Vipers (29 page)

She lay shut up in darkness for weeks and weeks, wishing with all her strength for the death that she hadn't been able to seize with her own hands: a thousand times she'd been on the verge of gulping down an entire bottle of sleeping pills and then slipping down, down, down into sleep, never again to reawaken.

Livia remembered. She remembered perfectly.

When she'd finally stood up and opened the shutters, it was spring, just as it was now. She'd dragged herself over to a mirror, taken one look at herself, and sworn that she'd never let herself be reduced to this state again. She banished suffering from her heart; in exchange, she'd ushered in a harshness that was utterly unlike her. She became a different woman, now capable of sailing safely through life, passing unharmed through a shark-infested world.

She'd done that.

So now what was keeping her closed in the darkness of her room, unable to eat, no idea whether outside it was day or night?

She was furious at herself, for the weakness she thought she'd long since abandoned in the mists of the past.

And she was furious at Ricciardi, at his chilly indifference, and at what she had glimpsed in his green, pain-filled eyes, or perhaps what she had only imagined.

Now she was bound and determined to go back to Rome, but she was afraid of returning to her old life. She wasn't up to it: it felt like setting out to scale a mountain.

Still, she'd do it. She owed it to the memory of her little Carletto, because if losing him
 
hadn't killed her, nothing could kill her now. Even if the image of that trick people called love
 
was dead to her now.

She heard a knocking at the door. She said: leave me alone.

The housekeeper uttered a name.

 

In a fetchingly furnished drawing room, Ricciardi stood waiting to learn whether Livia would see him.

He remembered that apartment.

He'd felt a pang in his heart, as he stood outside the door. He remembered a night of incessant rain, the immense weight of his grief, the usual grief that had swollen, that night, to intolerable proportions. He remembered the way he'd shivered feverishly, his distorted sense of reality, the mortal loneliness that was killing him. He remembered a door opening, and then a bed, a cool hand on his scalding hot forehead.

And he remembered the scent, a scene of spices, at once savage and sophisticated. And the feel of soft, welcoming, moist flesh. Smells and tastes, a slow fall, like a feather's as it flutters to the bottom of an abyss. A pair of large, happy eyes, a soft mouth opening in a smile, as he realized with a new burst of pain that he'd be unable to keep that promise, that he was twice a traitor: he'd betrayed the trust of a person who wasn't there, and the hopes of one who was.

He asked himself what had brought him back there again. And he was reminded of the doctor's frank and boisterous laughter, his hat pushed back on his head, the shock of white hair uncovered, the doctor's hand on his shoulder. Right, that's what he was doing there.

The housekeeper had come back to say that the Signora wasn't well, and he'd felt as if someone had clutched his heart in their fist. He'd insisted. The woman had told him to wait there.

And he'd been waiting for a good ten minutes, when the door swung open and Livia walked into the room.

W
ith a stab of emotion, Ricciardi found himself face to face with a woman quite different from the one who had fled Gambrinus just two days ago.

Livia wasn't made up and her hair had been swept back hastily. She wore a dark red dressing gown, tied at the waist with a sash, and a pair of low-heeled shoes. But her clothing, the absence of the usual care she put into her appearance—these weren't what struck the commissario to his very soul.

It was her eyes.

The woman's gaze was blank.

He was used to seeing cheerfulness, passion, confidence, and even sudden bursts of anger in those eyes. He knew her look of defiance, her look of unease. But to see those eyes drained, weary, devoid of hope hit him like a punch in the nose.

They stood face to face, and gazed at each other for a few seconds. Then Livia waved him to an armchair, perching gracefully on the corner of a sofa, at a safe distance from him.

“What a surprise. I have to say I hardly expected to see you today. To what do I owe this visit?”

Ricciardi lacked the courage to speak. To see her in this state was more than he could handle: he was accustomed to defending himself from her, to erecting barriers against her impulsive passions, and now there she was, chilly and remote.

In the face of his silence, Livia said:

“Forgive me for receiving you looking like this. I have a terrible migraine that's been tormenting me for . . . for two days, and this is the first time I've been out into daylight since it first hit. I'm not exactly the ideal hostess today.”

Ricciardi shook himself.

“No, you should forgive me, actually. I show up here without any advance notice—not even on the job do I burst in on people like this. But I needed to . . . I need to speak to you, Livia. About a very important matter.”

There wasn't so much as a flicker of interest on the woman's face.

“I'm all ears. I have to imagine that, for you to come here, it must have been pretty urgent.”

The commissario ignored the irony that dripped from her words. He clutched once again at the picture of his friend and worked up his nerve to go on.

“You're right. And you have every reason to be angry with me: my behavior the other day was inexcusable. I can't even explain it to myself and, believe me, I've done my best to try to understand what came over me.”

Livia gazed at him without expression.

“Don't worry about it. I didn't think it was particularly strange; perhaps the only novelty was that there was a third party present, but the behavior was the same you've always shown me. As far as that goes, I have no cause for complaint: you're a perfectly consistent man.”

“That's not true. I'm only sorry that you should think such a thing, which couldn't be further from the truth. I understand that it might seem that way, but you must believe me: it isn't true. It's just that I . . . I'm a strange person, that's all. I don't open up. I can't open up, not to anyone. Much less to a woman, and a woman like you, who would have every right to happiness. If I hold you at arm's length, I do it for your own good.”

She laughed with bitter irony.

“Just who do you think you are, to claim the right to decide what's best for me? God almighty, perhaps? Forget about it, Ricciardi. I'm old enough to understand when a man doesn't like me, without further humiliating myself in his presence. But listen, why don't you tell me why you're really here? I have no doubt it's a serious matter, otherwise you'd never have come.”

Ricciardi heaved a deep sigh.

“Yes, that's right. I have a reason, and it's a very serious one. And in fact it has to do with the person who was with us the other day; the man in whose presence I stupidly insulted you.”

Livia furrowed her brow.

“The doctor? Why, what's happened to him?”

The commissario told her what had happened, leaving out nothing. He told her what Maione had been told by his wife and by Bambinella, and he told her about the call he paid on Pivani.

“. . . it was him, confidentially, who told me that the only person I could turn to is you. And so here I am, precisely to ask for your help.”

Livia had listened with growing interest, and now she was positively fuming.

“Why, who do you take me for? Do you think I'm, I don't know, a spy for the Duce or a Fascist functionary? I'm very sorry for the doctor; I like him and he struck me as a nice person, but what the devil do you think I can do to help?”

Ricciardi bore that dressing down the way you would a summer cloudburst.

“I know perfectly well you have no political connections. That's why what I said the other day was just an idiotic joke, and one uttered by a fool. But this Pivani told me that you, most likely without being aware of it, are very dear to someone important in Rome; and that for this reason you have been assigned, for your safety, an agent who works for the same branch that is about to ship Modo off to internal exile.”

Suddenly, before Livia's eyes there appeared the image of a distinguished-looking man, middle-aged, carrying a leather portfolio. She muttered under her breath:

“Falco.”

That was the name he had given her, along with an address where, if she ever needed help, she could arrange for an envelope containing a sheet of white paper to be delivered. She was afraid of the man; behind that nondescript exterior lurked a cold, dark mind, as well as a perfect catalogue of information about her that not even she knew. It was from him that she'd learned all about Ricciardi, unable to resist the temptation to learn whatever she could, even though she instinctively wanted to keep that strange man as far away from her as possible.

Ricciardi nodded.

“I'm begging you, Livia: I'm begging you. If it were for me, I swear to you, I would never have come here; but Bruno is a wonderful human being, who does more for his fellow man than all the Fascist officers in Rome put together. We can't—you can't let him be thrown who knows where just because of the ideas he has. I'm begging you.”

None of the ice in which Livia had shrouded herself melted. But the woman said:

“I doubt I have the power you attribute to me; the Roman friend to whom your Signor Pivani was probably referring is a person with whom, for the most part, I talk about clothing and jewelry, with a little gossip thrown in about which of our friends in common have new boyfriends. And yes, it's true that on several occasions I've seen a man—I don't even know whether the name he told me is actually his Christian name, his last name, or a nickname—and he mysteriously seems always to be perfectly informed about everything.”

“And would you know how to get in touch with him? There is no time to waste; based on the information we've received, the ship is sailing on Sunday. Easter Sunday.”

Livia retorted bitterly:

“That ship won't be the only one leaving Naples on Easter Sunday. I've decided to leave town too. You'll be rid of my irritating presence once and for all.”

The news washed over Ricciardi like a gust of icy wind. He understood instantly that he didn't want Livia to leave.

“You . . . if you've made that decision for your own reasons, then there's nothing I can say. But if you're leaving on my account, don't do it. Don't do it. I . . . I really don't know what to say, but I'm begging you, don't do it.”

Livia looked at him for a long time, baffled. Trying to understand whether what her heart was telling her was the product of what she was hearing or the product of what she wanted to hear.

Then she said:

“I'll try to get in touch with him. I'm doing it for the doctor, because of the impression I had of him and because of what you've told me about him. I very much doubt I'll be able to do it, but if I am, you'll have two reasons to rejoice: first because your friend will be set free, and second because it will mean that the other day at Gambrinus you were right.”

Ricciardi ran a hand over his face.

“I thank you. This matter now takes precedence for me over everything else. But if this is resolved, as I hope it will be, I'll come and talk to you, I promise. And I'll try to persuade you that I never believed those words I said, that I'm nothing but a stupid idiot. And that I know how to appreciate a fine sensibility and a good heart, the few times I find them.”

Livia said nothing, struggling to tamp down the excitement she could feel clutching at her throat. God only knew how many times she'd dreamed of hearing those words, of having at least the shadow of a chance with that man. But the wound was still too fresh.

She stood up.

“Don't think twice, it has nothing to do with the two of us. You asked me for help, and I'm willing to do what I can. I hope to have news for you soon, in which case I'll give you a call. You just be ready.”

Ricciardi stood up too.

“Whatever the result, I thank you, Livia. You could have kicked me out without a second thought, and I would have deserved it: for me to come here, after insulting you, to ask you to help me by reaching out to the very same friends my stupid insult was aimed at. And instead you decided to listen to me all the same. I won't forget it.”

He started to leave, but then halted on the threshold and said, without turning around:

“And I haven't forgotten a single moment of what happened in this house the last time I came to see you. Nothing. This is the second time that I've found, inside these walls, a hope that I lacked when I arrived.”

And he left, leaving Livia caught uncomfortably between the past and the future.

Y
ou look the night in the face, Doctor.

You can tell that a few people around you are actually sleeping. You're always amazed when you see what human beings can get used to; what they can put up with.

You look the night in the face, and it looks back, impassive. The night is accustomed to more than this, after all. It's moved over more serious misery, it has covered up far worse yearnings.

There's a high school teacher, over there, a Calabrian. He's a homosexual, that's why he's here. He says that he has no political beliefs, but for all you know he's actually a Fascist and they took him anyway. He won't say how they caught him, but from a few of the hints he's dropped you think that it must have been with a student, in the toilets. He sleeps and he snores, mouth open. As the saying goes: the sleep of the righteous.

And there's a university student—you did your best to treat a nasty gash on his forehead—who speaks in monosyllables.