Vipers (17 page)

All it took was a glimpse of those eyes, those sea-green crystals into which she had sunk, and from which she could not seem to emerge. Livia had fallen in love with Ricciardi the instant she looked into his eyes, and now she knew it. Certain emotions leave their mark, they enter into uncharted territory in the soul, they cross an unknown threshold in the heart and take possession of it forever.

Livia was crying: because no one before him had ever triggered this feeling, a feeling that would never come again, and which she couldn't live without.

It was on account of him that she'd moved to that city, a city she'd learned to love, but a place where she'd always be an outsider; the capital—where she had been one of high society's most admired queens, where she had friendships at the very summit of political and economic life—had seemed to her as empty as the stage of a shuttered provincial theater.

She'd taken an apartment, and furnished it as if it was where she was to live as a newlywed. She'd once again welcomed hope into her life, she who had considered herself already dead.

She'd held him in her arms, in that apartment, on a night of fever and rain, when his eternal defenses had collapsed in the face of a stronger loneliness than usual, a disappointment of some kind, or something else, who knows, she didn't care: what she knew was that she had had him, on her flesh, in her body. That the kisses, the caresses, and imprint his body had left inside her hadn't been one of her many dreams, or one of the fantasies that accompanied her own solitary pleasure-taking, but a wonderful reality.

She'd hoped to chip away at his defenses gradually, to pull out whatever it was inside him that brought a perennial look of sorrow to his face, and to help him to erase that grief; she'd hoped for a future, something that fate had set aside for her in exchange for the many tears she'd shed; she'd believed once again that love existed, and that it existed for her too.

Against her own customs and her very nature she'd persisted, she'd courted him. She, who had always taken her pick of many suitors; she, who was gazed at with veneration by men and suspicion by women whenever she made her entrance—alone—into a theater; she, who every day received bouquets of flowers from admirers of all ages. And she hadn't allowed herself to be discouraged by the locked door guarding his heart, that he claimed belonged to another: Livia was certain it wasn't true. That he'd told her that just to keep her at bay, perhaps to protect her from some terrible unknown secret.

There couldn't be another woman. She'd have sensed it, she'd have seen it. He was always withdrawn, absorbed in his life which consisted of his work and his home, the elderly
tata
who still lived with him, and whom she had met after his accident, at the hospital, and another relative, a tall young woman who had left immediately.

All this was true until yesterday. Seeing him again had left her with her heart in her throat, as always; and she'd been happy to see the doctor, a likeable man, intelligent and one of his friends. She loved the idea of sharing every aspect of Ricciardi's life, and all the more so one of his very few friendships. And then that pointless, violent barb.

It hadn't been the words, that vulgar and inappropriate reference to her friendships. It hadn't even been his tone, flat and chilly as it all too often was. What had wounded her had been the obvious fact that he'd meant to hurt her. And the doctor's embarrassment had only confirmed that terrible sensation.

She'd started sobbing in the car, ignoring the driver's cautious words as he asked if there was anything she needed; she'd gone on sobbing when she got home, waving away the housekeeper who asked if she felt unwell; she'd sobbed all night long in her bed, without a bite to eat.

She was weeping over the death of her hopes, the mirage of lost love, the silence that would once again be her life's companion. Over her loneliness, which had come back, this time to stay.

She'd decided that she would leave. That she could no longer stand to stay in that city, where every day she risked encountering those eyes, the eyes that had once made her think life wasn't yet over, only to disappoint her in such a painful way.

She'd go back to Rome, where she'd rebuild, piece by piece, a modicum of self-confidence. Back to Rome where she was valued and perhaps, in some strange and unsatisfying way, even loved. Where some friendships remained to her. She'd once again be Livia Vezzi, queen of the night, the most beautiful one. At least she'd have that.

Meanwhile, as springtime was scheming changes all its own, outside the locked shutters, Livia decided that as soon as the holidays were over, she'd leave, and send for her things later.

Turning her back on love.

R
icciardi and Maione were used to it: in their line of work, it was impossible to show up anywhere unexpected or by surprise.

In the best case, their arrival was preceded by word of mouth—whispers and eyes peering out from behind shutters and blinds, as the sound of their boots and shoes broke the silence of secluded alleys. In the worst case, hordes of shouting
scugnizzi
danced ahead of them like some irreverent fanfare.

Which is what happened this time, as a small flock of barefoot boys splashing through all the mud and puddles they found along the way, laughing and singing choruses in dialect, playfully darting to try to pull the brigadier's pistol from its holster, as he tried to ward them off halfheartedly, like an ox persecuted by a cloud of bothersome flies.

At the far end of the road, just a few hundred yards from the Cennamo in-progress mansion, there was a fence with a gate thrown wide open. On the ground it was possible to see the tracks of countless cart wheels and, just as they were entering, a load of broccoli pulled by a mule came through the gate, with a peasant on foot following the cart. The man eyed them mistrustfully, neither speaking nor tipping his cap.

They found themselves in a large courtyard. The odor of the nearby stables was piercing, as was the smell of vegetables that were being stored in a building into which they saw the cartload of broccoli enter. A broad-shouldered woman with a determined look on her face came toward them, wiping her hands on her apron; from her blond hair and blue eyes, they immediately understood that she was kin to the Coppola brothers.

“Do you need something?”

The tone of voice wasn't hostile, but brisk: this was a workplace, and there wasn't time to waste. Maione said:

“Signo', is this where Giuseppe Coppola works? We're from the mobile squad, Brigadier Maione and Commissario Ricciardi. Can we speak to him?”

The woman seemed entirely unimpressed by the presence of policemen in her courtyard. She stared at them, mopping her brow with a handkerchief that she'd pulled out of a pocket in her skirt.

“My name is Caterina, I'm Giuseppe Coppola's sister. What do you want with him?”

She wasn't bad looking, the self-proclaimed sister of Giuseppe Coppola: her coloring was lovely, her eyes glittered in the sun like sheaves of ripe wheat; but her features were harshened by a strong-willed domineering personality, and she had a pair of deep creases at the corners of her mouth. Her powerful arms were accustomed to hard labor.

Maione set her straight on who was asking the questions:

“Signo', if we need to speak with him, then it's about something that doesn't concern you, otherwise we would have come straight to you, don't you think? Do me a favor: if he's here, would you please go get him for us?”

The woman gave the brigadier a long stare: she looked as if she was about to give him a shove. Maione put on the sleepy expression he used whenever he was interested in discouraging conversation.

“I don't know where my brother is. These past few days, no one seems to know where he's been going. Let's just hope that he snaps out of it soon, otherwise this whole place will go to hell in a handbasket. Why don't you go take a look in the stables? I have some broccoli to get unloaded.”

She turned to the farmer that they'd seen enter the building and gave him an incomprehensible order in thick dialect. The man stopped short with a huge bundle of broccoli in his arms, as if frozen solid by her rough shout, and put the produce back on the cart, awaiting further orders, clearly frightened of the woman who was striding toward him.

The brigadier said:

“An energetic lady, eh? She's worse than any man.”

Taking care to avoid the horse droppings that dotted the courtyard, where a dozen or so hens were busily pecking, they walked into the large farmhouse.

No matter what Caterina might say, the Coppola family company seemed to be humming along famously. On one side of the large shed were lined up a dozen or so carts, painted light blue, and there was still room for at least another dozen, which were no doubt out making deliveries just then. A number of men, each wearing a dark felt hat and a handkerchief knotted around his neck, were working busily around the carts, checking joints and axles and oiling hubs. At the opposite end of the room, the entrance to the stables could be seen, a high arch through which came the sound of neighing. Maione was reminded of Bambinella's laughter.

Seeing them come in, the workmen, clearly worried, made a show of concentrating even harder on their tasks: there was no one in that city who didn't have something to fear from the police. The two policemen headed for the horse stalls.

Inside they found a clean, tidy space, where three men and two women were hard at work, brushing and attending to the animals. Here too it was clear that only a small part of the fleet of horses were here, fewer than ten. Most of them were out working.

A man broke away from the group and walked toward them: it was Pietro, the younger Coppola brother, whom Ricciardi had already met at police headquarters.

“Commissa',
buongiorno
. Do you remember me?”

Ricciardi nodded, and introduced him to Maione.

“We've come to Antignano to meet Signora Cennamo, Maria Rosaria's mother. As long as we were here, we thought we'd drop by, just to see the place and maybe talk to your brother.”

Maione decided that, his dark hair aside, the boy could easily have been Caterina's twin brother, except that he lacked his sister's massive musculature, despite his broad shoulders. But he must be better natured, because Pietro smiled and lifted both hands, displaying a grooming brush and a rag.

“Forgive me, Brigadie', I can't shake hands: I was just grooming the sorrel mare that you see over there. Pretty, isn't she?”

In fact the animal was magnificent: high and lithe, with mane and tail that seemed to be made of light brown silk, her eyes deep and expressive. Maione commented admiringly:

“She certainly is. She hardly seems to need the grooming. That's certainly not how I imagined a carthorse.”

Pietro laughed again:

“Right you are. And in fact, it's not easy to persuade her to haul a cart like the other horses . . . Tell me, Commissa', what can I do for you?”

Ricciardi looked around: Peppe 'a Frusta was nowhere to be seen here, either.

“Where's your brother? The lady in the front, who said that she's your sister Caterina, told us to look in here, but he doesn't seem to be here.”

The laughter vanished from the young man's face.

“No, in fact he isn't here. He's inside. He hasn't been out much for . . . for the past few days. Hold on, I'll send for him.”

He gestured and a pretty brunette came over, young and not very tall.

“Allow me to introduce Ines, my fiancée. Ines, go in the house and call Peppe for me.”

The girl sketched out a brief curtsey and then moved off. Pietro sighed.

“You know, we were planning to get married in a couple of months, we were hoping to do it in June. We've been together for a long time. But with my brother in the shape he's in . . . I just don't think it would be right, and so we've put it off indefinitely. Ines has an older sister, her name is Ada, she's been sweet on my brother for years, she's a schoolteacher, here in Antignano, and we all hoped it would work out. But then he ran into Maria Rosaria again, and since then he hasn't had eyes for anyone else.”

Maione wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“So tell me, Coppola, what's the setup here?”

“Simple enough, Brigadie'. I take care of the horses and I'm in charge of supplies and deliveries. My sister Caterina supervises the produce, manages the farmers and orchardmen, and the loading and unloading of the carts. My other sister, the younger one, you haven't met her yet, Nicoletta, works in our gardens and orchards and supervises the cultivation of vegetables and fruit. And my brother's in charge of the money, he's the oldest one, you understand, he created this company and he's the boss. Which is why we're having some trouble now: we're doing the best we can, but if he doesn't get a grip on himself, things are going to go south.”

He spoke in a worried tone. The company depended on Peppe; and both Caterina and Pietro hoped his morale would soon recover.

Ricciardi said:

“Tomorrow morning at seven there will be a funeral procession for Viper. We wanted to tell your brother.”

The young man squirmed.

“For the love of God, Commissa', don't tell him! He's in such bad shape, he'll do something reckless. He hasn't slept in two days, he's drinking, he won't eat: and no one knows what he might do, if he finds himself face to face with other people who went to Maria Rosaria! And if . . .”

He broke off suddenly when he saw his brother coming, accompanied by Ines. He was unshaven and he walked unsteadily, his hair was filthy and sweaty, his shirt was rumpled. It was immediately obvious to Ricciardi and Maione that he'd been drinking, and heavily, even though it wasn't even lunchtime yet.

“Commissario, greetings. Do you have any news? Any suspects?”