By My Hand (26 page)

T
hat morning, suddenly, the wind dropped.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch, cutting the continuous winds that had been whipping the coast for many days down to nothing but still air. Those who were up and about early noticed it and looked up, bewildered, sniffing the air. From the balconies the capons and turkeys, who unbeknownst to them were living out their last few hours of life after a lengthy domestic breeding period, called to one another with renewed vigor, and the hens regained dominion of the
vicoli
, where they were no longer pursued by wind-crazed sheets of newspaper.

The vendors who had fixed locations immediately changed their strategy, hurrying off to the locations best for sales, which had been left empty thanks to the violent gusts of wind of the previous few days. The shoeshine boys took up their spots outside the Galleria, where they could accost lawyers and doctors who crossed the street at that exact point, and the newsies went back to waving their newspapers in the piazza, proffering their product to the gentlemen who no longer had to clap their hats to their heads with one hand.

The winter itself was caught off guard by the sudden death of the north wind. The temperature remained mild for a few hours, as if the weather were looking around indecisively, unable to remember the date and the season.

The army of the genuine strolling vendors, the ones who spread out across the city, moving continuously, immediately invaded all the main pedestrian thoroughfares. The calls of the vendors hawking their wares began to echo in the streets, as they offered their goods and their services to all those who might have need of them, as well as to those who hadn't yet realized that they had need of them The
carnacottaro
, or hot-meats man, displayed his tripe and pig's feet, to be eaten with pepper and a spritz of lemon. Competing with him for customers were the perennially boiling pots of the
maccaronari
, or macaroni vendors, and the pots of oil for the fried-pizza man, who also fried piping-hot
panzarotti
turnovers and potato croquettes, so hot that those who ate them cursed loudly as they burned their lips and tongues. The
acquaiole
, or water women, began to reappear in the streets with jugs—held in place with the aid of folded handkerchiefs—balanced on their heads, offering the cool and slightly rust-flavored water from the springs of Chiatamone. The kiosks retorted with
limonate a cosce aperte
—spread-your-knees lemonades—named for the fact that you had to lean forward as you drank them, since they would foam over the edge of the glass because of the pinch of bicarbonate that was added right before drinking.

Eat and drink without sitting down at the table, even first thing in the morning: that was the message broadcasted during the last two days before Christmas dinner. Plumes of white smoke rose like moving shop signs, to identify the fires over which the artichokes and piping-hot chestnuts were cooking. As well as walnuts, hazelnuts, lupini beans, and sun-dried pumpkin seeds.

Stunned by the sheer volume and variety of things on offer, the shoppers began to close the ranks of their armies: potential purchasers versus potential sellers. Soon the streets and piazzas were all a single teeming market, filled with transactions begun but never completed, shouting and staged arguments, interminable haggling sessions and precarious agreements.

It lasted a couple of hours. Then the temperature started dropping.

 

It occurred to Sister Veronica that children played a part in everything in life, if you really stopped to think about it.

Everything was done for them; everything was focused on them, and that was how it ought to be. After all, aren't our children our future? Aren't they our source of hope? This was why she loved the mission she'd been entrusted with, that is, teaching children.

She suspected that she'd been selected because she was short, and because of her shrill voice that sounded like a trumpet: qualities that made her seem like a character out of a fairytale, a fairy godmother with special powers. She'd been born to spend her life with children.

Even the Madre Addolorata, Our Lady of Sorrows, to whom her order was consecrated, had first and foremost been a mother, as her name suggested, and thus she had a child to take care of: a son who, through no fault of his own, had caused her—and would always cause her—perennial sorrow.

As she walked between the rows of desks, watching her students as they bent to the task of writing Christmas letters to their parents, it was clear to her that there was no nobler, no more demanding duty than that of caring for children; and that all children are really the children of those who love them, and not just those who engendered them. Otherwise Mary's heart pierced by swords would make no sense, would it?

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed two young boys whispering pointers to each other, and she launched a resounding call to order.

“Watch out, I see you two!”

Immediately, from some unknown point at the far side of the classroom, came a perfect imitation of her voice, in the exact same tone but without words:

“
Pepepèpe
,
pepepè!
”

The whole class burst into irrepressible laughter, though the nun's stern gaze quickly doused that brushfire of hilarity. Deep down, however, the woman had to admit that it had been an impressive imitation, and she stifled a laugh of her own. What lovable scamps they were, after all.

She walked back to the last row, where her little niece, Benedetta, was sitting. Bent over the desk, the tip of her tongue sticking out, she was busy writing a letter that her mother would never see.

Sister Veronica felt a stab of sorrow pierce her heart at the thought of her unfortunate sister. Still, she thought, the little girl was luckier than so many others; at least she had her aunt to look after her.

The most important thing was to make it through Christmas. The holidays are the hardest period of the year, for people who've suffered a recent loss. But if the Virgin Mary was able to do it, with all those swords driven through her chest, then she and Benedetta would make it, too.

She benevolently caressed the head of a child. As soon as she walked past him, the little boy made a show of pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the place where the nun had placed her hand. The class once again burst out laughing.

 

Ricciardi and Maione met once again for their daily morning meeting in the commissario's office. They were both in foul moods, distracted and looking sleep-deprived.

Maione had brought two cups of ersatz coffee, as was traditional.

“
Mamma mia
, this morning this bilge is even worse than usual.”

“Well, at least it's hot, no?” Ricciardi replied. “Now, tell me: what do you think of the fishermen?”

“Commissa', my feeling is that we're not making a lot of headway in this investigation. It could have been either Lomunno or the Boccias. In the case of the Boccias, now, there's also the fact that the woman could have taken part, and that would take the jackpot if you line it up with the findings of the autopsy and the theory that two different hands—one strong, the other weak—killed Garofalo.”

Ricciardi added his own considerations.

“Who, it turns out, was a genuinely horrible individual, from what we can tell. And that means that the murderer or murderers could have been someone else entirely, extorted fishermen we know nothing about, for instance, or even some other colleague afraid he was about to wind up like Lomunno.”

Maione nodded, setting the now-empty demitasse down on the desk with a grimace.

“I'm glad I'm done with that foul brew. In any case, it seems to me that we need to check out the statements of both the Boccias and Lomunno. The fisherman was out on the water in his boat when the murder took place, he said that they go out at four in the morning and come back at least twelve hours later, so we'll have to talk to the other three members of the crew. Lomunno on the other hand says he was going door to door looking for a job down at the harbor; maybe someone saw him and will remember him.”

Ricciardi looked straight ahead of him, into the empty air.

“I wouldn't expect anything to come of it, though. What do you think Boccia's fellow fishermen are going to say? That he wasn't there with them? And even if you get confirmation that someone did see Lomunno, how could you rule out the possibility that he stepped away to commit the murder, and then went back down to the port? We need to check on these things because it's our administrative duty to do so, and we'll have to file the appropriate reports, I understand. But it's certainly not going to help us solve this murder.”

Maione looked out the window.

“You see that, Commissa'? The wind has dropped. Maybe this will be a good day for the fishermen.”

Ricciardi followed Maione's gaze and saw that the piazza was starting to buzz with foot and car traffic.

“But you should always know what it is that you're fishing for. Let's get moving: I'll go to the port, you go interrogate Boccia's crew. But first let's take another walk together over to the Garofalos' apartment, and see if we can find out whether our dead couple received any other visitors.”

L
ivia had just finished dressing when her maid knocked discreetly at her bedroom door.

“Signo', excuse me. There's a gentleman here who wants to see you.”

That worried her; she wasn't expecting anyone, and if a man presented himself at the home of a single woman at that hour of the morning it could only be taken as a blatant discourtesy, or else it was something very grave and urgent.

“Show him to the drawing room, Teresa. I'll be right there.”

Her suspicions were confirmed the moment she walked into the room. Standing by the window, well dressed and unruffled as ever, was Falco.

She didn't know if that was his name, or his surname, or neither of the two. She'd first met the man a few months earlier, when she was planning her reception for Edda Mussolini's trip south to Naples with her father, a party that was never held because of the accident in which Ricciardi had been involved. Falco had shown up at her home without warning, without being announced by anyone, and insisted on helping her plan the event.

He had told her that he belonged to a very discreet organization, one whose local branch was responsible for, among other things, creating conditions of the greatest possible security for the Duce and his family. Later, however, he had provided Livia with a detailed report on Ricciardi, making it clear that the anonymous organization he had said he worked for could be nothing other than a kind of secret police.

Even though she appreciated the usefulness of the information she'd been given, Livia continued to find that man disconcerting: his cold speaking voice, his in-depth knowledge of the details of other people's lives had left her with a sense of discomfort. She realized that no one who had any public stature could elude the close control of Falco and those like him. She'd felt only relief when he silently left her apartment the last time he'd come, and she'd fervently hoped never to see him again.

Instead, here he was, three days before Christmas, and first thing in the morning. As usual, he slipped through the front entrance, which was assiduously monitored, without the doorman calling up, the way he would for anyone else, even tradesmen. Livia was vaguely annoyed, and she had no intention of hiding it.

“
Buongiorno
. Did we have an appointment? If so, it must have slipped my mind.”

Falco turned his gaze in her direction, with a half tilt of the head.

“
Buongiorno
, Signora. Have you noticed that the wind has suddenly dropped? How odd. Now, you'll see, the temperature is going to plunge.”

Livia smiled remotely.

“So you even have that kind of information? Did you get it from a well-placed source with the Lord Almighty? Or does it come directly from God Himself?”

Falco smiled in response, though there was no change in the expression of his eyes.

“No, Signora. Quite simply, some of my kin were fishermen, and so I grew up with the ability to predict the weather a couple of hours in advance.”

Livia felt a little foolish now, and decided to make up for it by making a show of hospitality.

“Ah, I see. Would you care to sit down? Have you already eaten breakfast?”

Falco remained standing.

“
Grazie
, Signora. Yes, I've been up for a long time now, I would say. And I apologize for the timing of my visit, but you know that we prefer to move around when the streets are relatively empty. Even though in these last few days before the holidays, there's always a lot of activity.”

Livia waved her hand dismissively.

“But it's like that in this city all year round. Always lots and lots of people, of every stripe and color.”

“Which often comes in handy for us, though other times less so. I imagine that in your city this kind of hubbub is uncommon, am I right?”

“To tell the truth, in Rome . . .”

“I meant Pesaro, where you were born. Though you haven't been back there for almost two years now, twenty-two months to be exact.”

This level of detail about her life sent a sudden chill through her. She couldn't even have said herself how long it had been since she'd last been to see her parents, while that perfect stranger standing in her drawing room knew down to the day and the hour where she'd been over the past two years.

She understood that this was the man's way of telling her that idle talk and verbal fencing were pointless with him.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Falco? I didn't expect to see you again so soon.”

“I must admit, Signora, that of all the tasks assigned to me, this is one of the most agreeable ones.”