Vipers (19 page)

That it wasn't revenge, that it wasn't anger. But necessity. Not despair, but hope.

That the spring night might convince you that there was only one way, and that you did what you had to do.

That in order to be reborn, one must necessarily die.

That's what you'd like to hear from the night that cannot give you peace.

Because it has none.

F
or Holy Thursday the springtime chose a gray outfit.

The morning dawned misty, with a sickly, pale sun that hardly seemed up to that day's task. A milky light sketched the outlines of things, plunging them into a fog. The occasional early-morning pedestrians moved along the walls, intimidated by a damp and incomprehensible air: this spring continued to lead people on before brutally disappointing them, pretending to be herself before she really was.

Ricciardi left home half an hour earlier than usual, to be punctual as promised for Viper's funeral procession. The report from the hospital, which he'd found on his desk the night before upon his return from Vomero, informed him that the corpse had been released to the only person who had claimed it, Signora Lidia Fiorino, also known as Madame Yvonne; therefore everything had gone as expected, and the strange funeral would take place.

If he had requested authorization through proper bureaucratic channels, he'd been well aware, it would have taken days and in all likelihood the request would have ended up stranded on the desk of some sanctimonious functionary who, horrified, would have surely dismissed out of hand the idea of a group of prostitutes parading the streets in the middle of Holy Week. Quite likely, that functionary would have been Garzo himself, in spite of his friendship with the very men who patronized the bordello in question. It's one thing to keep the place open for business, quite another to allow a young woman who'd been violently murdered to be given decent interment.

There was nothing that disgusted Ricciardi as much as hypocrisy. Even violence, the outburst of rage that led to murder, was part of human nature: masking, concealing, pretending were structures erected in the name of convention, and they were undertaken in the name of personal advantage and convenience. Nothing natural about them.

How much better, therefore, to simply be present to settle any issues that might arise then and there. A commissario of police was a living, breathing authorization. Maione wasn't wrong, his participation in that unorthodox ceremony was a risk and a potentially serious infraction, in bureaucratic terms; but Ricciardi had glimpsed the ghostly image of the girl, beautiful and dead, standing before a mirror that did not bear her reflection, as she repeated ad infinitum her last, incomprehensible thought. In a certain absurd and inexplicable sense, he knew her: he couldn't allow her to be buried like some stray animal, nameless, in a mass grave.

As his footsteps echoed over the damp cobblestones of the deserted street, the commissario mulled over the meetings of the previous day. There was something he couldn't put his finger on, a distinct sensation of disorder; he hadn't been able to see clearly into that horrible story, his ears had somehow listened badly. Powerful emotions seemed to coalesce around Viper, and one of them had caused the murder: but which? Sometimes the best solution really was the simplest one, and that's why it wasn't seen. Murder was such a grave and majestic thing that it rendered the obvious inconceivable.

Perhaps Viper had told Coppola no, and in a burst of fury he'd killed her; and now he drank to try to forget that he had snuffed out with his own hands his one chief reason to live. Perhaps the mother had decided she could no longer bear the shame, or else she hadn't been given some extra sum of money she'd demanded, and she'd murdered her daughter. Or maybe Ventrone's son had thought this was the way to free his father. Or even Ventrone himself, when confronted with the possibility of losing his chief source of pleasure, had suffocated her in one final, terrible sex game.

And maybe not.

At the corner of Via Toledo, he crossed paths with a group of women dressed in black who were heading off to Mass with their heads covered; one of them was carrying a basin full of wheat for the Holy Sepulcher. One of the oldest and most distinctive traditions of the Easter season: kernels of wheat and chickpeas were made to grow in the dark, inside wooden chests, in broom fibers so that they'd grow strictly white, and thus be used to adorn the
sepolcri
, the sepulchers, altars put up in churches in celebration of the burial of Christ.

Ricciardi recalled that a professor at the university had traced this custom back to pagan fertility rites at the turn of spring. That connection made him think of how likely it was that restrictions, penitence, and taboos would lead to explosions of uncontrollable violence and therefore murder: on the one hand penitence, the commemoration of death on the cross, and on the other hand springtime, the rebirth of life. Perhaps Modo wasn't entirely wrong when he called, in his interminable political tirades, for liberation from all forms of social coercion.

In the street outside the building that housed Il Paradiso, a black van was waiting to receive its doleful cargo. The vehicle was nondescript, devoid of any insignia or embellishments: it could have been meant to transport any kind of merchandise. Ricciardi was impressed with the care Ventrone had taken to ensure that the matter be carried off without attracting more attention than necessary.

No one was there yet, he had arrived a good half hour early. He slowed to a halt on the far side of the street, in the shelter of doorway. The city was starting to wake up, there wasn't much time if they hoped to pass more or less unobserved. He let his gaze wander over the facades of the surrounding apartment buildings, he saw a couple of women saying prayers on their balconies, rosary in hand and lips moving in a perennial murmur; a man sipping a demitasse of espresso, his expression sleepy; two maids airing out blankets and pillows, squinting and furrowing their brows as they scanned the skies to see if and when it might begin to rain.

A voice startled him:

“
Buongiorno
, Commissa'. This spring really seems reluctant to announce itself, eh?”

He had always been astonished by Maione's ability to move inconspicuously through the streets of the city. How a man of his size managed to move a frame that measured six feet, three inches in height and 265 pounds in weight, clad in a police uniform, so that it suddenly appeared without anyone having noticed its approach was, to Ricciardi, a complete mystery; but this talent was so useful in stakeouts and in tailing people that he had never bothered to investigate further.

“What are you doing here today? Didn't you say, and rightly so, that it was dangerous to attend this ceremony even without the famous written authorization?”

The brigadier replied:

“What can I tell you, Commissa': it just must mean you're not the only reckless fool at police headquarters. And after all, hearing the words of the mother, yesterday, I just felt sorrier than ever for this poor girl. It didn't strike me as fair that they should just haul her off like that: perhaps the father, if he were still alive, would be standing here today. Whore or no whore. And I'm not the only one who feels that way, apparently.”

Ricciardi looked in the direction Maione was pointing and saw a white dog with brown spots, sitting obediently. A moment later Dr. Modo appeared, whistling a little tune, hands in his pockets and hat pushed back on his forehead.

“Oh, is it the police watching over the state of public safety from the shadows of an entryway? Yes indeed, I certainly feel much safer.”

Ricciardi was surprised:

“You here too? Well, well, well, I thought I was here alone this morning, and instead without my knowledge someone seems to have scheduled an assembly of insomniacs. I understand that old people don't sleep much, but I hardly expected to see you here too, Bruno.”

Modo grimaced.

“It's all a matter your point of view, my gloomy friend. I never actually went to bed last night, I worked until late while you were having your nightmares, and I indulged in a glass of wine in the very last tavern to lock up and then a cup of coffee in the very first café to roll up its blinds, practically simultaneously. And I thought to myself: I can't miss an old friend's last stroll. The dog agreed with me, and here we are. And we're hardly the only ones, I see: Brigadie', isn't that a close friend of yours, that young lady across the street?”

Maione peered carefully, then walked disconsolately over to the tall figure dressed in black, a shawl of the same color over her head, but with a pair of red shoes with dizzyingly high heels and fishnet stockings.

“Bambine', what on earth are you doing here, if you don't mind my asking?”

The
femminiello
uncovered only a pair of eyes with extremely long lashes and murmured softly:

“Brigadie', keep your voice down, I don't want anyone to overhear! And what, I can't come to a funeral too?”

“First of all, it's not actually a funeral, second it's something that we're trying to keep as discreet as possible, and I certainly can't say you're the type who's likely to go unnoticed.”

Bambinella lifted a gloved hand to her face:

“But just look, I put on the only black dress I own! Only I had to wear a shawl, because I don't have any little hats with a veil. My girlfriend, the one who works here as a housekeeper and who wants to become a whore if she can, told me that the funeral procession would be held this morning and that Madame organized everything with Ventrone, the merchant, who isn't going to be coming because he's afraid of what people might say, and then . . .”

Maione raised one hand:

“For the love of Jesus, Bambine', I can't keep up with you first thing in the morning like this, have you ever noticed that I almost always come to see you in the evening? I don't care how you heard about it, I only want to know what you're doing here.”

Bambinella burst out in a giggle, meant to be subdued, but actually more like the whinnying of a horse with a sore throat.

“No, it's just that whoever's in our line of work feels the obligation to show solidarity. It happened to her, it could have happened to any of us girls, in a bordello or at home or out in the street. So, I just figured I'd come too.”

Maione commented, his spirit broken:

“Fine. That's all we needed this morning, the consolidated sisterhood of whores. Well, then, just keep quiet and out of sight. And above all, don't give anyone the idea that we know each other.”

“Brigadie', whatever you want. The course of true love never did run smooth. I'll get well out of the way and I won't cause you any trouble.”

For an instant the brigadier considered whether he ought to give the
femminiello
a kick in the ass, then he decided to put that off for the moment and went over to the doctor and the commissario.

Modo said:

“You two can't go on meeting like this, Brigadie'. Sooner or later you're going to have to bring this secret affair out into the light of day.”

“Dotto', please, don't you start too. I was just flipping a coin as to whether I should stage a nice police raid, now that I'm here, and be done with that creature once and for all!”

Just then, the street door swung open and the pianist, the butler, Madame's son, and the van driver brought out the coffin containing Viper's body.

R
icciardi saw exactly what he'd been dreading: from the balconies and windows of the surrounding buildings women and children were peering down, attracted by the unusual bustle.

Il Paradiso, as was appropriate given the activity that took place in that house, was tolerated because it was discreet: the windows were covered, the entryways were private, the tradesmen came in through the side entrances, the girls displayed themselves only to the customers, going out rarely if at all, alone and at special times of day. Even the music was played in an interior room, and couldn't be heard from outside. Everyone knew of the existence of the bordello, but no one spoke of it or mentioned it by name: this was a respectable neighborhood.

Naturally everyone had heard about the murder, even though the newspapers—which for years had been ordered to maintain complete silence on all reporting that implied violent crime—had made no mention of it; still, news had its own ways of traveling, and Il Paradiso
 
was constantly kept under close surveillance by the neighborhood gossips in search of prurient tidbits.

And now, unbelievably, they were daring to hold a funeral. Of course there was no priest—I would certainly hope not!—nor was there a black carriage pulled by horses decked out in tall black plumes: still, there could be no question that this was a funeral procession, even if it was so early that no stores were open and there was no one in the street.

In haste and hurry, the neighborhood mothers shooed their children into windowless rooms in the apartments to keep them from seeing, and then ostentatiously slammed the shutters shut, only then to peek out from behind the closed curtains. A few men leaned over, shaking their heads, and from one balcony a burst of laughter could be heard.

The casket was set down carefully inside the van; then the men stood aside and out the front door of the apartment building, in double file like nuns emerging in procession from a convent, came Madame Yvonne and all the women who had worked with Viper.

No one could have had a word to say against the sobriety of the women's attire. Black dresses, hats with veils or shawls over the head to cover the hair. No hair dye, no low necklines, no legs appearing through a daring slit in a skirt; no high-heeled shoes, no heavy makeup. Aside from Bambinella, who was keeping well out of sight, half-hidden in the shadows cast by the building, and aside from the lack of male presence, you would have said it was the perfectly normal funeral of a respectable citizen who hadn't been able to afford an expensive service.