“What? What do you mean, since the duchess passed away?” asked Maione, staring at the corpse.
“The first duchess, I meant to say. The duke was married before, and young master Ettore was the son of his first wife, Signora Virginia. The Duchess Adriana is. . was. . his second wife.”
Ricciardi decided to dig a little deeper. He meant to understand just what relations there were between the two women.
“So when the duke remarried you were already here. And did you get along with the duchess?”
The woman shrugged.
“The duchess was almost always out. Practically speaking, the house runs itself, there’s not a lot to do. I do my work and, more importantly, I mind my own business.”
Ricciardi didn’t miss the implicit condemnation in the Sivo woman’s reply and he made a mental note to explore this matter further.
But there was one thing he wanted to see immediately: he went over to the console table and pulled open the drawer. And in the drawer, just where the Sivo woman had said it would be, was the key to the padlock that was used to fasten the chain on the gate to the landing.
You can see the street through a gap in the bougainvillea hedge on the south side of the terrace. I left it there intentionally, since there’s no way anyone can look in from that side. And the street outside the front door is full of people. Rubberneckers, passersby. Who knows what they expect to see. Don’t they already know what’s happened? But as soon as one person stops, another one stops and stands next to them; in this city no one minds their own business.
I remember when I was still attending the university, four or five of us would go to the Villa Nazionale or to Via Toledo and start looking up at the sky. Two minutes later, there’s be at least ten other people with their noses in the air, and no one would ever ask, “Youngsters, what are you looking at?’ No one. Then, as soon as we’d had enough of that game, one of us would say: “Well, let’s go now, it’s clear that the flying donkey won’t be coming today after all.” And back home I’d tell my mamma, and she’d laugh, even through her pain.
I still see you, you know, Mamma, in your bed, smiling, because now you’re too weak to laugh. I see that you don’t want me to see that you’re suffering, in your heart and in your soul.
Because you’d already figured out what that whore dressed as a nurse was planning to do.
But now that woman’s dead, you know that, Mamma? She’s dead too. And not like you, in your own bed with a rosary in your hand and with my tears. No, she died the way she deserved too. Murdered.
Like the bitch she was.
VII
By now everyone was up and about in the Colombo home, bent on creating the disorder of a typical Sunday morning. Enrica was resigned to the loss of the lovely peace and quiet she’d won by rising early; to make up for it, once breakfast was over, she’d expelled everyone from the kitchen with the excuse that she had to wash up and go on with her preparations for lunch.
As she went back and forth in the large room, every time she went by the window, she shot a fleeting glance across the street at another window. It was still Sunday, after all, and she hoped to catch him giving a chance look back at her, in broad daylight, for once; but she failed to spy the object of her interest. Instead, she saw the elderly woman who lived with him, as she was tidying up the apartment. In a strange fashion, she had learned that this was his old tata and not, as she had supposed for almost a year, his mother.
The one who had told Enrica was Signora Maione, the brigadier’s wife; a genuine angel who had come to tell her about the commissario’s introverted personality and his loneliness; and about his sadness.
Luigi Alfredo. She let the name roll off her tongue, alluring and slightly mysterious, like the man it belonged to. She uttered it to herself, at night before falling asleep or while taking a bath in the new metal tub that her father had triumphantly had delivered to the apartment. It had been Signora Maione who’d persuaded her that nothing was lost, that it was worth waiting because, certainly, even if he wouldn’t admit it, he was actually interested in her.
With a smile on her face as she took the long way around, for no good reason, to reach the sink, the long way around that took her past the window, Enrica decided that it was worth waiting. For as long as it would take.
Livia decided that it wouldn’t take long.
When she’d come to the city during the winter, summoned to indentify her husband’s corpse, she’d been unable to book a seat on the direttissimo that ran on the new line via Formia, and instead she’d been obliged to take the train that followed the old line, the one that ran through Cassino. She remembered a long, exceedingly tedious journey of more than four hours, interspersed with numerous stops, level crossings, and even flocks of sheep blocking the tracks, so that the engineers and firemen had to get out and chase them off. All the same, on that occasion she’d been glad of the extra time it took; she was in no hurry to come face to face with Arnaldo, even if he was dead. The longer the trip the better.
This time, instead, she’d have flown, if she could. Since she’d made the decision to go see Ricciardi, to find out why she couldn’t get him out of her mind, every day had been pure torture.
While the direttissimo rattled through the countryside, Livia, ignoring the conversation that was taking place in the first-class compartment, fantastized about meeting him again. The other seats in the compartment were occupied by two married couples, and the husbands were gazing at her rapturously while the wives stewed in angry silence; as far as she was concerned, they could have been dancing naked, and she wouldn’t have noticed.
Out the window, blending into the sea that she could just begin to glimpse and in the shimmering heat that was suffocating her, she could only see a pair of green eyes. And she thought about what a strange thing love is.
The door swung open and in came Doctor Modo, followed by the photographer with his camera, tripod, and magnesium flashbulbs. Beneath the broad brim of his white hat, the doctor was sweating freely. Without a greeting, as if he were simply continuing a conversation begun previously, he said:
“Now, I’m not saying that there are better times or worse times to be murdered, of course not. Still, once you’ve made up your mind, how are we supposed to do what’s necessary, on a Sunday, with a temperature of 105 degrees? I wonder if someone would be so kind as to explain that to me?”
Bruno Modo was a hospital physician, a surgeon, and, when needed, a medical examiner. He’d been an officer on the Carso front during the Great War, and he’d developed an exceptional body of experience, invaluable for police investigations; but he had no difficulty voicing his opinions and his clear anti-Fascist leanings made him a dangerous person to know. As a result, despite his outgoing personality, he had few friends. What’s more, a number of officials at police headquarters avoided using his services.
Not Ricciardi-he sought Modo out whenever he needed a doctor. He had the highest opinion of the man’s extraordinary expertise, and found him to be profoundly humane. Moreover, he had the gift of irony, as did Ricciardi himself; and so they had a working relationship that, while you might not call it friendship, was certainly something that verged on it. He was the only person who addressed the commissario with the informal tu.
“Oh, Ricciardi, and who else would it be? Tell me the truth, did you murder this lovely lady, with the sole purpose of making me sweat through my clothes and ruining my Sunday? Next time, I’d advise you to try suicide, just for something different: in that case, I’d even promise to come out and work the case free of charge.”