By My Hand (27 page)

“
Mamma mia
, what gallantry,” Livia responded harshly. “I suppose I ought to cherish it, coming from a man of such a reserved nature.”

Falco bowed his head once again.

“That's a familiar experience for you, to be paid compliments. I understand that you were even paid chivalrous tribute by a convicted felon yesterday morning.”

Once again, Livia felt an ominous shiver run down her spine. She decided to stop playing along.

“Falco, let me ask you once again what you want from me. I have a number of things to do today.”

The man seemed almost chagrined.

“That's too bad, I hate being forced to be unpleasant. It's a part of my job that I can never quite get used to. I know what you plan to do today, Signora. You're planning to go get two tickets to the theater.”

Now he was going too far. She hadn't said a word to anyone about her intention to go to the theater.

“How on earth would you know that?”

“Let's just say that you were overheard yesterday, when you told your chauffeur to have the car ready for that purpose. I would imagine, though it's just a guess, that the theater in question is the Kursaal, on Via Filangieri.”

Livia sat openmouthed; she could only nod her head yes. Falco smiled.

“That's not a result of any investigation, though. It's just that it's a very eagerly anticipated performance, a one-act play by this newly formed company of young actors that's gaining in popularity, two brothers and a sister, the De Filippos. I've heard they're really very talented.”

Livia nodded, mistrustful.

“That's right. And this is a new play, written by the eldest of the three, who's the leader of the troupe and the playwright. It's about Christmas.”

“And you're determined not to miss the premiere, which is tomorrow night. You intend to buy two tickets; one is for you. And the other?”

Livia shifted uncomfortably in her armchair.

“I don't believe that's any of your business, nor do I think that it's a matter of national security whom I choose to invite out for an evening at the theater!”

Falco looked down, running his fingers along the brim of the hat he held in his hand.

“Certainly, I understand. So let me explain: national security is a complicated matter, and it's intricately bound up with the press and propaganda. In other words, the public image of certain people counts a great deal. You are a very important friend to figures who occupy prominent places in the regime. They care for you; your well-being is of paramount importance to them. Your stubborn persistence in frequenting this man, I hardly need say his name, is starting to cause concern.”

Livia clenched her fists to regain her self-control. Her eyes narrowed to slits, she hissed:

“That man's name is Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, and he's a commissario of the Naples police force. It seems to me that his rank and profession are an indication that I'm in safe hands, wouldn't you agree? And whom I choose to see is a matter that concerns no one but me: certainly not my friends, no matter how prominent they may happen to be.”

Falco sighed faintly.

“Of course not. And let me reassure you that we have nothing official against this person, though certain aspects of his personal life have aroused our concern. The problem is that everyone would be more comfortable, Signora, if you were to return to Rome. The man we're talking about comes from a different milieu; some of the people he frequents are, how to put this, ambiguous at best. There's that doctor, for instance, who . . . But I've already told you about him. You're traveling down a rather slippery slope, that's all.”

Livia was almost tempted to laugh. There was no one, aside from herself, who looked favorably on her relationship with Ricciardi. Not even Ricciardi himself.

“Falco, if this is a warning, believe me, I appreciate it. But I should tell you, so that you can report back to whomever the devil you like, that I'm a big girl, and I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions. And I have no intention of going back to Rome; you may add that to your report as well.”

The man hadn't stopped playing with his hat. He looked up.

“I imagined as much. I'd even told them in advance that this would be your response, Signora. To tell the truth, there's a part of me that's happy to have been correct in my evaluation. All the same, I'm going to have to insist one last time on this point: certain acquaintances, perhaps undertaken with the best possible intentions, without a second thought, can prove to be extremely harmful in the long run. And certain contacts, certain friendships won't protect you forever.”

Livia snorted in annoyance.

“Falco, I've already told you that my friendship with Ricciardi is, for the moment, completely secondary and informal, and unfortunately the only one really keeping it going is me. If he were the one seeking me out, though . . .”

“I'm not talking about your friendship with him,” Falco interrupted her. “I'm talking about his friendships with others. If you were to happen to tell him, say, purely in passing, in the context of a more general conversation, about a comment, or a trip being made by your . . . girlfriend in Rome, shall we say, and if he in turn were to mention the matter to a friend of his, that would become a matter of national security. And you, and he, and even we would be responsible for it. Is that clear to you?”

There was a long silence. Livia realized that with that elaborate example, Falco had meant to illustrate the level of surveillance she was under. She decided to express her appreciation.

“I understand. And I thank you for the information. I promise you complete discretion, you can rest assured. Please report back that I'd like everyone to stop worrying. I talk too little with Ricciardi to start with, and he talks even less to me. That's why I wanted to take him to the theater: at least there we wouldn't have to pretend to converse.”

Falco grinned.

“It's just a matter of time, Signora. I can't imagine how or why anyone would hold out for long against a woman like you. Have a good day, and forgive me for the intrusion. I hope the two of you enjoy yourselves at the Kursaal.”

B
eniamino Ferro, doorman of the apartment building at 2 Largo del Leone in Mergellina, takes a step back and admires his handiwork.

He's proud of the manger scene he's just finished. Considering that his work duties have prevented him from devoting the time to it that really was necessary, he's happy with the results.

To tell the truth, though, if he hadn't felt the frequent need to go and wet his whistle, he might have had more time; and if he didn't drop off to sleep every so often, as a result of the aforementioned refreshments, he'd have had even more time to spend on it.

But Beniamino tends to be self-indulgent: a single man, without a family, without a wife or children to lend him a hand, is entitled to take a break every now and then, he thinks to himself. And if, during one of those breaks, someone shows up and has sufficiently bad manners to enter without even announcing himself to the doorman, who just happens to be taking, in fact, a break, then it's certainly not his fault. Not the doorman's fault, that is.

The manger scene really is nice. It has everything: the moss, the herbs to keep away evil spirits; the two companions, Zi' Vicienzo and Zi' Pascale, one happy and the other sad, who represent respectively Carnival and Death; the virgin Stefania, who's concealing a rock under her dress to convince everyone that she's pregnant, and who will later miraculously give birth to Saint Stephen. And then there's Cicci Bacco, the vintner, his favorite, because the manger scene, after all, is about good cheer, too—
allegria!
—because the birth of the Christ Child is the best thing to ever happen to the world.

Right now, Beniamino's vision is blurry, because his eyes are filled with tears. He remembers his
papà
, and the ritual of building the nativity scene at home. He remembers how his father explained in intricate detail the meaning of every herb, every house, every shepherd. Why the manger scene represents the whole world, the world of the past, the world of the present, and the world of the future: Beniami', don't ever forget it. The manger scene is like the world: it seems as if it's all jumbled together by chance, but in reality everyone and everything has a specific meaning and purpose. And Beniamino, even if he has no children of his own, can appreciate the manger scene's beauty.

He puts away his razor-sharp carving knife, and his mind turns to Garofalo.
Mamma mia
, how harsh that man was, and always reading him the riot act: when he went by and found Ferro slumbering—because a man's allowed to catch forty winks every so often, you know—he'd shout and wake him up. And one time he even came over to the tavern to get him, one day when it was horribly hot and he'd just stepped away for a moment to get a little refreshment, because his throat was so dry that if he tried to spit, he'd wind up spitting twine.

He'd made him look like a fool, a buffoon, in front of everybody. He'd yelled that you can tell all you need to know about a building from its doorman, and that he was the bottom of the barrel, the worst doorman on earth. That sooner or later he'd make sure to get Beniamino fired, because he couldn't tolerate the thought that a man like himself, of his rank and his responsibilities, should live in an apartment building with a doorman like him.

So Beniamino really had hated Centurion Garofalo. He'd really hated him, even though his wife was always smiling, and his daughter was sweet, and his sister-in-law, the nun, was friendly and made him laugh.

But Garofalo himself was a monster. A conceited, self-important bastard, and a monster. He's glad that the bastard never saw his manger scene finished.

 

Don Pierino, yet again, admired the manger scene of the church of San Ferdinando. He often went by it intentionally, taking the long way round from the sacristy to the confessional. It was a simple pleasure that he was glad to indulge in.

In these matters, he was no different than he was as a child: Christmas was the manger scene and the manger scene was Christmas, in the chilly, damp countryside of Santa Maria Capua Vetere where he had grown up. The town's parish priest, who had instructed him in the simple faith that still sustained him, used to build one that seemed enormous to him, full of characters, animals, and houses. He'd spend hours imagining he was a shepherd himself, wandering around in that enchanted world of peace and serenity.

At a certain point, he sensed that he was being watched, and he feared that it might be the Signorina Vaccaro with some new malady to inform him of. When he turned around, he was surprised to find the Signorina Colombo, the daughter of the haberdasher whose store was across the way from the church. He didn't actually know her very well. Her family was quite discreet, and although they attended the Sunday service, they didn't spend much time at the parish church during the rest of the week. He remembered that he'd once gone, in Don Tommaso's place, to bless the shop, and that on that occasion he'd met the father, a smiling middle-aged man, the mother, who struck him as something of a gossip and a busybody, and that tall and self-contained young woman, with her spectacles and a gentle, reserved air to her.

But today she seemed ill at ease. She stood there, some ten feet away from him, her purse clutched in both hands, as if she were caught between the desire to speak to him and the urge to run away. He decided to make up her mind for her.

“
Buongiorno
. You're Signorina Colombo, no? How are you?”

The young woman was visibly relieved that she could no longer make her escape. It was too late; she'd been seen and identified.

“
Buongiorno
, Padre. Yes, that's me. I'd like to . . . I have something to ask you, if you have five minutes for me. But if you're busy I can always come back another time.”

Don Pierino looked hard at her; behind her eyeglasses, with thick lenses that showed she was nearsighted, the woman's eyes clearly expressed a raging internal storm of some kind. He was accustomed to recognizing the moments of travail indicative of a struggle, of a need for help and an inability to ask for it in explicit terms. To refuse that wordless request would be tantamount to abandoning a soul in need, and it could engender great pain and sorrow.

“No, no, I'm not busy. I'm at your service. Come, let's go to my office, where we'll be more comfortable.”

What Don Pierino referred to as an “office” was really a sort of nook carved out of the large closet where the vestments of the sacristy were kept, a little corner almost entirely occupied by a desk and two chairs. It was used for his conversations with the faithful, that is, for those colloquies that were not full-fledged confessions but which still needed to be conducted in private.

Enrica sat down, a little stiffly. She was trying to find a way to bring up the topic she wanted to discuss, but she wasn't sufficiently at ease with Don Pierino to just start talking. The assistant parish priest, for his part, knew that he would have to help the woman to overcome her shyness.

“Now then, is everyone well at home? How are preparations going for Christmas? Have you set up your manger scene, have you already decided what to cook for dinner?”

An array of trivial topics, all woven together to put her at her ease. Enrica understood and appreciated it.

“My father is in charge of the nativity scene. A task that he won't let anyone else take over from him, but my little brothers gather round and watch him, and he pretends to let them help. Whereas we women are focused on the lunches and dinners, and it's very hard work. But it's work we enjoy.”

Don Pierino assumed his customary posture, with the fingers of his hands knit together, resting on his belly.