The Bottom of Your Heart (34 page)

L
ivia told her driver to take her to Pellegrini Hospital to see whether the condition of Ricciardi's governess had improved.

Actually, she was hoping to run into the commissario there and persuade him to go out for a bite to eat; he'd looked pretty rough the night before when she'd hurried over after her meeting with Falco. She'd realized immediately that Ricciardi wasn't especially pleased to have her at his side, but she hadn't taken that personally. She understood that this was a very private matter, and it was quite understandable that he would prefer to be left alone at his
tata
's sickbed.

She knew how close he was to the woman who, according to what little he had told her about himself, had been a second mother to him and was the only family he had left. She had hurried to the hospital, obeying a blind impulse and the urge to be close to him at a difficult moment. Unfortunately, Rosa's condition had seemed hopeless. The doctor had already gone home, and so she'd been unable to get a specific diagnosis firsthand. Ricciardi had been vague, but Livia had seen other cases of apoplectic fits and she could see how serious the situation was.

The image of the man she loved holding the old woman's hands in his own in a nondescript hospital room, while that unsettling young woman—so similar to her aunt that they seemed to be the same person at two different stages of life—lurked in the shadows, had upset her. She didn't like to be in the presence of pain; perhaps that made her a coward, but she felt she was justified by what she'd already been through.

On her way home, she'd wondered whether it was a good idea to continue preparing for the party, and she told herself she'd have to speak with Modo and ask him for some advice.

The doctor came to greet her, beaming with delight: “Well, look who we have here, Signora Livia. And yet my horoscope didn't tell me that this would be one of the happiest days of my life.”

Livia found the man, with his ribald, explicit gallantry, extremely likeable, even though Falco always spoke of him as a serious danger to Ricciardi and even to her.

“Doctor, whenever I feel ugly all I have to do is come see you, and you immediately make me change my mind.”

“For that, Signora, all you need is a mirror. Believe me, you are a ray of sunshine in the life of this poor old combat physician. To what do I owe the pleasure of this benediction? I ask, even though I fear I know the answer already.”

Livia locked arms with him and led him into the courtyard. The dog came closer, tucking itself into a seated position a few feet away from them. The woman looked down at it.

“That dog hasn't left you yet, has he? And yet you've shared some decidedly unpleasant adventures.”

Livia was referring to the previous Easter, when she, Ricciardi, and Maione had rescued the doctor from a nasty political situation.

Modo leaned down to pet the dog, who, perhaps sensing that he was the topic of discussion, had begun to wag his tail.

“Dogs aren't like women, my lovely lady. They bestow their hearts and never take them back.

Livia laughed: “Women, as you well know, my good doctor, don't have hearts at all.”

“True,” Modo admitted, “but it's so much fun to go on looking for one. Tell me everything, Signora.”

Livia turned serious: “Yesteday I saw Ricciardi's
tata
. She seemed to me to be in truly critical condition. Do you think that we could do anything for her somewhere else? I don't know, in Rome. I . . . well, as you know, I have many friends.”

“I know, and I always wonder how a woman like you can stand to frequent certain people. No, I appreciate your concern, but unfortunately our dear Rosa's situation wouldn't improve even with the intervention of the finest doctor on earth. What's happened has happened, and it's practically impossible to repair it without surgery, and that unfortunately would be far too risky. Cranial trephination, for a person of that age, is fatal in virtually 100 percent of cases.”

“Poor Ricciardi. He loves that woman so much. But tell me, doctor, what's the prognosis? That is, when . . . when might the final crisis come?”

“No one can say. Rosa has a very strong constitution, and if you ask me the cerebral damage is relatively circumscribed. As long as we're able to feed her and her internal organs don't collapse, she'll survive. I believe that she could last a couple of weeks, barring a sudden and unexpected deterioration.”

Livia nodded.

“Then you're saying that this week, she still ought to . . .”

“Certainly, I would say so. Can I know the reason for your question?”

The woman looked at him like a little girl hoping not to be scolded for a bit of mischief: “You see, Doctor, I'm afraid that it's something rather frivolous. I had decided to throw a party, next Friday. Just to introduce myself to the city, and to return the many invitations that have been extended to me over the past few months. I wanted . . . you see . . . it's important to me that Ricciardi be there. You know, you must certainly have guessed, and for that matter you are practically the only friend he has . . . in short, I'd really like him to come. And if his
tata
's condition
 
were to worsen, I doubt that he'd be willing to be away from her even for as much as a few hours.”

“It's just too easy for you to strike tenderness into this rumpled old heart, Signora. I'll make sure to kick him out of here by reshuffling my shifts and staying with Rosa in his place. It will be up to you, though, to persuade him, and I don't doubt that you possess the tools to do so successfully.”

“But that would mean not having you at the party, Doctor.”

The doctor laughed: “I'm afraid that's our only option; Ricciardi wouldn't give up his post to anyone other than yours truly: also, I'm the only person who has the power to kick him out of the room. And let me add, Signora, that I'm pretty sure that many of your guests would be delighted not to see me there and, if I may, I would be just as delighted not to see them, either. It means that, if the plan works, you'll owe me a meal together, just four old friends: you, me, old Brigadier Maione, and the prince of darkness himself, our man Ricciardi. With a bowl of scraps for my hairy little friend here.”

 

Having cleared things up with the doctor, Livia gave her driver an address on Via Duomo. The knottiest detail in her preparations for the party still had to be taken care of.

She stepped out of the car and strode confidently through the atrium of an apartment house, politely greeting the doorman, who responded with a bow. Everything suggested the woman had a certain familiarity with the place. After climbing two flights of stairs, she rang a doorbell.

“Is he in?” she asked the housekeeper who came to the door.

“Of course, Signo'. Let me go tell him that you're here.”

After a few moments, a middle-aged man came trotting to the door. He was on the short side and overweight. His double chin was tucked into an over-tight collar, and his white smoking jacket, dotted with a light-blue geometric motif, was wrapped around his jutting belly with a broad red sash, creating an unusual chromatic effect.

“Donna Livia, what a pleasure! To what do we owe this visit? Have you come to announce that you've conquered your last lingering reservations and have made up your mind to elope with me this very day?”

Livia let the little man kiss her on both cheeks.

“Don Libero, what woman on earth would be capable of resisting the allure of the greatest living poet in the most beautiful language on earth? Certainly not me, your most fervent admirer. But as for eloping . . . How would you live without your Maria?”

The man waved a hand in the air, as if shooing away some annoying idea: “Maria? Who's Maria? Ah, you must be referring to my wife. Oh, of course, you have a point, unfortunately. I can't live without her, largely because she's constantly underfoot. You'll see her for yourself when she gets back from her grocery shopping; she insists on buying our food in person, otherwise she claims that both our housekeeper and the shopkeepers will rob her blind. Please, come right this way. What can I do for you?”

Livia entered a living room at the center of which stood a concert piano, like some kind of pagan altar. Seated at the keyboard was a man in shirtsleeves; he had a mustache and a pair of thick-lensed reading glasses, and he was jotting down something on a sheet of paper. Other sheets of paper partly covered with notes and lyrics were scattered all over the room: on the carpet, on the piano, on armchairs and sofas.

The man at the keyboard stood up and made a bow: “Donna Livia, what a pleasure! Have you come to rescue me from the talons of this lunatic?”

Livia extended her hand for a gallant kiss from the pianist: “Don Ernesto, your prison cell is the forbidden dream of every singer and musician in this city. And I consider myself lucky to be allowed entrance to the workshop where so many marvelous masterpieces are brought into being. How have you been?”

“How do you think I've been, Signo'? It's a tragedy. We'll be doing one thing and
that
one comes up with something entirely different. We skip around from a Neapolitan canzone to a poem, from a poem to a romanza from a romanza back to a canzone. I'm going out of my mind trying to keep up with him.”

From the far end of the room, Don Libero, standing with a page from a musical score in one hand, called loudly: “Pay him no mind, Signo'. He just likes to mock me behind my back. If he were anything less than the finest composer in this town, do you think I'd keep his ugly mug around? And after all, when inspiration strikes, who am I to ignore it? We try to describe human passions in the simplest possible terms. It's what I've always said, isn't it? It's so simple to write difficult, it's so difficult to write simple! But enough trivial chitchat: how can I repay you for having brought such a ray of loveliness into this vale of tears?”

“I've come to ask a favor. To ask a favor of you both.”

She explained what she wanted. When she was done, Don Libero and Don Ernesto looked at each other. Then the little fat man excitedly threw his arms out wide.

“Donna Livia, what you say is wonderful. When a singer rediscovers her will to sing, after so many years and so much grief, it means that she's rediscovered her will to live. For me, and I feel safe in speaking for our friend Ernesto, too, it's an immense joy and a great honor to know that you chose to come here to us in search of the right words and music. Tell me: what sentiment do you wish to sing? Jealousy? Regret? Sorrow? Love?”

“I couldn't say, exactly, Don Libero. But I think passion. Simply passion.”

The man's face lit up: “Passion. Of course, passion! What else, if not passion?” He wandered the room, murmuring under his breath and digging through the mess until, triumphant, he seized a couple of sheets and cried: “Here it is!” He went over to the piano and placed the pages on the music rack. “Now then, Donna Livia, listen carefully. You said that you're looking for a canzone that has never been sung, and you wanted us to write it especially for you. But now I want to ask a favor of you. This is a song that our friend Ernesto and our beloved Nicola, whom you know, have stitched together. We were planning to debut it at the Piedigrotta festival, though not this year's, because we've already got too many projects underway. Still, we believe that this song could truly go down in our city's musical history, if we do say so ourselves. And so, what better challenge for your enchanting voice?”

“Don Libero, perhaps this isn't the right occasion for such an important canzone. Perhaps something more modest . . .”

The little man raised one hand: “No, I've made up my mind. You're the one to sing it, you must.”

Livia was frightened.

“I beg of you, not something like this. It's been such a long time since . . . I'm not sure if I'm up to it.”

The pianist took the sheet music and said: “At least listen to it. Then you can decide.”

After Ernesto finished playing, Livia, with tears in her eyes and her heart racing wildly, decided that she would sing that song or no other.

If it was the last performance of her life, she was determined to sing that canzone.

I
t was too late to head back to police headquarters.

Ricciardi and Maione opted instead for a pizza cart that stood at the corner of Piazza Quattro Palazzi, on the harbor side. The plume of smoke rising from the large kettle of hot, bubbling oil and the unmistakable, heavenly aroma were better than a neon sign.

Maione's police uniform ensured that the line of famished citizens ahead of them quickly grew noticeably shorter. From time to time, the sidewalk chef, wearing his grease-stained white smock, shouted:
Pizze càvere, oggi a otto!
The phrase in dialect announced hot pizza you could eat today and pay for eight days hence. This cunning and traditional term of sale made for a grateful and loyal clientele, with only a limited risk of an unpaid pizza every now and then.

Maione opted for
cicinielli e
pummarola
, tiny fried fish and tomato, while Ricciardi went for garlic, oil, and oregano. The commissario realized, from his stomach's angry rumbling, that he hadn't had a bite to eat in the past twenty-four hours, and his thoughts went sadly to Rosa.

As he sank his teeth into the pizza, precariously perched forward to keep from dripping onto his uniform, the brigadier said: “All things considered, Commissa', it just doesn't add up. It seems to me that the widow must have had her suspicions about the professor's affair, but didn't really give a damn.”

Ricciardi swallowed: “Yes, I had the same impression. One of those marriages that turn into something like a business partnership: each looks to his or her own best interests.”