The Bottom of Your Heart (13 page)

As soon as he had taken a seat at a small table inside the café—which was half empty because nearly all the customers were crowding the veranda, where there was at least the illusion of cool—and ordered an espresso, he put on his spectacles and pulled a sheet of paper folded in four out of his pocket.

He had five children, the Cavalier Giulio Colombo did. He loved them all tenderly, and he adored his wife. All he knew was his work and his home, he'd never allowed himself distractions and he'd never kept any secrets.

This was the first time.

Children, he thought as he smoothed out the sheet of paper and placed it in the shaft of sunlight that poured in through the plate-glass window overlooking Piazza del Plebiscito, are all the same in a father's heart, so what's wrong with having a special affinity with one of them? Maybe it's just because one resembles you more than the others, because you see your own thoughts reflected in her eyes. For him, that's how it had always been with Enrica, the eldest child. Since the day he'd first taken her in his arms as a newborn, by now nearly twenty-five years ago, he'd felt something melt inside him: this was his little girl. All his. Even more than she was her mother's, and more than would be the case with all the others, she was his baby.

He missed her. He'd had to accept the decisions of that determined, silent young woman, and he knew it was pointless to argue, but he missed her badly.

His concern stemmed from the fact that, while the girl had written home regularly to inform her family of what she was doing in the summer colony on Ischia, where she had gone to teach during the summer session, that day a letter had reached him at his shop. That meant the letter was for him alone. Why had she felt the need to do such a thing? What could have befallen her? He began to read quickly.

 

Dear
Papà
,

forgive me if I've frightened you by writing to you at the store. Let me begin by telling you that I'm doing well, that nothing new has happened, nothing different from what I tell you in the letters I send home. Life here in the colony is calm; a few of the children are rapscallions, but I have no difficulty keeping it all under control.

This letter was sent to you because I owe you an explanation. There have never been shadows or secrets between us, dear
papà
. You know that we have always understood each other, even without words, with nothing more than a glance: perhaps because we are so similar, perhaps because you have the right sensibility, or perhaps because, since I was the firstborn, I've had more time with you.

Let me be perfectly clear, I love
mamma
dearly. She is a wonderful person, and I'm sure that the things she tells us, the advice she gives us, are intended only for our benefit. But you know how pedantic she can be at times, and how lately the only things she has to say to me are focused on the topic you know all too well: finding a husband. I'm well aware that most young women my age are already married and have more than one child, and that I ought by rights to be at least engaged by now, with someone you approve of, and be planning my wedding. Maybe even you, dear
papà
, would rest easier if that were the case, even though you'd never admit it, and simply smile patiently at me behind
mamma
's back when she starts in on one of her tirades.

But there's something I want to tell you that, on the one hand may cause you some pain because of how much you love me, but on the other hand may reassure you: I'm capable of feeling emotions, I'm not a strange or cold person, and my hopes and dreams are simply to have a family, a wedding, a husband, a home, and children of my own. And the truth is that I have a place in my heart for one special person.

I'm in love.

There, I've written it. It may not be the same as saying it out loud, but at least I've written it. And I've written it to the person I'm closest to in the world: you,
papà
.

The man I'm in love with lives in the building across the street. His windows overlook our own and I met him without anyone introducing us, just like that, on long winter evenings when he stood motionless and watched me embroider; we were separated by the rain and joined by our eyes.

His name is Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi; he's a commissario, an officer of public safety at our city's police headquarters. He works just a hundred feet or so from our shop, and to think of the two of you so close, you two who are so dear to me, warms my heart.

We've practically never spoken. We've only had two or three occasions to meet and exchange a few smiles. But I love him with every ounce of my being, and for some time I was certain that he loved me. I made friends with his
tata
, Signora Rosa, with whom he lives alone, and I waited calmly for him to seek me out.

But he never did. In fact, I learned, and saw with my own eyes, that he sometimes goes out with a beautiful wealthy woman, possibly not from our city. How can a man who has the opportunity to spend time with a woman like her be interested in me? Me, nothing more than a simple homebody, certainly neither beautiful nor desirable, devoid of the allure that so captivates men?

I sat wallowing in my disappointment for days on end. I saw the worried look furrowing your brow, dear
papà
, and
mamma
's as well. I needed to put an end to this situation, I had to get back on my feet. If I stayed there, embroidering by the window, waiting for him to look at me, I'd never go back to really living.

So I decided to accept this teaching position to put some distance between me and him. I know that you, dear
papà
, didn't understand the reason behind my unexpected flight; for that matter, how could you have? You were missing a fundamental piece of information, and to keep you from worrying I decided that it was necessary for you, at least, to know.

I wish I could tell you that all it took was putting the sea between me and the city, that I no longer think about him, that my days pass in joy and serenity and that I'm having the time of my life. But I don't want to lie to you. I'm still suffering, and my mind is stuck to that window, it hasn't moved a yard. I still suffer as I did the night I decided to board the ship that brought me here. I still suffer, and I imagine that that's the way it has to be, because love can't be erased by a few miles of water.

I don't know, my dear
papà
, if I'll be able to muster the courage to send you this letter. I hope so, because knowing that I have you close to my heart gives me a bit more strength.

I know that you're in the habit of personally opening the mail that you receive at the store, so I'm confident that these words of mine won't be seen by anyone else. I beg you not to change your routine, I'll continue writing you about the things I feel in my soul, while I'll talk about the things that happen around me, in quite another tone, in the letters I send home, in which I'll also be writing to
mamma
and my dear brothers and sisters.

Farewell, my beloved
papà
. Hold me tight the way you did when I was a little girl. I need it now more than I ever did back then.

 

Yours,

Enrica

 

The waiter, standing with the demitasse of espresso in his hands, looked down at him with concern: “Cavalie', do you feel all right? You have a look on your face . . .”

Giulio Colombo nodded, thanking the waiter for his concern with a gesture. There was a knot in his throat. Once he was alone again, he reread the letter. His Enrica. His sweet little Enrica, the child who used to listen to his fairy tales for hours, while the other children played tag in the Villa Nazionale. His sweet little Enrica with her big, romantic heart. He couldn't stand the idea that she was suffering so for love.

He would write back to her with a short letter, urging her to go on sending letters to him at the store, and not to fret, because her words would remain locked in her father's heart. He'd tell her that he loved her with the tenderest and most powerful love on earth, and that he'd stand by her no matter what decision she made. He'd tell her that suffering seems endless but that it's not, that a smile will return, bigger and brighter than ever before, and that she was beautiful, the most beautiful of them all, and that she wasn't to dare doubt it, that she was not to dare think that she was less attractive than any other woman. He'd write her all that, because that's what he really thought. Because he was sure of it.

Taking a sip of his espresso and looking out onto the sun-baked piazza, he thought to himself that if he could ask a favor of the Madonna del Carmine, Our Lady of Mount Carmel, whose name day and festival were very soon, he would ask that she give a little peace to that wonderful daughter of his. To bring a little joy into her heart.

M
odo's phone call came into police headquarters in the afternoon. Maione went straight to Ricciardi's office to inform him: “Commissa', the doctor called from Pellegrini Hospital, he says that he's completed the autopsy and wants us to come right over. I asked him: Dotto', can't you tell us over the phone what you want us to know, and then you can just send us the complete report? It must be 140 degrees outside, it looks like an African desert, do we absolutely have to go to the hospital? And do you know what he said to me?”

Ricciardi looked up from the report he was drafting and said: “I'm just amazed he spoke to you at all, old grouch that he is.”

Maione imitated the doctor's deep and irreverent voice: “He told me: and the two of you, when you make me run all over the city, in the rain, in the heat and the cold, do you ever bother to take my comfort into consideration, and I'm older than either of you? That's what he said to me. And he added, with a laugh: after all, Brigadie', I'm doing you a favor, the morgue is the coolest room in the city. You get what a sweetheart he is?”

Ricciardi was already putting on his jacket: “Well, let's get going all the same: he's a joker, but if he's bothering to call it means he's got his hands on something important.”

It wasn't far to Pellegrini Hospital, but in that heat even a hundred yards was an arduous trek. They got there not ten minutes later in very different shape than they had been in when they left: Ricciardi was white as a sheet, Maione drenched with sweat and rumpled. When Modo came to meet them, the brigadier told him: “Dotto', as God is my witness, you'll have me on your conscience. I'm going to die any second and you'll have to carry the weight of knowing you murdered me; you'll have to take care of my family for all eternity.”

“Brigadie', if the punishment will be to enjoy Lady Lucia's cooking for all time, I really will kill you one of these days. Come, I have something that may interest you.”

The morgue was located in a building outside the hospital, as was common practice. Ricciardi thought to himself that the doctors and the builders who constructed medical facilities disliked the idea of keeping the dead near the living at least as much as he disliked the idea himself. Death, to a physician, was an error, something that he had been unable to prevent, a reminder of his own fallibility and the inability of science, of scientific tools, of books and university lessons, to put off the inevitable indefinitely.

Ricciardi feared those places, because they were steeped in pain, and pain—as no one knew better than he did—always brought more pain. As he walked behind Modo and Maione toward the morgue entrance, he glimpsed a faded translucent image through which he could see the parched hedge surrounding the building. A stout woman, not young, her face twisted into a mask of pain, was vomiting dark blood and murmuring:
I'm coming to join you, I'm coming to join you, I'm coming to join you
.

The commissario asked Modo: “It does still happen, Bruno, that the bereaved commit senseless acts, doesn't it?”

The doctor turned around, as he sorted through a ring of keys hooked to his belt, looking for the right one, and said: “Why, of course. A couple of months ago, right here by the door, a woman whose son, a bricklayer, had been killed in a construction accident, drank half a liter of acid and was laid out next to her son for one last night. We do all we can to heal them and then they go kill themselves. It makes you want to give up, I'm telling you.”

I'm coming to join you
, thought Ricciardi. The black heart of grief engenders more grief. What madness.

The interior of the morgue was refrigerated, but the heat outdoors was so intense that it undermined the effect of the immense quantities of ice hauled there by the attendants. The result was a faint stench that wafted its way up their nostrils.

Maione lifted his handkerchief to cover his mouth: “
Mamma mia
, how disgusting, Dotto'.”

Modo shrugged: “That's one more reason I wanted you two to hurry over: we try to process them as quickly as we can, the corpses, at these temperatures. There's not enough ice in the world. Now come here. First let's take a look at the articles of clothing, I placed them on this countertop.”

He went over to a low cabinet with a pile of garments on top. He picked up a shirt with a large brown stain on the front: the dried, clotted blood of Professor Iovine.

“Look closely, the buttons on the collar and the top two buttons on the shirt, at the throat and the chest, have popped off. You see? There are torn threads. And the tie was yanked down, almost unknotted.”

Maione peered closer: “And what does that mean, Dotto'?”

“Hold on a minute, Raffae', then we'll be ready to draw some conclusions. Now look at the bottom, in the back. The fabric, it's true, is delicate because this is a very fine piece of clothing, but it's very clear: the cotton is practically torn.”

Ricciardi and Maione were able to make out four round marks, slightly darkened on the white fabric.