Vipers (36 page)

I could pass undisturbed through the little side door, everyone knew me both because I delivered the fruit and vegetables, and because I often went to call my brother, when he lost all sense of time and forgot about the rest of mankind. It was opening time, when all the girls are busy and no one notices anything. I waited for my brother to leave and I immediately slipped into the room.

I wanted to know what Viper had decided. If she was going to tell my brother no, she'd still be alive now.

But when she saw me, she said: I want to surprise your brother. I'm going to give him my answer on Easter Sunday, in less than a week. I'm going to tell him yes on Easter Sunday. I'll only make him wait until the holiday, and then we'll take back the future that was taken from us.

You understand, Commissa'? They were taking back their future, and taking away mine and Ines's. Love at last, she told me: do you know what love is? She asked me,
me
of all people. A whore who wants to teach me about the meaning of love.

That's when I picked up the pillow.

I didn't realize right away that I'd dropped my horse-grooming brush; when I couldn't find it anymore I just thought I must have lost it while I was driving the cart, it's happened to me before.

I loved Maria Rosaria, you know. I'm not a monster. When I was a child, since I went everywhere with Peppe, she treated me like a younger brother, I still remember.

She used to make fun of us, she'd say: ah, here they come now,
Peppe 'a Frusta avanti e 'o Frustino appresso
. Joey the Whip leading, and the Little Whip trailing behind. That's what she always used to call me, Commissa': my little whip.

I loved Maria Rosaria.

But what I did, I'd do again. A hundred times over, I'd do it again.

W
hen the officers had taken him away, Maione and Ricciardi sat in silence. Outside, the sun was setting on the first Sunday of spring.

The brigadier said, as he sat scratching his head:

“Crazy, eh, Commissa'? When you hear the motives people have for murder, they always seem ridiculous. Maybe all he would really have had to do is talk to his brother, tell him what he wanted, they could have found a solution, and now they'd all be nice and cozy, sitting around a lovely Easter table, enjoying themselves.”

Ricciardi started in surprise:

“Oh, Raffaele, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot that today is Easter! I made you miss your lunch!”

“Don't mention it, Commissa'; when I left to go pick up Coppola, I did a quick calculation and it became clear that I wouldn't make it in time; so I sent someone to alert both Lucia and Dr. Modo to push everything back to supper tonight, so I've got plenty of time, work is work, and that poor girl deserves respect too. But satisfy my curiosity: how did you know? What made you realize that Pietro Coppola was the murderer?”

Ricciardi sighed, vaguely waving one hand in the air.

“Luck. Pure dumb luck. Do you remember yesterday, when the doctor told that story about the donkey-hair wig for Il Duce?”

“How could I forget, this morning I was still laughing all by myself.”

“Exactly. But what occurred to me is that what I thought were long blond hairs on that brush, hairs that I thought belonged to Lily, the prostitute who often shared toiletries with Viper, might not even have been human hairs. And we had already seen hair like that, when Coppola was grooming the sorrel mare, that time we went to Antignano to question Viper's mother.”

“That's true, exactly. And then he started whittling a piece of wood, while we were talking to his brother, I remember clearly.”

“Right. Then I remembered the blind man with perfect eyesight who plays the accordion out front of Il Paradiso, right on the side where the tradesmen's entrance is, do you remember?”

“Of course I do, the man whose accordion the Fascists broke the other morning. And what did he tell you?”

“He told me that Monday afternoon he saw Peppe 'a Frusta leave the building, happy as he always was when he'd seen his girl; then a minute later, Pietro went in, and he wondered why on earth Pietro would have made a special effort to avoid his brother. But since he's blind, of course, he kept it to himself, because he didn't want to give himself away and lose his source of income; after all he'd seen Pietro go in plenty of times, he was one of the chief suppliers for the brothel's restaurant, so he didn't think it was all that remarkable.”

Maione shook his head.

“Incredible. If he hadn't dropped the brush, he might even have gotten away with it. And he might even have sent his brother to prison; after all, he was still the last person to have seen the girl alive. Which is why he defended him so furiously.”

Ricciardi checked the time.

“It's almost seven. Go on home, Raffaele, and give Lucia and the children my best Easter wishes.”

“
Grazie
, Commissa'. But what are you going to do? Aren't you going to go home and celebrate?”

The commissario heaved a sigh:

“No, I'll write a report on Coppola's arrest and then I'll just be able to make it in time to take Livia to the theater, as I promised I would. We owe it to her, don't we? If it hadn't been for her, the good doctor, instead of eating Lucia's
casatiello
, lucky man, would be sailing toward some godforsaken island and a diet of bread and water.”

Maione laughed out loud.

“You're absolutely right, Commissa', I'll have to tell him that, tonight. Oh, that'll steam him! And as for Lucia's
casatiello
, there's a big slice just for you. But what are you going to do about Signora Rosa? I'm sure she's made supper for you, your shift was supposed to be over this afternoon, wasn't it?”

“Rosa's used to it. This isn't the first time I've skipped dinner. She knows that if I'm not back by a certain time, she just needs to wrap up whatever she made. I'll eat it tomorrow.”

Maione raised his hand to the brim of his cap in a salute.

“Well then, happy Easter, Commissa'.”

“Happy Easter to you, Raffaele.”

S
pringtime has no pity.

She sees herself reflected in the tail end of sunset, draping the night around her shoulders like the finest of capes; she gazes at herself, she admires herself, richly bedecked in new buds and fresh green leaves, and she has no pity.

She has no pity for the elderly woman who sits at a table of covered dishes, thinking to herself that this may be the last Easter in her life, and she's spending it waiting for a footstep on the stairs that never comes, her heart gripped by fear—fear for her own loneliness and the loneliness of others. A heart that gradually weakens, in silence, closed in her chest. Beat after beat.

She breathes in the gusts of air off the sea, springtime does. And she has no pity.

She has no pity for the long-legged young woman with tortoiseshell glasses who spent the whole morning standing in line at the oven in Via Santa Teresa to pick up the
pastiera
that she made just for him, and the whole afternoon choosing which of her three good dresses to wear; and she worked up her courage to ask her mother if she could borrow her grandmother's earrings, and got a hail of questions in exchange, all of which she ignored; and she will spend her whole evening watching the clock, sitting in a chilly chair in an apartment that is not hers, losing every certainty, and she will spend her whole night weeping into her pillow. Believing that her heart is broken forever, feeling a sharp and desperate pang of pain. Beat after beat.

She strolls in the light breezes from the forest, springtime does. And she has no pity.

She has no pity for the woman who once again feels her heart beating in her throat, as she puts on a magnificent silk dress and gazes into the mirror at a topaz glittering between her breasts, hoping that in a nearby heart something more than mere gratitude might live. Hoping that that heart might learn to love, even if it's only a little at a time. Beat after beat.

She stirs the blood in everyone's veins, old women and young, springtime does. And she has no pity.

She has no pity for whole families, gathered around a table overflowing with food, love, and friendship; no pity for all those who embrace and kiss, under the spell of a holiday instituted by men that will go by and come around again, and some will be there when it does, and others will be gone by then. Hearts alone and hearts together. Hearts that gaze at each other and smile. Beat after beat.

She stirs up life and the memory of death, springtime does. And she has no pity.

She has no pity for the man who walks through a city made up of both the living and the dead, trying to ignore his emotions, hoping not to err both in what he does and in what he doesn't do. Shrugging off both his own pain and sorrow and that of others. Thinking all the while that love brings death, and hoping that's not love's only gift. Hoping also that one day he'll be able to listen to every lurch of his heart, without fear. Beat after beat.

But springtime has no pity.

No pity at all.

This story exists because Severino Cesari and Paolo Repetti asked for it. It was shepherded by Mariapaola Romeo and Valentina Pattavina. Its architecture was shaped by Antonio Formicola and in discussions with Michele Antonielli. Set design and staging by the fantastic Annamaria Torroncelli and Stefania Negro. Scented and nurtured by the expert hands of Sabrina Prisco, of the
Osteria Canali
of Salerno. Overseen from the very beginning and cultivated by the marvelous Corpi Freddi. Like all the Ricciardi stories, it springs from my mother's stories and smiles. All I did was tell it.

Maurizio de Giovanni lives and works in Naples. His Commissario Ricciardi series, including
I Will Have Vengeance
(Europa 2013),
Blood Curse
(Europa 2013),
Everyone in Their Place
(Europa 2013), and
The Day of the Dead
(Europa 2014) are bestsellers in Italy and have been published to great acclaim in French, Spanish, and German, in addition to English. He is also the author of
The Crocodile
(Europa 2013), a noir thriller set in contemporary Naples.