Everyone in Their Place

XIV

The following morning, anyone crossing paths with Maione and Ricciardi, who were on their way to Palazzo Camparino to question the two dukes, would have failed to notice any substantial changes in the expressions of either one: the commissario, dark and silent; the brigadier, sweaty and angry. Actually, though, both their moods had deteriorated considerably.

Maione had had a nightmare. There was Lucia who was giving immense bowls of macaroni with ragu to the damned fruit vendor Ciruzzo, laughing and telling him that he needed to put some flesh on his bones, that he was far too skinny. Behind the closed door, but he could see her perfectly as you can only in dreams, Filomena was weeping, begging him to eat what she’d cooked for him and him alone; it was impossible to see what was in the bowl, but he could smell a celestial aroma. Maione, who the night before had put on a heroic show of a lack of appetite and had eaten only two peaches, in his dream continued to decline the offer, and sat there, suffering, watching the detested Di Stasio as he enjoyed his meal.

The nightmare had worsened both the brigadier’s hunger and his anger, and the next morning once again he’d tried to don his summer uniform, but without success; so now he was walking up the Via Medina apparently in the same black mood as the day before, but in reality, he was furious.

The dominant emotion in Ricciardi, on the other hand, was bafflement. He found himself in the presence of an entirely new emotion, and he had no idea how to deal with it.

Unlike Maione, he’d had no nightmares, but that was only because he hadn’t slept a wink all night long. The image of a smiling Enrica, with a stranger whispering sweet nothings in her ear, was tormenting him. The part of him that had insisted on keeping his distance, well aware of just how impossible it would be to have a normal relationship, now piped up loudly, reiterating its reasoning; but the commissario suspected and feared that it was too late in any case, and that thought terrified him in some way.

He contemplated with genuine fascination the emotion that had surged through him, its reverberations echoing in his chest all night long. A real, physical malaise: not mental, the way he’d always imagined it, the thousands of times that he’d heard dead people talk about it, whether they’d been murdered for love or had killed themselves for love. In reality, it was a stabbing pain behind his stomach, in some unspecified spot under his lungs, and it affected both his breathing and his intestines. A violent and enduring pain that, if you tried to think about anything else, would immediately snap your attention back and keep your thoughts from wandering.

The sheer irrationality of the sensation made it impossible for him to examine the problem the way he was accustomed to doing with his work. He kept repeating to himself: if you’ve always known you couldn’t approach Enrica, that you had to protect her from your pain and your absurd nature, how dare you suffer like a dog now, just because you’ve seen her with another man? What sense is there to this suffering of yours?

It makes no sense at all, he answered himself. All the same, the stabbing pain behind his stomach, somewhere beneath his lungs, remained just as intense.

Neither of the two men, as they struggled with their own malaise, had noticed the state of mind of the other; the policemen who had watched them as they left headquarters had, though, and they had exchanged knowing winks: this was no day to tangle with them.

Along the way, Ricciardi once again encountered the man who’d been beaten to death, launching his invective against those who had killed him:

“Buffoonish clowns, you’re nothing but four buffoonish clowns. Four to one, for shame, for shame, you buffoonish clowns.”

The commissario just grew darker and grimmer. He thought to himself: you could have lived a normal life, had a wife and children. You could have eaten and drank, laughed and played. You could have sat on a sofa, at night, whispering sweet words to a girl. And instead, you got yourself beaten to death in exchange for the satisfaction of talking smart to some idiot with a billy club. The usual damned waste.

The palazzo’s front door was half-closed, as was customary when in mourning. On the closed door panel a sign read:

FOR THE DEATH OF THE SIGNORA DUCHESSA

ADRIANA MUSSO DI CAMPARINO.

Sciarra, the doorman, was sweeping in the courtyard, doing his best to stay in the shade where however it was already perfectly clean. With every stroke of the broom, he had to pull up the sleeves of his shirt, which kept slipping down and covering his hands. Near him, the same two children they had encountered on their last visit were eating two enormous pieces of bread and cheese. As soon as the man saw Ricciardi and Maione, he came toward them with that pouncing gait of his.

“Commissario, Brigadier, good day to you. How can I be of service?”

Maione wasted no time on rote courtesy, in part because he was clearly irritated at the sight of the children stuffing themselves hand over fist.

“I only need you to take us in. We’re here to talk with the duke and his son.”

Ricciardi broke in:

“First I want to take a look at the duchess’s room, though. Isn’t the housekeeper here?”

“Of course she is, Commissa’, I’ll call her for you immediately.”

“One more thing, Sciarra. Where were you, the other night, when the murder happened?”

The doorman spread his arms, letting the sleeves trail below.

“Where do you think I was? Upstairs, at home, keeping an eye on these two devils.”

The older of the two spoke, while still noisily chewing his food.

“So unless Papà comes and feeds us, we refuse to go to bed. We only eat when Papà’s there!”

Maione made a face.

“Then Papà must always be there, because every time I see you, you’re eating.”

“What can you do about it, Brigadie’? These two are wolves, they’re not human children. I don’t know where they got it, not from my side. Wait for me here, I’ll go and get Concetta.”

Here they come now. I can see them both clearly, the big bulky brigadier in uniform and the other one, the skinny one: the commissario. I asked Concetta and she told me what they asked her yesterday.

I was amazed: I thought that they’d want to talk to us immediately, me and the old corpse. But instead they just left. Maybe they wanted to let us steam for a while, bubble in our broth. But I didn’t simmer and wilt, even if it’s hellishly hot. I stayed here, good as gold, tending my plants, here on the terrace. Without altering a gesture, without uttering a word I wouldn’t have said normally.

Not because of their suspicions, not because of that. But because I refused to allow yesterday and today to be different days, in any way, shape, or form. Nothing’s happened. Has something happened, after all, when a sewer rat dies down in the filthy alleys, in the vicoli? Has something happened if a rabid bitch is stoned to death by a band of street urchins? No. Nothing’s happened. Life goes on, the same as before, with everyone in their place. The bigger the picture, the less the details count. And here, really, nothing’s happened at all.

Though, actually, I wouldn’t say that absolutely nothing’s happened. After all, I have the ring back.

Concetta materialized at the top of the stairs in silence; this woman, Maione thought, had the ability to appear and disappear without anyone seeing her. Even as big and tall as she was.

“Gentlemen, a good day to you. I’m at your service.”

Ricciardi looked at her as if he’d just awoken from a nap.

“And a good day to you. We’re here to speak with the duke and his son, but first I’d like to take a look at the duchess’s bedroom. Could you take us to see it?”

“Certainly, Commissario; it’s still just as the duchess left it, as you know she never even got a chance to retire for the night. Come right this way.”

They passed through the anteroom. Ricciardi immediately saw the image of Adriana di Camparino in front of him; staring right at him with her dead eyes she repeated:

“The ring, the ring, you’ve taken the ring, the ring is missing.”

And we’ll see if we can’t find it, he thought to himself.

They followed the Sivo woman as she moved soundlessly, through a long series of rooms. There was a scent of cleanliness and everything was in perfect order, but the general impression was of a place devoid of life. They strode through an endless succession of drawing rooms, each of them wallpapered and upholstered in a different color. They also passed through a chapel, dominated by an altar with a reliquary that seemed quite ancient. Concetta stopped and genuflected, rapidly crossing herself; Maione took off his cap and bowed his head, while Ricciardi paused to take in a wheeled gurney. The housekeeper, following his gaze, said:

“It’s for the duke, when the priest comes to say mass.”

Immediately after that, she ushered them into a large bedroom, at the center of which stood a double canopy bed, draped with mosquito netting. Here the prevailing hue was rose, from the silk wall coverings to the oversized cushions, the upholstery of the sofa, and the two armchairs in one corner. The French doors led out onto a balcony overlooking the piazza.

Paintings and photographs celebrated the duchess’s beauty, portraying her in every pose imaginable: at the wheel of a sports car, in an evening gown, dressed as a bride. The painting that took pride of place on the wall facing the bed depicted her, lovely and half-nude, covered with a sheet that she held over her breasts with one hand. The woman had been well aware of how beautiful she was and had made full use of the fact.

Ricciardi thought about death, about how the woman had appeared before his eyes. When she was alive, as he could see from the pictures in the bedroom, she’d always been keenly aware of her appearance: carefully made-up, her hair done in a permanent, her clothing pressed. In the other picture, available exclusively to him, aside from the bullet hole in her forehead, she had rouge smeared over her face from the cushion, as if on a painter’s palette, her fine silk dress rumpled and creased, one stocking half off. The final violation. Death makes a mess.

The odor that pervaded the room was the same scent that he’d noticed under the smell of cordite in the anteroom: a floral essence, on the heavy side. The choice, thought the commissario, reflected the duchess’s true nature, wealthy but hardly the product of a refined upbringing. When it comes to clothing, you can always ask your girlfriends and the owners of the boutiques for advice, but perfume is far too personal of a choice.

The arrangement of the objects suggested that the woman must have gone out in a hurry, leaving her dressing table in disarray and her armoire half-open. As if reading his thoughts, Concetta, who was standing in the doorway, whispered:

“She always left things higgledy-piggledy, the duchess. For all she cared, after all we were there to tidy up after her. But now, I can’t say why, it gives me a strange feeling to enter this room. Not in the anteroom, even though there’s still blood on the sofa, and it won’t come out. But here, I get that strange feeling.”

Ricciardi made a sign to Maione, who opened the drawers of the nightstand. In the first drawer, atop the linen and underwear in plain sight, sat a bundle of letters tied together with a blue ribbon. The brigadier hefted them with one hand, after rifling through them quickly.

“They’re all signed ‘yours, Mario.’ She certainly didn’t seem to be particularly afraid that anyone might see them, eh, the Signora?”

Concetta didn’t seem surprised. She shrugged.

“And who would have seen them? The duke and the young master have never set foot in here. I don’t look at that sort of thing and Mariuccia doesn’t know how to read. She could have tacked them up on the walls and it wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

Ricciardi sensed the disapproval more in the words than in the tone of voice. It struck him as sarcasm, not resentment. Of course, you could never be certain.

“Aside from the duke and his son, and the duchess of course, who else came into this room?”

Concetta shot an eloquent glance at the letters still in Maione’s hand, and then she said:

“How would I know, Commissa’? I go to bed early at night, I already told you. And the Signora had the padlock keys.”

We get it, thought Ricciardi. “Yours, Mario” had access to the bedroom, as well as the heart, of the lovely duchess.

“All right. Don’t touch anything in here, leave it exactly as it is, until you hear otherwise from us. Now announce us to the duke.”

After a sleepless night, dominated by the thought of Ricciardi who had waited in vain for her to appear at the window, Enrica arose the next morning grim and determined. If her sweet disposition and her upbringing had both conspired to keep her from being openly rude to her guests the night before, now she had made up her mind to have it out with her parents. She would not only tell them that Sebastiano did not interest her in the slightest, but she would also forbid them, from that day forward, to plot behind her back again, even if they thought they were doing it for her own good. Guessing at her intentions, however, her mother had left the apartment at dawn, telling the housemaid that she was going to pay a call on a cloistered aunt, a nun; her father, moreover, had left for the shop at least an hour earlier than his usual time of departure.

All right then, thought Enrica. Then I’ll come see you, my dear Papà; I’m really interested to see what you have to say for yourself.

Nonetheless, she tended to her household duties, and it was only after she’d washed up, done the grocery shopping, and given instructions for lunch that she changed her clothes, put on her hat, and set out for the shop on the Via Toledo.