Everyone in Their Place

XXXIV

The street door was open and the doorman, who had pointed out the Fascist Party offices to him, wasn’t there. Ricciardi decided that anyone could go in: after all, it was just an association of citizens.

In fact the four flights of stairs that led up to the top floor were bustling with people, men climbing and descending the steps, in pairs or small groups, chatting and laughing. Ricciardi sensed the usual arrogant excitement, the noisy, slightly forced cheerfulness of the largely male assemblies. On the landing there was a double door, both panels swung wide open, and through it could be seen a large atrium filled with people; their clothing was varied, ranging from the sober elegance of light-colored suits and bowties to mortar-spattered workers’ smocks and overalls. Through the gap of a door swinging ajar, he glimpsed a man polishing a rifle, singing a love song in dialect.

At first no one paid any attention to Ricciardi, and he was forced to walk around a knot of four men, braying with laughter at a dirty joke; as soon as he walked into the room, however, a man with a ferocious expression came up to him and asked him roughly who he was and what he wanted. Silence fell immediately, even though the man hadn’t spoken in an especially loud voice.

Ricciardi clearly sensed the wave of hostility that washed over him from everyone in the room, but he didn’t take his eyes off the face of his questioner: he looked at him fixedly for a long time, until the man finally lowered his eyes. There was a burst of nervous coughing from somewhere out on the landing. In a firm, low voice, he said:

“I’m Commissario Ricciardi, from police headquarters. But I imagine you already know that.”

From a small knot of men at the far end of the room a man broke away; Ricciardi recognized him immediately: it was the guy who had threatened him the night before.

“So what? You are who you are, but you’re still not welcome here so you’d better get out. Just because things went your way once doesn’t mean they will again. Take my advice, leave on your own two feet while you can still walk, it’s good advice.”

The atmosphere had turned grim and tense: silence was absolute, you couldn’t even hear anyone breathing. On the far side of the room the man with the rifle had stopped singing and now he was standing up menacingly from his stool, striding to the doorway with his gun leveled. Everyone was looking at Ricciardi, who hadn’t shifted his gaze away from the man who’d first asked him who he was. He now slowly turned toward his old nocturnal acquaintance and stared at him, expressionless, his eyes empty and transparent; the squadrista stepped back almost imperceptibly and jutted his chin, arms akimbo, hands on hips, in an unconscious imitation of the one figure that made him feel confident.

“Thanks for the advice,” said Ricciardi. “I’ll leave when I’ve been given the information I need.”

“Maybe you didn’t understand: you need to get out of here right away, otherwise we’ll see you out in our own way, which will even spare you the trouble of taking the stairs.”

The threat was accompanied by a nod of the head toward the window. A single nervous laugh was heard, and was immediately stifled; the mocking smile on the man’s face faded. Ricciardi acted as if he hadn’t heard a word.

“I’m here to talk to Ettore Musso di Camparino.”

The other man took a step back, as if he’d just been slapped; a confused muttering arose from all the little knots of men. Many of them exchanged what looked like frightened glances.

The man recovered and took a step forward, lips tight, eyes wide, angry. He laid a hand on Ricciardi’s arm: both of the commissario’s hands were still in his pockets:

“Now that’s enough! I told you that you need to beat it, and. .”

From behind the group of men, which had formed a menacing circle around the two of them, came a calm voice:

“Mastrogiacomo, cool down. That’s enough now.”

The little crowd parted as if a lion tamer had just snapped his whip. Standing in a doorway, through which a desk piled high with papers could be seen, was a thin, smartly dressed man who looked to be around forty. The squadrista took his hand off Ricciardi’s arm as if it was red-hot, and suddenly looked very confused.

“Yessir. But, forgive me, Dotto’, I thought that. .”

The man at the door looked at Ricciardi with curiosity. He gestured vaguely in Mastrogiacomo’s direction, and the man fell suddenly silent. Without taking his eyes off the commissario, he said:

“Bring two coffees to my office, please. Prego, Commissario: come this way.”

And Ricciardi followed him into his room.

The large-bloomed rose is very beautiful: a solitary flower that only blooms in pairs. It requires a great deal of care. I have to make sure it’s exposed to constant humidity, because it’s very delicate; if it’s too dry, it won’t bloom properly. There’s nothing sadder than finding crumpled, heat-scorched leaves and petals on the ground.

Flowers are sensuous. The color and texture seem to be that of flesh, velvety, iridescent. And the care you devote to them should be the same as if you were caring for the flesh of a loved one: devout, impassioned. You must maintain the silent spell of love, sprinkling the flowers with drops of water, watching as they pearl up on the convex shapes of the petals, like beads of sweat on your lips after making love.

Last night I dreamed that I’d been locked up. Without me here to care for them, all the flowers shed their petals and the plants withered and died, only to be replaced by rapacious wild weeds. If they ever did cart me off, no one would tend to you, my exquisite roses; or to the begonias, or the oleanders. It’s quite sufficient to see the cold and indifferent care that is bestowed on the hydrangeas, down in the courtyard, in spite of all the instructions I constantly give that dull-witted doorman with his oversized schnozzola and his tribe of children. What useless people.

All care would be lost, every last shred of honor pertaining to this house, if they were to take me away. You, too, Mamma, in the hereafter, would suffer, I’m sure of it. And yet I wouldn’t say a word. I wouldn’t try to defend myself.

Because love, Mamma, comes before anything else. And if I had to defend anything at all, I’d defend my love.

My first, great love.

The man led Ricciardi into his office and shut the door. The room was shrouded in shadows, the shutters on the windows were pulled to and partially closed; the furnishings were limited to a desk and two chairs. The walls were covered with shelving that rose all the way to the ceiling, piled high with fat files marked with letters and numbers. Facing the door he’d just walked through, the commissario saw another closed door, emblazoned with a portrait of a helmeted Mussolini.

His host sat down and pointed Ricciardi to the other chair. He stared at him intently, with his small, expressionless blue eyes. After a minute he spoke:

“Now then: Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, commissario with the mobile squad for the past three years or so. Born in Fortino, province of Salerno, thirty-one years ago. Orphaned of both father and mother. You’re an odd duck, did you know that? Filthy rich, acres and acres worked by tenant farmers, with a vast income. And yet you work for pennies, really, and you show no signs of seeking advancement in your career. An interesting man, I’d say.”

In his turn, Ricciardi leveled his gaze at the man speaking to him, without so much as blinking. The man’s accent was northern, possibly Ligurian or Piedmontese; his voice was chilly and remote, like a scientist delivering a lecture.

“You know who I am. I’m impressed, and even flattered by all this attention. Would it be too much for me to ask you to tell me who you are?”

“My name is Pivani, Achille Pivani. I’m. . let’s just say that I’m a Party official, a temporary guest in this lovely city of yours.”

He fell silent again, as he drummed his fingers lightly on his desktop. He sat straight-backed, his shoulders not touching the back of the chair. A muscle twitched on his temple, as if he were chewing without moving his jaw. After a short while, he asked Ricciardi:

“May I ask what you’re doing here?”

The commissario smirked.

“What’s this? You know everything about me and yet you don’t know what I just asked your oversized trained ape?”

Pivani shook his head.

“I know, I know. I owe you an apology, even if, believe me, I had nothing to do with it. Mastrogiacomo. . some of our militants are eager to please me, in a sense. And so they take certain initiatives, in keeping with their nature. They’re like a bunch of mischievous children, street urchins, really.”

Buffoonish clowns, thought Ricciardi.

“No, Pivani. They’re not street urchins: they’re criminals. With blood on their hands. It doesn’t matter what happened to me last night, but what they’re doing every day, and they’re becoming bolder and bolder. And they get this boldness from you and those like you. You’re their accomplices, and you know it. If not actually the masterminds behind them.”

The commissario’s tirade, even though it was hissed in something close to a whisper, had been violent and unexpected. Pivani blinked. He seemed to think it over, then he admitted:

“You have a point; I’ve even told them at the highest level that these men can become a problem. You must understand that even an elevated and noble idea like Fascism can become, in the hands of some ordinary idiot, a weapon to settle old personal grudges. It’s already happened elsewhere, and it’s starting to happen here, too. But that’s not our intent, please believe me. When we find out about something, we take care of it ourselves.”

Ricciardi had no intention of showing any sympathy.

“Then you know that your man Mastrogiacomo, or whatever his name is, and his friends, murdered that unemployed man in Via Emanuele Filiberto. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do know. Even though I have no evidence, or even a criminal complaint.”

Pivani leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

“Are you certain of it? Absolutely certain?”

Ricciardi nodded. The man picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote something on a sheet of paper.

“I’ll take care of this, Commissario. I’m not here to shed blood.”

“Then why are you here? Aside from bringing order and civilization, of course.”

Pivani gave no sign of having caught the irony.

“My. . organization is assigned to identify the enemies of the Party. You should think of me, of us, as. . colleagues, in a certain sense. Except, we’re less fortunate than you. We can’t work in the light of day, the way you do.”

Ricciardi snorted.

“I don’t believe I’m going to let you make this comparison, Pivani. How should I address you, by the way? Do you have a rank, do you hold some office?”

The man smiled, affably.

“My rank and my office would be incomprehensible to you. Pivani is enough. In any case, it’s my job to know everything about everyone: I was sent here for that purpose. I’m a sort of. . let’s say, a kind of inspector, that’s good enough. Fascism in Naples hasn’t been in good hands; you may remember the accident in which Padovani died, a comrade from the earliest times, a man who marched on Rome at the Duce’s side in 1922. Certain values, certain aspects of the Party have changed. I’m here precisely to see whether this. . change has been incorporated.”

Ricciardi remembered all too well the tragedy in the Via Generale Orsini; it had been five years ago. He’d been one of the first to arrive on the scene of the catastrophe; the balcony from which the high-ranking member of the Fascist party was greeting the crowd celebrating his birthday had collapsed, killing nine and seriously injuring thirty or so. Many aspects of what Pivani called an “accident” had never been cleared up. The scene that greeted the commissario’s eyes when he arrived was hellish: his ears picked up both the screams of the injured and the lamentations of the dead who had suddenly been snatched from the world of the living. He shuddered, remembering that rumors flew around the city that Padovani’s cult of personality had begun to become an annoyance to the Duce. Very strange, that accident. And providential for the Party, as well. Pivani was still talking:

“It’s always been a problem, the excess of zeal. And also the cult of personality, the Duce aside, obviously; you understand clearly that the party base is made up of the masses, mediocre and incapable of thinking for themselves. It’s in cases like this one, where four useless idiots decide they want to do something to please their bosses, that violence erupts. They need to be guided, supervised every hour of the day. But those who conspire in the shadows are a problem too, and must be stopped. And that’s where we come in.”

We, meaning OVRA, thought Ricciardi, the legendary Fascist secret police, whose existence the regime stubbornly refused to acknowledge. All the terror and violence that this whispered name inspired, bound up in this inoffensive little man.

“I don’t care what you do. Nor do I care what you find out, rummaging around in the dark as you do. What I do care about is what Ettore Musso di Camparino was doing here, the other night. And where he goes when he goes out, and what he does. What I care about is who murdered his stepmother, the duchess, and why they killed her so pitilessly. And I want to know whether it was him.”

In the ensuing silence he heard someone knock at the door; Pivani called loudly to come in, and Mastrogiacomo stepped forward with a tray on which sat two steaming cups. He set it down on the desk, and just as he was about to turn and leave, Pivani, who hadn’t once looked away from Ricciardi’s face, as if he were hypnotized, addressed him:

“Mastrogiacomo, when the commissario leaves, later, make sure that he’s not bothered by so much as a stray breeze. Then come to see me with your three colleagues, you know very well the ones I mean. We need to talk about a trip you’re going to take. You’ll be departing immediately. A long trip: pack your bags.”

The man heaved a deep sigh, and just as he was about to say something in response, Pivani turned his head and looked in his direction. That was enough. He walked toward the door, retreating with his head held low; when he reached the threshold he straightened and clicked his heels, delivering a straight-armed salute, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.