Vipers (31 page)

Hadn't he hoped most of all that she would finally come to terms with the fact that his heart wasn't his to give? Hadn't he hoped she'd finally forget him, that she might find someone more compatible?

Those thoughts took his mind back to Enrica, to their slow but unequivocal courtship, the afternoons that the young woman was spending with Rosa, and to their encounters at the front door at night. How to square that desire, that sweet and uneasy yearning, with his sadness at Livia's departure? What was happening to him?

He'd always told himself that love was completely alien to him, as distant as the face of the moon, but now he was face to face with not one but two emotions he couldn't explain.

Suddenly he felt suffocated, and he decided to leave the office. Just then, all the bells in all the churches started ringing, and their peals were joined by the tooting of the horns of the ships anchored offshore and moored in the port. Eleven o'clock, Holy Saturday.

Easter had officially come to town.

 

Ricciardi headed off to Via Chiaia. Getting closer to the scene of Viper's murder might perhaps give him some new ideas, or at least help to take his mind off other thoughts.

The street as always betrayed the spirit of the city, which had changed as if someone had thrown a switch: in place of contrition and mortification there was a swelling, generalized euphoria charged with anticipation. The sound of church bells, silent for days out of respect for Christ dead on the cross, now announced to the world that what was done was done, and great things could now be expected: the Savior would be reborn, He would redeem mankind from its infernal fate, and all would be well.

The festive sound of pealing bells was meant to tell the city that all the bad things plaguing it would come to an end sooner or later: the economic crisis that had brought hundreds of shopkeepers to their knees, the poverty that gripped nearly all the families, and the diseases caused by poor sanitary conditions; and that unpleasant thoughts could be put off for two days, while they awaited the miraculous discovery of Christ's empty tomb.

The radio stations continued broadcasting only classical music, as they had for nearly a week and would continue to do until the following day, but the serious, doleful sacred melodies had been replaced by surging symphonies.

The strolling vendors had resumed calling their wares to the city's women with renewed urgency, and now, in the streets, the roving butcher, apron spattered with blood, pushing a cart loaded high with knives and cleavers, ready to slaughter lambs, kid goats, and chickens destined for the paschal table, could be seen. From the railings of the balconies and half-open shutters, children who had become fond of the animals they had raised and fattened for months stared down in horror at those bringers of death, whose shrill whistles and jovial cries announced that the time had come.

The very air itself was laden with new scents: they came from kitchens bustling with feverish activity. The aromas of orange blossom water, cinnamon, vanilla, boiled wheat, and lemons elbowed their way through the rich smells of coffee, grilled fish, and the thousand other fried foods that generally reigned supreme, along with the tang of draft horse manure and exhaust fumes from trucks and cars. But the smell that dominated came from the ovens, where women brought their
pastiere
and
casatielli
to be baked, the queens and kings of the impending feast.

There was still none of the noise that would come from children shouting and playing; even the street urchins, the
scugnizzi
, were sworn to silence in honor of the coming holiday: the metallic echo of the isolated
troccola
excepted, their noisy games were still forbidden. But it would be only a few hours now before they burst out into the streets in swarms, with balls made of crumpled newspaper or rags bound together with twine, the best possible representatives of the young new season that had just arrived.

The commissario absentmindedly noticed the change, and saw that the suicide outside Gambrinus, incongruously dressed in his heavy winter jacket, went on, undaunted, calling for his lost love, even though he was already beginning to fade like an old photograph. Some things don't get swept away by the spring winds, unfortunately, mused the commissario.

On the other hand, at the corner by Il Paradiso, not far from the
vicolo
where the tradesmen made their deliveries, the accordionist had resumed playing at full force. The instrument, broken by the drunk Fascists the morning of Viper's funeral, had been patched back together and now played just as well as it had before, under the nimble fingers of its proprietor. Ricciardi was pleased to see it, and he tossed a coin into the man's plate: a misdemeanor he was willing to encourage. Amused, the commissario noted just how skillful the man was at pretending he'd noticed the coin only from the sound, and not because the eyes behind those smoked-glass lenses actually saw perfectly well.

Just as he was about to walk on, he noticed someone stepping out of the small side door and he drew back into the shadows to wait and see who it might be. The ample silhouette and the matronly gait immediately told him that this was Madame Yvonne, heading off briskly in the direction opposite the one from which Ricciardi had come.

The commissario waited a few seconds, then set off after her. He certainly had none of Maione's skill at tailing people, but the woman seemed quite unaware of her surroundings and she didn't notice him. She was walking hastily, sticking close to the wall, wearing a black hat with a short veil that just covered her face, taking short quick steps, her heels striking the broad paving stones with a burst of sharp reports. She crossed paths with two women who glanced at each other with raised eyebrows and a man who shot her a faint smile, taking care that the woman on his arm not sees. In neither case did Yvonne show any sign of having noticed. Ricciardi reflected that perhaps he and this woman had more in common than one might guess: they both lived on the thin line that separates light from dark. She, who dealt with whores without being one; and he, who did much the same with criminals.

She wasn't strolling, she was clearly headed somewhere: her pace was too determined. Ricciardi identified the destination when he saw her slow down and move closer to the wall, peering into the windows of Vincenzo Ventrone's shop.

T
hey stayed that way for a while, sharing the same posture a few yards apart: Ricciardi observing Yvonne, who was in turn observing the interior of Ventrone's store, working to improve her vantage point by small, incremental adjustments.

Then the woman was forced to give up; her shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointment, and she slowly turned to retrace her steps.

At that point the commissario pulled up next to her. The
maîtresse
gave him a sidelong glance without slowing down.

“Oh, great, now you. What do you want with me this time? Can't a poor woman even go out for a walk without having the police in her hair?”

Ricciardi adjusted his gait to match the woman's.

“Hardly, Signora. I just spotted you from a distance, and I wanted to say hello.”

Yvonne grimaced.

“And what a lovely hello. Forgive me, Commissa', but this is just not the day for it, with all the problems we have. By the way, when are we going to be able to use Viper's room again? You can't imagine how many customers want to see it, but I have to keep it closed until you say otherwise.”

Ricciardi replied confidently:

“Signora, for now I can't give you that permission. Until we understand what happened, it's important that everything remain just as it was at the time of the murder.”

The woman snorted.

“Commissa', I'm sorry about what happened to Viper. I'm really sorry, truly. But life has to go on, and I can't afford to do without any available resources right now.”

“You need all your resources, eh? Ventrone was a very nice resource, and apparently that's one you're having to do without.”

Yvonne stopped and lifted her veil.

“And just what is that supposed to mean, Commissa'? What do you know about it? Maybe the Cavalier is coming to see us all the same, even after Viper's death, for all you know.”

“It's simple, Signora. Why would you need to go to his shop in hopes of running into him if he was still coming to Il Paradiso
 
every day the way he used to? And since they tell me that Cavalier Ventrone isn't feeling well, or so he claims, and isn't even coming down to the store . . .”

The woman ran a gloved hand over her face.

“You already know everything, don't you? Then what are you asking me?”

Ricciardi shrugged.

“Nothing at all, Signora. I was just wondering why you had to speak with Ventrone. Perhaps it would help me to understand whether there's some reason that man is no longer in circulation.”

They'd arrived at the building where Il Paradiso was located. Madame began to cry. She wasn't sobbing, nor was her voice broken; tears simply began to streak her cheeks, and she did nothing to wipe them away.

Ricciardi looked around uncomfortably, and he was reminded of Livia at Gambrinus; he seemed to have a special talent for making women cry.

Madame opened the door with a key that she carried on a small chain under her shawl, and she headed up the staircase; the commissario followed her. Given the hour and the day, the bordello was immersed in an unusual silence veined with Lysoform and stale cigarette smoke. When she was close to her customary post with the oversized cash register, Yvonne finally felt comfortable:

“Commissa', you don't know. You couldn't possibly know. I was in the profession, like so many others; I did it until one day I couldn't do it any longer, and the funny thing is that it didn't happen to me on the job. He, Tullio's father, was . . . well, he never really had a job. And he didn't have the money to pay me; but he was nice, and he was funny. Oh, how he used to make me laugh . . . A whore's life is no laughing matter, as you know, Commissa'. But he told jokes, he acted out scenes, he did perfect imitations, and I had so much fun, and if he made a move, well, I didn't say no. And when I happened to get pregnant, he didn't leave. He certainly could have left, no? It would have been easy. I was a whore, it could have been anybody. But he stuck by me.”

Ricciardi pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to Madame, who distractedly dabbed at her tears.

“And he wanted a place of our own, for our son; only he didn't know how to make money, and since he was good at cards he gave that a try and he started to win. But then he started to lose, until one day they killed him. In broad daylight, one afternoon, they killed him. When does that ever happen, Commissa', that loan sharks come and kill someone in the afternoon?”

A lamb, on a nearby terrace, emitted a high-pitched bleat that sounded like the cry of a baby.

“And now my son has started gambling too, right where his father left off. Instead of thanking Almighty God for how things turned out, the way that the two of us have managed to make do on our own. And I can't stand the idea that he might wind up like him.”

Ricciardi listened attentively.

“And how do you think you can stop him, Signora? By continuing to pay off his creditors, with money you extort from whoever you can blackmail?”

“Commissa', I don't blackmail anyone. It's true, I do take advantage of the friendship of some of our most loyal customers, I ask them to give me a little something in advance; but I give the girls their share out of my own pocket, and I assure you that they're not going without, no, not at all.”

“And the most important of these customers, the one who was most willing to provide these, as you call them, advances, was Ventrone, wasn't it? Look at that, coincidentally the one whose business was most vulnerable to gossip and backbiting.”

“Do you really think that I would blackmail Ventrone? No, Commissa', I'll say it again: I don't blackmail anybody. The Cavalier is an old client, perhaps one of our dearest ones, and a friend. It's just that his son . . . you've met him, haven't you? He's a young man, but he has the mind-set of an old one. All that contact with priests, ever since he was little—maybe he's become a little bit of a priest himself. I'm sure that it's him, that he's locked his father up at home so he can't come see us.”

Ricciardi tried to grasp the meaning of those words.

“Why, do you think that even without Viper the Cavalier would come all the same?”

Yvonne laughed mockingly.

“Commissa', you need to listen to me: if someone is disposed to come to a place like this, they'll just come, no question. It's not a matter of this whore or that whore, it's just the place. Ventrone, like so many others, used to come here even while his wife was alive, in fact, when his wife died they came to tell him right here in this drawing room. And there's nothing wrong with that, if you think about it: when you're grieving, you look for a place where you can concentrate on other things. It's not the sex, it's the state of mind. If Ventrone could come here, he would, the way he did before Viper, and the way he will again, long after the pleasures of the flesh are a distant memory. You're not the kind of man who would come here, I know that. But if you did, you'd see how many people come even though their thingy is only good for peeing, and they pay plenty of money to hide behind a curtain or under a bed, just to hear and watch and especially to remember. And what's so bad about that? It's not as if the only thing we're allowed to do in this life is suffer.”

If only certain forms of suffering could be avoided, Ricciardi thought. If only all you had to do was give someone money, in order to stop seeing. Even if only for an instant.

“Then why did you go looking for Ventrone? If you're sure that he'll come back, that it's just a matter of time, why did you go to the shop this morning?”