Blood Curse Read online

  “But if . . . if you . . . I have to ask you, if you have . . . if you’re in a relationship with someone, in short, how can I put this . . . Jealousy can make people lose their minds.”

  A silence fell that was as thick as the earth covering a grave. Far away, out in the world, a woman’s voice was singing:

  Dicitencello ch’è ’na rosa ’e maggio,

  ch’aggio perduto ’o suonno e ’a fantasia

  che ’a penso sempe, ch’è tutta ’a vita mia . . .

  She sang the verse a second time:

  Tell her that she’s a rose of May

  That I can’t sleep or think

  That I think of her always, that she’s my life . . .

  “No. No one, Brigadie’. There hasn’t been another man since the day my husband died. It’s been two years.”

  That voice. Confident, stern. And distant, too, as if she were speaking from the bottom of the sea. Maione shivered and felt as if he had just uttered a loud oath in the middle of the city’s cathedral, just as the bishop was raising the consecrated host.

  “Forgive me, Signora. It was never, never my intention to cast doubt on your good name. In that case, is there someone who wants you, who’s threatening you? Tell me; point me in the right direction.”

  “Brigadier, you’re going to be late for work, and so will I. I’m certain that you have much more important matters than mine to attend to. Don’t worry; I’m not afraid. Nothing is going to happen to me. Nothing else.”

  Maione studied her in the dim light. There was an absurd amount of certainty in Filomena’s scornful gaze, as if she had no doubts about what she was saying. He sighed and put his cap back on his head. He took a step back.

  “That’s fine, for now. If that’s how you want it . . . but I’ll have to keep coming back, until I’m sure that neither you nor your son are in any danger. If anything occurs to you, send for me. It only takes five minutes to get here from headquarters.”

  He turned to go and almost bumped into the woman whose scream had first caught his attention two days earlier, the same woman who had so effectively expressed her contempt for Filomena. This time she was holding a bowl and glaring at the brigadier.

  “Donna Filome’, it’s Vincenza. May I come in? I brought you a cup of hot broth. Is there anything you need?”

  Maione decided that sometimes bloodshed helps to change people. He waved a farewell and left.

  The man who had just stepped out of the front door of the adjoining basso felt like his head was about to explode. He’d tied one on the night before. And the night before that. Cheap wine, smoke, bawdy songs, all to help him find the strength to sleep without la schifezza—the filthy mess—which always made him feel the next day the way he did this morning.

  But a poor man who’d lost his wife, he thought to himself as he hurried toward the construction site where he worked, what’s he supposed to do, stop living? Or should he go out and find another wife? And who would take him anyway, a man like him, with a small daughter, and penniless to boot?

  Salvatore Finizio, first-class bricklayer, widower. A man who had nothing to smile about and very little to eat, who had to take care of his daughter, Rituccia, feed her and clothe her. And so if wine and weariness made him forget about poor dead Rachele every once in a while, was that such a sin? If God Almighty is truly God Almighty, He’ll understand. And He’ll forgive. Madonna, what a headache.

  XXV

  Ricciardi couldn’t seem to get that dream out of his head. He could still hear his mother’s voice, a voice that in reality he was unable to remember, telling him to be a good boy, to study. Study what?

  Sitting at the desk in his office, he turned the heavy lead paperweight over and over in his hands, a piece of a mortar shell brought back from the front, a gift from the overseer on his estate in the country.

  His papers, all those sheets and scraps that lay scattered over the wooden desktop. Instead of jotting down notes on little pieces of paper, he should have put his mind in order, should have procured himself a notebook and written in it. A notebook, like the appointment book that old Calise kept. God Almighty’s not a shopkeeper who pays His debts on Saturday.

  The flash of light that illuminated his mind was followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder, like in a rainstorm. Ricciardi sat there, astonished, with the chunk of lead in his hand, contemplating his own stupidity.

  “Maione!”

  He had raised the roll-up shutter halfway, just as he did every morning. He knew perfectly well that the other merchants on Via Toledo had their salesclerks open shop and didn’t come in themselves until later. How conscientious Don Matteo De Rosa is, bravo! they’d say to each other behind his back, snickering. A salesclerk you were born and a salesclerk you remain, even now that you’re the boss. They thought that he had no idea what they were saying, that he didn’t realize, but he knew exactly what he was doing.

  As he tidied up the rolls of cloth on their wooden poles, he took a quick look at his reflection in the mirror the customers used. Sure, he had a bit of a belly. And his hair was starting to go, slowly but surely. Not even all that slowly, come to think of it. But his mustache was dark and beautifully curled; and his handsome checkered vest with the gold watch chain made it clear to anyone who might wonder that Don Matteo De Rosa was the boss now.

  He’d always known that he’d be in charge one day, even back when he was working for old Salvatore Iovine, the leading fabric merchant in Naples. Iovine was a man who had obtained everything he ever wanted from life—everything, that is, except a male heir. And Matteo had won the heart of Iovine’s daughter Vera, a homely monster with a mustache a few hairs short of his but a fuller beard, a woman who was impossible to look at, even from a distance, but who had more suitors than Penelope, because of her immense wealth.

  And so, when old Iovine died, spitting blood onto a scrap of beige fabric that was a masterpiece of the weaver’s art, Matteo was left to run the business. Yes, it’s true that the old man had left everything to his daughter. But he was the man of the family, wasn’t he? So he said, let her stay at home in the dark, since even the sunlight was disgusted at the thought of touching her; he would look after the shop.

  And everything had gone smoothly until Filomena. Just the thought of her name made his heart rejoice. Filomena.

  She’d come in one morning, wearing a black dress made of rough, cheap cotton, a shawl over her head, as if she were covering up some astounding homeliness. Are you looking for a shop clerk? she inquired. Let me see what you look like, he replied. And with a sigh, she pulled back the shawl.

  Matteo De Rosa lost his heart and his soul the instant he laid eyes on the face of Filomena Russo. He realized then and there that he’d never be able to rest until he got his hands on the body of that goddess descended to earth. So he hired her; of course he hired her. He told her: every morning at eight o’clock on the dot. And every morning at eight o’clock on the dot he was there, too, while the other salesclerks never arrived before eight thirty. They would often come in to find him flushed, his hair all mussed; he knew that she was a widow, a poor, desperate woman with a son to bring up. He couldn’t understand why she refused his advances. All the other female sales assistants would have given their eyeteeth for the opportunity: the padrone’s mistress, just think of the advantages. But not her.

  He’d tried everything: gifts, money, threats. Nothing worked; she rejected it all. All he managed to do was to fill those moonlit eyes with showers of tears. The more she rejected him, the clearer it was to Matteo that he could not live without her. So he finally told her it was time to make up her mind: otherwise she’d have to find herself another job. That is, if she could find one at all; no one would hire a salesclerk fired from the famous De Rosa fabric shop. Capisci, Filomena? Choose Matteo or choose to starve, both you and your son. I’ll expect your answer tomorrow morning.

  And the next day, she wasn’t at work. Her son, swarthy and feral, with cap in hand but eyes that showed
no respect, came in to say that his mother wasn’t well.

  Matteo continued to go in early every morning to open the shop: just biding his time. And Filomena returned, with the same shawl covering her head that she had worn when she had come to the shop for the first time.

  He took a step forward, holding his breath. What have you decided? he whispered.

  Out in the street, a carriage went by, its iron-rimmed wheels thundering over the cobblestones. A street vendor’s cry pierced the air.

  Filomena recoiled into the semidarkness to avoid his touch, until she fetched up against the shelves behind her. Her shawl caught on a roll of cloth and fell away, uncovering her face.

  At first Matteo thought the shadows were playing tricks on his eyes, and then he saw clearly.

  There was a piece of antique furniture in the bedroom. In the challenging lives of a married couple who had brought six children into the world and had always struggled, it had been a luxury. A gift from Raffaele, back in the days when laughter was a more plentiful commodity than even conversation was now. A tribute to her femininity. It was as if a hundred years had gone by since then.

  Lucia Maione was standing with a dustrag in her hand, looking at the little dressing table. It resembled a writing desk, the slightly curved legs surmounted by two small drawers and an inlaid tabletop. Above that, an oval adjustable mirror supported by two wooden posts. A useless piece of furniture, too fragile to support anything heavy; you couldn’t have used it as a place to keep sheets or tablecloths, nor could you really have leaned your elbows on it while eating or studying. Only her two daughters occasionally played at it, making it home to a couple of rag dolls.

  Lucia gazed and remembered.

  She remembered her husband, stretched out on the bed, drinking in the sight of her as she brushed her hair in front of the mirror, his eyes filled with the joy of love. She remembered his adoring smile and her tenderly mocking response: What do you think you’re watching, a moving picture? And he had replied: There aren’t any actresses as pretty as you. What would I want to go to a picture show for?

  A hundred years ago, life had given her a strong, cheerful husband, and then six wonderful children. Laughter, hard work, quarrels, Sundays in the kitchen, every morning mountains of clothing to wash, down at the washhouse in the piazza, singing old Neapolitan songs as she scrubbed. Life had given her gifts. And life had taken away from her as well. She hadn’t even been able to pick out Luca’s clothes, to dress him one last time. He’d left the house one morning with a slice of bread in hand, as usual: Cheer up, Mamma. And that morning, too, he’d taken her in his arms and made her fly, whirling her around and leaving her breathless.

  The last time she’d seen him alive. He wouldn’t live to see that evening. He was my life. Why should it come as a surprise that I’ve stopped living?

  Lucia took a step toward the vanity and ran an inquisitive finger over the tabletop. No, not a speck of dust. She’d become even more fussy about cleanliness and tidiness; her children knew it and they were careful. There was no dust, but there was no life either. The apartment seemed like a church; one could hardly tell that five other children still lived there. She understood that they weren’t eager to spend time with their now close-lipped and irascible mamma. She was sorry, but there was nothing she could do about it. They would go outside to play, enlivening the street below, beloved by everyone in the neighborhood, including her: but from a distance.

  No dust; but there was still a black cloth draped over the mirror, the only one still in place, three years later. When the period of mourning was over, she’d gotten rid of all the other signs of it, except for her black dress and the cloth draped over the mirror. She wondered why: just that mirror. She took the chair that completed the set, a chair that for years now had only been used as a stand for their dressing gowns at the foot of the bed, and scooted it over. She sat down. She tested the seat to make sure it was stable: she’d forgotten how comfortable it was. She moved it a little closer to the vanity, careful not to drag it across the hexagonal ceramic floor tiles. She sat there for a moment, perched between past and present; her heart was racing in her chest. Why? The sounds of the neighborhood entered through the open window: Pesce, pesce, chi vo’ pesce, è vivo ancora. Fresh fish, who wants fish, fish still alive. She heaved a deep sigh, impulsively reached out her hand, and pulled the black cloth off the mirror.

  Lucia had always been conscious of her beauty. Blonde, with beaming blue eyes, and a full-lipped, slightly pouting mouth. A narrow nose, just a little long, to give her face a touch of personality. Pretty. And she knew it. She’d stopped thinking about herself; who was this stranger looking in the mirror?

  She looked at her eyes: a hard, slightly reddened gaze. Her mouth, thin-lipped. The new creases and wrinkles, at the corners of her eyes, running along her cheekbones: the signs of enduring, daily grief.

  How old am I now? she wondered. Forty. Almost forty-one. And I look like an old woman of seventy. She looked around, bewildered. Invisible, the springtime danced in the shaft of sunlight that struck the mirror frame, turning it red. She heard Luca’s voice; she thought of her husband, who had left for work that morning without turning to look up at the window from the street, something he’d always done, a hundred years ago.

  She ran her fingers through her blonde hair. She turned her face slightly to one side and tried out a smile.

  XXVI

  By the time Ricciardi left headquarters and set out for the Sanità quarter, there could be no doubt that springtime had made its grand entrance. There was a note of cheerfulness in the air, a gentle wind blew in changing directions, with varying intensity, carrying off the ladies’ little hats and the men’s fedoras and bowlers, rumpling the occasional overcoat. A childlike wind, one that was capricious and playful, but had stopped biting.

  The dominant scent was that of the sea; but mixed in with it were the smells of new green grass and leaves, which became stronger the closer he got to the forest and the verdure of the Villa Nazionale or the Orto Botanico, the botanical gardens. The scent of flowers hadn’t yet emerged, but it hovered in the air, like a promise.

  All up and down Via Toledo that morning, acquaintances had begun lingering for a chat. It wasn’t hot out exactly, but at this point the season was clearly warming up.

  In the vicoli there were snatches of song and voices calling, balconies thrown open to let in a bit of sunlight. Clotheslines strung tightly between one window and another shared sheets and shirts, moving lazily in the fresh breezes. People struck up conversations with a smile, for no special reason; here and there strolling vendors spoke in familiar, even intimate tones with the young ladies who leaned out their windows, lowering coins in baskets and hauling up fruit and vegetables, or soap, in exchange.

  The street organs were churning away beautifully: Amapola, dolcissima Amapola, Amore vuol dir gelosia. From the little neighborhood marketplaces rose the tone-deaf symphony of the vendors: for once, their cacophonous rumba was a pleasure to hear. Although no one saw it, if you looked closely the springtime was dancing on tiptoes, leaping from one hat to another, from one of the trees that lined the street to the next, from balcony to balcony.

  And with the newly diminished space between one person and another, coin purses vanished from pockets and handbags were whisked off café tables, here and there friendly conversations deteriorated into slapping fights, and now and then a knife blade glittered in the sunlight. But this too was part of springtime. The lines of sailors and construction workers outside the box office windows of the whorehouses grew longer: it was the new season casting its spell, stirring the blood. Young women could be seen weeping over their lost loves. And the springtime laughed mockingly at all the promises that would not be kept.

  All these thoughts swirled through Ricciardi’s wary mind as he walked toward the Sanità, followed by a taciturn Maione with downcast gaze. As they passed, a dark bow wave tinged with fear washed over the street, and then closed up behind them, giv
ing way to the trickery of the first burst of fresh spring air once again.

  They could have waited for the streetcar, crowding in with busy housewives and mothers, idle youths in search of a sweet smile, but Ricciardi preferred the open air; it helped him think. He wanted to take another look at the scene of the crime, get another whiff of what had happened there.

  They marched past the one hundred construction sites of the perennially rising city: all those new apartment buildings with their thick white walls, tiny square windows, and no balconies. Grandiose mottos over the flat street doors, lettered in bronze or engraved in stone, commemorating dates and slogans down through the ages. Ricciardi had no particular love for these new architectural contours, and was always moved by the sight of ancient, noble arches and the delicate friezes that lightly ornamented the massive marble blocks.

  The commissario’s thoughts wandered to the countless other construction sites, from the new Vomero to the hilltop of Posillipo, from the burgeoning districts of Bagnoli that were springing up to provide housing for the steelworkers in the new mills, and out to San Giovanni. He mused that, as always, Naples was a city that got bigger without growing up. Like a little girl magically transformed into a grown woman overnight, still playful and childish, with an adolescent’s sudden outbursts of anger.

  As he passed close by the scaffoldings, the commissario glimpsed the figures of men who had fallen in the construction of the imposing palatial edifices dictated by Rome’s new ambitions of grandeur. There had always been deaths on the job, even in the years when he’d first come to the city to study, when old buildings were being renovated or badly constructed walls were being reinforced. Ricciardi couldn’t say exactly why, but he found it somehow more upsetting to think that people were dying needlessly in the service of ugliness.