Vipers (25 page)

“. . . and so, as you can see, it was a full-fledged arrest. With an unmarked car, officers in plainclothes, maybe even packing concealed weapons. Just like in those American movies, you know? The part where the music gets louder.”

Ricciardi tried to think clearly.

“And you say that your wife saw them argue, but she didn't hear what they said, is that right?”

“Yes, Commissa'. She was far away, they were at the opposite end of the courtyard and she was outside the gate, and then there was the dog, chained up and barking.”

“In fact, I found the collar still attached to the chain. They must have chained him up when they got there, otherwise he would have done what he did at Viper's funeral and defended Bruno. So that makes me think that the argument they had this morning has something to do with it: those four idiots must have been the ones who informed on him.”

“You think so, Commissa'? I had assumed that they might know something at police headquarters. Maybe that dope Garzo has a piece of paper sitting on his desk and he chose not to tell us about it. Or it could even be that brown-noser Ponte, his lapdog, maybe he knows something. If that's the case, I swear that I'll smack him so hard he'll forget the way home! I'll . . .”

Ricciardi shook his head no.

“I don't think anyone at police headquarters knows anything about this. Those people move through other channels. We need to figure out exactly what happened, and if things are the way we think they are, then we need to find out where they're holding him and for how long . . .”

Maione agreed grimly.

“I know. They take them to the islands. Ponza, Ventotene, Elba. Who knows where. The luckiest ones . . . We have to find him, Commissa'. Right away. And we have to free him.”

Ricciardi grabbed the brigadier's arm.

“Yes, that's right. But we have to move very cautiously, because these people aren't playing around. You have children, you shouldn't put yourself at risk. Let me take care of it.”

Maione pulled free, indignantly.

“Commissa', how can you think such a thing of me? What kind of a man do you take me for? My wife told me that, when it happened, a vendor standing nearby told her: Signo', you should mind your own business. And that's why she waited to tell me, because she was worried that I might get myself into trouble. But how many friends do you have, in life? Real friends, I mean. How many? Two, three? The doctor is a friend to me. And if a friend is in this kind of situation, I don't go home and climb into bed and pretend everything's fine. Fascists or no Fascists. And as for the children, Commissa': if you teach your kids to live one way, then how can you set the opposite example? Don't you agree?”

His reasoning was airtight, and Ricciardi knew exactly how hardheaded Maione could be. On the other hand, the risk of stumbling into charges of aiding and abetting or, worse, conspiracy, was very real, and he couldn't allow the brigadier to put his own freedom at risk. So he tried to involve him in a way that would do him the least possible harm.

“All right then. Here's what we'll do: tomorrow morning early, before you come in to the office, run by and see that girlfriend of yours who knows everything inside and out, and try to figure out where they're holding him. I'm going to go check things out in a certain place, and maybe if I'm lucky I'll be able to get some information.”

“Yessir, Commissa'. And please, don't do anything reckless: you know I'm not the only one who runs in without looking where I'm putting my feet. As for the dog, I'll take him home with me, for now. It's something I promised the doctor.”

A
bit of night, but not for sleeping.

A night for rumpled white hair resting on a wooden plank, in the dark, others breathing in a large room, who knows where and who knows why.

A night for tangled thoughts, firm beliefs, and enormous fears, challenges and defeats and sensations, firm and fixed at the center of the heart.

A night for a clean conscience, for a forehead held high, for a straight back, for convictions confirmed by everything that has happened; and a night for a troubled conscience over the suffering of friends, over the suffering of the patients left in uncouth, inexperienced hands.

A night for fears over the day to come, over the road that will lead far away, over the battles that will be left unfought.

A bit of night, what little remains.

A night for green eyes wide open, staring into the darkness, confronted by an emotion he didn't know he'd been nursing.

A night for strategies and movements, a night for silence as images scream in his memory.

A night for searching after faces and names to trap in the mind, to be asked and even supplicated.

A night for fears over the day to come, over the lanes to be traveled, over the battles that will have to be fought

A bit of night, spent waiting.

A night for one hand resting on your chest, like every night, making sure you'll still be there when she wakes up.

A night around your children's beds, looking down on their perfect sleep, their mouths half-open before the clouds and stars and the future that your hands will know how to build for them.

A night for uncertainty, for weakness in the face of a friend's potential pain and suffering, in the face of the silence that may surround him.

A night for fears over the day to come, over a steep climb to be undertaken first thing in the morning, over a battle that remains to be won.

As soon as this bit of night that remains is over.

T
he sun had been up for less than an hour when Brigadier Maione knocked on the door of the last apartment on the top floor of the last apartment house on Via San Nicola da Tolentino.

It took almost two minutes for the door to open on Bambinella's puffy, bleary eyes, which emerged from the dim light.

“Who on earth . . . Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, Brigadie', is that you? What's happened, who's dead?”

Maione had no time to waste.

“Hurry up, Bambine', let me in. And wake up, splash some water on your face and wake up, I need you clear-eyed with good reflexes.”

The
femminiello
stood aside to let the brigadier come in, hastily smoothing down her hair.

“Tell the truth, your wife kicked you out of the house, didn't she? And now you don't know where to go, and you thought of me. How romantic! But don't worry, there's always a place for you at my table. As for the bed, trust me, you'll never sleep better as long as you live. I've got a queen-size bed, big enough for the kinds of acrobatics . . .”

Maione put his hands together, as if in prayer.

“Bambine', I'm begging you: you see it, that I'm begging you? I've never begged anyone, but I'm begging you this morning: you need to shut up and listen to me. Because today there's no time for fooling around, a very serious thing has happened and we need your help, which is the only reason I'm not going to kill you right now, which is what I feel like doing. My wife didn't kick me out, and before I'd move in with you I'd try every doorway in every alley in the city of Naples. I'm just here to ask for your help, and I need you to listen to me.”

Bambinella was more than a little struck by Maione's tone of voice.

“Brigadie', now you're really starting to worry me. Let me make a cup of ersatz coffee, we'll sit down and talk.”

“No, no ersatz coffee. I need to ask you for information, information I need very urgently. Sit down and listen to me carefully.”

Bambinella sat down gracefully in the usual bamboo chair, carefully draping her silk nightgown. On her face was a dark five o'clock shadow, and her eyes bore the marks of faded makeup; she felt she owed the brigadier an explanation:

“Don't look at me, please, Brigadie'. My client just left, not even half an hour ago, and I'd planned to redo my makeup after catching at least an hour's sleep. That man is just terrible, a bricklayer from the San Lorenzo quarter, he tells his wife that he's working nights as a security guard to make a little extra, but that's not how it is at all, I can't imagine how she can bring herself to believe him . . . All right, all right, I see your point, this is urgent. Tell me all about it.”

Maione stared at her, rabid with anger.

“Now listen carefully: do you remember Dr. Bruno Modo? He was there yesterday, at the funeral, if you want to call it that, of Maria Rosaria Cennamo, in Via Chiaia.”

Bambinella giggled.

“Ooooh, sweet Jesus, do you think I'd have to see him at Viper's funeral to know Dr. Modo? Everyone in Naples knows him, he's such a good doctor and so attentive to the needs of the poor. To say nothing of his fond, shall we say, patronage of the finest bordellos in the city. There was a girlfriend of mine who used to see him practically every day at Il Pendino . . . Eh, Brigadie',
mamma mia
, what on earth are you doing with that!”

Maione had pulled out his revolver and placed it delicately at the center of a small side table.

“Well, I'm not going to die of liver disease, so I'm afraid you're going to have to die instead, Bambine'. You see this pistol? It's loaded. And I swear to you that the next time you start telling me the story of your life, or someone else's life, I'm just going to shoot you and be done with it. Because among other things I can just say I came up here to arrest you and you attacked me, which in a sense would even be the truth, because if you don't shut your trap and listen to me, first I'll shoot you and then I'll arrest you. Have I made myself clear?”

The
femminiello
stared in fear at the handgun, and nodded her head yes. Maione seemed pleased.

“Ah, at last. Now then, you saw that there was a set-to with four Fascist blackshirts, on the one hand, and the doctor and yours truly on the other. Now, we have information to the effect that just yesterday, in the late morning, the doctor was picked up at the hospital, against his will, by at least three men in an unmarked black car. I need to find out who these men were and where they took the doctor, and if I can, why.”

Maione's questions fell into a profound, unusual silence. Bambinella pointed to the weapon on the table; then she extended two fingers with unnaturally long nails to the middle of her mouth and made the universal sign that indicated a sudden, frightened inability to speak.

Maione sighed, picked up the revolver, and put it back into its holster.

“But look, I'll pull it right back out if you start up again. Now talk.”

Bambinella grabbed a fan decorated with an elaborate drawing of a dragon and started fluttering it in front of her face.

“Madonna, how you frightened me! You've taken ten years off my life, Brigadie', you know that I'm very afraid of guns!”

Maione roared:

“You don't have ten extra years of life to lose, Bambine', believe me!”

“I don't have ten . . . Ah, I see. Then let's get to the point: you're going to have to give me a few hours of time, Brigadie'. From what you tell me, this here is serious, you're right when you say it's urgent. Because if the two things are connected and the doctor has been abducted by the Fascists, inside of a day at the very most they'll put him on a train or a ship and send him far away, like they do all their prisoners. And I'd have to say, in this case, it sounds like the doctor really was picked up by the Fascists.”

Maione nodded.

“Yeah, that's what it looks like to me too. Well, how do you intend to proceed, Bambine'? This isn't your normal territory, and since I'm planning to murder you myself with my own two hands, I can't afford to let you run risks.”

“Oh, at last, a sweet, kind word: you're worried about me, eh, Brigadie'? But you shouldn't worry, there are plenty of Fascists in this town, and you can always find a few with some interesting vices. For instance, I know one of them that just goes wild every time that I . . . well, that's neither here nor there right now. In any case, I already know a few of the first contacts I'm going to try, and don't fret, I'll be careful. You just have to give me a few hours.”

Maione stood up.

“We'll see you here at your house around noon, then. And I'm serious about this, Bambine': I've never asked you for a more important favor.”

The
femminiello
got to her feet, with grace and elegance.

“Never fear, Brigadie'. I'm happy to do it; the doctor is a good man and he deserves all the help in the world. But first I need to get made up, and get these filthy whiskers off my face: if I want to get us the information we need, I'll have to look my best.”

R
icciardi waited, concealed in a recess between two buildings.

When it became clear to him that there would be no point in trying to chase after sleep, he'd gotten out of bed, put on his clothes, and left the apartment while the night was still far from yielding to the dawn.

The deserted streets had walked with him, his rhythmic steps echoing in the cool damp air that still lacked a clear identity, in that indecision so typical of spring, when it feels as if it's still hovering between winter and summer. Every so often, Ricciardi would cross paths with some night owl returning home, tipsy and giddy, or else early birds riding rattletrap bicycles.

No shortage of dead people out and about, not that there ever was. A little boy at the end of Via Foria, who had fallen off the back of a streetcar where he'd hitched a ride, cadging a free trip to who knows what useless destination, with a huge dent in the back of his head and a broad bleeding wound on his back where he had been dragged along the pavement, who kept muttering prophetically:
Maronna, Maronna, mo' caro 'nterra
—
Madonna, Madonna, I'm going to fall down.
A motorcyclist near the crossroads of Via Sant'Anna dei Lombardi and Via Toledo, wearing a leather helmet and a pair of oversized goggles from which ran a black tear of blood, laughing obscenely as he said:
Faster, even faster
. Any faster than that'll kill you, Ricciardi retorted bitterly, to himself.