Everyone in Their Place

XIX

Livia and Ricciardi sat looking at each other, in intense silence. The woman could not have received a more definitive answer to her doubts about what she would feel at the sight of him: she experienced the familiar but almost forgotten hollow pit in her stomach, her heart had begun to race, and she could sense that her face was red with pleasure and embarrassment. The man in white had withdrawn, foiled, once he saw that the unmistakable electric charge between the two of them firmly precluded any chance for a rival.

The commissario was tangling with a distinctly new sensation, and he decided that he had encountered a greater variety of strange new emotions in the past two days than in all the rest of his life. To see Livia there, so far from where he’d assumed she was, and even more beautiful than he remembered her, had made a deep impression on him. He didn’t know what to say. As in a trance, he’d sat down at her table and now he was watching her as she smiled at him, as if they’d only been apart for a moment. The last time they’d looked each other in the eye, a rough wind was tossing the waves off the Via Caracciolo, blowing her hair and streaking her face, along with tears of grief and frustration. Going against his own deepest instincts, perhaps, Ricciardi had said farewell to her, certain that he’d never see her again. He felt sure deep down that, even though he was probably going to live the rest of his life alone, if there was a place in his heart, that place belonged to Enrica.

But now he had to admit that he was happy to see her, smiling and beautiful as she was; but he was also vaguely worried, because of the twinge of danger and instability that the woman had always radiated.

“What are you doing here?”

Livia’s smile didn’t once fade as she looked deep into those wonderful green eyes that had stirred her so powerfully all those months ago. She was searching for a spark of pleasure, a modicum of cordiality on his part: but she saw nothing. Not yet, anyway. But she had no intention of giving up easily.

“I could tell you that I’m here to do some sightseeing: this city of yours is famous around the world, isn’t it? I could tell you that I’ve come to make peace with a place that brings to mind sad, painful situations. Instead, I’ve decided to tell it straight: I’ve come to see you. To see you again.”

The grand piano in the lobby was playing a song about an ungrateful heart and the dead man on the other side of the room kept asking when his lover would get there. The waiter, recognizing Ricciardi, had brought a sfogliatella and a coffee to the table without his even ordering it. Ricciardi know how to interrogate suspects and arrest criminals, he knew how to interpret the dying words of ravaged corpses; but he didn’t have the slightest idea of how to respond to Livia. It suddenly dawned on him that his mouth was hanging open and he snapped it shut with a faint pop. He said, in a much brusquer tone than he intended:

“You could have asked first, maybe written a letter. Why are you so sure that I wanted to see you again?”

Livia laughed, as if Ricciardi had just made a joke.

“Let’s just say that it never even occurred to me. That I choose to believe that you’d feel some inclination. Or that at least you’d be courteous enough to welcome me with a smile.”

The commissario felt as if he’d been slapped in the face, even if Livia’s gentle voice and her smile couldn’t conceivably suggest any ill will on her part.

“Forgive me; of course I’m happy to see you. I was just wondering why you’d make such an. . unusual choice of location for your holidays, that’s all. Can I order you something?”

“At last, a little bit of normal conversation. One of your magnificent Neapolitan espressos, grazie.”

Ricciardi turned around to look for the waiter, his glance darting around the room. He saw at least four men shooting him envious looks, including the man dressed all in white. He saw the curious looks of three married women, trying to catalogue this unfamiliar couple. He saw the lawyer’s corpse looking toward the entrance with his one remaining eye, incessantly asking himself when a certain stupid chump would let his woman come join him.

And he saw Sebastiano whispering into Enrica’s ear, and he saw Enrica looking in his direction, her eyes welling over with tears.

She would have preferred to drink her espresso standing at the counter, to cut short the torture of Sebastiano’s inane company. She’d decided to head straight home afterwards and put off the conversation with her father. She felt she lacked the necessary strength. But her suitor had insisted they sit down inside for a few minutes, and he’d even stopped to ask the pianist to play his favorite song. She’d followed in his wake obediently, scheming all the while to come up with a plan that would let her leave as soon as possible. And then she’d found herself looking at Ricciardi.

At first she thought that her own mind must have somehow materialized her dream, so closely did her thoughts match what she was looking at; but the woman who was smiling at the man she loved was not her.

She allowed herself to be led to the table, and she sat down on the chair that he pulled out for her, never taking her eyes off the woman before her: Ricciardi was looking at the woman, and had his back turned toward Enrica. To Enrica’s eyes, Livia’s makeup was overdone and garish, she was dressed eccentrically, and the way she smiled certainly couldn’t be described as refined; in a word she was cheap and showy, undoubtedly something of a tramp. She was forced to admit that her facial features were comely enough and that her body, as far as she could see, was presentable; but those gloves and her fishnet stockings, the little hat with the veil turned up, that dark red lipstick on her mouth. .

She had an urge to go over and slap her face, especially because of the sheer vulgarity of the way the woman was staring at Ricciardi, so intent and rapt, without the slightest awareness of her surroundings. How dare she: did she think she’d capture him with that gaze? Didn’t she know that the man had a gentle, sensitive soul, that he was capable of watching a girl embroider night after night for more than a year, without daring to speak a word?

She pricked up her ears to try to hear what they were talking about, but they were too far away; what she managed to intuit was that her accent wasn’t Neapolitan, and that it might be from the north. She should have guessed it: northern Italian women were famous for their reckless, libertine ways.

Then she noticed that he was talking to her in his turn, and when Ricciardi turned around to summon the waiter, she burst into tears.

It seemed to Ricciardi that he’d suddenly become the center of the universe: Livia was looking at him and smiling; Enrica was looking at him and crying; the dead lawyer was looking at him and talking to him; other men and women who were sitting in the café were looking at him and murmuring; the waiter, who had hastened over, was looking at him and asking him what he’d like. The only one paying him no attention whatsoever was Enrica’s young companion, intently whispering to her as usual, and he was absurdly grateful for the fact. He wasn’t a bit comfortable in this sort of situation.

He wished he could get up and run outside, or else go over to Enrica to tell her that things weren’t the way they looked; but, he thought in an instant, what could he possibly say to a woman who might very well be experiencing the happy beginnings of what looked to be-there was no mistaking the fact by now-a genuine and full-fledged engagement? And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Livia; he’d already been far too abrupt with her. In the meanwhile, he’d allowed his mind to wander, and he’d completely missed whatever it was that the woman had just said to him.

“I beg your pardon, could you say that again?”

“I asked you if you were on vacation too, or whether you’re still working.”

“No, no, I’m working. I don’t take vacations. . that is, I don’t often go on vacation. We’re working on a case just now, a woman, a murder. In fact, to tell the truth, I’m running late, there’s someone I should be questioning, today in fact.”

Livia had no intention of letting herself be shaken off so easily, after all this time.

“But you still haven’t touched this, what do you call it? — sfogliatella-and your coffee. Eat up first, and then I’ll let you go. Though not until we’ve decided when and where we’re going to meet again. I told you, I’m here for you, and this time I’m not going to let you get away, leaving me standing in the pouring rain.”

“Well, there’s little danger of that: as you can see, it hasn’t rained here in months. All right, I’ll eat; but then I have to go.”

The back of his neck was tingling with Enrica’s gaze and the pain of the dead lawyer: he couldn’t have said which of the two made him uneasier. But there was one thing he did know: the thought that she was with him meant that the pain behind his stomach simply wouldn’t let up. He wanted to leave, immediately.

He gulped down the sfogliatella in a few bites and swallowed the espresso all at once, scalding his mouth and throat. In the meanwhile, Livia updated him on an intricate program that involved visits to museums and monuments and days at the beach:

“. . and of course, I intend to be taken to dinner by you, or to the theater if you prefer. Otherwise, I won’t give you any peace, and you know it: even if I have to come snatch you up directly in police headquarters.”

Just as she uttered the magic word-police-an angel materialized next to Ricciardi’s chair; a big stout angel, drenched in sweat, wearing a winter uniform jacket.

“Commissa’, forgive me, but I expected you back and so I just thought I’d come and meet you partway, on the off chance that something had happened. But, am I wrong or is this Signora Vezzi? What a nice surprise, Signora. What are you doing down in these parts?”

Ricciardi could have hugged Maione for his timeliness. He hurriedly stood up.

“Yes, Maione, thanks for coming to get me. We need to get going. The Signora is here on holidays, and we happened to run into each other. But now we’ll have to say our farewells to her.”

Livia had stood up in her turn, and she smiled at the brigadier. Standing up, lithe and elegant, she was prettier still.

“Yes, Brigadier. I’m taking a holiday here, and I’ve decided I’m in no hurry to leave. We’ll certainly have other occasions to meet.”

She’d spoken in a loud voice, extending her hand to Maione who clumsily bowed over it and kissed it. With dazzling rapidity, as if it were part of the same motion of getting to her feet, she turned toward Ricciardi and kissed him on the cheek. “Well then, we’ll see you soon,” she said. And she left, followed by the eyes of everyone in the place.

She had kissed him. That vulgar wench had kissed him, and she’d done it right in front of her. What’s worse, he’d let her kiss him: and yet, he’d seen her, she was sure of it, their eyes had met.

She’d left the house to defend her dream, ready to fight with her father for the first time in her life, and now that very same dream had crumbled before her eyes. Sebastiano, unaware of what was going on around him, went on chattering fatuously about horse races and parties: Enrica hadn’t listened to a word he’d said.

Ricciardi, pale as death, had turned in her direction and was looking at her. His eyes were eloquent with an immense sorrow, as if he were looking out the window of a departing train, never to return. He lifted his hand to his cheek, brushing it. He shook his head ever so slightly, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened, or as if he were simply denying it.

Enrica stood up: she absolutely had to maintain her decorum. She felt like she was dying. The piano was still playing the same tune it had been when they’d walked in, only two minutes ago, but it seemed like an eternity. She turned to Sebastiano and said, in a firm voice:

“I have a headache. I need to get some fresh air. Take me for a walk outside, caro.”

And she, in her turn, left on the man’s arm, without a glance in Ricciardi’s direction.