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Don Pierino’s gaze was focused unwaveringly upon him, and the expression on his face betrayed no emotion: if he’d sensed the priest’s pity, he would have stopped. But now the little man said: “What a terrible jailer you are to yourself. I’d like to ask you to give yourself peace, but I can’t. No one can do that. But I do want to tell you one thing: there is no redemption without grief and pain. You can only free yourself if you know that you’re in chains. That awareness is the first step.”

They sat in silence for a long time: a small portly priest, with dark eyes that glowed, and a policeman on the verge of despair, whose transparent green eyes seemed incapable of formulating questions for his answers. Then Ricciardi shook himself and said:

“That’s not why I came, Father. I didn’t come to bore you by talking about myself. Forget I did it, please. I’m here for another reason: I believe that the next few months are going to be terrible for the Capece family. The father isn’t used to being with the children, and the son has some very serious reasons to feel resentment toward his father. I urge you, therefore, to stay in touch with them. You’re the only person I know who can do it. I’m going to ask you as a personal favor.”

Don Pierino sighed and said nothing. Then, with a smile, he said: “Rest assured, Commissario. That’s my job: I thank you for bringing this to my attention. But I have something to ask you in return. And you can’t tell me no.”

Ricciardi looked at him quizzically.

“Ask away, Father. I’ve piled up a considerable debt of gratitude with you: if for no other reason than the talk I’ve forced you to listen to tonight.”

“Actually the chat we’ve had tonight is the nicest gift you could have offered me. And I’ll be interested to learn the upshot: neighborhood priests are curious. But what I want to ask you is something else. Do you know about the ’Nzegna festival?”

Ricciardi shook his head no.

“The ’Nzegna festival isn’t a religious thing. It’s held in the Borgo di Santa Lucia; it’s a folk festival, and it has some truly enjoyable traditions around it. But it does begin with a religious celebration, because there’s a commemoration of the finding of the Madonna della Catena, Our Lady of the Chain, an ancient painting that is kept in a church that bears the same name, a church that is of course in the quarter of Santa Lucia. It’s next Sunday, at midday. This year, the ceremony will be officiated by yours truly, and in fact I’ve just finished preparing my sermon. I would be happy if you attended.”

Ricciardi decided that he really couldn’t turn down a request from that man, especially considering that he’d just asked him to look after the Capece family. Or what was left of it.

“All right, Father. I’m not working this Sunday, because I worked on Sunday last week. I’ll be there.”

The priest clapped his hands in delight.

“Oh. Bravo, Commissario. That’s the way I like you! There will be lots of people and lots of singing and dancing: for once, you can enjoy a party. And one more thing: remember that there is something worse than remorse, and that’s regret. Let me tell you, because every day, from dawn to dusk, I listen to people in confession asking God for a forgiveness they can’t seem to give themselves. If it’s necessary to take the initiative for once in your life, do it now. So that you don’t spend all the years left to you on earth wondering what would have happened if you’d just had a little more courage.”

Ricciardi got to his feet; he seemed to be about to answer, but then his mouth snapped shut. He said:

“You don’t know the whole story, Father. There are other considerations, other. . motives that prevent me from taking certain initiatives. Let it be; I already told you, forget about the raving I’ve done this evening. Maybe I’m just tired; this hasn’t been a simple investigation. See you on Sunday, then.”

XLII

When Ricciardi arrived in police headquarters the following morning, he was ready to take on the sensation he felt every time he wrapped up a murder investigation: a mixture of nostalgia, disappointment, and anger.

Nostalgia was the most absurd sentiment of the three: to some extent the commissario missed thinking about the investigation. It was always something of an obsession, something that was ongoing no matter what else he might do during the course of the day; his mind was working incessantly on the solution of the crime, and when this constant thought vanished, he missed it. It was as if a room cluttered with one enormous piece of furniture were suddenly emptied, revealing itself to be drab and deserted, just like before.

The disappointment came from the experience of once again looking out on the inferno of the human soul and the corruption of the passions: the same as before, nothing new.

Last of all, the anger came from the forced realization, yet again, of the pointlessness of what he was doing: in fact, what had he achieved by discovering that Sofia Capece had killed Adriana Musso di Camparino? He had merely ensured that now two children would have a mother locked up in a criminal mental asylum, while the duchess remained dead.

Sometimes, he thought, as he wrote up the report of the murderess’s confession, the solution is much worse than the problem. And there’s never a solution for the solution. By a process of mental association, the figure of the victim appeared before him, as he was condemned to see her.

This is how it always was: the following day he faced his reckoning with the Deed. Aside from confessions and evidence, proof and details, the Deed itself presented its invoice to his soul and demanded attention. He glimpsed Adriana again, beautiful and proud even as a corpse, with the bullet hole between her eyes, her arms hanging limp at her sides. And the phrase, repeated obsessively:

The ring, the ring, you’ve taken the ring, the ring is missing.

And so, in the end, the contest between the two dueling rings had gone to the one that Capece had torn off her ring finger at the theater. It was clear: the duchess had recognized Sofia right before dying and her mind had begun to establish a link with the object that had once belonged to her killer; before the bullet tore through her brain and put an end to this and any other thought.

And yet, Ricciardi mused, someone had torn the other ring off the now-dead duchess’s finger; and Modo’s autopsy mentioned signs of violence on her body, as if there had been a struggle that Sofia Capece had said nothing about. True: the woman was insane, and it might well be that the gunshot had come in the wake of a fight. Perhaps the madwoman simply forgot that part after emerging victorious, or maybe she chose not to say anything about it.

After lightly rapping, Maione opened the door and came in.

“Good morning, Commissa’. How are we doing, this fine day? That’s some heat we’ve got, eh? Are you writing the report on the confession?”

Ricciardi greeted the brigadier with a nod of the head.

“Yes, I’m writing it. And the more I think about it, the sadder it seems to me for those two kids, who didn’t used to have a father and now don’t have a mother either.”

Maione shrugged.

“Eh, I know it, it’s a sad thing. You’re right. But on the other hand, someone killed her: the duchess. And at a certain point I was afraid that it might well have been the boy, Andrea.”

Sure, thought Ricciardi: Andrea. He was a strong, powerful young man, and he could certainly have helped his mother in what she did at Palazzo Camparino. And then the woman could have covered up for him, or even forgotten that he was there too. It was very possible.

Just as he was about to answer Maione, the door swung open and a euphoric and highly scented Garzo made his entrance, followed by Ponte who took turns looking at the floor and the ceiling.

“Ricciardi, bravo, bravissimo, a thousand times bravo! You were brilliant, I have to say it: truly brilliant. And bravo to you too, Maione.”