By My Hand (28 page)

“And spiritually? How are you feeling? Are you happy, with your heart at rest, at peace with yourself?”

Here we go, Enrica thought to herself.

“Well, actually, not really, Padre. I felt the need to speak to you. I need to . . . to ask you to explain something to me, to give me some guidance.”

The priest nodded, seriously.

“That's why I'm here, Signorina. To help you to recover your peace of mind. That's all I'm here for.”

“Yes, Padre, I know that. And I'd like to tell you a little story, if you'd have the patience to listen to it.”

“I'm all ears.”

And the young woman told the story.

She described a growing feeling, over the months and the seasons and the weeks and the hours, through windowpanes closed to keep out the winter chill or open to welcome in the warm summer air. She told him about interminable hours spent doing her left-handed needlepoint, slowly working under the cone of bright light cast by a lampshade, to the sound of dance tunes playing on the radio. She told him about a shadowy figure standing in the half-light across the way, arms folded across his chest, just twenty-five feet away and one floor below; and how difficult it was to bridge that distance, given all the social conventions that poisoned people's lives.

Then she told him about two fleeting encounters. One near a vegetable stand: a pair of desperate green eyes just inches away, and his hasty flight, and a trail of broccoli scattered in the street behind him. And a second encounter that she was more vague about: something to do with work, in the presence of a second person with whom she'd ended up exchanging a few words, while this other man sat there looking at her as if he were drowning, wide-eyed and openmouthed.

Last of all, she spoke of two letters, hesitant and awkwardly phrased, but letters she'd read and reread: one that absurdly requested her permission to greet her, and the other that granted him that permission, and how.

Then she fell silent, and with downcast eyes, she realized that at some point during her speech, she couldn't say when, she must have pulled a handkerchief out of her purse, and she'd been torturing it all the while with her hands.

Don Pierino had listened in silence, breathing softly and signaling his empathy and interest with the thousand lively expressions of his mobile face. He guessed that this was no straightforward tale of adoration from afar, and he waited to hear the rest.

When she resumed speaking, Enrica's voice had a different tone, more heartfelt, less evocative.

She talked about the thrill of being just one step away from an actual meeting, from the lowering of the barriers; about how she'd stood up to her mother who was trying to play matchmaker and push her into a relationship with another man, even arranging a date for her. And then the contact with a person from his family, an elderly
tata
,
 
kind and determined, who regarded Enrica favorably. She also alluded to the mysterious, charming woman from up north who she'd seen with him; but she immediately added that the man's attitude toward that woman hadn't seemed especially intimate or affectionate.

At last, she took a deep breath, and told him about the accident. About the hospital, about the moments of horrific tension when she believed that he was going to die. About the ashen faces of all those who were present, a very small group made up of his
tata
, that lady, a colleague of his from work.

And she told him about the promise she'd made to the Madonna of Pompeii, that she'd never see him again if he survived.

From her very first words about the accident, a doubt began to stir in Don Pierino's mind. It all seemed too absurd: the similarities between this story and that of his friend Commissario Ricciardi were too strong. And, gradually, as Enrica went on, a hope sprang up in his heart that he could never have imagined, a hope that love and happiness might soon enter the life of that strange, forlorn green-eyed man. A lovely Christmas present, Don Pierino said to himself. In fact, Christmas had brought a beautiful gift.

Enrica went on with her story, as the priest's mind worked quickly: she was saying that she felt bound by that promise, even though the
tata
had gone to see her to try to persuade her not to exit his life for good; that in any case she felt uncertain, because she didn't know for sure how the man felt about her, and she had wondered whether the woman she'd seen him with might not be better suited to be near him; that nevertheless, even if she thought rationally about all these things, every night that she went without opening the shutters she felt herself die a little bit inside.

“Padre, what should I do? I made a promise, and you'll tell me that I have to keep my promise; I made it voluntarily, and I'd do it again. So why do I feel as if I'm dying?”

Don Pierino brought his hands together in front of his face and shut his eyes. Then he opened them again, and his gaze was one of absolute determination.

“Signorina, you promised something to the Madonna that wasn't yours to promise. You promised the sacrifice of another person's love; you promised his loneliness, his unhappiness and your own. That's not what the Madonna wants; that's not what God wants, for His children.”

Enrica listened, her eyes open wide and red from crying and insomnia.

“I'm sure that in your heart you know what's right and what's wrong. Our faith wasn't made to erect barriers, walls, or iron bars between us and love; it was made to increase the presence of love in our lives, so that we can give of ourselves and live in a state of communion, and start families that can help to keep us from feeling alone on dark winter nights. What kind of God would He be, if He wanted to lock those who can feel love in a cell of solitude?”

The girl listened to the priest, raptly.

“So what you're saying is that . . . in other words, I ought to . . .”

“You ought to fight for your own happiness, the way everyone else does, and always has. While respecting your fellow man, in the love you feel for your neighbor and for life, which is the greatest gift that has ever been given to us. You ought to speak and listen, smile and show all the love you feel inside to someone who, perhaps, lacks the strength to encourage you.”

Enrica had begun to smile. Don Pierino decided that the girl was one of those people who completely change expression when they smile, as if they were smiling with every single part of their body.

“So what you're saying is that I should push myself; I should gather my courage, and fight for my happiness. Is that it? I should take the initiative.”

The priest realized that the young woman was no longer talking to him; she was now talking to herself. He shifted in his chair until he was comfortable, once again with his fingers knit and resting on his belly, and a contented expression on his face.

“You've understood perfectly. Now if he happens not to want the same thing, if he makes a different choice, then you'll find another path to happiness, believe me; there are so many of them. But the important thing, for you, is to be certain that you've done everything within your power to attain happiness. Simple, no?”

Enrica stood up. From behind the lenses of her glasses, her eyes radiated with a new glow.

“Yes, Padre. Quite simple. That's what I'd never seen before, what I didn't know how to see. In reality it's all so simple. If you want to be happy, then you have to do what it takes to be happy. I thank you, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Don Pierino smiled.

“No, I thank
you
, for having chosen to confide in me. And, please, let me know how everything goes.”

T
he air had turned chilly by now.

Maione and Ricciardi were numb from the cold by the time they reached the Largo del Leone, even though the wind had stopped blowing and they'd walked briskly from police headquarters in an attempt to stay warm. The brigadier had long since given up even trying to suggest they catch a trolley; his superior officer had taken off on foot directly, his head pulled down into the lapels of his overcoat, striding toward their destination at a rapid gait.

They had gotten a bite to eat along the way, a sfogliatella puff pastry for Ricciardi and two
panzarotti
turnovers for Maione: handheld foods chosen in order to save time and get as far ahead with their investigation as possible, since it wasn't long until sunset. They knew that when Christmas came, everything would come to a halt, and the sleepy twelve-day period leading up to Epiphany would lower a curtain of silences and closed doors on the case. It could provide a crucial advantage to the murderers, and enable them to get away entirely.

Maione couldn't see the reason for another visit to the crime scene. He thought it seemed like a waste of time: he still needed to go by the
borgo
to question the men in Boccia's fishing crew, and before nightfall he wanted to make another stop to take a look at what the hands that had murdered his son were up to, hands that were now occupied with the skilled work of carving faces on Via San Gregorio Armeno. Just as a way of drawing a little bit closer to the decision to ruin his own life and that of the murderer, in keeping with the absurd moral code by which he'd lived.

Ricciardi, however, wanted to see the doorman again. All right, the man was drunk more often than not, and he didn't seem especially efficient, but Ricciardi hadn't yet questioned him about the scene of the crime; and perhaps this time, if he was a little more sober, he might remember something else.

They were in luck: Ferro was at his post, and this time he looked more cognizant of his surroundings. He'd just finished putting up the manger scene in the building's lobby, and he seemed proud of himself. He was surrounded by a small knot of children, who were expressing their admiration with sharp whistles, sighs, and occasional bursts of applause.

When he saw the two policemen coming toward him, the man changed expression. His gaze became worried and mistrustful. He shooed away the children with a wave, as if they were flies, and walked toward Ricciardi and Maione.

“
Buonasera
. May I help you?”

The two men exchanged a look of surprise. The doorman didn't seem to have recognized them.

“Hello, Ferro. You have to accompany us into the Garofalos' apartment.”

Ricciardi had been intentionally brusque; he wanted to see how the man would react. Ferro narrowed his eyes.

“Ah, Commissario, forgive me, the light was behind you and I didn't realize who you were. I just set up the manger scene; in the end I decided that, since it was done, I may as well put it up in the lobby. I was showing it to the children who live here.”

Maione broke into the conversation.

“While you're showing us upstairs, Ferro, I'd like to ask you if anything has come to mind over the past couple of days. If there was anyone who came to call, whether you heard any discussions or arguments, that kind of thing.”

Ferro had pulled a bunch of keys off a rack and was climbing the stairs ahead of them.

“Now that I think about it, yes, Brigadie'. A couple did come, a man and a woman, I'd say three, maybe four days before . . . before the incident, shall we say.”

“What were they like, these two? Did they tell you their names?”

“No, they really didn't tell me their names. And I didn't ask, because I only saw them on their way out; when they went up, I . . . I had stepped away for just a moment.”

“And how did you know that they had gone to see the Garofalos?”

“I asked them afterward. Out of curiosity.”

All right, then, thought Maione: the Boccias' visit had been confirmed.

“Had you ever seen them before? Or did you see them again after that?”

“No, Brigadie'. Neither before nor after. Just that one time, and I couldn't tell you how long they were here, because . . .”

Maione finished his sentence for him:

“Because when they arrived, you weren't here yourself, right.”

Ferro had opened the door and stepped to one side, without looking into the apartment. Ricciardi gave him a hard stare.

“Go ahead, Ferro, lead the way. We're right behind you.”

The man looked at him with terror in his eyes.

“Commissa', I'd really prefer . . . I mean, I'll just wait for the two of you out here, on the landing.”

Ricciardi met and held his gaze.

“No, you won't. You'll accompany us inside, and you'll lead the way.”

His tone made it clear that he wasn't going to take no for an answer. Maione took a step toward the man, who closed his eyes halfway, opened the door, and prepared to enter.

The interior was steeped in shadow, with only dim light filtering in through the partially drawn curtains. On the entryway floor you could still clearly make out the stains from the blood that had gushed out of Costanza Garofalo's slit throat. Ferro staggered and grabbed the doorjamb to keep from falling, while Ricciardi was engulfed by the sight of the woman's translucent image, which smiled, eyes lowered, as it asked:
Hat and gloves?
Waves of black liquid oozed from the fatal wound.

“Jesus, but is that . . . is that blood, over there?”

Ricciardi studied the man's expression. He didn't seem to be pretending: he'd turned pale and looked like he was about to faint and slam face-first into the floor.

Maione stepped over to him and grabbed him by the arm.

“Come on, Ferro. Show us to the bedroom.”

The man balked, running a hand over his face as if trying to conceal the sight of the blood from his eyes; then he headed toward the hallway at an unsteady gait. Ricciardi watched him, noticing that the doorman demonstrated a certain familiarity with the interior of the apartment. Leaving aside how upset he was, he moved with a fair degree of confidence. The commissario noted that he was very careful where he put his feet, avoiding the spatters of blood that marked the way between the two corpses, even though those drops were scarcely visible in the dim light.