Blood Curse

XIII

Step after step, the acid smell of urine and excrement blended with the sharp odor of garlic, onion, sweat.

Even before the advent of the Deed, Ricciardi had been made aware of another curse visited upon him: the damned odors. Sometimes they stunned him and other times they distracted him; they tangled up his thoughts the same way that the wind tousled the disobedient shock of hair he was constantly brushing away from his furrowed brow. Issuing from the dark corners of the uneven stairs he could feel unfamiliar eyes watching him. Though he couldn’t quite see them, he sensed them, and he sensed their unfriendly curiosity. Behind him came Maione’s heavy footfalls, confident and protective; Ricciardi considered the brigadier to be something of a human notebook, on which the images and words that they encountered in their investigation would remain impressed. All he needed to do later was leaf through Maione’s memory to pull up sensations, voices, and facial expressions.

When they got to the third floor, they found an enormous woman standing in front of a half-open door, her greasy hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, her face flushed, her hands clutched together beneath her breasts, her fingers interlocked so tightly that her knuckles were white. She seemed accustomed to dealing with emergencies, but not the situation that had just befallen her. It was Maione who addressed her.

“And you are?”

“Nunzia Petrone, the building’s porter. I’m the one who found her.”

Not a trace of pride, awkwardness, or fear. A simple statement.

From inside, a ray of morning light cut like a blade through the dark shadows of the landing and Ricciardi clearly heard the lament that had already reached his ears down in the street a few minutes earlier.

“Who’s in there?”

“Just my daughter, Antonietta. She’s impaired.”

That was all she said, as if that explained everything. Maione glanced over at Ricciardi, who nodded without meeting his gaze. Behind them, the usual small crowd had gathered, silently. Their necks craned upward, eyes darting to capture details worth recounting, to be exaggerated if necessary. The choke point of the staircase funneled the crowd into a line.

“Cesarano!” Maione bellowed. “What did I tell you? No one is to be allowed upstairs!”

The police officer’s response echoed from the street below.

“And nobody went up, Brigadie’!”

“They’re people who live in the building,” the porter cut in.

“There’s nothing to see here. Everyone go back to your apartments.”

Nobody moved. The people at the front of the crowd looked away in a show of innocence.

“Fine, fine, I see how it is; Camarda, please take down the names of the signori and signore, so we know who to call down to headquarters for a chat.”

He hadn’t even finished reciting the magic spell before the crowd had dispersed. The sound of slamming doors boomed in the stairwell and the landing was empty again, with the exception of Nunzia the porter.

Maione turned to Ricciardi.

“Commissa’, should I bring out the signora’s daughter?”

*

The old, well-established procedure: Ricciardi goes in alone for the initial inspection, to relive the scene of the crime. Then Maione enters, making observations with a policeman’s eye: the first survey, the position of the body, the condition of the windows and doors. Then witnesses are tracked down and questioned. Last of all, the magistrate is summoned, a decision is made about whether the revolting mess can be cleaned up, and everyone heads back to headquarters, to begin the hunt.

“No, let her stay. I’ll go in.”

Life is full of surprises, Maione thought to himself. He said yessir and stood aside to let his superior officer by.

Ricciardi pushed the door shut behind him. A small foyer, a coat rack with a hat shelf and a small bench, all hardwood: a piece of furniture that you’d hardly expect to see in a hovel apartment in the Sanità. The moan came from the only door that seemed to lead into a lighted room. Two steps forward: a small dining room.

A sofa and an armchair, upholstered in sky-blue satin with gold thread filigree, the seat cushions worn bare, small pieces of embroidered cloth draped over the place where one’s head would go. A round table, three chairs-one in very poor repair-a carpet. He noticed a hole worn into the weave, at the farthest corner from the point of view of someone entering the room. Perennial anguish, pure pain. Garlic, urine: a place inhabited by the elderly. Daylight, blindingly bright, pouring in from the wide-open French doors leading to the balcony: not a single building blocking the view. A breeze stirred the curtain but did nothing to dissipate the smells. Too bad about that, thought Ricciardi.

The sickly sweet aftertaste: death was calling for attention.

A large fly was diving obstinately against the windowpane. Another step forward: now he could see what the armchair had been concealing. Crouched down on the floor behind the armchair, almost invisible to the eye, a girl was rocking back and forth, emitting a song that consisted of a single note. One or perhaps two yards farther on, just outside the shaft of sunlight that poured in from the balcony and near the fourth, overturned chair, there was a bundle of rags in a dark puddle, now almost dry, which extended from the black-and-white floor tiles to the edge of the carpet. The girl wasn’t looking at the bundle; she was looking at the other corner of the room.

Ricciardi turned to look in the same direction. And he saw.