By My Hand (38 page)

 

Here we go again, thinks Ricciardi. Here we go again. Love, the old enemy, degenerates and turns into madness
.

 

I waited till Saturday, when he goes to work a little later; I know their habits. I went in the morning to pick up Benedetta. I hoped that that drunk of a doorman would be at the tavern as usual, but instead he was in his booth, in the lobby, half asleep at his desk.

My sister was getting ready to leave; he was still in bed. I told her that I was running late, I took the girl and left. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I pretended to realize how strong and cold the wind was blowing, and that I'd forgotten the child's hat and gloves.

Then I left her in the entryway and I went back upstairs.

 

Ricciardi feels a surge of anger at himself for not having figured it out right away. Ferro had remembered how lovely the little girl's braids had been that morning because he'd seen her without a hat; the image of the murdered woman was saying: Hat and gloves? not because she was asking for them, but because she was offering them, the hat and gloves of her daughter; and she was looking down either because her sister was so short, or else because she was looking for her daughter. I'm an idiot, a miserable idiot.

 

The Madonna had told me to do it, but I didn't know how. Then it occurred to me to bring the knife I used to cut the cork with me, the one that's razor sharp. The minute she opened the door, handing me the little girl's hat and gloves, I grabbed them from her and I did it. One blow, a single slash. That was all it took. I just wanted to make sure she stayed quiet.

 

One blow, a single blow. From right to left, just like the doctor said, with strength and determination. The Madonna had told her to do it.

 

And then I went inside, to the bedroom. With the knife in my hand. I had to be quick, because the child might catch cold, without her little hat and gloves. She's very susceptible, you know that? Her throat is delicate. Every winter she gets a fever, at least once.

He was sleeping peacefully. I placed the tip of the knife right over his heart, and I waited. At a certain point he opened his eyes. He didn't say a word. Maybe he thought it was a dream; maybe he'd been dreaming of me, the way I still dreamed of him, after all these years.

You have to get rid of the manger scene, I told him. You owe me that.

He made a cruel face, and he said . . .

 

I don't owe a thing, not a thing, he said. And I thought he was talking about money, thinks Ricciardi.

 

. . . that he didn't owe anyone anything. And then I sank that knife deep, into that heart black with sin. And I stabbed him, I stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. His protector was Saint Sebastian; perhaps he wanted to die that way. My hand, my hands get sweaty, they never stop sweating. And when I'm nervous they sweat even more. I switched to the other hand, and I kept stabbing. He needed to be punished, he had to go to hell. And he had to go there by my hand.

 

There were two hands, the doctor had that right, too, thinks Ricciardi; with different degrees of strength because of the sweat and the different angles. The murderous hands. And the blood that sprayed in all directions remained invisible because the nun's habit is black. The only way to leave without attracting notice while covered with blood. And the murderous hands.

 

Then I wiped the knife on the sheets: I still needed it, you understand. I still needed to add a hill, over there, you see it? There's still moss to be added. I needed the knife.

But before I left, there was one thing left to do, and so I went into the other room. I wanted to take away the Saint Joseph, because a figurine like that didn't belong in a home like theirs. A father who lives for his child's sake: the complete opposite of that man. I grabbed it, but it slipped out of my hand; did I mention that sometimes my hands get a little sweaty?

 

That's why I suddenly understood. Rosa told me, when she dropped the Christ Child, and then there was the eel, the way it slithered through the fingers of all the hands that were trying to catch it. The Christ Child fell; it wasn't hurled to the floor, it wasn't shattered intentionally. And the eel was wet and slippery, just like the knife in the murderous hand. He had to die, she'd said. By my hand.

 

You have to believe me, I'd never have intentionally broken a sacred image. You can't think that of me, please. Tell me that's not what you think. I would never break a sacred image, never. The Madonna wouldn't talk to me for two whole days, even though She knew that I hadn't done it on purpose.

I kicked the broken pieces, I kicked them under the tablecloth. I just hoped no one would see them. I couldn't touch them, not with hands that had just done what my hands had done.

Tell me that you believe me, I beg of you.

You do believe me, don't you? Do you believe me?

E
ventually, finally, Christmas Eve comes around; and after all the waiting it still catches everyone slightly unprepared.
The dining room tables seem a little inadequate to the mistresses of the house, always a little barer than they'd imagined when they'd planned the meals; the gifts never seem quite abundant enough, you always seem to have forgotten an uncle, a good friend's wife, or one of the nephews; you worry that there aren't enough pastries and candy, but with what they cost, you certainly couldn't have bought any more.

In the morning, the fireworks start going off, at regular intervals, as if marking the hours left to go till midnight, when the city will explode like a giddy powder keg of happiness, inundating the streets with smoke and light. And the hospitals will overflow with men wounded in this war of happiness; a couple of fingers gone, a missing eye—just so many souvenirs to remember the holiday by.

Eventually, finally, Christmas Eve comes around.

 

Deputy Chief of Police Angelo Garzo looked around, satisfied only in part.

He'd so badly wanted to host that Christmas Eve dinner at his home, and he'd invited a number of prominent individuals, but almost no one had taken him up on it, understandably preferring to remain at home with their own families. But it didn't matter, because a few people had come and he felt gratified by those who had.

His wife, with the help of their maid, had laid a beautiful table, with flowers, candlesticks, silverware, and crystal. The manger scene, a small one but an antique, had been given the place of honor, under a bell jar.

Among his guests, in fact, was none other than Duke Freda di Scanziano, the consul of the second legion of the port militia. He at least could hardly refuse the invitation, after Ricciardi brilliantly solved the murder of that centurion, whose name Garzo no longer remembered. A solution that had not implicated any other militiamen, an outcome that Rome had been dreading.

The deputy chief of police had adroitly taken advantage of the thank-you phone call to extend an invitation to the consul and his wife that night: what a windfall.

Certainly, as soon as Epiphany was over, Garzo expected a phone call of complaint from the bishop for the rude and unannounced incursion into the convent, even though the nun had ultimately confessed. But what could he do about that?

Of course, a nun: damn that Ricciardi, never once could the man catch a criminal who looked like a criminal. But he'd worry about that after the holidays; right now he needed to tend to his very important guest. One day, sooner or later, he'd turn out to be useful to his career.

He walked over to him and said, with that dazzling smile he'd tried out a thousand times under his new mustache:

“Consul, care for another
roccocò
?”

 

Eventually, finally, Christmas Eve comes around. And amid all the disorder, it even manages to settle some things.

 

Lomunno looked around, and for the first time the interior of his shack seemed a little less squalid.

He'd managed to find a couple of candles and a tablecloth, and the money he'd earned at the market had helped him to put something on the table that was a little better than their usual fare. And to reward him for his hard work, the merchant had given him some fresh fish.

The children were eating hungrily; every so often, for some reason known only to them, they laughed together. Just like they used to do, in that other life, a thousand years ago, when Christmas was a celebration for another family, a family that no longer existed.

Lomunno decided that the human mind was a very odd thing indeed. He'd never have had the strength to take revenge on Garofalo: the fear of what would have become of his children, left on their own, would have stopped him every time. But the knowledge that the man was still alive, enjoying the comforts he'd stolen from him, that he was laughing and growing fat without a twinge of trouble from his conscience, had been ruining Lomunno's life.

Now that the man who had devised his ruin was dead, maybe the time had come to think of something else: how to reconstruct a life for himself, for instance, and a decent existence for his children.

Lomunno reached out his hand and caressed his daughter, who stood up with a serious expression on her face and kissed him on the cheek.

Sometimes, Lomunno thought, good can come from evil in this life. And after all, today is Christmas Eve.

 

Christmas Eve comes around and it has fun putting together things that couldn't be any more different one from another.

 

Dr. Modo dried his hands and turned to Vincenzino's parents.

“The fever has subsided. No question, this child is weak; but as the inflammation recedes, little by little, he'll regain energy and, I assure you, appetite. Boccia, I think you're going to have to redouble your fishing from now on; this little wolf is going to devour a lot of food, to catch up on lost meals.”

“Dotto', believe me: I'll empty the sea of fish for my little Vincenzino,” Aristide answered passionately. “I thought we were going to lose him. You can't imagine how many of our children we lose around here to illnesses like these.”

“I believe you. As damp as it is, and the food the poor creatures have to live on, only the strongest ones are likely to survive. But our little Vincenzino, here, is strong indeed.”

Angelina turned around, stopping her stirring of the pot on the fire for a brief moment.

“Dotto', if I may? This evening, on Christmas Eve, where are you going to eat? Are they expecting you at home?”

Modo sighed as he put on his jacket.

“No, no, Signo', no one's expecting either of us, neither me nor the dog, here. We'll go for a nice walk and see if we can find a trattoria, we'll have a little wine, just me, not the dog, and then we'll go to sleep. That is, if they don't keep us awake with this idiotic custom of shooting off Christmas firecrackers, a custom that does no good except to fill the hospitals with mutilated citizens.”

The woman shot her husband a glance and signaled to him imperiously with her eyes. He turned and said:

“Dotto', if you're not offended by my asking, why don't you stay and eat dinner with us? It's a custom with us to cook everything we didn't sell at the market, and luckily it's not that much this year, and we eat it all together with the families of the others in the crew. Then we play a little music, we dance, and we laugh. We're penniless, but we have a good time. What do you say, would you care to honor us with your presence?”

Modo pushed back his hat and scratched his head. He looked at the dog, curled up at the threshold with one ear cocked.

“What do you say, dog? Do we want to spend Christmas Eve with these new friends of ours?”

The dog barked just once, and wagged its tail.

“It's his decision. Thank you, glad to accept. And what are you making that will no doubt be so delicious?”

 

Christmas Eve comes around, and it fills all the seats.

 

Maione had said nothing all morning, and Lucia was worried again. She hoped with all her heart that her husband had forgotten once and for all about his plans for revenge, which, she felt certain, would ruin their lives for good. She'd already lost too much, in terms of happiness, hope, and a future. She wasn't willing to plunge back into a nightmare. She knew Raffaele, she knew that if he acted according to a moral code any different from his own, the best possible outcome would be that he'd be tormented by his conscience for the rest of his days.

At a certain point, as if he'd finally come to an irrevocable decision, he'd gone out, saying that he needed to get something he'd forgotten. She'd done her best to keep him at home—the idea of him leaving just a few hours before the meal she'd put so much work into preparing; the idea of leaving the children—but he'd smiled at her and left.

Lucia had clung to that smile for the next two hours while she waited for him to return, and the time had stretched out until it seemed like two years. Then she'd heard the sound of the key in the lock, and she'd braced herself for anything and everything: except for what greeted her eyes.

Standing next to Raffaele in the doorway was a person, a little person. With her little hand in his big paw, her face red from the cold, and two braids poking out of her little wool cap, was a girl wearing a bewildered expression.

With his eyes, her husband signaled to her not to ask him anything. He summoned his eldest daughter, just a year older than their diminutive guest, and told her to take the girl to her room and show her her dolls. Only when he was sure he wouldn't be overheard did he speak to his wife.

“Luci', I couldn't celebrate Christmas with this thought on my mind. In just a few days, this little girl has lost both her parents and now her aunt; she has no one left. She'll have to stay at the convent, for now, then they'll see. But the thought of her spending Christmas Eve all alone, surrounded by nuns, just made me feel bad. I talked to the mother superior, and she gave me permission to keep her here with us until after the holidays. Forgive me for doing it without telling you.”