I Will Have Vengeance (8 page)

“No, apart from some orchestra rehearsals, in which individual openings and a few scenes are practised and repeated, it is unlikely that the two companies will overlap. Even during the shows, like last night, there is sufficient time between the two performances for the turnover to occur without contact. Naturally, many of the singers know one another. They work in the same theater, after all.”

“And the orchestra. The orchestra is shared, isn't it?”

“Of course, the orchestra is the same. It's associated with the theater, along with its conductor, Maestro Mariano Pelosi: a gentleman, as well as a professional. In his day it seemed he would have a brilliant career, that he would be another Toscanini. Then it stalled. But he's a more than reputable conductor and the San Carlo is one of the greatest opera houses in the world.”

“And the two operas? Tell me something about their story lines.”

“Well, the two operas . . . Their themes are similar, though treated differently.
Cavalleria Rusticana
is based on Verga, set in Sicily on Easter morning. It has only one act, with the intermezzo I mentioned. There is a young man, Turiddu, a tenor, who is engaged to Santuzza but still loves Lola, his former girlfriend. She, however, is married to the wagoner Alfio, a baritone. In short, two couples, one old love story and two new ones. Santuzza, distraught and jealous, tells Alfio about Turiddu and Lola and, in a final duel, Alfio kills Turiddu. The female roles in this opera are the best parts, in my opinion: Lola, Santuzza and Lucia, Turiddu's mother.

‘
Pagliacci
, on the other hand, takes place in Calabria. It runs as long as
Cavalleria
, more or less. A troupe of actors arrive in a little village: the head of the company is Canio, the tenor, who was to be played by Vezzi. He is a man who is anything but jovial, despite his role as a clown; in reality he is poisoned by jealousy over his wife Nedda, who plays Colombina, when they perform. In fact, Nedda cheats on him with Silvio, a wealthy young man who lives in the village. In the end, in a very beautiful, dramatic scene, we go from fiction to reality and Canio, Pagliaccio, tearing off his costume, kills both Nedda and her lover. The beauty of the opera, aside from the music, is the mingling of reality and performance: the audience can't tell if the singers are playacting or acting for real, until blood flows.

“As you can see, Commissario, the themes are the same: jealousy, love and death. Just as, unfortunately, we often find in everyday life as well, wouldn't you say?”

“Maybe, Father. But perhaps everyday life has other complications. There's hunger, for example. Is hunger ever found in your operas? If you knew how much hunger there is, in crimes, Father. But let's get back to Vezzi. As far as you know, what was Vezzi like in real life? Was he well liked?”

“I couldn't say. Generally, when I can—thanks to the kindness of my parishioner Patrisso who is the caretaker at the gardens entrance—I like to attend the rehearsals, especially the dress rehearsals, which are in costume. But this time, for Pagliacci, they held the rehearsal behind tightly closed doors. There's a great deal of attention surrounding Vezzi: they say he's actually Mussolini's favourite tenor.”

“Yes, so I've heard. All right, Father. Thank you very much. If I need any further information, may I trouble you again? As I said before, you know I don't know much about these things.”

“Certainly, Commissario. But let me say one thing: it wouldn't hurt, maybe, if you were to listen to some opera. It would do you good to see how beautiful a feeling, its expression, can be.”

Surprisingly, don Pierino saw a shadow of immense sorrow in Ricciardi's green eyes. Not a recollection but rather a condition. As if, just for a moment, the policeman had opened a window on the mysterious territory of his soul.

“I know about feelings, Father. And one can also have too much of them. Thank you. You may go.”

At the door, don Pierino ran into Maione who was on his way in.

“Good morning, Father. Have you already given your opera lesson?”

“Good morning to you, Brigadier. I provided some information, yes. But I don't think the Commissario will ever be a regular attendee at the San Carlo. If you need me, I'll be at the church.”

Maione sat down after giving Ricciardi a sketchy military salute.

“So then,
Commissa'
: we picked up last night's depositions. This is the list of those who were onstage for
Cavalleria Rusticana
as well as members of the orchestra. Dr. Modo, who is expecting us at the hospital this morning but not before noon, has already said that Vezzi could not have died prior to an hour before he was found, therefore the first opera was already underway. This would exclude both the singers of
Cavalleria
and the musicians, wouldn't it? How could they have moved during the opera? This instead is a list of the cast of Pagliacci, whom I think we should check carefully.”

“Everything should be checked carefully. The staff?”

“As we've seen, there weren't very many of them who had access to the dressing rooms. It's generally a restricted area to begin with, then when Vezzi comes, the doorman told me, the place is treated like a deluxe hotel. It seems that when anyone appeared at the doorman's station, Vezzi demanded that he personally be asked whether the individual could be let in. So we can eliminate from consideration the staff who would normally be admitted.”

Ricciardi knew that Maione had thoroughly verified the information before presenting it to him, and that he could trust the report.

“Who will we find this morning at the San Carlo?”

“The theater director, for sure. The man seems to have lost his senses, yesterday he was hopping up and down, snivelling and whining, making a huge pest of himself. He was angry with you, he said he'd have them take you off the investigation. Then, the orchestra members: I've been told they have to rehearse every day, it's a contractual matter. We only closed off the area of the dressing rooms, the section of the Royal Palace gardens under the windows and the side entrance, so they can work between the stage and the concert hall. Also, Vezzi's people phoned, his manager, a certain Marelli, from up north, calling on behalf of his wife, a former singer from Pesaro, Livia Lucani. They wanted to know when they could reclaim the corpse for the funeral. I told them to call back later. However, they are coming to Naples, they've been travelling since last night, and they'll arrive at the station this evening.”

“As soon as they get here I want to talk to them. Now, let's get to the theater.”

G
arzo's clerk, Ponte, stood in the office corridor, chilly as usual. He stepped forward as soon as he saw Ricciardi and Maione.

“Sir, the Vice Questore wanted . . . if you could stop by a moment . . . ”

“No, I can't. When I get back, maybe. I'm pursuing the investigation, without losing any time: according to his orders. Give him my regards.”

They hurried off down the stairs, leaving the little man frozen in more ways than one since he would now have to face the Vice Questore's wrath by himself.

Ricciardi had no intention of wasting precious hours. He was well aware that solutions resulting from the investigations were a race against time, where the odds of success diminished with the passing of just a few minutes. An old commissario with whom he had worked maintained that forty-eight hours after the crime the murderer will no longer be found, unless he turns himself in. And this only happened on the rare occasions when the voice of conscience became deafening and plunged the killer's soul straight to hell. More often, much more often, what prevailed was the desire to avoid hell on earth, namely the punishment of men.

He recalled a prior offender arrested for theft a couple of years ago: after submitting to being held and remaining silent until then, the man had seized the gun of one of the two policemen who were escorting him and, without hesitation, right there in the courtyard of the Questura, fired a shot at his temple, killing the guard on his opposite side with the same bullet.

For months, Ricciardi had seen the two of them in the corner of the courtyard: the prisoner kept yelling that he would not go back to that hellhole of a prison, the policeman called out to his wife and son. Both men had a big hole in the right temple, and brain matter mixed with black blood oozed from the bullet wound.

Outside, the city was a whirlwind. Violent gusts kept pedestrians from crossing the exposed spaces of streets or piazzas, so everyone made their way along by hugging the walls. The heavy trams seemed to sway on the rails, shaken by the strong blasts, and the coachmen of the few carriages were bent over the seat, the whip gripped tightly in their hands. In the air, the scent of wood smoke from stoves and the smell of horse manure was revived with every gust. The foliage of the trees that lined the streets tossed and swirled, broken branches and broad green leaves rose and fell, in imitation of an autumn that was still far off.

Ricciardi and Maione reached the San Carlo in a maelstrom of scraps of newspaper and hats torn from their owners' heads. As always, the Brigadier insisted on walking a step behind the Commissario, who strode along bareheaded, his eyes fixed on the ground. He was thinking about what he had learned from the priest regarding the operas' plots.
You like your fictional feelings masquerading onstage so much, Father? What's so great about people stabbing each other as they sing? I'd show you, if I could. Do you know how long the echo of a stabbing lasts? There's nothing pretty about a man screaming out his hatred every day for months, his guts spilling out endlessly from a gash in his belly.

In the theater, the mood was very different from that of the previous evening. The lights were off, the clean-up completed. The opulent entrance was chilly and silent. A young reporter, ensconced in an easy chair and bundled up in a heavy overcoat, sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Good morning. Are you Commissario Ricciardi? I'm Luise from
Il Mattino
. May I ask you a few questions?”

“No. But you can go to the Questura, where Vice Questore Garzo will be happy to answer them.”

“Actually my editor-in-chief, Signor Capece, told me that I had to speak with you, since you are directly conducting the investigation.”

“Young man, please: don't make me waste time. I'm busy, so I will not answer any questions. Kindly be on your way.”

Vezzi's dressing room, aside from the fact that the body had been removed, was the same as the previous evening. The blood had now caked and formed dark stains on the carpet, the sofa, the walls. In the corner, Ricciardi saw the image of the tenor who kept repeating his song, tears lining his face, his hand outstretched.

As he stood there, arms folded, his green gaze sombre, the strand of hair falling over his sharp nose, the Commissario wondered what the tenor could have wanted to ward off with that hand. And why he had then ended up seated, with his face in the mirror and a long glass shard in his artery. He walked over to the sofa, studied the coat. Assuming it had been placed there after the tenor's death, he thought, who had brought it back and why? A murderer who manages to flee the scene of the crime doesn't soon return, unless he's forced to. And with all those people around, who would be able to move freely about the dressing rooms? Sighing, Ricciardi called Maione over. It was time to take a closer look at the man singing in the corner, blood gushing from his throat.

Vezzi's secretary, Stefano Bassi, was a man who was visibly upset. He couldn't imagine his life without the Maestro.

“You have no idea, Commissario. You have no idea what the Maestro meant to me. I can't believe all this is real. And in such an atrocious way!”

He spoke in a trembling voice, incoherently, wringing his hands. A neat, pleasant-looking man, with a dapper style and slender build, Bassi had always been the image of efficiency; but now, robbed of his point of reference, he didn't know where to turn. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose.

“There wasn't a moment when I left his side. But this damned habit of putting on his make-up and getting dressed by himself . . . It was a kind of superstition, an obsession, to ward off bad luck. Vezzi's vezzo, his fixation, he always said. I'll never hear him laugh again, or sing with that angelic voice. I can't believe it.”

“Where were you yesterday, during the performance of
Cavalleria Rusticana
? When was the last time you saw him?”

“I was in the audience with the theater director; you can easily verify it. I didn't move the entire time. The troupe was quite good, by the way: especially the baritone, the one who played Alfio. We had left the Maestro earlier, when he went to his dressing room. He always said that no one should see him in costume offstage, that it was bad luck. He had a—how should I put it?—a strong-willed temperament, that's it. You could not contradict him. He was one of those people who go their own way, ploughing straight ahead, without deviating. He could be . . . demanding. But if you complied with him, by disappearing at the right moment, then he was the ideal boss.”

“Disappearing? At the right moment? Meaning?”

“Meaning that he often asked to be left alone. To be free to do what he wanted. He was an artist, you know? A great artist; the greatest, in his field.
Il Duce
himself—”

“Considered him the greatest of all, a national pride, I know. And yesterday? Did you notice if he was in a bad mood, maybe, or different than usual?”

Bassi gave a nervous titter.

“Bad mood? I can see you didn't know him. The Maestro was always in a bad mood. He considered the whole world inferior to him and unworthy of coming between him and wherever he wanted to go. He swatted away anyone who got in his way with a wave of his hand, like you do with a fly. That's what he did last night, when he retreated to his dressing room an hour before the start of
Cavalleria
. He loved putting on his make-up alone, don't ask me why. Maybe it relaxed him. If you ask me, he didn't consider any make-up artist worthy of laying a hand on his face.”