Vipers (18 page)

His slurred speech betrayed the grief that was filling his heart. And something else, too.

“Hello, Coppola. We're investigating. What about you, has anything occurred to you?”

Peppe looked around him, glaring threateningly. Ines moved away hastily, heading back toward the fountain to groom the horses. Pietro on the other hand remained nearby; he sat on the ground and started to whittle a piece of wood, staring worriedly at his drunken brother. Maione decided that the young man must feel a love for Peppe that bordered on hero worship; seeing him in that condition must have been true agony for him.

“Commissa', I've given it a lot of thought, and I have no doubts: the one who murdered Maria Rosaria must be that bastard, the one who sells saints and madonnas, Ventrone.”

Ricciardi asked:

“Why would you think that? And how did you find out about Ventrone?”

“Rosaria told me about him, and I knew from what people said about the cathouse that her only customer, aside from me, was him. A bloodless man, with clean hands and a tie; but with more money than he knew what to do with. As long as he was around, she was making too much. I told her not to worry, that the money to finish her mother's house—you've seen it, right?—I'd give them to her. I work, you see that, Commissa'? The company is going great. She could have come here and been a queen, if she'd only said yes. A queen.”

The brother stood up and started toward them, but Peppe froze him in place with a glare.

Ricciardi asked:

“Well then, what reason would Ventrone have had to kill the girl?”

An immense surge of rage disfigured Coppola's face into a terrible grimace.

“How can you ask me that, Commissa'? Because he would have lost her. She had made up her mind to marry me, I know it, I can feel it. She just needed a little time to tell the others. The same way I knew it, he must have known it too, and so he killed her. And you'll see, I'll kill him in turn, with these hands of mine.”

Pietro ran toward him, in tears:

“No, no, Peppi', don't even say such a thing! Don't you care about me, about us? Don't you care about the family's shame, the end of the company you built yourself, doesn't that matter? What do you think, that if you get blood on your hands and you wind up in prison or, even worse, you get killed yourself, Maria Rosaria is going to come back to life?”

Maione placed a hand on Peppe's shoulder.

“Your brother is right, Coppola. You'll ruin your own life and you'll ruin the lives of those who care about you. Leave it to us, you'll see that the commissario, here, will find the culprit. It's just a question of time. Don't get yourself into trouble.”

Peppe went on muttering disconnected phrases. A thread of drool dangled from his lips; tears streamed down his cheeks uncontrollably. The workmen had stopped brushing and grooming the horses and stood, horrified, watching the scene. Pietro, also in tears, had one arm around his brother's shoulders.

The first one to come to her senses was Ines, Pietro's fiancée; she clapped her hands in the workers' direction and, in a tone of voice that reminded Maione of Caterina's, ordered them back to work.

Ricciardi signaled to the brigadier and spoke to the young man:

“Coppola, we're leaving now. Listen, for your brother's own good, keep an eye on him: if something bad were to befall anyone, we'd have to consider him the prime suspect. Have I made myself clear?”

Shoving his brother toward the house, the younger brother replied:

“Don't worry about it, Commissa'. I won't leave my brother for a second. And tomorrow . . . a flower for her, from him.”

 

Sitting on a bench by the streetcar stop, Ricciardi and Maione took advantage of the wait to take stock of the investigation.

The brigadier, fanning himself with his cap, said:

“Certainly this is odd, very odd indeed. We've talked to a lot of people, and everyone who knew her, for one reason or another, could have killed her, and the same is true of those who didn't know her. The most curious thing of all though is that everyone says they loved her: Coppola, Ventrone, Lily, and Madame. The only one who hated her was her mother, but she depended on her monetarily so I very much doubt she would have wrung the neck of the goose that laid the golden eggs. A lovely riddle, eh, Commissa'?”

Ricciardi looked into the middle distance, his hands in his lap.

“A complicated situation, yes. Nor does the scene of the crime help much, or the body itself, without any useful marks or wounds. And all four of them would have had the opportunity: one man had just left her, the other found her dead, and the two women were already inside the building. Still, the prime suspects remain Coppola and Ventrone.”

Maione grimaced.

“Yes, but for one reason or another, I have to tell you the truth, the one I don't trust is Ventrone. Especially because of Coppola's reaction: you saw him, he's lost his mind. You don't do something like that and then end your life. The merchant, on the other hand, might be hiding his guilt by showing off how he's taking care of the funeral.”

The commissario half-snickered.

“You really can't stand him, that Ventrone, eh? I, on the other hand, can't see things clearly even out here in Vomero. Viper's mother, for instance, strikes me as too determined: her hatred is excessive, if you take into account that she exploited her daughter's profession. And even Coppola has these overblown reactions, at times. Did you see how his little brother tries to keep him under control? As if he might explode at any moment. There's something that still doesn't add up.”

Around the corner the streetcar swung, its steel wheels screeching, one of the new models with eight wheels and a green two-tone paint job. Maione laughed:

“Out here with all these plants, you'd never see the streetcar coming, it's so green. Lucky it makes so much noise!”

Ricciardi shook himself and stepped up onto the running board.

The spectacle of sunset was just beginning.

S
pring night.

What do you want from a spring night?

You, an old woman, who can hear death breathing outside your door, waiting to come in; what do you ask of a spring night?

That it bring you the time to do what you still must do, perhaps. That something might happen that doesn't entirely depend on you, that someone might find the courage to speak, that someone else might find the courage to say yes. That someone who is in love might not condemn himself to a lifetime of loneliness, when you have gone for good. That spring might make the blood quicken in the veins, that recklessness might win out over fear.

This is what you'd ask of the spring night that scatters perfume through the streets.

And you, what is it you'd ask of a spring night?

You, who lie drowning in the silence of wine, and look at your hands as you think of what they've done and in the fear of what they could still do, what do you ask of a spring night?

That it might give you back that smile, perhaps. Even if just once more, even just one miserable moment. To hear the word that she would have said to you, and understand, and feel, so that you can dream. To be able to breathe again.

This is what you'd ask of a night that brings wind.

And what would you ask of a spring night?

You who look back on the women of your past, so different and so beautiful. So dead. With their bodies you tried to satisfy your own, from their hands you desired the pleasure that you only ever had from one woman, one woman who is gone now. What do you ask of the spring night?

That it might sweep her memory from your mind, perhaps. So that you can bury behind the image of her corpse this side of your mind, this shadowy side, this dark side. And that you might see others respect you again, that you might see your son respect you again.

This is what you'd ask of the night of new scents.

And you? What is it that you'd ask of a spring night?

You who continue to cry into your pillow, unable to find peace in sleep. You, who are rich, and beautiful, and desired, and loved, and who feel that you're the ugliest, poorest, and most woebegone woman on earth. What do you ask of the spring night?

That it might help you to forget about love, perhaps. That it might chase away from your night those green eyes that stare at you out of the darkness, making your belly churn and stabbing your heart. That it might help you to resign yourself to the loss of hope.

This is what you'd ask of the night of sea foam.

What about you? What would you ask of a spring night?

You who sit up, wakeful, with your aching body, from the thousands of bruises and aches and small wounds that you know so well. Because you've lived through another first day of this terrible profession, your body bearing the brunt of the vices of so many men who lack the courage to seek from their wives what they truly desire. What would you like from this spring night?

Perhaps a man. Just one man. However many vices he may have, however desperate he may be. No matter how much pain he wishes to inflict, no matter how much pain he wishes to suffer. One man, who stays to sleep at your side, when he's finished searching for his own frenzied desire with blind fury. Just one man, who is still there when you wake up.

This is what you'd ask of the night of newly sprouted leaves.

And you? What do you ask of the spring night?

You who have spent the whole day trying to fend off disease, pain, jealousy, anger. You who have administered medicines, you who have stitched up wounds and injuries. You, who when you finally got to bed, expected to drop into deepest sleep, and instead find yourself still there, staring at the ceiling that is a black screen for your memories. Tell me, what do you want from the spring night?

A new world, perhaps. A different world, where causing suffering isn't a virtue, a good to be pursued. Where one's true homeland is the whole universe, where borders don't need to be expanded with arms. Where pain comes only from natural causes, not from human hands. Maybe, not to feel that everyone else's suffering is also yours.

That's what you'd ask, of this night full of fresh magic.

And you, you: what is that you'd wish for on this spring night?

You who are so excited you can't get to sleep. You who are just discovering the smells, the spaces, the territories inhabited by the man you love, as you drink in his movements, as you imagine his expressions. You who caress his fabrics, his curtains, his armchairs, absorbing the glances of those eyes which preceded your touch. What do you desire from this spring night?

Perhaps that space might fill up for you, in your days and in your life. That he might understand, the way that you've understood, that the time has come, that by now the days of fingers brushing, the days of love are finally coming, just as the summer of light and dreams is on its way.

That's what you'd wish for, in this night of a thousand deceits.

And you? You, what is it you'd ask for from this spring night?

You who felt her presence in your belly, and now she's dead. You who saw her walk her first steps and heard her speak her first word, and who glowed with pride at how beautiful she was. Who dreamed of her as a bride, but never saw it. Who imagined her giving birth as you held her hand, but that too was denied you. Who tell everyone willing to listen how much you hate her, that you've never forgiven her for the shame she brought you, that you disown the whore that she became. So then why can't you sleep, on this pleasant spring night?

Perhaps it's because she's dead now that you find her sitting here on the edge of your soft feather bed, which she bought you in silence, without ever seeing what she paid for. Because her corpse looks at you and doesn't speak, it looks at you without reproof and without love, it looks at you and nothing more. And it waits for a word you can't utter, because corpses don't listen, because corpses have no ears. And in the sleepless night, you can't even think it, that word.

That's what you desire from this night of sad silence.

And you? You who never ask anything, what would you like from this spring night?

You who are no stranger to nights spent staring into the darkness in pursuit of a dreamless sleep that is always slow to come. You who feel echoing in your chest the voices of the living and the dead, and chase after a logic you never find, what is it you seek and what is it you find in this spring night?

Perhaps you seek one face and find another. Perhaps you'd like to find the image that brings you peace, a sweet left-handed silhouette that moves placidly through its familiar spaces, dreaming of making those spaces yours. And instead you see the deep dark eyes that swim with tears thanks to your gratuitous insult. And you recognize this new fragility, a gap in the armor of a heart you long thought strong and independent, and you now reckon with a new tenderness.

And perhaps those eyes transform themselves into a dead face, expressionless, with a vague memory of beauty in its features, a face that demands justice without asking it, or revenge for the life stolen from it, for its unknown future.

You'd like just a little peace from the night of stirring blood.

And then there's you.

You who have killed. You who are one of these people, or who are something else entirely, you who waited until there was no more breath left under that pillow, for the body that was once warm to cool, for the blood to stop flowing through her veins.

You, what is it you would ask of this spring night?

Perhaps you'd ask it to rub out a shadow of remorse. You'd ask it to call you right, when you thought that there could be no life, with her still in the world. That there would be no hope, no peace, with her. That the spring night might convince you that it will be possible to go on living without her, that you weren't wrong, that everything will turn out all right.