I Will Have Vengeance (9 page)

“A swell guy. Had you worked for him a long time?”

“For a year and a half. I think I'm the one who held out the longest. The guy before me ended up in the hospital with a broken nose. I fared better because, partly due to temperament, partly to necessity, I'm more tolerant. Then, too, the Maestro paid very well. How will I manage now?”

“As far as you know, did he have any enemies? Someone who might have had an interest in seeing him dead, I mean. Money, women. Whatever.”

“You want to know if there was someone who had been wronged or whom the Maestro had mistreated in some way? Well, we could spend the whole day on it. But wanting to see him dead . . . you see, Commissario, the opera world is peculiar: many people live off the artists—impresarios, record producers, theater owners, people like me. When a great artist comes along, one that draws huge crowds of people, who sells out every time, then believe me, Commissario, nobody wants to see him dead, or even old or sick or demented. We all coddle him and gladly put up with tantrums, or a slap, from time to time.”

“And outside of this world?”

Bassi again adjusted his glasses on his nose.

“Nothing in the Maestro's life was outside of the opera world. When one is that great and used to being viewed as such, he can't associate with anyone outside that circle. In a year and a half, I don't think I ever saw him speak to anyone who wasn't connected to the opera.”

“How long had you been in the city?”

“This time? Three days. Enough time to prepare for the performance. The Maestro only attends the dress rehearsal and never in costume. He's the only one in regular clothes, the others wear their costumes. That's the way he liked it. We were coming from Rome, where we finalized arrangements for a tour in America that was to take place in the autumn. What we'll do now, I really don't know. I'll have to speak to Signor Marelli, the Maestro's manager and agent. He arrives this evening, by train.”

‘Yes, I know. I have to speak with him too. For now you may go. But don't leave the hotel, I might still need you.'

T
his Maestro Vezzi, Maione said when Bassi had gone, “must certainly have been a real bastard,
Commissa'
. He may have been talented, very talented, but he was a bastard. Yesterday, on the stage where we gathered everyone together, I heard them say that he showed up at the dress rehearsal two hours late. And since he had told them he wanted to rehearse his opera first, everyone had to wait for him. Then when the orchestra conductor had the nerve to complain, he yelled insults at him for ten minutes. He humiliated him badly. Do you want to speak with the conductor?”

Ricciardi nodded, distracted. Both Bassi and don Pierino had said something that tickled his intuition, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. What was it? It would come back to him.

The orchestra conductor, Maestro Mariano Pelosi, was a drinker. Ricciardi noticed it right away, as soon as he looked at him, even before the man sat down in front of the desk in the stage manager's small office.

He could tell by the network of little veins on the man's nose, the vacuous, watery eyes, the slight hesitation in his speech and the faint tremor in his hands. He had seen many like him in his perennial search for the causes of sorrow. Wine was a solace for weakness as well as a stimulus to extreme actions. In wine it was easy to find the courage to commit a crime, toppling the barriers of conscience and venting one's frustrations.

“We are all shocked, Commissario. The theater is a place of joy and feeling. At the theater, people expect to find—and
should
find—respite from the madness of everyday life. And in these times there is plenty of madness, don't you think? But you don't expect that madness to turn up just steps from the stage. It's just like
Pagliacci
, when Canio kills Nedda and Silvio onstage, and the audience doesn't immediately know if it's reality or make-believe. You never know at first, whether it's reality or fiction.”

“Your relationship with Vezzi, Maestro. They tell me that during the dress rehearsal you two quarrelled, so to speak.”

“With Vezzi, God had some fun, Commissario. It amused Him to bestow an immense talent on a worthless man. Truly worthless. Onstage he was fantastic, in my forty-year career I had never come across such a voice, such a presence. And believe me, I've heard many. Caruso himself, the great Caruso, doesn't have the range, the conviction of Vezzi's voice. Not to mention the ability to command the stage, to perform. It never even seemed like he was acting. The difference between him and the other singers was sometimes so strident that it caused the orchestra to slip up. You see, his bravura stripped others of their conviction, left them hesitant. Fellow singers, orchestra members, the stage manager himself. Even me.”

“And so? The evening of the rehearsal?”

“The evening of the rehearsal, yes. We had been ready for almost two hours. We could and should have rehearsed
Cavalleria Rusticana
, because that's the right order, but Vezzi had demanded that we begin with his opera, because he didn't want to wait around. The dress rehearsal—I don't know if you're aware of this, Commissario—is in every way identical to a performance, with people in their stage costumes. Vezzi didn't want to wear his costume prior to going onstage before the public. It is, or rather
was
, an obsession with him. This alone confuses those who have to perform with him, making him seem like an interloper. On that same occasion, he violently found fault with both Bartino, the baritone who plays Tonio, and Siloty, the Hungarian soprano who plays Nedda. Plus, his lateness . . . I have certain medications I must take at a specific time. Instead, there I was trapped in the pit with my musicians. I was very, very anxious. So, when he arrived without apologizing or anything, as calmly as though he were right on time, I saw red. But even then, I did not lose my self-control: he could have been my son, given our ages. But he . . . he . . . began yelling. That I was an old lunatic, a failure . . . ”

As he spoke, Pelosi began to seem visibly upset. His lips trembled and his jaw muscle quivered in an attempt to hold back tears. A useless attempt, since big drops rolled down his stubbly cheeks. Maione, embarrassed, gave a little cough. Ricciardi, on the other hand, stared at the conductor impassively, as if he hadn't noticed his display of emotion.

“And you? How did you feel, being attacked in front of everyone, and being in the right besides?”

“In the lives of everyone, Commissario, there are decision points. The road forks, there's a right way and a wrong way. The trouble is that at that moment you don't know which is which. You always think you can go back, whenever you want. Instead, you can't go back, ever. I took my wrong road many years ago, too many not to realize it every day. I know it, others know it. But music is my life, the only thing I know how to do. So I try to do it the best I can, and not involve others in my mistakes. Vezzi was a luminary and we all have . . . had something to gain from his presence. His insults hurt me, it's true: I think he was a genius as well as a profoundly egotistical and malicious man, as geniuses often are. But, as you must already have verified, I did not move from the orchestra pit the entire evening. I am not your killer.”

When Pelosi left, Maione said, “The more I hear people talk, the more convinced I am that this Vezzi was a bastard. I wonder,
Commissa'
, how it must be to work for someone whom you loathe. Take you, for instance: to be truthful, it's not like you're very outgoing. But we know what you're thinking. Almost all of us, at least. In any case, it's out of the question that those who were onstage, the orchestra included, could have killed him.”

Ricciardi seemed to be following his own line of thinking. “Recapping what we have,” he said, “Vezzi dies with his throat cut, or at least with a glass shard in his carotid artery. We find him sitting in the dressing room, his face on the dressing tabletop. Blood everywhere, except on the coat, the scarf, the hat and also one of the sofa cushions. The window open, the door locked. And we know that, for a singer, the first concern is a draught, especially before going onstage. No one who isn't known is allowed to enter the dressing rooms. Everyone connected to Vezzi for better or for worse was in the concert hall, under the eyes of everyone else, and no one budged. Everyone hated him, but no one had anything to gain from harming him. A fine conundrum.”

“The detail about the coat, scarf and hat seems significant to me,” Maione said. “So, you think someone entered, covered up, and then escaped through the window, after killing Vezzi?”

“No. The clothes would be stained. Plus, there's a little armoire in the dressing room, with a hatbox. Vezzi was an orderly man, you can tell by the way he kept his things, the fact that he put his make-up on himself, the toiletries in the bathroom. Someone took those items out and then left them on the floor and on the sofa. But why? And how come the whole sofa is covered in blood, except for a small cushion? No, it doesn't add up. Something is still missing and we have to find it.”

Ricciardi did not mention a further element: the tears on the clown's cheek as he sang, the words he spoke, the outstretched hand.

“Do one thing, Maione: go to the hotel where Vezzi had been staying. Ask his secretary, that Bassi, which one it is. Ask if anyone remembers what he was wearing when he left there yesterday, if there was anything unusual; if he went somewhere else first. Also what time he left on the evening of the dress rehearsal. I want to know why he was late. I'll stay here a little longer.”

Outside the stage manager's office, along with Lasio himself, was the theater director, Spinelli. Aside from the little Duke's agitation as he bounced up and down, the same as the night before, there was a new deference, a more subdued attitude. Evidently he had become aware of the ineffectiveness of his reports when it came to having the rude, disrespectful Commissario taken off the investigation. His tone was still pompous, however.

“Good day, Commissario. I didn't want to disturb you while you were busy with your interrogations. I wanted to say that I am at your complete disposal, as is the theater's entire staff. We have been informed of the importance assigned to finding the vile killer, and it is our intention to provide you with our full cooperation.”

Ricciardi stared at Spinelli coldly. Stiff and offended, the man seemed to be trying to put a good face on it as he followed higher instructions from above.

“I don't doubt it, Duke. I don't doubt it. In that case, I would like a complete schedule of the performances presented recently, let's say from when the staging of the operas began up until today. I also want to know the dates when Vezzi was present at the theater.” He turned to the stage manager. “Tell me, from which entrance is it quicker to get to the dressing rooms?”

Lasio ran a hand through his red hair; he was one of those people who seem rumpled even though they're not, maybe because of his pale, freckled complexion or his rebellious head of hair. He wore a shirt that sported a stiff collar with rounded tabs and he had loosened his tie. He wasn't wearing a jacket and his vest was unbuttoned.

“Definitely the side door, which leads to the street near the gate to the gardens. From there it's just one flight of stairs and you're near the dressing rooms. The staircase is narrow and half-hidden and you have to know it's there, but it's the most direct route. The stage performers use it, if they need to leave the theater momentarily during the performance.”

“And is there someone at the door?”

“Not during the performance. We turn off the lights in the vestibule, to concentrate staff at the main entrance, and lock the door. But there's a smaller door beside it.”

Ricciardi pondered this.

“Which staff, aside from the stage performers, has access to the dressing rooms during the performance?”

“Under normal circumstances, no one. Except for possible medical personnel, naturally, and wardrobe staff, to bring down costumes requiring last-minute adjustments. But I insist that this coming and going be kept to a minimum. The more noise, distractions, confusion there is, the greater the chance of slipping up on the entrance cues. There's nothing worse than a delayed or early entrance, believe me.”

“I see. And where is the wardrobe room?”

The theater director spoke up.

“On the fourth floor, Commissario. There's a utility lift, used for bringing the costume changes quickly to the dressing rooms. In certain operas there are dozens of costumes that have to be changed, between acts. I recall an occasion on which . . . ”

“Yes, I imagine,” Ricciardi cut him short, “but now I'd like to see the wardrobe staff. Are they working?”

“Certainly. They're always working.” The theater director looked miffed again, as if he had been slapped in the face, but he was more prudent than the previous evening. He added: “Nevertheless it will be a pleasure, for the staff, to be able to cooperate.”

W
ardrobe, on the fourth floor, could be reached via a narrow staircase or the utility lift. Ricciardi decided to inspect both routes, going up in the chugging cage, supported by creaking cables, and coming down the steep steps. From the landing there was a spectacular bird's-eye view of both the stage and the orchestra pit. The view of the concert hall itself was obstructed by a heavy curtain. At the end of a long corridor was a door leading to a whole other world.

It looked like a dream factory. Silks and brocades, fabrics woven in gold and silver. Every colour imaginable, from red to purple, from yellow to blue to green. Headdresses from various eras, lined up one beside the other on large hat racks. Stovepipe hats, Roman and Viking helmets, complicated Egyptian hairpieces. Tulle, veils, delicate ballet slippers and heavy military boots. Among all these fabrics were numerous women all dressed the same, like Signora Lilla: blue smock with heavy scissors hanging from a ribbon around the neck, hair tied back and partially covered with a white cap. They moved skilfully through the seeming disorder, cutting, sewing and ironing. Outside, the wind howled, while the sun's intermittent rays, broken by clouds that chased one another across the sky, filtered down from the high windows.