Blood Curse

XXVII

A few months earlier, Ricciardi’s boss, Deputy Chief of Police Angelo Garzo, in a rather pathetic attempt to establish some sort of personal bond with his taciturn coworker, had lent him a slender volume with the garish yellow cover that in Italy was synonymous with detective novels. Garzo had told him that he’d enjoy it, that he’d take special pleasure in discovering that their line of work had even been accorded a certain literary dignity.

The commissario hadn’t had the heart to dampen his superior officer’s enthusiasm with a dose of his customary irony at the time; he also suspected that the thick-headed bureaucrat would miss the point, ignorant as Garzo was of any aspect of the policeman’s profession that couldn’t be performed from the comfort of a desk. No question about it: he’d only taken the book with the firm intention of keeping it at his desk for a few days and then returning it without comment.

But instead he had actually read the book, and he’d even enjoyed it: an action-packed story in which the good guys all had Italian names and the bad guys had American names, the women were blonde and emancipated, and the men were tough and tenderhearted. But he saw no connection to reality in it whatsoever.

In particular he remembered how he’d almost laughed out loud, reading by the light of the kerosene lamp in his bedroom, when the author had described how a police raid caught the lowlifes off guard in their lair. For him it would have sufficed to just once arrive at the scene of a crime without being heralded as well as followed by a chorusing fanfare of street urchins, announcing at the top of their lungs “gli sbirri, gli sbirri,”-“the cops, the cops”-with Maione trying to shoo them away, like an elephant swatting at flies; and along the way encountering old men sitting out on the street, standing up halfway and respectfully doffing their caps, as well as clusters of young men who scattered quickly, though not before looking their way with a gleam of defiance in their dark eyes.

It would suffice if just once he were able to arrest a wanted man without a crowd of people railing against him as if he were marching a saint off to his martyrdom; if just once the populace chose to ally itself with justice, instead of regarding criminals as their brothers and the police as their sworn enemy.

Catching criminals off guard, indeed.

That morning, too, as they arrived outside the building of the late Carmela Calise, the stench of rancor and hatred in the air was just as strong as the smell of garlic and the onset of springtime. Street urchins howling, shutters slamming shut as they went by, the bolts sliding home with an indignant click, malevolent glares from the dark vicoli. Ricciardi noticed it, as always, and as always he said nothing. Maione was also quiet that day; one of the urchins noticed and was so emboldened by the officer’s silence that he tugged his jacket from behind. Without even slowing his pace, the brigadier kicked him in the chest like a mule and the boy flew through the air. Then he picked himself up and took to his heels, without so much as a peep.

Ricciardi watched his subordinate with a degree of concern. He sensed a strange tension in the brigadier, as if something were troubling him. He made a mental note to talk with him, taking care to be discreet.

When they arrived at the street door they found Nunzia Petrone, the porter woman, standing outside the entryway, at attention. Aside from the straw broom in her hand instead of an army-issue rifle, she resembled a noncommissioned infantry officer down to the last detail. Mustache included.

“Good morning. Did you forget something?”

Ricciardi turned to face the enormous woman without changing expression or removing his hands from his overcoat pockets. He leveled his fierce green eyes straight at hers. No doubt someone, perhaps one of the street urchins, had run ahead and alerted her to their arrival.

“Good morning to you. No, we didn’t forget anything. And if we did, we don’t need to report it to you.”

He had addressed her in a low, firm voice that only she could hear. The woman stepped aside, looking down nervously as she did.

“Of course not, Commissa’. Come right in and do what you need to do. You know the way.”

Ricciardi climbed the stairs, followed by Maione. The building seemed deserted. Not a voice could be heard, not even the sound of singing echoing in the courtyard.

They came to a halt in front of the Calise woman’s locked door. Maione pulled the key out of his pocket, opened the door, and stood aside to let the commissario enter the apartment.

The room was cool and shady, and shafts of sunlight filtered in through the shutters. Dust swirled in the sunbeams. Still the same rancid odor of garlic and old urine mixed with the sickly sweet smell of the caked blood on the carpet. In the far corner, the old dead woman with her broken neck greeted Ricciardi, reiterating her proverb.

“’O Padreterno nun è mercante ca pava ’o sabbato.” God Almighty’s not a shopkeeper who pays His debts on Saturday.

Indeed, thought the commissario. He paid you on a Tuesday. And he wasn’t scrimping on the interest, though this time you’d probably have been willing to do without it altogether.

Maione walked over to the window and opened it, letting in a gust of sparkling, sweet-smelling air.

“The season is certainly on its way, Commissa’. There’ll be hot weather before long.”

Waves of heat blasted out of the oven. Tonino Iodice had just tossed a shovelful of wood shavings and sawdust into the faint flames dancing over the logs, stirring a burst of sparks in response. Of all the things he did during his workday as a pizzaiolo, this act had always brought him a special happiness. Simple soul that he was, it reminded him of a tiny model of the festival of Piedigrotta, with the beautiful fireworks bursting into the dark sky over the water, creating blossoms of light as the children clapped their hands and jumped up and down.

Back when he had the pushcart and fried his pizza in a large kettle full of boiling oil, there were no flames: only dangerous splashes of oil that could even blind a person. The searing waves of heat in the summer, the steep hillside streets that became slippery when it rained, having to cry his wares at the top of his voice, even when he was burning with fever in the winter chill.

And yet he regretted-oh, how he regretted-having abandoned that hard life with its daily battles. In all those years of making do with his state of dignified poverty, he had never found himself looking over his shoulder with terror in his heart; and he’d never had to conceal anything from his family.

That morning, once again, before opening the restaurant and starting to mix the water, yeast, and flour together to make the dough, he had rushed to buy the newspaper; and he’d hungrily pored over the article, without skipping the long, difficult words that he didn’t understand and which therefore struck him as especially menacing: brutality, cervical vertebrae, contusions from a blunt object.

Even in the violent heat that blasted out of the oven, Tonino shivered. He felt as though he were looking at the flames of hell as the wood burned rapidly. He imagined himself in the midst of those flames, burning in torment for the rest of eternity. When he ran his hand over his face, it was damp with tears and sweat.

He looked around him. The dining room was still empty, clean and awaiting the diners who’d be arriving shortly. His dream: how much had it cost? And how much more would it cost him and his family?

He thought about the moment when he’d see them come in through the front door. The looks he’d get from the diners, from the passersby in the street. He would rather die than dishonor his children. He put both hands up to cover his face. From the other side of the dining room, his wife watched him with her heart in her mouth.