Vipers (33 page)

Lucia began to cut the remaining dough into long strips; she'd set it aside just for this purpose. As she worked, she listened to her husband's full, orotund voice and thought how much she loved him.

“During the night, the waves swept all those gifts down to the bottom of the sea; Parthenope, who'd been waiting for them, mixed them all together and made a pie and gave it to her father. He ate the whole thing, one slice at a time, and once his hunger was placated, he got over his anger and calmed down, till his surface was flat as a tabletop. And so the boats were able to return home, piled high with fish, and the children threw their arms around their fathers. Since then, every time that springtime comes back around, the mammas think back to that day and make the pie that Parthenope prepared. And we eat it!”

Lucia watched Raffaele as he wrapped his arms around the children; Benedetta came over to her and gave her a kiss, and so she let her place the last strip of dough on the
pastiera
which was now ready to be taken to the oven for baking.

She smiled at the girl, and decided that Benedetta was wonderful.

 

Wonderful, thought Enrica as she looked at the
pastiera
that she would take to Ricciardi's home tomorrow, for their first dinner together.

Wonderful.

 

Wonderful, Livia thought to her surprise, savoring the last bite of the slice of pie that her housekeeper had given her. This pie is the best thing I've ever tasted. And for a moment she felt the vise grip of anxiety loosening. Perhaps it was even possible to look to the future with a hint of optimism.

Wonderful.

 

Wonderful, thought Maione as he watched his wife hugging their new daughter. She's a wonderful mother.

And as he mused over the idea of how intolerable it would be to lose her, his thoughts wandered to the doctor and the crushing loneliness that he might be experiencing at that very moment; he pulled his watch out of his fob pocket, and wondered how long it would take, and what they would do if Livia's friend were unsuccessful.

There was nothing to do but wait.

 

In the dim light of the falling night, Ricciardi sat in the chair in his office, his green eyes wide as he stared into the empty air before him.

How long would it take? And, most important of all: how would it turn out?

There was nothing to do but wait.

Nothing to do but wait.

 

Outside, Easter burst silently into the spring.

L
ivia had made sure that the apartment house's front entrance would be manned by her driver after the building's doorman locked up, to be sure that Falco's long-awaited arrvial would be noted immediately; in the end, her precautions proved pointless: around three in the morning, the phone rang right by her head; she'd curled up in the armchair and dropped off into a light and troubled sleep.

She jerked awake, emerging suddenly from the confused dream she was having. She answered the phone on the second ring, her throat twisted in anguish.

On the other end of the line, a man's voice spoke, cold and metallic:

“The package you're waiting for will be delivered in one hour at the San Gennaro wharf, down at the port. Be there to take delivery.”

She couldn't tell whether it was Falco's voice, but she suspected it was not. He hung up before she had a chance to reply. She stood up fast, and her spine protested painfully; massaging her back, she went to summon her chauffeur.

 

The sharp rapping at Ricciardi's office door found him wide awake, all his senses alert, tormented by a growing tension. A rumpled Maione looked in through the half-opened door.

“Raffaele? What are you doing here, if you're not even on duty?”

“Commissa', I just couldn't bring myself to stay at home. At a certain point, the hundredth time I'd tossed and turned in bed, Lucia told me: listen, go to headquarters, at least that way I can get a little sleep. And then there was the dog, out in the courtyard, who would howl every so often, like a wolf. So I got dressed and we came over here, me and the dog.”

Ricciardi already had his overcoat on.

“Is there news?”

“Yes, the Signora's driver just got here. He says that we have to be at the San Gennaro wharf, down at the port, inside an hour; it's the wharf next to the militia barracks, remember? The man doesn't know anything else. He left, saying that he had to hurry back to his boss.”

“All right, let's go. And let's hope that Livia stays home, there's no reason for her to risk it.”

Maione smirked:

“If I know anything about her at all, I'll bet that the Signora isn't the kind to mind her own business.”

The journey from police headquarters to the harbor was a brief one: it took them less than fifteen minutes. They decided not to take any officers with them: either things would go smoothly or they wouldn't go at all. Behind them, at the customary distance, the dog was following silently, one ear up, trotting along close to the walls.

Maione said:

“Happy Easter, Commissa'. Happy Easter.”

 

Although it lay shrouded in darkness, the port was still bustling with activity. Two ships were loading cargo, with groups of longshoremen making their way up gangways carrying enormous wooden crates on one shoulder, while steam from the ship engines curled upward from the smokestacks. Another vessel was just docking, amid the shouts of the men mooring it. A number of fishing trawlers were returning from their day's work, gathering the nets that were left dragging overboard until the last moment.

The barracks of the port militia, named in honor of Benito Mussolini, stood darkened except for the front entrance and two windows, lit up on the ground floor. From a distance it was possible to make out the silhouettes of two sentinels standing stiffly at attention, on either side of the front door.

Maione and Ricciardi set themselves up in a niche halfway between the barracks and wharf number 2, where a medium-sized vessel was tied up, the engines idling quietly, rumbling softly in the night, like a phlegmy old man lying fast asleep. There were no signs of activity onboard, but there was a light on deck.

Ricciardi looked around. Not far off, in the flat water just off the wharfs where ships were loaded and unloaded, he glimpsed the ghostly image of a young man under the surface, his arm tangled in a hawser that had kept him there long enough to drown. The image of the man had almost entirely dissolved, so he must have died some time ago. From his black mouth, wide open and gasping for a breath of air that had never come, the young man kept uttering the word:
Beer!
In an imperative tone of voice, as if he were sitting in a tavern and calling it out to a passing waitress. The commissario wondered why on earth, as the filthy harbor water was filling his lungs, the man's mind had turned to the name of that beverage. But he sought no answer: he'd given up years ago trying to understand the procedure of last thoughts; he only wished to never listen to another one. Never again.

After a few minutes, a hundred yards or so away, they saw a car pull up, let someone out, and then pull away again. The brigadier nodded his head at the commissario, as if to say: See? I told you so. Shortly thereafter, Livia walked over to them.

Even after nearly two days without a wink of sleep, she was enchanting. She wore a pair of slacks, flat shoes, and a lightweight dark wool sweater; her hair was short and she wore a beret, which would have made her appearance more masculine, but her generous figure and lithe gait left no doubts about it: she was more womanly dressed as a man than were practically any of the women in evening gowns who filled the Teatro San Carlo for gala events.

“Nothing yet, right? We're early, he should be here in half an hour.”

Ricciardi scolded her harshly:

“What are you doing here, Livia? You shouldn't have come. This could be dangerous, don't you know that? To be down at the port, late at night, is already dangerous under normal conditions: but tonight, with everything that's going on . . .”

The woman shot back in a no-nonsense tone:

“I hardly think you have any right to tell me what I should or shouldn't do. And after all, my contact arranged this, and the doctor—if everything goes smoothly, and I certainly hope it will though I can't be sure of it—will be released if and only if they see me. Therefore, actually, you should be thanking me for having come; as for your being glad to see me, well, that's something I've given up hoping for.”

Maione coughed with embarrassment. Ricciardi replied, in a more considered tone of voice:

“I'm grateful to you, very, very grateful indeed. I'm grateful that you took care of all this, and for putting yourself on the line. Don't think I don't know, and I'm very sorry for the anger you feel toward me. Even if I can hardly blame you for it.”

The brigadier called out to get their attention.

“Look out, there's movement in the barracks.”

Livia looked around and pointed to a stack of empty crates:

“Hurry, let's hide behind that stack.”

The front door had swung open, and now a line of men was shuffling out. There wasn't enough light to make out their faces. From the way they held their arms crossed in front of them, it was clear that the ones in the middle were in chains or handcuffs, and the men around them, craning their necks cautiously, must be their guards. As soon as the longshoremen loading one of the ships tied up along the wharf saw the line of men emerge from the barracks, they set down their crates and hightailed it aboard the ship; Maione decided that it must be a healthy habit for them, avoiding being witness to those processions.

Now Ricciardi was upset: if it turned out that Modo was in that line of men, then their efforts to free him had failed. Livia realized what he was thinking, laid a gloved hand on his arm, and squeezed gently.

It was the dog who alerted them, hidden a few yards away by a tangled pile of ropes. He let out a short yelp, drawing their attention to a pair of figures that had just stepped out of a side entrance to the barracks, and were now heading toward them.

Ricciardi started to stand up and leave his hiding place, but Livia stopped him with a hand, whispering:

“Don't move. I'm the one who has to go, otherwise they'll get scared and refuse to release him.”

She got to her feet and walked toward the two men, while the others proceeded in single file toward the waiting ship.

T
he men stopped a dozen paces or so away. One of the two—it was now clear both to Livia, who was standing in front of the crates, and to Maione and Ricciardi who were still crouching behind them—was Dr. Modo.

Hatless, his white hair was illuminated by a streetlamp, and his face appeared to be marked by deep suffering. His arms were crossed in front of his body, and his white lab coat covered his hands like a folded overcoat. The open, tieless collar of his shirt revealed a pulsating throat, as if he were swallowing constantly.

The man standing beside him was tall and large, and he was dressed in a fine double-breasted pinstripe suit, topped by a broad-brimmed hat that covered his face. He had locked arms with the doctor, like one old friend supporting another who is slightly drunk.

The ship had finished loading, and three men returned to the wharf down a gangway which was immediately retracted behind them.

The man spoke to Livia, in a voice marked by an out-of-town accent that struck Ricciardi as Tuscan.

“
Buonasera
. You would be . . .”

Livia stood motionless, tense, her legs spread slightly. To Ricciardi it looked as if she were about to lunge for the man's throat at any moment.

“You know who I am, I believe. I'm here to accompany the doctor, once you've left. Soon, I hope.”

The man in the suit snickered derisively.

“Sure, I know who you are. They told me who you are. Congratulations, Signora: you may not be aware of it, but you have achieved a minor triumph this evening. But let me tell you something, and I want to tell your friend here the same thing: some things you can only get away with once. Just once. So don't tempt fate.”

The menacing tone made the man's whisper as chilling as a shout. Modo swiveled his head toward him, a flash of anger in his eyes, and from the darkness Ricciardi silently prayed that for once he'd restrain his fiery temperament and keep from doing anything rash that might upend everything they'd done to win his freedom.

As if he'd heard him, the doctor once again dropped his head and stared at the ground. Livia took a step forward.

“Are you planning on spending much more time giving us life lessons, or will you let us go?”

The man laughed softly again and with a quick dart pulled a key from his pocket, removed the handcuffs from the doctor's wrists, and shoved him in Livia's direction. Modo staggered, doing his best not to lose his balance.

The dog emerged snarling from the shadows and lunged at the man with the broad-brimmed hat, tearing away a substantial piece of pin-striped trouser cuff with one sharp bite. The man swore and one hand shot toward his pocket.

Just then the imposing uniformed figure of a brigadier of the Naples police appeared in Ricciardi's field of view; he strode briskly out of the darkness and toward the three figures:

“Ah, and what do we have here? A police officer is out patrolling the wharf, early in the morning, resigned to a solitary stroll, and he suddenly finds himself in the midst of a nice gathering of friends. How are you this fine morning, Signo'? Oh, what a lovely surprise, Dr. Modo! Are you taking your dog out for a walk, is that what we have here? Do you know this gentleman, Dotto'?”

The tension was palpable. The dog continued to point the man, growling, the scrap of trouser fabric dangling from his mouth like a fake tongue. Livia smiled nervously. The doctor kept a hand on the animal's back, softly petting him.