mouth open. They met after he accompanied the old woman home; he caught up with her in a restaurant in the Galleria, the two of them dined alone. No one saw them, but someone could have: and my husband, what kind of a fool would that have made him look? You tell me, a man like him, a respected professional, well known throughout the city, would have become a laughing stock. And for what? For an infatuation. Because I’m sure of one thing, Commissario: once she’d scratched that itch, she could not have done anything but go back to him. He’s too handsome, my husband: too important and too cultivated.
So I decided that it was time for me to do something. The angel has to intervene, and mete out justice. I ran home and got Mario’s pistol. My father was an officer in the army, you know, Brigadier. I know how to clean and load weapons, my father used to let me do it when I was a little girl, sitting in his arms. And I keep my house clean and orderly, so I kept the pistol clean and properly oiled.
I certainly never meant to kill her. I only wanted to scare her, I wanted to make her understand that she had the immense good luck to have a wonderful man and that she couldn’t make him unhappy. It was an important thing, you know, Commissario: he might even have done something stupid, if he found that Adriana had a lover. He might have strangled her and ruined his career, or even worse, he could have shot himself in the head. I couldn’t let him do it.
And so I went. I walked through the festival of Santa Maria Regina, you tell me whether the Madonna, on Her own feast day, was likely to leave me to my own devices. Like an angel I passed through and no one even saw me. I hid in the courtyard until I saw her come home. I know the routines in the palazzo very well, I know that she opens the gate, goes inside, and then comes back out to lock up. I waited a while, to make sure that everything was quiet, and then I went in.
And this is where the odd thing happened, Commissario. I just wanted to talk to her. I wanted to explain that what she was doing was sheer folly, and I’d only brought the pistol along to frighten her, perhaps to threaten her: maybe if I could scare her enough, she’d go back to my husband and stop betraying him, so that I could see him once again with those happy eyes I used to see, those sparkling eyes I could never forget. But instead I saw her there, in the shadows, stretched out on the sofa, and I heard her breathing heavily, as if she were snoring. She was tired from the night she’d spent with that other man, maybe she was even drunk. She hadn’t even made it to her own bed.