The Bottom of Your Heart (30 page)

Falco had never betrayed any signs of emotion in any of their intermittent meetings. He resembled one of those butlers you see in movies and novels from across the Channel, unfailingly phlegmatic, never batting an eye. He was always obsessively neat in his old-fashioned, nondescript gray suits, his thinning hair neatly combed, his hat in his hands. That was why the sudden change of expression and the powerful burst of emotion that showed on his face were such a stunning surprise for Livia.

Falco's eyes were glistening like those of a child who'd just been promised a longed-for gift. He extended his hand across the table and laid it on Livia's begloved one: “Don't toy with me, Signora! You're going to sing! You're going to sing again, at long last!”

Livia stared at him in astonishment: “Yes . . . I thought . . . but what . . . why are looking at me like that, Falco? I don't understand.”

Falco shook himself, as if emerging from a brief trance. He pulled back his hand, leaned against the backrest, and looked around, confused. The man at the door put on a show of indifference, but his ears were bright red.

“Please excuse me. I beg of you, Signora, excuse me. You see, I . . . that is to say, singing, opera, it's a weakness of mine. I had the fortune, as I've told you, to hear you sing once, at the opera house, and since then I've followed your career with great interest. I own your five recordings, various magazines . . . and so, when we learned that you would be coming to this city, I asked to be assigned to you. And I couldn't resist the temptation to meet you in person, even though that's something that's frowned upon in my organization's tradecraft. I've always regretted your decision to retire, an overhasty one if you'll forgive my boldness. You have a gift, you know. An important gift.”

Livia didn't know what to think.

“You know, my husband, while he was still alive . . . the fact is, he didn't much care for my singing.”

Falco nodded seriously.

“Yes, naturally. Perhaps, if I were in his place, I'd have been jealous of your bravura. Even if he was a genius himself.”

“Yes, well . . . in short, I've decided to sing again, at least among friends. Perhaps a song, just one. Written by a composer from this city. It only seems right.”

“You'll be magnificent, Signora. Magnificent. I've been assigned to dissuade you from hosting this party. It's not a simple moment, as I'm sure you'll understand, with the upcoming elections in Germany . . . We'll have extra work on our hands. But if you're going to sing, that changes everything. I'll make sure to be there, and I assure you that you won't see me. But I'll be there. The chance to hear you sing again is an experience that I wouldn't miss for the world.”

Livia couldn't help but be flattered by such intense admiration on the part of a man who, she suspected, wasn't much given to expressing it.

“I thank you, Falco. It will be a pleasure for me to know that you're out there, somewhere. It will be a fancy dress party, with a maritime theme. I'll let you have the guest list, of course. You'll have no difficulty guessing most of the names in advance, for that matter: clubbable society in this city is a fairly restricted circle. I'll add a few other names, just to repay debts of courtesy. For instance, I was thinking of Garzo, the deputy police chief, who's always been so nice to me and who has on several occasions agreed to let Ricciardi take me out to the theater, in spite of the fact that the commissario ought to have been on duty instead.”

“Certainly, I understand. And let me take this opportunity to tell you how sorry I am to hear about the lady, the commissario's governess. It's not easy when someone you're so fond of . . .”

Livia stood up abruptly: “Are you talking about Rosa? What's happened to her? I haven't heard anything!”

Falco stood up in his turn: “What do you mean? He hasn't told you? Why, I thought . . . The governess didn't feel well yesterday and was taken to Pellegrini Hospital, where she was put under the care of Dr. Modo, whom you, unfortunately, know all too well. She's in fairly grave condition, from what I've been able to learn.”

“What about him? He must be with her, at the hospital. She's the only person that he's close to. I must go to him, I need . . . I need to be with him, right away!”

The man's face took on a look of consternation: “Signora, please. It's not necessary. I've already told you on more than one occasion that the doctor . . . oh, no question about it, a good man and an extraordinary physician, but his political views . . . could cause you some serious problems, both you and your commissario. I really have to urge you . . .”

Livia had already grabbed her handbag. She spoke to him in a chilly voice: “Falco, do me a favor, don't waste my time telling me the usual things. You'll forgive me, I'm sure, but right now I have somewhere to be.
Buonasera
.”

And she left, striding briskly.

A
t midnight Ricciardi went to listen to the Deed.

It was something he hadn't done in years. There was a time, when he first decided to become a policeman, that he considered it important. At the time of day or night at which the death had occurred, the Deed was strongest and most direct. It clearly narrated the emotions of the victim, almost amplified them.

Then he had realized that all too often the thought that reached him, slicing into the spine of his soul like a whip, was merely empty pain and sorrow; that if anything it distracted him more than it helped him to untangle the mystery.

It was the Deed that first drove him toward his chosen profession. Perceiving the suffering that went along with a violent departure from this life, the awareness of the absurdity of a non-natural death, these factors had been crucial elements of the process, had made it impossible for him to abandon the urge to try to put things back in order, if only after the fact. Moreover Ricciardi had neither the personality nor the disposition to loll about in cafés, theaters, and opera houses, squandering the family fortune, with a university degree hanging on the wall.

This time, though, he felt called upon to listen to the professor on the cobblestones of the polyclinic's lane, on the spot where he landed three days earlier, at the same time of night when the murder had presumably taken place.

After Nelide had returned to the hospital from a trip home, where she had changed into clean clothes, Modo had evicted Ricciardi from Rosa's hospital room. Livia, breathless, her face twisted with heartfelt grief, had also come by in the late afternoon. Ricciardi had asked her how she'd known, but the woman had been vague, mentioning a visit she'd made to police headquarters. Ricciardi had reassured her and convinced her to leave quickly: for some odd reason, she'd seemed incongruous to him there, in a hospital room with Rosa in the bed. He'd even wondered, with a twinge of sadness, how he would have felt if it had been Enrica. But she hadn't come. Who knew where she was.

Instead of taking him home, his feet had taken him to the general hospital, as if of their own accord. He was tired, and he knew it; but weariness was fertile ground for the Deed. When he was tired, his instinctive defenses tended to come down, and his special inner ear, the one that heard the dead, grew more attentive.

He spoke to the night watchman, who let him in without a second thought and without even getting up from the chair in which he'd been nodding off. He walked the length of the lane, lined by the menacingly dark silhouettes of trees, until he reached the point that was still marked by a dark stain on the ground. The professor's blood.

Even if he hadn't remembered the exact spot, he'd have found it all the same. The figure of Iovine, his spine shattered, his cranium fractured, the small red cascade oozing from his face like lava from an erupting volcano, stood grimly before him, translucent in the darkness, visible to his heart as if illuminated by a spotlight.

Sisinella and love, love and Sisinella, Sisinella and love, love and Sisinella
. A murmured litany. He remembered the words, but now he wanted to capture their shadings, their nuances.

He looked up at the office window. It was dark and very high, more than sixty-five feet above him. How long did you take, Professor? He made a quick calculation: at least a couple of seconds. Time enough to shift his thoughts from one subject to another.

He stared at the image. Love. What came to your mind was love. It was love that bobbed to the surface. It's not necessarily linked to whoever threw you out that window, in revenge, for self-interest, out of cold calculation, or out of regret. But it was love that shut your eyes once and for all. Love for a girl who was young enough to be your daughter, a girl who gifted you moments of illusory happiness.

He stood there a while longer, observing the phantom, and then turned to head home. He'd try to get a few hours of sleep now, then he'd swing by the hospital to see Rosa, and after that he'd do his best to put things right. Because death comes far too soon, even left to its own devices. It's not right to wake it up so far before its time.

It's not right.

 

Dear
Papà
,

The festival of Our Lady of Mount Carmel is drawing near and my thoughts go to you with even greater tenderness. Every year you took us to see the burning of the bell tower, and before that the release of the balloons, the fireworks, the decorated balconies. I can still taste the hazelnuts, the ice cream you bought for us, and I can still hear the shrieks of joy of my siblings. I think back to it with happiness and a twist of homesickness.

Here at the summer colony life goes on as usual. The girls have wholeheartedly embraced the task of making the embroidered panel for the festival of St. Anne (do you remember, dear
papà
? I wrote you about it in one of my previous letters), and we have sound hopes of finishing it in time. The little boys are busy making the wooden structure to support it, though from what I can see, they're behind schedule. My colleague Carla is certain they'll make it. Let's hope so.

I ought to tell you, dear
papà
, that my relations with Carla have suffered recently, and not due to any fault of mine. We've never discussed the matter, but I suspect that the root cause is the fact that Manfred, the German officer I wrote you about, has shown an unmistakable preference for me. I couldn't tell you the reason why, since Carla flirts quite openly with him while I, in contrast, am even harsher and more unpleasant than necessary, precisely because I wouldn't want my colleague to accuse me of being interested in him; still, Manfred keeps after me quite insistently, he never misses an opportunity to speak to me, and I even have the sneaking suspicion that he arranges situations in which he can just happen to run into me. Yesterday, for instance, I found him right in front of me when I went out before dinner to get a little fresh air in the pine forest.

Never fear, dear
papà
, he is respectful and well mannered. He has the savoir faire of a soldier and a German, and I'm certain that he'd never behave offensively toward me; but I find it embarrassing, terribly embarrassing, to see the gleam in his eyes when he speaks to me.

In a conversation we had on the beach, during a break in his work as a painter (he won't let me see the canvas he's painting!), he told me something about his life. The poor thing was widowed years ago when his wife suddenly fell ill; I haven't even managed to get him to tell me exactly what it was that killed her. Her name was Elsa. His face took on an expression of profound sadness when he uttered her name; it's clear that his heart was marked by the loss. He told me that since then he has been incapable of imagining himself as the father of a family, and that he was convinced that he would remain alone for the rest of his life. Then, looking straight at me, he added that at least that's what he thought before coming to stay on this island.

I found an excuse and hurried away, dear
papà
. You know how badly my own heart has been wounded and how I still, at night, glimpse the gaze of the man about whom I told you. I'm not ready, and I won't be for quite some time to come, to talk about certain topics with other people.

Still, there's something I should tell you, and only you,
papà
. Do you remember when, a year ago,
mamma
got it into her head to try to arrange an engagement with that horrible Sebastiano, the son of Signore and Signora Fiore? Do you remember how she contrived to leave us alone at every opportunity, whenever he came calling at our home in the evening? And do you remember how I asked for your help in avoiding him? It was torture just to have him near me.

Well, this time, my dear
papà
, I will confess that a part of me is flattered by Manfred's attention; and it's certainly not a burden to spend time alone with him, even if I do feel sorry for Carla. All the same, no one can say that I've encouraged him or am encouraging him.

My heart belongs to someone else, though. And perhaps it's wrong to force myself to think about someone else to try to forget about him. I don't know much about love, in fact, practically nothing, but I believe that in matters of the heart the saying that one problem replaces another doesn't apply.

Before I was able to make an excuse and hurry away, Manfred asked me if I'd give him a chance to speak to me more formally. He has something he wants to tell me. I didn't reply and I'm terrified at the thought that he might ask me the same thing again.

At night, after dinner, I look out to sea. And beyond the sea, in the trembling lights of the distant city, I see two green eyes staring right at me. If only my heart, my cursed little heart, weren't so keenly aware that he is still thinking about me, perhaps I'd feel free to look ahead to the future.

I send you my fondest love, dear
papà
. You can't imagine how comforting it is to be able to write you about my troubles.