The Bottom of Your Heart (43 page)

Livia was ill at ease; she sensed Ricciardi and Maione's hostility and kept her eyes glued to the commissario's expressionless face as she replied to Garzo: “I certainly would have told you, Dottore, but it's still two days away. I didn't want to interfere with your work, and . . .”

Garzo laughed noisily: “But my
cara
,
cara
Signora, this is work too, you know! I always tell my wife: work, before all else. But a party, and a masquerade party to boot! Our man Ricciardi lets himself get carried away with investigations into street crime, and that's very much to his credit, but your party is also a matter of public security, given the prominent personalities—and let me repeat: the
personalities
—that will be attending!”

Ricciardi felt he had to say something: “Dottore, please forgive me, but we can't stop our work on this investigation: as you know very well, time is a crucial factor.”

Livia started to stand up.

“Certainly, Dottore, Ricciardi has a point. For that matter, the only reason I came by was to inquire after the health of Signora Rosa, and . . .”

Garzo interrupted: “Ah, right, yes, Ricciardi, I heard that your servant had an apoplectic fit. How is she?”

Maione took a step forward and blurted out in an exceptionally harsh voice: “Signora Rosa is no servant, Dotto'. Signora Rosa is a family member to the commissario—and let me repeat myself: a
family member
—and she alone is more important than all of police headquarters including the top brass,—and let me repeat: the top brass.”

In the awkward silence that ensued, Garzo, as he always did when he was irritated, sat with his mouth partly open; he blinked repeatedly and his throat turned red in patches. He was about to deliver a stinging retort to Maione, who was staring at him grimly, but Livia didn't give him the opportunity: “The brigadier is quite right, Dottore: Signora Rosa is an exceptional woman, and I'm very fond of her. One of those rare people who have the privilege of winning the affection of everyone they meet. I would take any offense paid to her just as if it were directed at me.”

Garzo had all the shortcomings in the world, but he was also exceptionally quick on his feet, able to adopt with extraordinary rapidity whatever position best served his own self-interest.

“Why, of course, Signora. And we at police headquarters care very much about the family members of the men who work with us. Why, I'd venture to say that we're all just one great big family. Well, Ricciardi, and how is this dear lady doing?”

The commissario whispered a reply: “These aren't matters that can be solved easily, Dottore. I'm glad to be able to say that she's in excellent hands, perhaps the best: Dr. Modo, at Pellegrini Hospital.”

Garzo made a face: “Ah, yes, Modo. A singular individual, from what I've heard. I believe I've seen a confidential report or two . . . but we'll drop that. All right then, shall we talk about the security plans for our—and I venture to call it:
our
—party, my dear lady?”

Livia, unlike Garzo, was capable of taking the room's temperature. She looked Ricciardi in the eye and said, in her deep, unflustered voice: “Dottor Garzo, I believe that the commissario and the brigadier really have very different matters on their minds just now. But I'd consider myself truly fortunate to have a chance to discuss it with you . . . Perhaps you could invite me to your office so we could talk about it more freely, don't you think?”

Garzo happily leapt to his feet: “Why, certainly, Signora, what an honor. Please, come right this way: I'll ask my assistant Ponte to arrange for an excellent espresso to be brought up, and you can tell me all about the party. A masquerade party, we were saying? And with what theme? I hope my wife doesn't kill me when she finds out that she'll have to find herself a costume on such short notice. In fact,” he said, laughing jovially, “she's sure to kill me!”

Maione, under his breath but within Ricciardi's hearing, said: “And she'll be doing us all a favor, your wife will.”

Livia smiled at Garzo: “Lead the way, Dottore. I'll catch up with you right away, let me just say goodbye to these two gentlemen.”

“Don't make me wait too long, though. As I always say: work before all else!”

Maione nodded to Ricciardi and headed in the opposite direction: “Commissa', I'll see you later.”

Once they were alone, Livia laid a gloved hand on Ricciardi's arm: “I'm so sorry,
caro
. I happened to run into him outside your office, I asked him whether you were here, and I was turning to leave, but he insisted on letting me in. I never would have dared do such a thing.”

The commissario nearly exploded: “Livia, I've told you before: you come here to police headquarters too often. You know that when I'm working, I . . .”

She interrupted him with a bitter laugh: “Work before all else, of course. Listen to me, Ricciardi, let's not mince words here: I'm a woman, and I have feelings. And I'm actually not stupid. You're having a terrible time, I know how dear Rosa is to you: you're not sleeping, you're not eating, look at the state you're in, you haven't even shaved. You must, you absolutely must let me love you and take care of you.”

Ricciardi ran a hand over his face, realizing that the woman had a point.

“Livia, there's a time and a place for everything. If we're going to talk about this sort of thing, I need to have a clear head, and I . . .”

“You can't choose to remain alone. Whatever secret sorrow you have, you have to share it with someone. No one can live alone, remember that. That's the real inferno, the only hell that exists here on earth: solitude. Take it from me, I've experienced it even when I was surrounded by crowds of people. You need to throw open this damned locked door that you have in your chest. You have to, do you understand me?”

Ricciardi stared blankly. Loneliness is hell on earth. A hell, he thought, to which I've condemned myself since I was a child. The hell of my madness.
The bottom of your heart
, the memory of Coviello's phantom told him. The bottom of your heart.

He looked at the woman, who still had her hand on his arm. Her eyes were black as night, her mouth was partly open, her cheeks were red from her impassioned speech. What did she lack? What was it she didn't have?

“Livia, dear, it's just a difficult, complicated moment. We can talk about it some other time, if you like. But first let me get through this.”

She stared at him in silence. Then she said: “I'm . . . I'm going to do something, at this party. Something I care very much about, and I'm going to do it for you. Whether or not you're there.”

She brushed his lips with a kiss and left.

M
aione was furious. With Garzo, who was an idiot, an uncouth imbecile; but also with Lucia, Pianese, and even Coviello, who had killed himself for no conceivable reason.

But most of all he was angry with himself. He'd been a bad husband, if Lucia was cheating on him; a bad father, who had by his own stupid example induced poor Luca to follow in his footsteps and get himself killed; a bad policeman, who instead of focusing on an investigation was using valuable time when he was on duty to assault some guy on the street. He could sense the opinion he had of himself crumbling, along with the life he'd built for himself through hard work and pain. And he was afraid.

His shirt unbuttoned, his face cradled in his hands, he sat alone behind a closed door in the room where he had a desk, a chair, and a cot where he slept when he was working the graveyard shift. This heat, he thought to himself. This terrible, miserable heat, that kills all desire to move around, to live, that shatters your thoughts into pointless jagged shards. It's no accident that the inferno is hot.

Someone knocked at the door. Maione called out, brusquely: “Come in!”

Camarda appeared at the door, gripping a struggling child by the scruff of the neck: “Brigadie', forgive me, I didn't want to bother you, but this kid here says that he has something he needs to tell you.”

Maione's terrible mood was the talk of the day among the rank and file at police headquarters, and before Camarda decided to bring the boy into the brigadier's presence, he'd thought long and hard; then the fear that it might be something important had outweighed the fear of earning a kick in the ass, and now here he was. Stepping cautiously, though.

Maione observed the boy. He didn't know him: just one more
scugnizzo
of the thousands that infested the city's streets, playing pranks on passersby and hitching rides on the city buses by grabbing onto the overhead electric trolley poles. “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

The boy looked at him with defiance in his eyes: “Unless you let me go right now, I won't tell you anything.”

Maione gestured to Camarda, who released him. The boy, who couldn't have been older than seven or eight, shot the police officer a vicious glare as he rubbed his neck. Then he turned to look at Maione: “I can't speak unless it's you and me and no one else.”

Amused in spite of himself by the boy's formal tone, the brigadier nodded in Camarda's direction, who reluctantly left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving the two alone. Maione said: “Well? Who are you, what's your name?”

The boy cleared his throat and intoned in a stentorian voice: “Do you confirm that you are Brigadier Raffaele Maione?”

“Yes, that's me, but . . .”

“Then I've been sent to tell you that there's a lady at the Café Caflisch, in the inside salon, waiting to speak to you. You must come alone, make sure that no one sees you arrive, and give me a tip for my service.”

The brigadier had listened openmouthed.

“How about if, instead of giving you a tip, I give you a good hard kick in the ass and just stay right here, what do you say to that?”

The boy didn't bat an eye.

“The lady said that it would be all the worse for you. That's what she said. And anyway, Brigadie', no disrespect, but by the time you get around this desk I'll be halfway up the hill to Capodimonte.”

Maione would gladly have burst out laughing, but he didn't want to set a bad example. He dug in his pocket for a coin and tossed it in the boy's direction; the kid snatched it out of the air, snapped a passable military salute, opened the door, and shot out at top speed through the legs of the astonished Camarda.

“Brigadie', forgive me, but the kid, that
guaglione
, told me that he knew you and . . .”

Maione looked at him disgustedly as he donned his uniform cap: “You're useless creatures, that's all you are. A person could walk in here, stab someone to death, and leave, and you'd never even notice. Get out of my way, go on, I've got work to do.”

 

The Café Caflisch was one of the most elegant places in the city. Maione made his way through the crowded mass of customers who were sipping tea and slurping espresso and eating
sfogliatella
pastries and rum babas, then headed for the inside salon as the
scugnizzo
had told him to do.

He'd made quite sure no one had followed him, by taking a series of narrow
vicoli
. He didn't like secret meetings, but he wasn't about to ignore an opportunity that might prove helpful to the challenging investigation that lay before them. Perhaps he ought to have alerted the commissario, but he thought there was a chance Ricciardi might still be busy with the widow Vezzi, a woman who, by the way, Maione would have been happy to see at his superior's side, especially now that Signora Rosa's condition seemed to promise nothing good.

A uniformed waiter blocked his way.

“Sorry, the salon is reserved.”

Maione looked him sternly in the eye: “I know. Apparently I'm expected.”

The man shot a suspicious glance around him, making certain that no one was listening, then asked in a low voice: “Then, you would be Brigadier Raffaele Maione?”

Maione was starting to lose his patience. He pushed his face close to the waiter's and hissed: “Listen, youngster, I am who I am, and that's all you need to know. Either you let me in, or I'll kick your ass sideways and then I'll shut down this café for the next month, what do you say?”

The waiter stepped aside. Maione stepped in and shut the door behind him.

Seated facing the entrance was a tall woman in a flowered dress wearing long black gloves and a hat adorned with a thick veil that covered her face. Maione's mind immediately raced to the mysterious visitor that poor Coviello's apprentice had mentioned.

He went over to the table and introduced himself, raised his hand to the visor of his uniform cap, and asked: “You wished to see me?”

The woman laughed lightly and lifted her veil. A disconcerted Maione found himself face-to-face with the unmistakable features of Bambinella.

“Brigadie',
buongiorno
. You didn't recognize me at all, did you? Of course you didn't, when I decide to clean myself up, I'm the prettiest girl in this whole city.”

“Bambine', give me one good reason, and it had better be a really good one, why I shouldn't strangle you right here with my own two hands. Have you gone stark raving mad? What is this playacting? What do you think, that I have nothing better to do? And all this secrecy . . . Do you mind telling me what on earth you were thinking?”

The
femminiello
snapped open a fan with an affected gesture and started fanning herself, batting her eyelashes as she did: “Oooh,
mamma mia
, Brigadie', how fiery you are! Don't you notice how hot it is out? Take a seat, now, come on, we need to have ourselves a talk. What will you have, an espresso? A pastry? Order, order, don't be shy: it's on me.”

Maione felt as if he was trapped in a nightmare.