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Authors: Maurizio de Giovanni, Anne Milano Appel

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BOOK: I Will Have Vengeance
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But most of all he liked the cavernous, rumbling sound of the great organ, which he had come to consider the voice of God. And when he realized that he would never want to live anywhere else, he felt called. During the years of study that followed, Pierino's love for his fellow man, for God and for music remained intact, and he divided his time among these three passions, assisting the poor, drawing examples and lessons from the lives of the saints, and cultivating sacred music.

By the age of forty he had been the Assistant Pastor of San Ferdinando for ten years, a parish that was not large, but densely populated. It included elegant streets and the majestic Galleria, but also the hovels of the Quartieri and the maze of alleys above Via Toledo. In the centre of the district stood another temple, which exerted a pagan attraction on don Pierino's simple soul: the Royal Theater of San Carlo. He would never admit it, but the theater was the very reason why he had always humbly told the diocesan Curia that he did not feel capable of becoming a pastor somewhere else. He considered it a personal gift from God that he was able to witness the magnificence of the opera's living art, feel its crystalline ringing, and see human passions performed with so much beauty and power. How present God was in the tears and laughter that he saw on the faces of the audience in the orchestra, in the tiers of boxes, in the gallery; and how much human love and divine grace there was in music that led souls by the hand to places the mind could not reach.

So don Pierino was quite content to continue being the Assistant Pastor to old don Tommaso, who imposed no limits on his immense energy. Much loved by the street urchins, whom he let tease him about his squat appearance, he was nicknamed
'o Munaciello
, the little monk, after the legendary mischievous sprite. But he was also known for his frequent denunciations of epidemics fostered by shameful sanitary conditions in the Quartieri. He could be forgiven this one weakness and granted three hours of joy a couple of times a month. The good Lucio Patrisso was there to see to this. For don Pierino's purposes he was the most important man in the parish's jurisdiction. The priest saw to it that the eldest son of the theater's caretaker studied a bit of mathematics and the man let him in through the entrance to the gardens on opening night. His spot was a narrow space behind the curtains from which he could watch the performance unseen. A unique perspective, which the priest would not have traded for anything in the world. And in fact he was there even on 25 March 1931, when Arnaldo Vezzi was killed.

 

Ricciardi did not like the opera. He didn't like crowded places, the tangle of souls, sensations, emotions. The way they influenced one another, turning the crowd into something completely different from the individuals it was composed of. He knew from experience what an animal the crowd could become.

Then too, he didn't like the theatrical representation of emotions. He knew them well, better than anyone else, he knew how they lived on in those who experienced them, rising in a wave that overwhelmed everything in its way. He was well aware that emotions never came in just one flavour, that a passion was never limited to the most obvious aspect; that for better or for worse there were a thousand facets to it, always unexpected and unpredictable. As a result, he was contemptuous of those colourful costumes, those modulated voices, those archaic, cultured words in the mouths of poor devils who were actually starving to death. No, he did not like the opera. And he had never been to the Royal Theater. Still, he knew how it looked from the outside: on important evenings the festive atmosphere of expectation was palpable even to those just walking by.

As he left the Galleria, heading a small team that included Maione and three policemen, Ricciardi found himself at the top of a short flight of marble stairs leading to the street. There he saw the usual panorama: the imposing Royal Palace, the elegant portico through which one entered the theater, and to the right, the lights of Piazza Trieste e Trento, its cafés teeming with life and pleasure; the suffused sound of music and laughter. To the left, past the Angevin Castle and the trees of Piazza del Municipio, the rumble of the sea at the port.

The area in front of the theater, however, was not how it usually was. And the difference was jarring.

Hundreds of people were crowded around outside the main entrance, standing in an unnatural silence. Heedless of the biting wind that whistled through the narrow portico, elegantly dressed men and women in long silk gowns huddled in their overcoats, their gloved hands holding on to their hats to prevent them from flying away. Children in tatters stood on tiptoe, their bare feet suffering from chilblains, to catch a glimpse of something. Not a whisper, not a word. Only the wailing of the wind. Even the horses, harnessed to the carriages that waited in the street, refrained from snorting or stamping. And there were no cries from the street vendors with their carts of roasted chestnuts and sweets. The gas lamps that adorned the theater's façade shed dappled light on the crowd, revealing fur collars, fluttering scarves and wide-eyed stares eager for details.

The arrival of the men from the Questura had the effect of a stone thrown into a placid pool of water. The crowd parted to make way for them and a chorus of voices rang out asking what had happened, what the trouble was, why the police were late in arriving, as usual. A couple of kids attempted a timid applause. In the spacious theater lobby, its lavish opulence illuminated and warmed by brightly lit chandeliers, Ricciardi was surrounded by journalists, theater employees and spectators, all talking at once and therefore incomprehensible. Then again, he and Maione both knew from long experience that any really useful information would have to be pulled out with some effort, battling all kinds of reservations. So it was useless, if not detrimental, to listen to that cacophony of words shouted in the excitement of the moment.

Ricciardi identified among the others a little man in evening attire who was bouncing up and down like a coiled spring, sweating profusely. The uniformed staff were looking at him worriedly and the Commissario imagined that he might be the theater manager.

“Deputy . . . or rather, Commissario . . . such a tragedy . . . ” the man stammered incoherently. “Such a thing . . . here, at the San Carlo . . . I must tell you, that never, never! As far back as anyone can remember . . . ”

“Calm down, please. We're here, now. Tell me, you are . . . ?”

“Why . . . I'm Duke Francesco Maria Spinelli, the director of the Royal Theater of San Carlo. Didn't you recognize me?”

“Truthfully, no. Please, lead the way. Let's get out of this confusion,” Ricciardi replied coldly. Meanwhile, the three policemen and Maione had their work cut out for them trying to hold back the swarm of curious onlookers who crowded around. The director took the response as a slap in the face and his expression changed from agitated to offended. Two waiters in livery looked at each other, stifling a laugh, and were frozen by a dirty look. The little man turned with haughty grace and headed for the marble staircase packed with people who stepped aside as he passed, like the Red Sea parting before a dwarfish Moses.

VI

P
atrisso, the caretaker at the entrance to the gardens, looked around cautiously.
“Quick, don Pieri', come in. Don't let them see you, because if they catch me here letting you in, right on opening night, I'll be in all kinds of trouble. Run, hurry up, you know where you have to go.”

Don Pierino smiled, happy as a child in a pastry shop. With unexpected agility, hiking his gown up over his ankles, he hastily climbed the main staircase, turned right first, then quickly left into the corridor of the tier of boxes, and took the narrow stairs leading to the stage. There he stopped on a small landing and squeezed into a niche from which he could see, on one side, the corridor with the dressing rooms and the stairs used by the actors, and on the other, most of the stage. He had to crane his neck and stand on tiptoe, but the view was unique and extraordinary: alongside the singers, facing the audience, but also, if he wished, facing the never-ending work that went on behind the scenes. Holding his breath, he was preparing himself. This was ‘his' evening.

Not because of the programme, to tell the truth.
Cavalleria Rusticana
and
Pagliacci
had a certain charm, but the most important thing was that tonight he would again hear the celestial voice of Arnaldo Vezzi, the world's greatest tenor. Vezzi was undoubtedly the star of the season's playbill. His role, Canio in
Pagliacci
, was not the best. Don Pierino would have preferred him in a Puccini performance, which would have allowed the subtle nuances of his rich, full tones to find the right resonance. Still, the Assistant Pastor suspected, no other role had the exposure that Canio had with respect to the other parts. The score of Leoncavallo's opera allowed Vezzi to perform practically on his own, to command the stage without anyone overshadowing him.

The orchestra had entered, accompanied by loud applause. The audience of San Carlo loved its “masters,” who were among the best in the country. Directing the musicians was Mariano Pelosi, an elderly conductor of great interpretative rigour. Three taps of the baton on the lectern, his two hands raised: the magic had begun.

 

At the top of the marble staircase with the red velvet runner, Ricciardi, not pausing, whispered to Maione to send the policemen to close off the entrances, the main one as well as the secondary ones. None of those present were to leave the theater. The little theater director led them through a back corridor and up some narrow stairs to a landing with a small door on the left and two doors straight ahead. Along a corridor on the right, other open doors could be seen.

“This,” said the Duke, indicating the little door, “is the stage manager's office. The one opposite is the orchestra conductor's dressing room. And there . . . such a tragedy . . . in my . . . in
our
great theater . . . ”

Ricciardi looked around to register as many details as possible. The last door the theater director had indicated had been taken off its hinges. There were fragments of wood on the floor and the lock, still secure, dangled, almost completely torn off. The doorjamb showed visible damage: the door had been forced from the outside, you could tell by the position of the doorknob and by the distorted bolt. All around them, a colourful crowd: the Commissario saw clowns, common folk in Sicilian regional costumes, Calabrian peasants, Harlequin and Columbine. He felt the onset of a severe headache. On top of it all, the place was overheated and he was wearing a heavy overcoat.

“Who broke down the door?” he asked.

“I did,” said a large, heavyset man with red hair and a dishevelled look. “I'm the stage manager, Giuseppe Lasio.”

“Who alerted you?”

“We did. We came to bring him his costume. We knocked for five minutes, we called out, but no one answered.” The person who had chimed in was an imposing, middle-aged woman, wearing a blue smock and a pair of large scissors hanging from a ribbon around her neck. At her side was a young woman struggling to hold up a dress-hanger which held a large, very colourful clown's costume.

“Don't let anyone move until I come out of the room. Maione, see to it.”

Maione knew what he had to do: he went to the unhinged door, looked inside the room, made sure there was no one in there and said, “Stand back, all of you. Commissario, it's all yours.”

Ricciardi went to the door, lowered his eyes and stepped inside.

 

Don Pierino, halfway through
Cavalleria Rusticana
, was pleasantly surprised. The opera was actually a side dish, or rather an appetizer, for
Pagliacci
and the appearance of the great Vezzi. The Assistant Pastor, like many others, was so eager to see the tenor's spectacular display that he would have gladly reversed the canonical order of the works. Instead, to his amazement, the singers of
Cavalleria
were giving a brilliant performance. The tenor who played Turiddu, the soprano in the role of Santuzza and especially the baritone, Alfio, seemed in top form and eager to make a good impression in the presence of such a talent. Even the orchestra was proving to be equal to the task, and their execution, having now arrived at the chorus following the musical intermezzo, was evolving from noteworthy to memorable. Don Pierino was so moved by the poignant music that he didn't realize he had shifted, stepping back into part of the narrow staircase that led backstage. When he felt someone bump into him from behind, he turned around, surprised.

“Excuse me,” a tall, stout man whispered distractedly; he was bundled up in a roomy black overcoat, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a white scarf.

“No, my fault, excuse
me
,” don Pierino replied, hastily repairing to his niche. Worried about being discovered, he was afraid of causing problems for poor Patrisso. But the man didn't seem to think anything of his being there, and descending the remaining steps, headed for the dressing rooms. Don Pierino followed him with his eyes: was it possible that he was . . . In fact, the man, glancing around, paused a moment outside the door bearing a plaque which read:
Arnaldo Vezzi
. He said something and slipped into the dressing room. The priest nearly fainted: he had bumped into the greatest tenor on the planet! He sighed, and smiling, turned his attention back to the stage, where Turiddu was proposing a toast, extolling the praises of unadulterated wine.

 

The dressing room was cold, Ricciardi noted that right away. He looked toward the window and realized that it was partly open, letting in blasts of wintry wind and the scent of damp grass from the Royal Gardens. The bulbs over the mirror were lit, flooding the small room with light. There was blood everywhere. The corpse was on the chair in front of the mirror, bent over the dressing table, his back to the door. The mirror was completely shattered, except for the upper part that was spattered with blood. Glass was all over the place.

BOOK: I Will Have Vengeance
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