The Bottom of Your Heart (15 page)

“You're the one who always said that you'd never leave, that you wouldn't give in, that all those people were doing was running away. Now what, you've changed your mind?”

One seagull flew up to another; the two birds exchanged a series of cries that sounded like a baby sobbing.

She replied: “I'm not running away. I'm just doing what's best for me. You know my aunt, the one who could never have children?”

He was bewildered: “Which one, the aunt who married the businessman who's making money by the truckload providing construction material for the new train stations? Sure, you told me about her a thousand times.”

“That's the one. She's finally given up, she always says that if God doesn't want to send her children, she has to accept His will. But she's lonely because her husband is never at home, and she cries and feels sad. My mother says that there are people who have plenty of money but still aren't happy.”

He'd gone back to looking at the crowd of men and women, but he was listening sharply.

“And so?”

“I'm her favorite niece, because she says that my face resembles hers. I can't see this resemblance, to tell the truth, but she insists on it, and since she has all the money, everyone in my family says she's right, and they all say: it's true, it's true, you're like twins, two drops of water, exactly alike; I can remember Titina when she was a girl, the spitting image of you.”

She imitated the voices of her relatives so well that he couldn't stifle his laughter.

“Well? So what's it all mean?”

“It means that I'm going to go live with her. In her husband's town.”

He started and turned his back on the wharf, on the ship, on the passengers waiting to board, on the sailor calling out names.

“What do you mean, you're going to leave? What about me? What about us? What about all the promises we made?”

His questions were greeted with silence. The seagulls went back to telling their stories, their cries piercing the sky. She stared out to sea. Then she said: “You have to wait for me. Work hard, work well. Become the best you can. Then I'll come back, with my aunt and uncle's money, and we'll stay together forever, rich, with plenty to eat, no wants and no fears. We'll buy a whole apartment house; we'll even buy ourselves a ship. You'll be able to make it set sail and come back all you want. You just have to know how to wait for me.”

He felt a stab of pain in his heart. He hadn't been ready for this. He'd never thought of his life without her. Boarding had begun. Among those left ashore were some who wept, but he realized, to his horror, that none of those who were leaving shed a single tear; at the very most, as they went up the gangway, they'd turn and look back, raising one arm in farewell. The ones who stay are the ones who cry, not the ones who leave, he thought to himself.

The ones who stay are the ones who cry.

Sorrow squeezed his throat.

“And what will I do? What should I do, while I wait for you? In the morning, when I wake up, and at night, when I can't get to sleep, who should I think about? Tell me that: who should I think about?”

The last few words came out in a choking voice, practically in a sob. They'd come out in the voice of a child.

She continued to keep her eyes, expressionless, on the point where the harbor opened out into the sea.

“You need to think of me, like you do already. Because I'll come back, with what we need. Promise. Promise that you'll think of me and the future we'll have together.”

He followed her gaze and realized that she was already gone. Without letting him say goodbye with one final embrace.

“I promise,” he said.

And she smiled, at the sea.

R
icciardi wondered how Livia did it.

How she managed to get inside police headquarters and all the way up to the landing outside his office, evading the checkpoints manned by police officers and clerks of the court that were placed every ten feet.

How she managed to know with such precision when he would be returning to work, since that never happened at any fixed time.

How she managed, in that heat, to be dressed, made up, and bejeweled as if she were about to attend a gala banquet without displaying the least sign of discomfort.

From the top of the stairs, she smiled down at him, cheerful and captivating: “Ciao, Commissario. You're back, at last. Come on up, I have something important to tell you.”

Ricciardi sighed. He had extensive experience of the considerable difference between their concepts of what was important.

Not that Livia wasn't an intelligent woman, and not that she hadn't suffered enough in her lifetime to develop a certain emotional depth, but still, she had never had any direct experience of real need, of want, in anything from food to medicine. She had no knowledge of the kind of desperation that was linked to survival. The kind of experience that Ricciardi, on the other hand, dealt with, painfully, from sunrise to sunset. It was inevitable that the scales on which they measured importance were not the same.

The end of the main daytime shift was approaching, and the corridor lined with office doors was emptying out. The police officers, lawyers, clerks, and even magistrates who happened to be passing by slowed down, pretending they'd forgotten a document, a sudden appointment, or else rummaged through their pockets in search of a cigarette: anything to prolong the sight of Livia or to allow them to catch her eye. It was a scene that Ricciardi was becoming accustomed to, now that they were seeing each other more frequently.

That evening she was dressed in white. Her dress hung to mid-calf and left her arms bare; over her belly button hung a composition of artificial flowers. She wore a silk shawl over her shoulders and on her head was perched a cunning little cap garnished with small stalks of wheat; her hair hung over her neck in soft curls. A court clerk attempted an acrobatic walk along the wall in order to observe her from behind, and came perilously close to tripping over a step.

“Come into my office, Livia. Otherwise we're going to a cause a traffic jam here.”

Livia accepted Ricciardi's invitation, took a seat and crossed her legs, then lit a cigarette. She looked like a little girl about to be given a present.

“Are you tired? Have you had a hard day? You look exhausted.”

He sat down at his desk with a shrug.

“The usual. There's no work for anyone in this city, except for us. Unfortunately.”

She tilted her head to one side: “Yes, you look tense. Would you like to take in a show tonight? At the Botanical Gardens they're offering open-air entertainment; I've heard the orchestra is first rate. What do you say? Would you care to take me out?”

“No, Livia, I'm afraid I'm in no mood for it. I've told you about Rosa and how worried I am about her health. Just think, she sent for one of her nieces to come up from our hometown to give her some help. That really must mean she's not well. I want to get home and see how she's doing; I don't want to come back when she's already asleep.”

Livia gave him a cunning smile: “One of her nieces, you say? A pretty country girl, young and strong. I bet that's the reason you're so eager to get home early.”

Ricciardi snorted: “I'd be glad to let you have a look at her, this Nelide. I've seen more attractive chests of drawers and shapelier armoires. Don't make me laugh. But she's an excellent housekeeper and I'm glad that Rosa can get some rest. Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes, and it's something very important to me. I'm going to throw a party. A wonderful party at my apartment, with the living room doors thrown open onto the terrace. You see what I mean, yes? I want there to be tables with food of every assortment, these wonderful dishes that only you Neapolitans know how to make, all local delicacies. And I want an orchestra, not a big one, let's be clear: six or seven musicians who can keep us dancing into the wee hours, until our feet are so swollen that we won't be able to pry our shoes off.”

Ricciardi lifted both hands into the air to halt that chaotic flood of words.

“All right, all right. But why are you throwing this party? Is there some special occasion coming up?”

Livia exhaled a stream of smoke in her annoyance: “Does there necessarily have to be some special occasion to justify a party? Don't be so backward and old-fashioned, Ricciardi! In the time I've been here, as you know, I've never once been able to host a party. Once, as you'll recall, I tried but . . . let's not bring it up, let's just say that it put me off parties for awhile. But now I've made up my mind. We ought to celebrate this summer. The summer and its scents, its songs.”

“It will most certainly be a success.”

Livia clapped her hands: “It will be unforgettable! You know, I have to repay all the invitations I've received, and I want the city authorities to attend, as well as people from Rome. I'm not sure, but some very important guests might be attending. I have a dear girlfriend who's not having a particularly easy time at the moment, and I'd like to see that she has some fun.”

“All the way from Rome, no less. For a party. Quite an event.”

“That's right, an event! And it's going to be a masquerade party, with a maritime theme. The guests will have a choice of dressing up as fishermen, sailors, or gods of the deep. And the food, too, will be made to match. I have a housekeeper who's a wonderful cook, I'll make sure she has at least two assistants. Isn't that a fantastic idea?”

Ricciardi looked at her, baffled: “A masquerade party? But aren't masquerade parties supposed to be for Carnevale?”

“You see what a Neanderthal you are? Masquerade parties are extremely fashionable, and they have them all year long. Disguising yourself is fun and it stimulates people's creativity! You, for example, what costume would you choose?”

Ricciardi decided it was time to make things very clear: “Livia, please, I fight against disguises every day of my life. People are constantly trying to seem different from what they actually are, and to do so they do ridiculous things you couldn't even begin to imagine. I haven't the slightest intention of donning a mask, even for fun.”

Livia shrugged.

“As you prefer. You'll feel out of place, but that's not my problem. All I care about is that you come. You have to promise me that you'll be there, because you know that you . . . you were a very important part of my decision to come live here, in this city.”

Such an explicit declaration stirred something approaching pity in Ricciardi's heart.

“Livia, don't start, you know I've never asked you for anything. If you're here it's because you choose to be, and I believe that you made a good choice, because from what you tell me, in Rome you were always and only Vezzi's wife. But I don't want you to put the responsibility for that choice on me.”

The happiness in the woman's eyes misted over, leaving in its place a veil of sadness.

“Don't worry, Ricciardi. I know that you don't want to be at all emotionally responsible for me. But you can't deny that I've never concealed my feelings for you. And even though you aren't willing to admit it even to yourself—actually, especially to yourself—you like being with me. It relaxes you, you even smile sometimes, without realizing it. And you'll have a great time the night of the party, too. If you promise me you'll come, I'll tell you something else. Well? Will you promise?”

Ricciardi's expression was almost a gentle one.

“All right then, I promise. I'll do my best to be there, unless circumstances beyond my control prevent me, of course. I told you about Rosa, and the work I do, as you know, makes it impossible to plan sometimes . . .”

Livia waved her hand dismissively: “Yes, yes, of course. That's all I want: that, unless forces beyond your control prevent you, you'll attend. And now do you want to know the other thing? The surprise?”

“No, I don't. If you told me, what kind of surprise would it be?”

Livia thought it over, then stood up: “You're right. I'm not going to tell anyone, it's going to be a surprise for everyone. I'd better run. If you won't come to the show at the Botanical Gardens, I'm not going either. I'll stay home and plan my party, there isn't much time. I want to have it next week, the night of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, so we'll be able to watch the fireworks from my terrace.
Ciao
, Ricciardi.”

And in a cloud of white, she left his office.

Ricciardi went over to the open window. Night was falling and the lights were flickering on all over the city.

In spite of the heat, the commissario felt a shiver of obscure premonition run down his spine.

C
limbing slowly uphill toward his home, Maione continued to ask himself whether the woman he had seen come out of the apartment house on Via Toledo had really been his Lucia.

In all those years, his wife had never ventured so close to police headquarters without stopping in to say hello. He'd dropped by the front guardroom and asked if anyone had come by looking for him, but they'd told him no. Not satisfied, he'd gone up into the offices, on the off chance that Lucia had come at a time when there was no one at the front entrance, but once again he came up empty. No one had asked for him. Certainly not his wife.

There was no way he had been wrong. Lucia—with her golden blonde hair, so unusual in that part of the country, her brisk confident gait, her handsome body clad in black, the color she'd worn since Luca's death. And then he could sense her in the air, Lucia. He could feel her on his skin like a breath of wind, in his nostrils like a delicate perfume, in his ears like a snatch of sweet music. He didn't need to look her in the eyes or hear her voice. Yes, the woman who had left that building was Lucia.