Blood Curse

XXI

The next morning, as Ricciardi climbed the last flight of stairs at police headquarters, he was surprised to find Maione fast asleep in the chair outside his office door.

“Maione? What on earth are you doing here so early?”

The brigadier started and leapt to his feet, knocked over the chair, lost his hat, caught it in midair, cursed, picked the chair up again, snapped a military salute with cap in hand, thus smacking himself in the forehead with it; then he cursed again, put his cap on his head, and said, “Yezzir.”

Ricciardi shook his head.

“I don’t know what’s come over you; one day you come in late, covered with blood, and the next day I actually find you fast asleep at headquarters at seven in the morning.”

“No, Commissa’, it’s just that I wasn’t sleeping well and so I thought, I wonder if the commissario ever finished up with all those numbers? I said to myself, I’ll go see what he’s up to and lend a hand, because I know him, until he finishes the job, he won’t go home; I’ll go down there, I thought to myself. .”

“All right, all right, I understand. Make me my ersatz coffee, go on, and make a quart of it for yourself; that’ll wake you up. And come see me as soon as you’re done. We have a lot to do. I’ve been doing some thinking myself.”

Ruggero Serra di Arpaja, illustrious jurist, university professor, central figure of Neapolitan high society, and one of the wealthiest aristocrats in the city, sat weeping in the satin-upholstered armchair in his bedroom. This is what happens, he thought, when you marry a much younger woman. When you have such a strong need to feel you are loved that you no longer know how to do without it. When you reach the age of fifty-five without realizing how much time has gone by. When you have no children. When you forget what it means to be alone in the world. When you have no friends, only esteemed colleagues.

He shivered at the thought of his own loneliness. It was as if he had suddenly found himself on a mountain peak, with no paths he could take to seek out help. And yet he truly needed it. He, a man who had studied so much, unfailingly advising his clients on how to extricate themselves from intricate legal traps, couldn’t see a solution for himself.

And yet, he mused, he’d worked it out perfectly, a perfect example of premeditation. One contract, two jobs performed, one payment. What does one do, esteemed law students, when there is no way of determining whether the service contractually agreed upon has indeed been performed?

He noticed that the shoes he’d worn the day before had left marks on the carpet. He’d have to remember to tell the servant girl to scrub them out. Or perhaps, for once, he might have to do the scrubbing himself.

Rituccia was waiting for Gaetano, on the steps of the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Their place. She waited with her hands in her lap, neatly composed, like a grand lady who’s just ordered tea. He’d told her that he would ask his foreman, the Mastro, permission to show up at the construction site a little late, so that he could speak with her. The way they used to. Because these days, what with him working and her keeping house, they practically never saw each other anymore.

Of course, they only needed to rendezvous for a minute, outside the front doors of the adjoining bassi in which they lived, to tell each other everything that had happened. That was how well they knew each other; a glance, a half-word would be plenty. Even just a expression.

She saw him coming a long way away, with that distinctive, gangly stride that made him seem off-balance, something she’d teased him about so many times in the past. It always made him mad; Gaetano didn’t know how to joke around. Rituccia shoved over on the step. He gave her a look.

“Again?”

She lowered her gaze. He clenched his fist and punched himself in the leg, with silent force. That’s how he let out his rage.

“I’ll kill him. This time, I’ll kill him.”

Rituccia said nothing. Without lifting her eyes from the ground, she reached out her hand and brushed her fingers across Gaetano’s knee. They remained motionless in that position for a long time. He was breathing furiously, his eyes reddened in his swarthy face.

“What about you?” she asked, looking him in the eyes.

A moment passed, then Gaetano nodded his head yes and looked down at the step.

They stood there in silence. After a while, he spoke.

“There’s a police officer. He was with her, last night.”

Rituccia started in shock and seized his hand. Her glance betrayed a concern that verged on terror.

“There’s nothing to worry about. He has the usual puppy-dog look. Guappos, police officers. The usual look.”

Whereupon she smiled, reassured. She put her head on his shoulder.