“That’s right, the bitch arrived. And she took my mother’s place, even before she was dead. Did you know, Commissario, that she slipped into my father’s bed while my mother was still alive, and in horrible pain from the tumor that finally carried her off? They even gave her this extra dose of suffering. Those two filthy beasts. And fate paid them back: killing her violently, and him slowly, little by little, day by day.”
Ricciardi felt a faint shiver run up his back; the horror of that hatred was far worse than the sight of the murdered dead.
“But you didn’t kill her. Not you.”
Ettore shook his head.
“No. I don’t have that kind of strength. I’m not a man of action: I’m a damned theorist, a writer. But I hated her, no question that I hated her. I yearned for her death every minute of every day. She tried to seduce me almost immediately, which was her way of sealing alliances. I found her, half-naked, in my bedroom one night, not long after my mother died. When I threw her out, do you know what she did? She burst out laughing. First she was just surprised, and then she started laughing. She knew that if a man rejected her, he had to be. . like me; perhaps nothing of the sort had ever happened to her. And from that day forward, she never missed a chance to humiliate me, to mock me. She even told my father, who had never noticed or had simply pretended not to notice. And we haven’t spoken since.”
Ricciardi asked, in a flat voice: “Talk to me about the ring.”
Ettore reeled, as if he’d just been slapped.
“The ring? How do you know about the ring?”
Ricciardi replied, without changing his expression:
“The autopsy revealed a dislocated middle finger on the left hand; it also found that it had been dislocated after she was killed because there was no hematoma. Clearly, someone had removed the ring that the duchess wore, and this someone couldn’t be anyone but you: the only one who returned home after she was killed.”
Ettore stared into the empty air, as if he were speaking to himself.
“I love him. I love him like I’ve never loved anyone in my life, in a way I never even thought was possible. We hide our love, we’ve tried to break it off a thousand times. I’ve fought against it, we’ve fought against it. But you can’t fight love, Commissario. Because if you fight it you’re bound to lose. Inevitably. And so you need to take the initiative, and you need to pluck this love, the way you might one of these flowers. When you love, then you find that you love the world as well, and you want to sing, and shout, and laugh about nothing at all, in the light of day. But instead I have to hide, leave at night and come back before dawn, like a wolf, like a criminal. That night I came home happy, and I found her there, the bitch: dead on the sofa, with a bullet hole between the eyes and the gate hanging open. And her hand dangling, with my mother’s ring on her finger. I’ve always known that ring, as long I can remember, every caress I’ve ever received was with that ring. The ring my mother was married with. That woman wasn’t fit to look at it, but she wore it as if it had always been hers. Yes, I tore it off her finger, with all the strength in my body. And I kept it. It’s right there, in that drawer: every now and then I take it out and I polish it. But just by wearing it, that bitch made it dirty for all time. It’s no longer my mother’s wedding ring. It’s as if she killed her a second time.”
XLIV
Apparently, regulations required that any woman sitting alone at a café must and should be besieged. Livia actually found it amusing, as she sat at a sidewalk table outside Gambrinus, waiting for Ricciardi to pass by on the Via Chiaia, according to what she had learned at police headquarters.
A euphoric and deeply obsequious Garzo informed her that the investigation had been closed. When she happened to run into the deputy police chief at the main entrance to headquarters, she’d made it very clear to him that she was there to confer with the commissario; but Garzo made sure not to miss this opportunity to chat up the former Signora Vezzi who enjoyed, as he knew very well, highly placed friends in Rome. And so he unreeled a succession of phrases-“why how lovely you look” and “what a pleasure to see you again in Naples” and “the salt air must be agreeing with you” and “what’s the latest news from our beloved national capital?”-but also, once he sensed the signora’s interest in the commissario and the possible favorable implications that that might have for him, he unfurled a daisy chain of generous compliments for his subordinate’s skills and achievements.
By the time she managed to wriggle out of the conversation, Livia had obtained the information that Ricciardi would in any case be back in his office that evening and that, in accordance with a route that had almost become a ritual with him, he’d be stopping at Gambrinus for a quick cup of coffee; if the signora wished to see him, then that was the best place for her to wait. Otherwise, Garzo concluded, he’d be pleased to send Ricciardi to see her, posthaste.
In a way, she found that man to be a much more asphyxiating presence than the men who, taking turns in a minuet of glances, sighs, and broad winks, were now vying for her attention at the café. And for that matter, the woman’s beauty, elegance, and solitude were irresistible elements of attraction to the dandies and gagà who killed time there, smoking and drinking. A light veil dangled from her hat, covering her eyes and leaving only a view of fleshy, sensual lips painted bright red; her body was tightly wrapped in a narrow-waisted dark-blue dress with a white-leather belt: her shoes, handbag, and elbow-length gloves were likewise in white leather. Her generous bosom and long legs were also unmistakable, even if they were technically covered.
She’d chosen an outdoor table, lest she miss the commissario as he passed, and she was watching the world go by with feigned interest as at least ten men devoured her with their eyes.
Ten men and a woman, to be exact.
The first shadows of evening were stretching out into Giulio Colombo’s hat shop, but he didn’t even notice them; nor did he hear the customer standing across the counter from him when she asked for a discount, and in fact she was forced to repeat the request in an even more doleful tone of voice. Giulio Colombo was focused on something else: he was staring at his daughter who in turn stood, motionless, looking out the plateglass window like a tiger downwind, laying in ambush for an unsuspecting gazelle.
That girl was starting to worry him. She’d never spoken to him explicitly about her state of mind, but it wasn’t hard to guess, knowing her character as he did, knowing how similar she was to him; for some time now he’d been catching her with reddened eyes, as if she’d been crying, or else with a suddenly truculent expression. She was clearly being tormented by unusual thoughts, but she seemed unwilling to talk about it; nor did her father, reserved and discreet as he was, feel able to ask prying questions. As for the girl’s mother, she hadn’t noticed a thing. She was dismissive when Giulio shared his worries with her: she’s probably finally starting to fall in love with Sebastiano, she had replied, that’s all. These are the little bumps in the road of love, she’ll get over it.
But that’s not the way it seemed to Giulio. As far as he could tell, the situation was steadily worsening, day after day; and it was obvious to him that the Fiore boy wasn’t even slightly in tune with his daughter’s state of mind. For the past few days, Enrica had been coming into the store systematically every afternoon, and she stayed for an hour, gazing out the window, coolly dismissing the young man whenever he came in on some pretext to talk with her.
Deep inside, he had already dismissed the idea of this engagement ever working out, ever since the night he’d caught the look on Enrica’s face as the young man was just about to sip his espresso with the disgusting slurping noise that he always made; it was a ferocious glare, and he could hardly blame her for it: it annoyed Giulio, and no one was pushing him to marry the boy. Just then, as Enrica stood peering out throught the plateglass window, he saw that same ferocious glare in her eyes.