Blood Curse

XLV

Ruggero was preparing himself to knock on Emma’s door. He was trying to summon the strength. He’d washed, shaved, changed clothes, and considered himself at some length in the mirror. The fact that he’d regained his image, the picture of himself that he was used to, the self that struck fear and respect into others, reassured him and gave him a sense of equilibrium.

But the trial that he had to face was a difficult one: perhaps the hardest of them all.

How long had it been since he’d spoken with his wife? Certainly, brief exchanges of courtesies at the dinner table; simple instructions concerning the management of the domestic help and the running of the house, but real conversation, no. They no longer even looked each other in the eye.

Over time, they had also consolidated their territories. Invisible walls had gone up: the study and the green parlor were his, the bedroom and the boudoir were hers. All they shared were the dining room and their loveless nights. The rest of the rooms were closed off, or else inhabited by the servants.

But now they had to talk. There was no more time for tacit understandings, hidden truths, silences charged with rancor. It was time to talk.

Before everything was irretrievably lost.

Ruggero knocked on Emma’s door.

Ricciardi thought something through and then spoke to Concetta Iodice.

“All right then. I have to ask you a few questions. Let’s start with your restaurant, the pizzeria. How did your husband get it off the ground? Where did he get the money?”

“Part of it came from our own savings and from the sale of his pushcart. The rest of the money was borrowed. From Carmela Calise.”

“What kind of terms was your husband on with Calise?”

“I never went to see her; I don’t even know where she lived. A friend of my husband’s, Simone the carter, told him about her; he said she was different from. . from those other people, the ones who come and break your legs and arms if you don’t pay back every penny. I’m sure you know all about that here. . Anyway, he told him that this one was more, how to put it, more human: if you don’t have all the money, you can bring the rest later; she gives extensions.”

“And did your husband ever have to extend his deadline?”

Concetta looked down at the floor.

“One time. The pizzeria wasn’t doing well. And the other day. . the other day he had gone to see her, to ask for another extension. It had taken him two days to screw up the courage. He thought that I didn’t know, but I could see that he wasn’t sleeping at night. And so I put two and two together.”

“Did he seem desperate to you, at his wits’ end?”

“No. But worried, yes. Before. . before he opened the pizzeria, he used to laugh all the time. Afterward, he stopped laughing. Maybe that’s why people weren’t coming. Why would you go to eat at a place where no one laughs?”

Ricciardi listened carefully.

“Let’s go back to that evening. Did he tell you that he was going to see Calise?”

“No, he didn’t tell us. But we knew.” She shot a fleeting glance at her mother-in-law, who hadn’t taken her arm off her shoulder the entire time, giving her strength. “And he left the pizzeria about nine o’clock, when most of the crowd had gone home. He told me that he had an errand to run, that I should close up and go home. So I closed up, cleaned everything, and waited a little longer just to see if he’d come back. Then I went home, thinking he might be there already. But he wasn’t. We fed the children and we put them to bed. He still wasn’t back. Then the two of us looked out the window, she and I,” and she tilted her head in her mother-in-law’s direction, “saying: ‘He’ll be here any minute.’ But it was past midnight when he came home.”

“And what was he like?”

Concetta’s eyes welled up with tears, and there was a quaver in her voice.

“As if he were drunk, but he didn’t smell like wine. He couldn’t walk straight; it took him forever to get up the stairs. He said that he was tired and that he didn’t feel good. He fell down on the bed with all his clothes on; he had a fever, and he fell straight asleep. I undressed him, the way I do with my children when they fall asleep in their clothes.”

She exchanged a glance with her mother-in-law; the older woman nodded her head yes ever so slightly. Then she pulled a folded scrap of paper out of her dress.

“And I found this. It fell out of his jacket.”

She handed the sheet of paper to Maione, who unfolded it.

“A promissory note, Commissa’. Eighty lire, payable April fourteenth, signed by Iodice, Antonio. Beneficiary: Calise, Carmela. And. .”

Ricciardi looked up at Maione.

“And?”

Maione spoke in a low voice, looking at Concetta.

“It’s covered with blood, Commissa’.”

Emma opened her door just a crack. Her husband glimpsed part of her face, her hair in disarray. Her eyes were red from weeping, or possibly from sleep.

“What do you want?”

“May I come in? I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Emma’s voice was full of pain.

“What could be all that important?”

She turned and walked toward the bed, leaving the door half-open. Ruggero entered the room, shutting the door behind him.

The bedroom was a mess. Clothes and undergarments scattered across the floor and furniture, scraps left over from breakfast lying forgotten on the night table, a large, filthy handkerchief spread out on the bed. There was a stale, dank smell in the air.

“You’ve thrown up. You’re not well.”

Emma was shaking. She ran a hand through her hair.

“Aren’t you sharp. So that’s why they call you the Fox. Prego, have a seat. Just make yourself at home.”

Ruggero ignored the sarcasm. He looked around, still standing. Then he turned his gaze on his wife.

“You’ve been drinking, too. Look at you: you’re a wreck. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

Emma let herself flop back on the bed, snickering.

“You want to know if I’m ashamed? Of course I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed I never had the courage to tell my father no when he arranged for me to marry you. I’m ashamed that I didn’t have the strength to leave you and this house all the times you treated me like a spoiled child. And I’m ashamed to be here right now, instead of. .”

Ruggero finished her sentence for her.

“. . instead of with him. With Attilio Romor.”

A long silence ensued. Emma struggled to focus on her husband’s image through her clouded vision.

“How do you know his name? Damn you! Have you been following me? Did you hire someone to investigate me? You coward!”

With her lips drawn back in a snarl, showing her gums, her head drawn between her shoulders, her fingers spread like claws, eyes red with fury and wine, her hair a tangled mess, Emma looked like a wild animal. She looked around for something to throw at him.

A bitter smile appeared on Ruggero’s lips.

“Investigate you? Spend good money to find out something everyone is eager to tell me, precisely because I don’t ask about it? Everyone: my friends, male and female, even the doorman. You didn’t deny anyone the sight of you, the spectacle of you playing the stupid slut. And now you’re surprised? Spare me your anger and settle for what you’ve brought down on yourself already.”

Emma turned pale. Reaching out with one hand, she groped for her filthy handkerchief and raised it to her lips, fighting back a retching impulse to vomit.

“I’ve left him, I won’t be seeing him again.”

“I know.”

She lifted her head and looked at him.

“How do you know that? You can’t possibly know that.”

“It doesn’t matter now. We have a more serious problem to deal with. Actually, to be precise, you’re the one with the problem. But you’re still Signora Serra di Arpaja, to my misfortune, and you need to listen to me, carefully.”

Ruggero pulled Emma’s summons out of his jacket pocket and started talking.