The Bottom of Your Heart (19 page)

The morning progressed. The sun grew hotter and hotter and the children began to show signs of weariness. The other schoolteacher, a dark-haired sociable young woman named Carla, did her best to keep the boys in line by shouting louder than they; Enrica turned her attention to her little girls, and her heart skipped a beat when she noticed that one was missing. She turned to look out to sea and saw a tiny head bobbing in the water. How could she have failed to notice that Bettina, the biggest troublemaker of the group, hadn't come back from her swim?

She called her at the top of her lungs, but all Bettina did was wave back. Enrica waved for her to come to shore, backed up by her colleague Carla, who had come over; once again, Bettina waved back. Enrica begged her and threatened her, but to no avail. She was about to resign herself to the necessity of swimming out to get her when a white shape shot past her, dove in, and, with just a few powerful strokes, swam out to the little girl.

A short time later a colossus clad in shirt and trousers emerged from the water, with a laughing Bettina in his arms. It was the painter who had waved at Enrica from the road.

The little girl leapt down onto the beach, took a few steps, and then, as if she'd forgotten something important, turned around and went back to plant a kiss on her rescuer's cheek. Then she scurried away, easily dodging the backhanded smacks that both Enrica and Carla sent in her direction.

The man said: “Please, please, don't scold the child. After all, with this heat, there's nothing wrong with wanting to stay in the water, is there?”

He spoke a perfect Italian, but the harshness of his consonants betrayed his foreign origins.

Enrica replied brusquely: “I certainly can't allow them to do what they want, endangering their own personal safety, Signor . . .”

The man smiled as he did his best to dry his hands. His eyes, just barely irritated by the brine, were as blue as the water behind him, and his teeth were even and dazzling white. He was tall and well built, and he was eyeing Enrica with curiosity. He performed a very understated bow which led the two schoolmistresses to assume that they were in the presence of a soldier, an impression confirmed by the man's next words: “Major Manfred von Brauchitsch, cavalry of the Reichswehr, Signora. Or should I say Signorina?”

Enrica stood openmouthed. An officer in the German army. A cavalry officer, no less.

Carla, who looked as if she'd been struck by an apparition, was the first to recover: “
Signorina
,
signorina
, Major, she's a
signorina
. And I'm a
signorina
too: my name is Carla Di Meglio.
Grazie
, you were a hero!”

Manfred bowed his head slightly in her direction, but he never took his eyes off Enrica; then he cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.

The young woman finally heaved a sigh and said, still harshly: “Maestra Colombo. Thank you for bringing Bettina back to us, but it's our job to take care of the children so, in future, I must ask you not to involve yourself unless you're asked.”

Carla shot her the look she usually gave ill-mannered children, but Enrica had no intention of melting into a puddle at the sight of the first pair of blue eyes to come along. Even if she had to admit that there was something exotic and alluring about that fair-haired athletic giant, all wet from the sea.

“I understand, and I beg your pardon,” he said. “It's just that from a distance I couldn't tell for sure whether you were waving or asking for help.”

Enrica nodded in some embarrassment. She regretted her words, but didn't want to let it show. She turned to look at the girls, who were lining up two by two to head back to the colony.

She heard a faint cough behind her; she turned around. The man asked: “Do you have a first name too, Signorina Maestra Colombo? Just to complete our introductions. I never like to leave anything half finished.”

“Enrica, Major. My name is Enrica. And thank you for . . . thank you. Forgive me if I was curt. I was just frightened.”

“I come here every morning to paint, until it's time for my mud bath at the spa. I generally sit in the shade of the pines, and no doubt that's why you didn't notice me until this morning. But I've been watching you for days now, you know; you're part of the landscape that I've been capturing on canvas. I beg your pardon for doing so in secret, and I hope that you'll allow me to continue. You don't mind, do you?”

Enrica was stunned, speechless; Carla prodded her in the ribs with her elbow, pretending to adjust a cap on one of the children's heads. The girl recovered: “No, no. I don't mind. Are you painting the little girls, too?”

The man burst out laughing: “No, not yet. But it will be a great pleasure to make up for that shortcoming.”

Carla allowed herself to join in the infectious laughter, and even Enrica, blushing, ventured a smile. Then, with a courteous nod of the head, she summoned the girls and headed back toward the villa.

It was almost lunchtime.

U
sually Maione took the long way round when he went to see Bambinella.

It demanded a lot more effort, entailing a few extra uphill climbs, but such discretion was necessary to ensure that prying eyes didn't notice the brigadier's suspiciously frequent visits to the
femminiello
. Not that there would have been any reason for surprise, after all, policemen were men too, and a foible could be tolerated; if anything, a sign of weakness was welcomed in the
vicoli
and backstreets of that city, making the enforcers of the law a little more human, a little closer to the common folk. Nonetheless, Maione didn't want to give anyone a chance to guess at the real reason he went to call on the
femminiello
.

This time, though, he was too angry to worry about anyone else's safety. The idea that his Lucia might be secretly making her way to an apartment house that numbered among its tenants an unrepentant bachelor who lived on a private income and whiled away the hours doing nothing but enjoying himself, had a series of effects on him that he was having difficulty controlling. His stomach had shriveled to the size of a prune, and his heart insisted on imitating the beat of a furiously shaken tambourine in the midst of a tarantella.

Where could Lucia have met this Pianese? She never left their neighborhood, except to go to the market. Maybe that's where they'd first come into contact. He could just see Pianese strolling among the vendors' stalls, whistling, in search of other people's wives to importune. He pictured him handsome, young, and well-dressed, with a fashionably narrow mustache, an immaculate white suit, and a red carnation in his buttonhole; then he pictured himself, old, hirsute, out for a stroll down Via Toledo on Sunday morning with his family, wearing a suit that looked as if it had been worn for two weeks straight, even though he'd just put it on a few minutes ago, freshly ironed.

Lucia, on the other hand, was breathtakingly beautiful. Always, even after a hellish day of heat and hard work, even with six children to look after, even first thing in the morning. And she was dazzling and golden even dressed in the housecoat she wore at home to do her chores.

Without even realizing it, the policeman was walking along emitting a dull roar. The inhabitants of the
vicoli
were already naturally inclined to avoid the police, and his snarling expression only reinforced that impulse; even the
scugnizzi
, who would normally tag along after him in small knots, calling out insults and mockery, now pretended they hadn't seen him. It looked like stormy weather in the two square yards surrounding the brigadier: best to steer clear of him.

Reaching his informant's apartment was no easy matter even by the most direct route, since Bambinella lived at the high end of a steep
vicolo
, at the very top of an uphill network of alleys and lanes, and at the summit of a staircase that was, obviously, yet another climb. The perfect route to leave you panting, drenched with sweat, and even more irritated than before, if you were irritated to start with.

Bambinella was waiting for him at the door. Looking up at her from below as he labored up the steps, Maione decided that there was something unsettling about her: her masculine features and her feminine ones overlapped, creating an inevitable sense of disorientation in anyone who looked at her. Bambinella was tall and bony, broad-shouldered, with big hands and a dark five o'clock shadow perennially visible on her fair white skin that seemed unaccustomed to sunlight. But the heavy makeup, the red polish on the well-tended fingernails, the perfectly shaved body, the long black lashes fluttering on the large, liquid eyes, gave a sharp jerk to the initial impression one might gather from a superficial glance.

In a heartfelt voice, the
femminiello
said: “
Madonna santa
, Brigadie', why what's wrong? Why are you here at this hour? You worry me, just look, I'm all sweaty I'm so upset!”

Maione replied, heaving like a pair of bellows: “Of course, it goes without saying that you already knew I was on my way. Probably someone galloped up here to tell you the minute the thought occurred to me this morning. Some little bird must have whispered to you: listen up, Bambine', if you ask me Brigadier Maione is going to come see you any minute now. I guessed it from the expression on his face when he got out of bed. Because in this filthy city no one can do anything without everyone else knowing about it before it even happens.”

Bambinella held her hand over her mouth as she laughed: “Why, no, of course not. It's just that the
vicolo
gets organized, when we see someone like you go by. If you keep an ear to the ground, you hear it. It's like a wave in the sea, if you see what I mean. And then there's the smuggler down on the corner, that is, you wouldn't see him now because as soon as you showed up, he took his stall and left: but anyway, he's the one who sells cigarettes and matches. A series of little kids who take up posts at every corner warn him when the police are arriving, so if you take the main street, I know you're coming more or less fifteen minutes before you get here. Come on, come in and I'll make you a cup of ersatz coffee. Why is it you didn't come the back way like usual?”

Maione closed the door behind him, turned down the ersatz coffee with a grimace, and let himself collapse into the wicker chair, which moaned in despair beneath his weight.

“I'm glad you told me about him,” he panted, “this smuggler on the corner. I'll slap them all in jail, him and his lookout kids, so we can finally start cleaning this city up a little bit. Let's see if we can turn it back into a normal city, where a miserable cop can try and do his job with a little discretion.”

Bambinella, sitting in a Chinese chair, fanned herself with a large oriental fan; she looked like a parody of Madame Butterfly.

“Oooh,
mamma mia
, Brigadie', how irritable we are, and first thing in the morning too. In any case, don't you worry, no one bothers about who comes to see me and why, or anyway they can guess for themselves. I have a very select, top-flight clientele, if I do say so myself. Only now, for example, the man who just left—he's the son of the owner of at least four shoe stores in Chiaia, I'm proud to say. He's the nicest boy you'd ever care to meet, I could even fall in love with him if he weren't a shade perverse. Just think, he likes it when I dress up in a pair of . . .”

“Bambine', take it from me: today of all days, I'm in no mood to sit here listening to you describe your profession. I'm going through a very difficult time, and I wouldn't mind having a chance to let off a little steam by strangling you. In fact, as soon as I catch my breath, I might just choke you to pass the time. After all, with the gang of crooks that come through here, I wouldn't have any trouble finding a stooge to set up for the crime.”

Bambinella emitted a sound very much like a horse whinnying, which was how she laughed.

“Why, what a sweetheart you are, Brigadie'. But I know that you have a soft spot for me and you do your best to fight it: still, it's only a matter of time before you give in to my charms. I'm used to it: the men's men, they fall passionately in love with me. It's my cross to bear, what can I do, it's the way I was born: fascinating.”

Maione put his hand on the pistol he wore on his belt.

“No, I'm not going to choke you. Too much work. I'll just shoot you from over here, straightaway, not as much fun and not as clean, but at least I won't break into a sweat again.”

“No, no, Brigadie', you know that dingus scares the wits out of me. What's more, the day you decide to assult me with something you carry in your pocket, I hope it won't be a pistol. But get down to business, to what do I owe the honor?”

Maione decided to ignore the ribald double entendre; he knew very well that Bambinella's propensity for digressions, if given free rein, could make a conversation last for hours.

“The only reason I don't shoot you is that I need you alive, remember that. The day I decide I no longer need you, I'll scratch that off my list, trust me. Now then, I'm here because . . .”

Bambinella lifted one hand to interrupt: “By the way, Brigadie', before I forget: so someone threw the professor out the window at the polyclinic, isn't that right? He didn't jump. What an odd turn of events though.”

Maione gaped in surprise: “No, now I have to ask you to explain this to me! Who told you that someone threw Iovine out the window? Absolutely no one knows about that, not yet, anyway, so how could you possibly have found out? Tell me the truth, Bambine', are you somehow implicated in this thing? Because this time there's nothing I can do to help you, after all, this is murder, and . . .”

Bambinella whinnied again: “No, what are you talking about, Brigadie'! I learned about it completely by accident. There's a sweet young friend of mine who hooks it in a house at the corner by the Pellegrini Hospital, and she has a number of customers who are nurses and doctors. Yesterday she noticed you walking with the handsome commissario, the one with the green eyes who's jinxed. You went into the morgue with Dr. Modo, the nice doctor who frequents all the finest bordellos in the city. My little girlfriend asked one of her customers, who works as a morgue attendant, such a good boy but he has a teeny-weeny little thingie so he's embarrassed to go with whores, and so this boy made friends with her because she's so tolerant and understanding. He told her that the only fresh corpse they had at the moment belonged to the professor.”