Vipers (20 page)

The silence was absolute, and the cutting gazes from the windows created a palpable tension. One of the girls approached the dark wood coffin and caressed it slowly with her gloved hand. After her, all the other girls, one at a time, said their own personal farewell to a woman who had been the city's most celebrated prostitute: perhaps, as Bambinella had put it to Maione, each of them was thinking that the young woman's fate could easily have been her own, or perhaps it was simply sadness at the thought of a young life cut short.

Ricciardi noted that Ventrone, as he had told them, was not present, and that Pietro Coppola had managed to keep his brother from attending, just as he'd promised. Not even the ghost of Viper's mother: the commissario had hoped the woman might have a change of heart.

The doctor went over to the accordion player, who, in order to hold onto what must have been a prime spot on the street, was already there at the crack of dawn, and murmured something into his ear; he slipped the man a banknote, and the accordionist thanked him with a tip of his hat. Then he began playing a very famous tango.

The melody, so out of keeping with both the hour of day and the somber occasion, caused a stir of surprise in the little procession and also in the few people who had remained at their windows to watch; a few slammed shutters even opened up again, revealing astonished faces. The melody was beautiful, and the setting—the gray light of that damp, grim morning; the white faces of the girls little used to the sun shaded under black hats—made it heartbreaking.

The doctor went over to Maione and Ricciardi and shrugged:

“It's the music that I'd like at my own funeral. You know it, don't you?”

Ricciardi nodded vaguely.

“I've heard it on the radio, certainly. But why this song in particular?”

“Because it's about a bordello, a place where people exchange love in secret, an apartment on the third floor of a building in Buenos Aires. It's called
A media luz
. In half light, in the shadows.”

When the song came to its chorus, the doctor began singing along in a low voice.

“
Y todo a media luz, que es un brujo el amor, / a media luz los besos, a media luz los dos. / Y todo a media luz, crepúsculo interior. / ¡Qué suave terciopelo la media luz de amor!
”

Many of the girls turned to look at the doctor, who was singing in little more than a murmur. One of them blew him a kiss on the tips of her fingers. The doctor responded with a slight bow.

Maione asked:

“Dotto', what do those lyrics mean?”

Modo ran a hand over his face. He seemed deeply moved.

“They're words, Brigadie'. Nothing but words. They mean: ‘And everything in the half light, because love is a sorcerer / In the half light the kisses, In the half light the two of us / And everything in half light in the interior twilight / What soft velvet is the half light of love!'”

From a balcony, impossible to figure out which, a red geranium was tossed. A pair of shutters slammed shut, a cracking sound like a slap. A girl was dead. A whore was dead.

The driver turned toward Ricciardi, who nodded his head. The man went over to Madame Yvonne, who looked like a mountain dressed in black, and whispered something in her ear. The woman turned toward the girls and clapped her hands to indicate that the service was over.

Just as the women were assembling to return to their building, a group of four men turned the corner from the
vicolo
; they were dressed in black, and they were laughing uproariously for some reason, mocking the biggest man in the group, who was clearly not enjoying it.

They were wearing black shirts.

As they lurched downhill they found themselves practically face to face with the little line of girls; they exchanged glances of confusion, clearly drunk and returning home from a night out carousing. One of the four, perhaps recognizing the staff of a place he frequented, said:

“Hey, wait . . . Are those the whores of Il Paradiso? All of them out in the street? What are they doing out here?”

Another member of the crew gave the accordionist a shove, sending him head over heels with a clattering honk. The instrument crashed to the pavement in spite of the man's attempt to cushion the blow, and he emitted a strangled shout.

A third man, the one who seemed to be having the most trouble remaining upright, laughed and uttered a vulgar compliment as he grabbed the bottom of the girl nearest to him, who screamed. From one of the windows came a cry of: “Bravo!” and the man made an off-kilter bow in response.

The other men, unwilling to be outdone, reached out their hands, as rapacious as foxes in a henhouse. The women clutched at one another for safety and Lily dealt a slap to the Fascist who had first grabbed a girl; caught off guard, he slipped and fell. His friends began to mock him and he stood up, offended, and slapped the woman hard in the face.

It all happened in just a few seconds.

Dr. Modo was the quickest to react: he grabbed the closest one, who fell, dragging another of his comrades to the ground. The other two turned their attention away from the women and moved toward the doctor, menacingly.

That was when the dog took up a position between Modo and the Fascists, baring its teeth, raising its hackles, emiting a hollow snarl. One of the men pulled a knife: the situation was critical.

From the shadows of the entryway across the street emerged the considerable bulk of Brigadier Maione, who had waited until the last possible moment in hopes that the situation might right itself without his intervention. Before taking action he had whispered an aside to Ricciardi, who had already started to step forward:

“Commissa', wait, please. Let me take care of this.”

He placed himself in front of the doctor, and brought his hand close to the holstered revolver on his belt. He spoke to the four men:

“Gentlemen, let's calm down . . . Are you sure it's in your best interests to pursue this?”

There was a terrible moment of silence: from the windows and balconies by this point at least a few dozen spectators were looking down, and the girls and Madame Yvonne had all withdrawn to the entryway and were watching the scene from there. The Fascists were annoyed at having to backtrack, but the enormous policeman seemed resolutely determined to stand up for the doctor.

After a long hesitation, the tallest one put his knife away with studied and ostentatious lack of care. The oldest, who seemed to be in charge, spoke to the physician:

“We know you. You're that doctor from the Pellegrini hospital. The one who likes to let his mouth run and always spouts nonsense. So you like politics, eh, Dotto'? You'd better be careful, though. If you practice the wrong kind of politics, you could wind up having a nasty accident.”

Modo looked at him hard for a long time. Then he spat onto the pavement, just a few inches from the tip of the man's boots, and the man leapt backward in disgust, red-faced with anger and humiliation. The Fascist nodded his head, ostentatiously, never taking his eyes off Modo, as if he were memorizing that face.

He signaled to the others and then headed away up the street, followed by his three comrades.

After a pause, the driver hastily closed the van's door, got behind the wheel, and set off for the cemetery. The women went back inside, but not before expressing their appreciation and gratitude to the doctor.

Bambinella went over to Maione:

“What a man!” she exclaimed in an adoring voice. “You just slayed me, I'm covered in goose bumps!”

The brigadier made as if to punch her and the
femminiello
, with a lilting giggle, headed off into the back alleys.

O
f all the holidays, the one Lucia Maione loved most passionately was Easter.

Certainly, Christmas had its charms, with its various pizzas—anchovies and onions or escarole—to be made, and the manger scene with a real flowing river thanks to an enema bulb hidden behind the papier-mâché, with the pastries and the beautiful table setting, and the letters from the children making resolutions for the new year; and then there was the Day of the Dead, with its nougat
torrone
; and the marvelous festival of Piedigrotta, so rich in music and songs. But Easter, Easter was springtime, the windows opening after winter, letting sunshine and the smell of the sea back in.

For Lucia, just like for all the mothers in the city, Easter began with Carnival, forty-one days before; and therefore with preparations for the feast of Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, a feast for which she was renowned throughout the quarter, if she did say so herself: his majesty the lasagne, the dish of kings, with ragù and meatballs; sausages and rapini, the
fegatini nella rezza
, pork livers cooked in a mesh made of the pig's intestine and laurel leaves, and most important of all, the sanguinaccio, a sweet blood pudding made of cocoa, milk, and pig's blood garnished with candied citron, a treat that the children dreamed of all year long.

And it was at the end of every Carnival banquet that her Raffaele, slumping back in his chair after consuming two helpings of every dish, exclaimed the stock phrase: “Luci', your cooking is going to kill me: but what a wonderful way to go!”

The holiday that followed was Lent, a time of self-denial and penitence. Although she was certainly no
bizzoca
, no pious bigot, one of those women who passed every instant of their spare time in church saying rosaries, she did want her children to have a clear idea of the traditions inherited from their faith. That was how they had been raised, and that was how their children would be raised. And so for the next forty days meat gave way to legumes, which left little room for the imagination of a sophisticated cook; Lucia limited herself to the occasional preparation of the
quaresimali
, the dry Lenten almond biscuits made of candied fruit and topped with just a dash of cinnamon—treats that consoled the children during a period of relative abstinence that seemed even longer than it was.

Then came springtime, and the Holy Week that culminated in Easter. When springtime came before Easter it was hard to rein in your appetites, as nature stirred and the bright new sunshine tickled the skin, out of keeping with the last part of this period of penitence; but when springtime and Holy Week coincided perfectly, as they had that year, then it was twice the holiday.

As Lucia walked briskly through Largo della Carità toward the Pignasecca market, she thought to herself that everything was ready: she'd prepared the full array of her culinary armaments well in advance. The pots and pans glittered, the knives had been sharpened, the ingredients that could be stored had all been purchased, and the menus had been planned out thoroughly. There was nothing left to do but wait.

The last few days had been devoted to another domestic ritual of particular importance: spring cleaning. For the first time, Lucia had involved her eldest daughter, who had just turned ten, and Benedetta, who was the same age.

At the thought of the little girl, Lucia smiled. Raffaele had brought her home on Christmas Eve, after an absence during which she had feared he'd gone to commit a terrible crime, which thank goodness he hadn't. Instead, he came in the door carrying that serious-faced little lady, with her perfect manners and her quiet voice: Benedetta had lost both parents in a tragic fashion, and tenderhearted Raffaele couldn't enjoy the holidays knowing that the girl would be left alone in a religious boarding school. She'd lived with them since that night. The Maiones had obtained legal custody of Benedetta, and they were in the process of officially adopting her. Eight can eat as cheaply as seven, Lucia had told her husband, and after all the girl ate like a bird.

And so Lucia, Maria, and Benedetta had mobilized for the major operations involved in spring cleaning: carpets, curtains, and winter clothing to be beaten and brushed, with special care taken to turn out the pockets and clean out the white clumps of lint; the mending and darning of small tears, worn-out buttonholes and eyelets and pockets to be re-stitched, dangling buttons to be reattached, linings to be resewn; grease stains and smudges on cuffs and collars to be cleaned with hot bran. And then everything had to be stowed away for the summer in the
cascioni
, the ample trunks which would be tucked away in lofts and attics, with plenty of naphthalene mothballs, camphor blocks, and pepper, essential weapons in the fight against mites and clothes moths.

But soon the wait would be over, and the women of the Maione household would test themselves against the most challenging and serious obstacle course of Neapolitan cooking: the
casatiello
and the
pastiera
, respectively the savory stuffed bread and the ricotta cheesecake that were synonymous with Easter in Naples. Lucia would initiate the two girls into the family's most intimate and closely guarded secrets, the secrets that they'd be able to use to ensure that their own men looked to them with gratitude and bliss for every Easter of the rest of their later lives.

But first there was Holy Thursday, the day of the
struscio
, or the walk up and down the Via Toledo, and of the
sepolcri
, or the day in which the faithful remember the Lord's Last Supper. Culinary tradition demanded, in the name of that commemoration, the
zuppa marinara
, or seafood soup, the first fanfare of Easter cooking.

When she needed to purchase mussels, clams, and
fasolari
—giant clams—instead of going directly to the fishermen Lucia preferred to frequent a fishmonger at the Pignasecca market; he was a longtime acquaintance and she knew that, out of consideration for their well established business relationship, he'd never sell her seafood that was anything less than fresh. The soup also called for cuttlefish and octopus, and that shopping would demand patient and attentive evaluation.

The market was large and crowded: it was broken up into a multitude of stalls, counters, and carts that intruded into the maze of lanes surrounding the larger structure of the Pellegrini hospital. Lucia dove in, with the confidence and expertise of a sea captain navigating through an archipelago whose every reef and shallows he knows by heart. The blond hair that spilled out of the scarf knotted over her head, her brisk pace, and her lovely blue eyes attracted the attention and greetings of a variety of vendors and merchants; she replied with a nod of the head: never let yourself be led astray by things you don't need, she told herself. Straight to her objective; the fishmonger was at the end of the street, she'd have to walk past the hospital's side entrance.