He headed off toward Palazzo Camparino, on an afternoon so muggy that the movements of the few people out on the street seemed to be in slow motion, as if they were underwater.
In the courtyard he saw Sciarra sweeping, doing his best to stay in the shade of the columns; he had his back to Ricciardi and didn’t see him coming. When the commissario tapped him on the shoulder he lofted straight into the air from a standing start, a comic sight accompanied by the loss of his hat and a high-pitched scream.
“Oooh, Madonna mia, Commissa’, it’s only you. You’re going to give me a heart attack, you know, really! I was lost in thought, I was. .”
“Forgive me. See if young master Ettore is in, I’d like to talk to him.”
The little man was panting, with one hand on his chest and the hat he’d picked up from the ground in the other hand; after brushing it off as best he could, he put it back on his head. In an apologetic tone he said:
“There’s so much sweeping to do, there’s always dirt on the pavement out here. The young master says that I’m supposed to water the hydrangeas now, in the heat of the afternoon: but I can’t do that, climbing up and down the stairs with a heavy pail of water in this heat. So I water the plants in the evening, and I just pray that he doesn’t notice. Yes, Commissa’, he’s here. He’s upstairs, surrounded by his plants, as always. Just a minute, I’ll walk you up, and let him know.”
Ricciardi replied:
“I just want to stop by the duchess’s anteroom first.”
He followed the doorman up the first flight of stairs and stopped on the landing, waiting for him to open the gate. He sensed how uneasy the man was, but that was certainly par for the course. Everyone was uneasy around him: Ponte, the other policemen, sometimes even Maione. He was the only one of his kind, he thought. From another planet, the moon or Mars, or another star. Condemned to spend his life alone, and watch the others avoid him like the plague.
He took one step into the room, which was now clean and tidy, as if nothing had ever happened; but something had happened, and evidence of the fact was Adriana’s corpse, still visible, even if it was gradually fading, speaking to him in a subdued voice from the same corner where he’d first seen her six long days ago.
“The ring, the ring, you’ve taken the ring, the ring is missing,” murmured the woman’s dead and swollen mouth, her strong white teeth bared, with the black tip of her tongue extended between them. Ricciardi stood still, staring at her, his hands in his trouser pockets, his shirt collar unbuttoned and his tie loose. He wondered why her last thought should have been for her piece of jewelry, instead of some final curse or a note of regret.
Turning his back on the corpse he gestured to Sciarra and followed him upstairs to Ettore’s apartment. The duke’s son was on the terrace, leaning over a yellow rose bush. His back was to the two men, as he worked carefully with a pair of shears to trim the branches, with the utmost attention. After a moment, without giving any sign of having noticed that Sciarra was waiting, hat in hand, to announce Ricciardi, he said:
“Prego, Commissario, come right on in. Do you know the story of the yellow roses? Sciarra, you’re free to go.”
With unmistakable relief, the doorman moved off quickly: it was clear that he enjoyed neither the commissario’s nor the young master’s company. Ricciardi stood at the threshold of the terrace.
“No, I don’t know the story. Should I?”
Ettore stood up and turned to look at his guest, mopping his sweaty brow with his sleeve.
“No, I imagine you wouldn’t. It’s an Arabic story: Mohammed suspected that his favorite wife, Aisha, a beautiful woman, might be betraying him. And so he asked an angel how he could find out the truth; there are angels, you know, in almost all religions. Well, the angel told him to bring the woman some red roses, and then to dip them in water: if the flowers changed color, it meant that the woman had been unfaithful to him. Mohammed brought her the flowers and arranged for her to drop them into the river: the roses turned yellow. The color of jealousy, of love betrayed.”
Ricciardi heard Sofia Capece’s voice in his mind, as she claimed to be the angel of death. And he thought about jealousy, which had driven her so mad that she had decided to punish Adriana for betraying her own husband.
“And what happened to the favorite? Did someone shoot her between the eyes?”
Ettore laughed.
“No, of course not. She was kicked out of the house, that’s all. She was really rather lucky, wasn’t she?”
“But the duchess wasn’t lucky. She met quite a different fate.”
The man’s expression hardened.
“She was a bitch, Commissario. A vile, stupid bitch. She did whatever her diseased appetites suggested to her, she had no interest in anyone else’s feelings. If you expect thanks for having identified her murderer, don’t look at me. In fact, her lover’s wife has my pity and comprehension: she did what a great many of us ought to have done long ago, believe me.”
Ricciardi gave him a cool reply:
“It’s not up to you, or Sofia Capece, or anyone else to decide whether someone has the right to live or not. No matter how dastardly that person may be.”
The young duke shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“The fact remains that someone, as you’ve seen for yourself, took that right. There’s another thing though: I’ve heard about your. . nocturnal strolls, and a certain visit you made to a building not far from where you live. As well as a lengthy conversation.”
Ricciardi nodded. He hadn’t expected Ettore to make any reference to the matter that concerned him, nor had he decided what he would do if he did: it had no conection to the investigation. All the same, the man clearly felt the need to talk about it. In fact, he continued:
“You see, Commissario, in a sense it’s almost a relief to be able to talk about it. I understand why Achille would do it. There are times when I want to jump out of my skin from the urge to talk about it. Like everyone who’s. . who’s ever been in love, I imagine.”
Ricciardi said:
“These aren’t matters that concern me, Musso. I needed to understand, find out the reason for certain things, and that’s all. Once I’ve got a clear picture, the rest is of no interest to me.”
“I know, I know. And I thank you for your sensitivity. But now that you know, let me tell you something: if you keep them in long enough, eventually emotions will suppurate and poison the blood. I’ve always been the way I am, you know. And I’ve never said a word about it to a soul. I’ve gone to bordellos, with fellow university students, to keep the others from talking about me, making hints about me. And then, once I got home, I would vomit for hours, out of sheer disgust. My mother would come over to me and stroke my head, without a word. She knew everything, I think: a mother can guess about certain things. And she loved me tenderly, no matter what. Not my father. But, then, he might not have loved me in any case.”
Ricciardi said nothing: there was nothing to be said. In the heat of the afternoon that was turning into evening, the insects buzzed and the scent of jasmine was intoxicating. Ettore went on:
“And I fought it, you can believe me. Nothing ever happened. I fell in love with colleagues, classmates, but I turned my back on love. I ran away, I broke off friendships. And I hated my own name, the name of this house, my father who was imposing upon me a nature that did not belong to me. Only my mother held me close. Only her tender love. And then she fell sick.”
“And Adriana came into your home,” Ricciardi added.