The Bottom of Your Heart (54 page)

Take a ship, or not take it. And die for not having taken it.

He felt his heart thud to a halt, and then resume beating.

He looked at Rosa, let his fingers brush her hand.

Cold. How cold she was. He couldn't leave her, he decided. Ship or no ship.

“You need to leave, Signori'.”

Nelide's words, spoken in an undertone, almost whispered, exploded in the silence. Ricciardi and the doctor turned to look at her as she said again: “You need to leave. If Aunt Rosa were awake, she'd slap you silly and send you packing. I'll stay here. You need to leave.”

Modo made a face: “So if she says you have to go, you really have to go. Otherwise, I'd bet
she'll
slap you silly; on her aunt's behalf.”

 

Livia's party was a decided success.

Walls and furniture had been abundantly decorated, in hues of white and navy blue, with draperies of silk and other expensive fabrics to simulate waves and salt spray on the rocks, but also with splotches of dark red here and there, standing in for coral.

The houseboys and waiters, dressed in traditional fishermen's garb, were serving the typical dishes of summer in the city: vermicelli with clam sauce, and a variety of frittatas made of macaroni, onion, and zucchini. An “oysterman's stall,” set up at the edge of the terrace, offered seafood, cooked and raw, and a cook standing over a kettle full of hot oil was frying
paste crisciute
: fritters stuffed with anchovies, zucchini blossoms, and whitebait.

The guests were in seventh heaven, and they exchanged compliments on each other's outfits, only to turn away and snicker at the graceless bodies put on display by the costumes they'd rented or had made for the occasion. Fishermen, sea goddesses, Neptunes and Poseidons, oversized mullets and grinning sharks greeted each other, cantering along to the music of the conservatory orchestra.

Garzo, dressed as a mythical triton, with his wife as an oyster on his arm, fluttered from one circle of guests to another doing his best, but with scant success, to catch the attention of this or that powerful guest; every so often he exchanged meaningful glances with the policemen he'd pressed into security duty; they were sweating in tight, impeccable uniforms and yearning to sample a glass of the chilled white wine that was flowing freely.

The mistress of the house was the most beautiful and the most closely observed, by both the male and the female guests. The mermaid costume, her hairdo, and her valuable jewelry, which set off her magnificent figure, glittered with a light all their own on an occasion when there was no lack of ostentatious display of wealth. A number of her girlfriends had traveled south from Rome, and one in particular, given her highly elevated social status, was the object of furtive glances of curiosity: but the envy and admiration were reserved entirely for Livia.

Sadly, however, in spite of the fact that no one noticed, the woman's eyes betrayed no happiness; they were full of unease as the hours ticked past and among the guests who arrived one after another, each announced by a footman in livery, she had yet to see the one she pined for above all others. If everyone else had vanished and he had shown up in their stead, Livia mused, how much nicer it all would be.

Don Libero and the two maestros, Ernesto and Nicola, were the only ones more on edge than Livia. They were split between an imperceptible anxiety and a sense of anticipation greater even than at Piedigrotta, Naples's traditional musical festival. Soon, Livia would premiere in public, for the first time in the world, what they felt to be their best song ever; would she prove capable of performing it properly, in that out-of-town accent of hers? And would the audience like it—that audience so alien to the working-class public, so quick to nitpick?

The hours passed, and the performance of the song could no longer be postponed. Livia shot constant glances toward the footman at the front door, but never saw anyone new arrive.

 

Enrica was done getting ready. There was a moon, a full moon that looked like an enormous spotlight in the middle of the starry sky.

She didn't have a suitable dress for a real date: when she had decided to spend the summer on the island, this was the last thing she'd expected, and she hadn't packed anything that would be appropriate for the occasion.

To tell the truth, she doubted she even owned a dress to wear on a romantic date. And she certainly didn't want to give Manfred the impression that she was out to seduce him. And so she'd put on a mid-length white skirt, with lightweight socks, the only shoes she'd brought with her—the black shoes she wore when she took the girls out for an afternoon walk—and a blouse with her gray jacket and a little hat the same color that went with them. She didn't know what would happen, but in her heart she had grim misgivings.

She put on her glasses, picked up her purse, and went out.

 

Livia went over to Don Libero, who had called the guests to attention.

From the terrace it was possible to glimpse, in the distance, the fireworks from the festival in Piazza del Carmine; the enormous moon hung motionless in the middle of the night sky as if it were part of a painted scene on a cardboard backdrop.

Don Libero recounted the tale of how Livia had asked him for a song—a Neapolitan canzone—to offer as a treat to her guests, and how he and the two musicians present that night had decided to bestow upon her their finest pearl. Don Libero's words brought that intimidating audience to its feet with a roar of applause that contained all the city's love for their great bard of popular music; and in the breathless silence that ensued, there was all the immense curiosity that had been lurking, palpably, since the beginning of that evening's entertainment. Don Libero took an emotional bow.

Livia, on the other hand, had her heart in her mouth. She could feel it beat furiously, and she had to delve into her recent memories to put her finger on her determination to sing at any cost, in the presence or the absence of the man she loved. Clara, her housekeeper, had told her: a heart in love must sing, it has no choice. And neither does a heart in despair.

Don Ernesto took his seat at the piano and struck up the splendid introduction that Livia had learned so well. There was a rustle of movement at the front door, and her breath practically caught in her chest when she saw a man appear in the shadows, beyond the heads of the partygoers who were crowding close in a circle around where she stood.

 

Enrica had strolled for several hundred yards with Manfred.

The German officer, who was wearing an impeccable dark suit, had put the girl at her ease and made her laugh with funny stories from his military service. He really liked her when she laughed; she had a natural grace about her that was better by far than ordinary beauty.

Now he was leading her to the belvedere, the overlook with a view of the sea. He reached out a hand and took her by the elbow, casually, as if by accident.

Enrica almost jumped.

 

Livia tried desperately to determine whether the silhouette that she could just make out in the shadows was that of Ricciardi. Too many people in the way, too far away, too much glare in her eyes from the spotlight trained to highlight the singing mermaid.

She gave up trying, leaving to her heart the powerful wish that it might really be the commissario. She abandoned herself to the music and sang.

 

Chiú luntano me stai, chiú vicino te sento;

chissà a chistu mumento tu che piense, che ffaie . . .

Tu m'he miso int'e vvene 'nu veleno ch'è ddoce,

non me pesa 'sta croce che trascino pe' te . . .

 

The further you are from me, the closer I feel you . . .

Who knows at this moment what you are thinking . . . what you are doing . . .

You have poured into my veins a sweet poison . . .

I do not mind the cross I am bearing for you . . .

 

The very air seemed to stand still.

From the deserted street, left empty by the crowds pressing onto Piazza del Carmine, came not a sound. Everyone was listening to the voice of the siren, every bit as much under her spell as had been Ulysses's crew.

 

Te voglio, te penso, te chiammo . . .

Te veco, te sento, te suonno . . .

È 'n anno, ce piense ch'è 'n anno

ca 'st'uocchie nun ponno chiú pace truva'!

 

I want you . . . I think of you . . . I call you . . .

I see you . . . I hear you . . . I dream of you . . .

For a year . . . would you believe for a year,

these eyes have not found any peace?

 

Enrica, sitting on the bench of the overlook, watched from a distance the glare of the fireworks celebrating the Festa del Carmine, the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, in Naples, twenty miles across the sea.

From there it was little more than a vague luminescence, but she knew the triumph of fiery flowers in the night sky, and she felt a stab of homesickness for the nights spent with her nose in the air, with her parents and siblings.

Manfred stared at her profile, and decided that the magic of that light, that moon sketching a glowing trail on the surface of the sea, was something no painter could ever hope to reproduce.

 

E cammino, cammino, ma nun saccio addò vaco,

i' sto sempre 'mbriaca, ma nun bevo mai vino.

Aggio fatto 'nu voto a' Madonna d'a Neve:

si me passa 'sta freva oro e perle lle dò . . .

 

I walk and I walk . . . but I don't know where I'm going . . .

I am always drunk but I never drink wine.

I made a vow to the Madonna della Neve:

if I get over this fever I shall offer her gold and pearls.

 

The magic of the song poured out of Livia's chest and crashed down on the men and women listening like a silvery waterfall.

The despairing words of the lyrics, the story of a sentiment frozen in time and space, the plea for the divine grace of liberation from the immense, eternal curse of a pitiless, unrequited love, found flesh and blood in the tones of a profoundly feminine voice.

I never thought I'd written such utterly realistic lyrics, thought Don Libero, with tears in his eyes and a hand on his throat. And he also thought that subsequent singers would find it a challenge to find such powerful passion in his
Passione
.

 

Te voglio, te penso, te chiammo . . .

Te veco, te sento, te suonno . . .

È 'n anno, ce piense ch'è 'n anno . . .

 

I want you . . . I think of you . . . I call you . . .

I see you . . . I hear you . . . I dream of you . . .

For a year . . . would you believe for a year . . .

 

Manfred took a deep breath, and told Enrica's profile what he desperately needed to say.

That he wanted to give meaning to his life. That he wanted a wife and children, children whom he could teach proper values, children who could carry on his name. That he wanted someone for whom he could work, someone for whom he could build and even fight if that became necessary. That he wanted someone to survive for in battle, someone worth coming home to. That he wanted to keep and cherish a ring and a photograph in his wallet. That he wanted to breathe again and look forward, to a bright, joyful tomorrow. That, in a word, he wanted a future.

And that he wanted it with her.

 

Livia took a deep breath.

The last line demanded a high note, a scream of despair and, at the same time, of hope. The scream of a person in love, a person condemned to love, well aware of how fitting it was to die for love.

She concentrated and shot a quick glance at Don Ernesto, who looked up from the keyboard to give her a nod of happy, emotional complicity.

The silhouette in the partial darkness by the door stirred and stepped forward.

 

Ca 'st'uocchie nun ponno chiú pace truva'!

 

. . 
. these eyes have not found any peace?

 

Enrica had listened as Manfred spoke, and his words had flowed around her heart like water streaming over marble.

She had sat stiffly watching her city, across the sea. Imagining the sounds and colors of the festival. Thinking of the man she loved, the man she really loved, perhaps in the arms of another woman, perhaps with his eyes turned toward a future that didn't include her.

But in her heart, at the bottom of her heart, there was no one but him. And Enrica wasn't willing to settle for anything less than the man that she loved.

She turned to Manfred to tell him so.

 

In the frenzy of applause, as all her guests hurried to offer their most enthusiastic compliments and hailed the composers for the triumph of their new, incredible masterpiece, Livia finally had a chance to get a clear and unobstructed view of the mysterious figure. He seemed to have waited in the penumbra for her to finish dispensing to all those present the magical gift of that song. The shadow stepped away from the wall and took a step forward to reveal to her from afar the face streaked with tears and an ecstatic smile.

It was Falco.

 

The Baroness of Malomonte heaved a deep sigh and turned to Rosa, showing her the romper, finally finished with lovely embroidery: “Come,
tata
. Look how nice. Let's see how you look in it.”

Miles away and in the same exact spot, Nelide wiped away a tear with a single, brusque gesture.

 

The instant Enrica turned to speak to him, because the moon was casting a silvery wake on the sea and the air was full of hope and music, Manfred kissed her.