Vipers (23 page)

In his mind he reviewed the room where the murder took place. The contents of the drawers, which revealed nothing; the objects scattered on the bed and floor, the silver of the flasks and the cigarette case. The horn comb, the brush made of inlaid wood with blond hairs that probably belonged to Lily, and the blond hairs on the pillow that probably belonged to Giuseppe Coppola.

The little whip mentioned by the corpse, the little whip which wasn't there now; if it ever had been.

The Deed, as Ricciardi mentally referred to the set of his perceptions, was all too likely to deceive: it provided only a reflection, a tangled echo of the last fragments of a life on the threshold of death's darkness, taking one last look back. More often than not the Deed had steered him away from the truth; only rarely had the perceptions that he sensed actually helped him toward it: very rarely indeed. That's why he always kept that evidence, the words that he heard, subordinate, because only afterward was it explained, only once the full picture had been sketched out, through a combination of hard investigative work and pure chance.

But this time the little whip that came out of Viper's dead mouth was still more equivocal. Was it a prostitute's working tool, a nickname addressed to her longtime boyfriend? And even if the latter were the case, was it a loving thought addressed to her executioner or a final appeal before being murdered by someone else's hand, some last cry for help?

What would you have answered, Viper, to Coppola's proposal of marriage
? Ricciardi asked the window.
What were you waiting for, before giving your reply? Could it have been Easter, to celebrate your profane resurrection
?

The
troccole
in the street kept clattering, increasingly annoying, iron against wood. Ricciardi had been told that the sound of that ancient child's toy was originally intended to chase away evil spirits. He thought bitterly, for the umpteenth time, that not spirits, but the living, were the ones who were truly frightening.

That was something he knew all too well.

M
aione had carved out an afternoon off, as was traditional on Holy Thursday. It was a fundamental ritual that no one would ever have dreamed of missing: the
struscio
to see the
sepolcri
, the special altars representing the tomb of Christ.

After lunch—which revolved around Lucia's justly celebrated
zuppa marinara
—and the necessary nap that followed, all the Maiones dressed up in the spring garb that had been readied for the occasion, and went out: out in front, Mamma Lucia arm in arm with the brigadier, in his spotless, neatly pressed uniform and polished boots; behind them, hand in hand, their children, spiffy and well groomed: the boys in zouave trousers that covered their inevitably skinned knees, and the girls in starched pleated skirts. That year, the ritual included the debut of Benedetta, their brand-new adoptive little sister, the happiest one of all.

Actually, the excursion consisted of nothing more than a simple walk, ennobled by visits to an odd—never even—number of churches where they would briefly worship at a side altar, sumptuously decorated in commemoration of Jesus's Deposition from the Cross and Interment. The Maiones visited five churches, completing a route that ran from Piazza Trieste e Trento to Via Pessina, beyond Piazza Dante: a distance of just over a mile that took the entire afternoon and a good portion of the evening to cover, because it also offered an excellent opportunity to admire the plate-glass window displays gussied up for the incoming season, to take note of hats or dresses in the latest styles while the children studied the shops which sold the things they'd most like to receive as gifts for Christmas or their birthdays, the only occasions on which they could expect individual gifts. Even though, most of the time, the gift would consist of a less-fun but far-more-necessary item of clothing.

Time—during the promenade known as the
struscio
, or shuffle, named after the long-forgotten gait of penitent pilgrims who dragged their feet when they walked—tended to stretch out even more because of the many meetings along the way. It was all one long succession of hat-doffings and bowings, exchanges of smiles and hellos, even among those who saw one another every day in their ordinary lives; but the
struscio
was the
struscio
, a special occasion, a feast prior to the feast.

Businesses of all kinds were rolling out the artillery, big, small, and medium-sized. To have a plate-glass window or display space along the route of the
struscio
was an opportunity not to be missed, and it was spectacular to see the glittering array of lights and brass fixtures of cafés and pastry shops such as Caflish, with the waiters standing at the front door, or La Fiorentina, which touted exotic flavors; or bookshops like Sandron, Treves, and Vallardi, from whose windows leapt stacks of brightly illustrated covers of adventure tales depicting tigers and pirates; and shops proffering travel goods, such as Anselmi, where suitcases were featured in an artfully constructed tropical landscape, making window shoppers dream of other worlds. The children stood openmouthed before stuffed parrots and scale models of electric trains that ran through tiny cities, and parents often had to go back and pull them out of their trances with a loving jerk.

The goods on display were not only in permanent establishments; this was a city of movable commerce, and the strolling vendors certainly didn't have to be asked twice to add vivid confusion to the general state of chaos, with wheeled stalls abounding in colors and aromas, or even decorated with just a tablecloth or basket. They rose to the challenge of gleaming plate-glass windows, retorting point by point with their two longtime weapons: the lowest prices and the loudest voices. The air was alive with whistles, shouts, sounds from a wide variety of musical instruments, and colorful expressions, in dialect and in Italian, could be heard touting the goods on offer, seasonal merchandise for the most part. Violets, aromatic herbs, wheat for the
pastiera
, a sweet ricotta-filled pie, and tangerines; but also the
spassatiempo
, a mixture of pistachios, toasted chickpeas, and various seeds and nuts, wrapped in conical sheets of newsprint and carried by children as they walked, and then of course the inevitable pizza, with a handful of anchovies and a spatter of tomato sauce.

Maione set aside a small sum from the anemic family funds for a stop at the Denozza pastry shop, one of the least expensive though every bit as good as the others in terms of quality, located on the upper end of the Via Toledo. The proprietor knew him and reserved a table for him, and there the family sat down for an espresso and a chocolate spumoni for the children—this, for them, was the true purpose of that promenade.

Once they had sat down, the brigadier devoted his attention to his wife, who was reminding the children not to stain their clothing. Ever since lunch he'd had the unpleasant sensation that Lucia was avoiding him, limiting their conversation to nothing but the bare necessities; even his compliments for her extraordinary cooking—which normally got a smile out of her, even when she was angry—this time seemed to leave her indifferent.

Maione knew that asking her what was wrong would only be likely to make her retreat within herself even more; he'd tried, and for a long time, in the aftermath of their oldest son's murder, before she had made up her mind all by herself to go on living, and nothing he'd tried had had any effect. He knew that she wasn't angry with him, and in a certain sense that worried him even more: what worries could his wife have that she was unwilling to share?

He was terrified at the idea that there might be some problem with her health. As he watched her extend a small spoon toward his youngest daughter's open mouth, holding a napkin up to the child's neck and miming the act of swallowing with her own mouth, Maione thought about how much he loved her: it was almost painful, it clutched at his heart, was a desperate burst of anxiety. In his simple mind, that of a husband and a father, the brigadier felt the urge to protect with all his powers the woman who was his main reason for living, mixed with the terror that he might not be up to that task.

For her part, as she fed her youngest daughter, Lucia could feel her husband's eyes upon her. She had no need to turn and look for confirmation: she always knew when he was looking at her, and she had since she was a young girl and he—typical, for a man—hadn't yet even figured out that he was attracted to her. But this time she pretended not to notice, to stave off the questions that he would ask her and above all the answers that she would have to give him.

She didn't know what to do. She had witnessed something awful, she understood that right away; something that certainly concerned a man her husband respected, perhaps even considered a friend: the description matched, and she had seen him once herself when she was visiting Ricciardi in the hospital. But exactly what had she seen? She was unable to understand it.

An arrest? It had many of the hallmarks, but in that case her husband would have told her about or at least she'd have noticed a shift in his mood, and neither had happened.

A kidnapping? In broad daylight, and in the aftermath of a fiery argument? That made no sense to her. And after all, the doctor hadn't called out for help, and he'd certainly had the opportunity, even if it was obvious that he wasn't going with those men of his own free will.

But what was front and center in Lucia's mind was the expression on the face of the vendor who had urged her, for the sake of her own safety and especially for that of those she held dear, to say nothing. To no one. That expression was one of full awareness, and fear. An expression that knew—and said—a great deal more than the few words whispered in the middle of the street.

Lucia wasn't interested in politics, as far as she cared one party was as good as another, but now things were starting to change. Everyday she heard reports of a beating, an injury, an arrest. People said that spies were everywhere, that if you said a harsh word about a public official, or a government institution, there were people who would hurry to inform on you and someone would quickly come calling to ask for an explanation of what you had said. Lucia was convinced that it was best to keep your mouth shut and mind your own business.

Her husband, moreover, was dangerous from that point of view: if he thought something, he'd say it, without apologies. If she were to tell him what she'd seen, he'd feel a responsibility to do something about it, he'd charge off head down, and before you knew it he'd be in the middle of a world of trouble, and she would be wallowing in remorse for having gotten him into the whole mess.

She used a napkin to clean the little girl's mouth, the whole time feeling Maione's eyes on her and pretending she hadn't noticed.

On the other hand, she thought to herself, not to tell him would be tantamount to lying to him; and Lucia had never lied to her husband. And perhaps in the end it wasn't a political matter, and Raffaele could still do something for that poor doctor.

Without turning around, she whispered:

“Rafe', when we go home I have something to tell you. Something important.”

Maione's heart skipped a beat.

“Luci', should I be worried? Did something bad happen? Just tell me that, I'm begging you.”

She turned to look at her husband, well aware that the only way to reassure him would be to look him in the eye.

“No, don't worry. I just need to tell you about something I saw.”

The brigadier peered into her face.

“But are you all right, Luci'? And the children, are they okay?”

She laughed.

“Why, don't you see them, the whole family, right here in front of you? We're all fine, just fine. When we get home, I'll tell you all about it.”

Seeing her laugh, cheerful and untroubled, Maione finally felt that knot of anxiety in his chest dissolve. His wife and children were all right; nothing else could get in the way of the Holy Thursday
struscio
.

“Then let's get going. We still have two churches to do before we're done with the
sepolcri
. Benedetta, come here, because it's time for me to tell you the story of the
pastiera
; all your brothers and sisters have heard it before.”

H
e came that close to not seeing him at all. He almost overlooked those two brown eyes, gentle and intelligent, staring at the street door and waiting for him.

Ricciardi emerged from police headquarters fairly late, but the street was still full of people who preferred to visit the churches of the
struscio
when the shops were closed, in order to focus on the religious aspect of the experience, which otherwise ran the risk of becoming secondary to more worldly considerations. All that mattered to the commissario, who cared nothing for either religious aspects or window-shopping, was to get home, where he might leave behind his anguish over a murder that he couldn't figure out.

He exchanged greetings with the sentinel, briskly made his way up the short uphill stretch of street that ran to Via Toledo; at the corner he stopped to tie his shoe, and that's when he saw him.

The dog.

The white dog with brown spots, one ear cocked, sitting obediently, motionless as a statue. He was sitting in a nook in the wall of an apartment building, a location that allowed him to avoid the steady stream of people going by, but still keep an eye on the front entrance of police headquarters. That way, he wouldn't risk missing Ricciardi leaving work.

They looked at each other, Ricciardi and the dog. Oddly enough, they were both in roughly the same position, squatting with back straight and knees up, one of them waiting, the other one tying his shoe; they were separated by a forest of legs strolling from one church to the next, between one prayer and the next. Looking at each other, wordlessly speaking about a common friend.