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  Then came days spent living, living and nothing else. Heaven and then hell, locked up in her prison cell, staring at the ceiling. And never again after that day had she allowed her husband to lay a finger on her. In her soul, she was Attilio’s woman, and there was not a single aspect of her previous life that she missed. No more lying. She had taken care of everything, selling jewelry and other possessions. They had only one concern, and that was being happy.

  Only one thing was missing: for the old woman to tell her yes. The damned witch. Emma thought back once more to the terrible moment a few days earlier. To the blind fury she had felt rising up inside her. To the terrible condition imposed upon her: that she should never see Attilio again, not even on the stage. And now, what could she do? Now that she could no longer go back?

  XXIX

  Nunzia came to a halt at the threshold of the front door. Her fierce gaze wavered, wandering left and right. Her hands still clutched the straw broom.

  Behind her, Maione reached out and gripped her arm with a firm hand. She snapped out of it and walked forward into the apartment.

  Ricciardi was sitting at the rickety table, waiting for her. He was staring straight ahead, his mind and his heart flooded with melancholy, his ears filled with the proverb repeated over and over again by the ghostly figure of Carmela, in the corner of the room. He preferred to question people in the presence of the victim’s ghost: it gave him strength and reinforced his determination in his quest for the truth.

  “Sit down,” he said to the woman. She stepped forward, pulled out a chair, carefully checked to see that it was sturdy, and sat down.

  Both Ricciardi and Maione registered that detail, remembering that one of the chairs had a broken leg. Not that it told them all that much, but it did prove the porter woman was used to sitting at that table.

  Outside, four floors below, the boys had resumed playing: their shouts accompanied the game of soccer they were playing with a ball cobbled together out of rags and newspapers.

  “You’re going to have to tell us about your relations with the Calise woman. The truth this time: not the usual claptrap.”

  Nunzia blinked her eyes. The firm tone, the deep voice, and most of all, those queer, icy green eyes unsettled her. Maione took the broom and propped it in the corner.

  “What do you want me to tell you, Commissa’? She was one of the tenants here. I told you before, my little girl liked spending time with her; it was convenient for me to have someone keep an eye on her while I worked. Then, in the evening . . .”

  “ . . . you’d come up to get her, yes, you told me that before. And would you pay her, for watching your girl?”

  Nunzia emitted a nervous little laugh.

  “No, Commissa’, how could I pay her? Here, aside from the little one-room place on the ground floor and a few pennies every month, I don’t get a cent; we have to struggle to make ends meet. There was no way I could have paid Donna Carmela.”

  “So money never changed hands between the two of you?”

  A brief hesitation. Her eyes darted from right to left.

  “No, I already told you. What money are you taking about?”

  Ricciardi sat in silence. He went on staring the woman in the eye. Maione stood next to her chair, towering over her. On the windowsill, there was a fluttering of wings. A pigeon perhaps.

  After nearly a minute, Ricciardi spoke again.

  “What kind of person was she, the Calise woman? You knew her well, better than anyone else did. Maione here has asked around, and it seems that no one had any contact with her at all—the usual story. But you saw her every day. Did she have a family? What were her habits? Tell me all about her.”

  As Nunzia felt the viselike grip relax, she was visibly relieved. She decided to show herself to be as cooperative as possible. She shifted in the chair, causing the wood to creak loudly as she moved her enormous posterior.

  “She was a saint, Donna Carmela. That’s what I told you the other day and I’ll say it again now, and anyone who says otherwise doesn’t deserve to go on living. I swear it on the head of my poor sick girl, on her very soul, innocent angel that she is.”

  “Sure, a saint and an angel, I get it. Which would make this a little patch of heaven. Tell me about the Calise woman’s life, and kindly refrain from changing the subject.”

  “Well, she didn’t have any family in Naples. She wasn’t married, and she never mentioned any brothers or sisters. She was from some small town, I don’t even know the name. Once or twice a girl came here. Donna Carmela told me that she was a distant relation, but then I never saw her again. She never even told me the girl’s name. She had a gift, this ability to foretell the future, and she used it to help people. She did so much good.”

  Maione broke in.

  “And all this good she did for her fellow man, she did it free of charge, is that right? Out of the goodness of her heart.”

  Petrone looked up at the brigadier, offense showing in her eyes.

  “What harm was there if people chose to give her a small gift out of gratitude? She never asked for money; she’d say, if you want to give me a token of appreciation, I thank you for it. People were satisfied with that arrangement.”

  Ricciardi raised an eyebrow and looked around the room.

  “And just what did she do with these gifts? This place hardly seems luxurious to me. What did she do with the money?”

  “How am I supposed to know, Commissa’? It’s not like I could read Donna Carmela’s mind.”

  “You couldn’t read her mind, that’s fine, but you knew what she thought and what she felt, you told us that yourself. Or at least, your daughter did. So I’d imagine a little something filtered back to you, didn’t it?”

  The woman sat up straight in her chair.

  “No, never, Commissa’. Perish the thought. I loved Donna Carmela. Per senza niente. No strings attached.”

  Ricciardi and Maione looked at each other. This was going nowhere. The commissario sighed and once again fixed his transparent gaze on Nunzia, looking her in the eye.

  “Petrone, let’s be perfectly clear. We have all the evidence we need to prove that you were doing business with the deceased. We know that she not only read cards, but was also a loan shark. And that she gave you money.”

  This time it was the woman’s turn to sit in silence, caught once again in the grip like a vise.

  After what seemed like an endless pause, Nunzia spoke in a low, hard voice, meeting Ricciardi’s eyes.

  “No proof. You got no proof. Talk. It’s all just empty talk.”

  Without taking his eyes off her, Ricciardi nodded a signal to Maione, who dropped the little bundle he’d found under the mattress onto the tabletop. Written on the bundle was one word: Nunzia.

  Attilio Romor knew he wasn’t particularly bright and could often be distracted. But he knew he truly excelled in the few areas he was competent in. One of those areas, the most important, was women.

  When he could have possessed Emma, he’d made her wait, letting her desire swell within her. Gradually dismantling all her self-confidence, methodically testing her resistance, sapping her will, until she was finally putty in his hands.

  A hundred, a thousand times he had read slavish devotion in her gaze, had felt the irresistible yearning grow within her, the desire to become his possession, something he owned. By now he knew with absolute certainty that he had become the center of her world, that he was the only reason she woke up in the morning. He couldn’t be wrong about this. No, not at all.

  As he went on carefully combing his pomaded hair, he smiled at the image that he saw reflected in the mirror; Emma would soon beg him to find a way for them to be together forever. She would provide him with prosperity, comfort, and finally, revenge. All he had to do was play his cards right, and wait.

  XXX

  Filomena walked uphill from the Via Toledo in the direction of the Vico del Fico. She had her shawl wrapped over her head, downcast eyes, and her face covered as usua
l. She walked briskly, skirting close to the walls.

  The wide overcoat concealed her shape. Old shoes, an ankle-length skirt.

  The usual masquerade, her suit of armor to protect her from the eyes of her predators: if you lack claws, hide.

  She raised her head for just an instant as she came up to the last few yards of pavement separating her from the Via Toledo, and there he was, loitering at the corner: Don Luigi Costanzo, the picture of elegance as always in his light-colored suit, his hat pushed back on his forehead to reveal his swarthy brow, his mustache. Leaning back, shoulders resting against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other at his side, holding a cigarette.

  In the distance, Filomena saw two construction workers walk by, bowing so low before the guappo as they passed that they were practically crawling on the ground. Fear and power. She didn’t want to be afraid anymore.

  As she slowed her pace, she thought of Gaetano. He’d been at the construction site for two hours already, carrying bucketfuls of gravel, balancing his way across wooden planks perched sixty feet above the street. She trembled at the thought of the risks he took, but work was work and in those difficult times, one didn’t have a choice. She felt a surge of anger that sprang from her frustration at having to see her son, still just a little boy, being forced to fight for scraps of food.

  As she walked with her eyes on the ground, she regretted not being the whore they said she was. They would have lived better, she and her son. Perhaps in luxury, the luxury that came with a lover. She’d be respected, too. Money brings respect. She’d no longer be a whore; she could be a lady instead, with silk dresses and a fashionable haircut. Perhaps even a house to live in. Warm blankets to ward off the cold. Real mattresses. And Gaetano, smart boy that he was, could go to school.

  How many nights, when the wind rattled the door, trying to make its way into the basso, or the heat almost suffocated them and rats scurried past, the masters of the vicolo, had she choked back her doubts and her tears?

  But some people are born to do that sort of thing. She, on the other hand, had been born with a beauty that made it impossible for other people to believe that she lived only to care for her son, to make ends meet, and to hold on to the memory of a husband carried away by a coughing fit and a burst of blood.

  She had almost come to where Don Luigi was standing. He saw her, flicked away his cigarette, and took a step forward to bar the path. The usual confident smile, the same piercing eyes.

  “There you are, Filome’. How are you? Did you miss me? I was out of town a few days for business, in Sorrento. But I thought about you the whole time I was gone, you, the most beautiful girl in all Naples. So, have you given it some thought? I’ll come see you. Tonight. Send the boy out to sleep in the street; after all, as you can see, the cold weather is gone. Spring is here.”

  Filomena had slowed to a halt. She held her head low, gripping the shawl that covered her face. Time stood still.

  Annoyed that her reply was slow in coming, Don Luigi reached out suddenly and jerked the shawl off her face.

  “Look me in the eye, why don’t you, when I’m talking to you.”

  Filomena lifted her head and stared straight at him, tears flooding her eyes. The guappo’s smile froze on his lips and he took a step back, as if he’d just been slapped in the face. His shoulders collided with the wall; his hat fell to the pavement and rolled a short distance downhill. He lifted one trembling hand to his mouth and uttered a wail, the sound a frightened woman might make. His power was gone; fear had just moved house.

  Filomena slowly drew her shawl back over her head and continued on her way. A young man walked behind her and looked curiously at Don Luigi, still shrinking back against the wall, one hand covering his mouth.

  He didn’t bow.

  Ricciardi and Maione watched Nunzia cry, waiting patiently for her to finish. In their line of work it was common for people to break down in tears.

  When confronted with the ragged bundle that had been found underneath Carmela’s mattress, the porter woman had been, in her own way, a spectacle to behold. At first, there was only a faint trembling of the lip, which then spread to her shoulders. Then a tiny whine, almost a whistle, like a far-off train. When enough pressure had built up inside her, as in an overheating boiler, she threw herself face-first onto the table, racked by sobs, her skin covered with bright red splotches. Beneath her, the chair creaked in helpless despair.

  The two policemen looked at each other and waited for the rainstorm to end.

  Sniffing, the woman raised her head from the table. She looked at Maione, hoping for a handkerchief, a friendly hand, or at least a look of compassion, but he just stared at her, expressionless. So she shifted her gaze to Ricciardi, meeting those green-glass eyes in which she felt as though she were drowning.

  “She gave me a little help, sometimes, Donna Carmela did. She loved my Antonietta, the poor child. And she’d give her a little present now and then, just a trifle—pennies for candy.”

  Maione took the wad of cash from his other pocket.

  “Well, mamma mia, that daughter of yours sure eats a lot of candy! Guess that’s why she’s such a little roly-poly. Looky here, ten, twenty, fifty . . . one hundred thirty lire. How much candy is that, two cartloads?”

  The woman glanced around her, her narrowed eyes seeking help. She’d walked into a trap and she knew it, but she wasn’t ready to give up the fight.

  Ricciardi sat waiting, as patient as a spider at the center of its web. It was only a matter of time. Soon they’d have Nunzia with her back to the wall, and that’s when she’d lift the veil on another part of the story. He’d never thought for a second that she was responsible for the old woman’s murder; if anything, now that he knew she’d been giving the porter woman money, he was all the more certain that it hadn’t been Nunzia. Money: a strong motive, both to kill and to mourn. This woman’s grief was genuine. She’d suffered a terrible loss.

  From her corner, the old woman with the broken neck croaked out her proverb about accounts due and accounts payable. In his mind Ricciardi asked her: Did the person who killed you owe you money? Was he or she angry, desperate, offended? Or perhaps in love? As hideous as she’d been, deformed by her arthritis, she’d been able to stir such powerful emotions in someone as to be killed the way she was killed, murdered with such ferocity.

  Ricciardi had always thought that hunger and love, or at least perversions of these two powerful drives, were at the root of most crimes. He could sense their presence in the air, around the dead people who called out for justice, and around the hatred of the living who survived them. Which had been behind the terrible blows that had ravaged Carmela Calise: hunger, or love? Or possibly both?

  Nunzia straightened her back, once again assuming a proud expression. The chair beneath her creaked briefly.

  “Who said the money was for me? A person can write whatever they want on a handkerchief. If you ask me, you don’t have a scrap of evidence and you’re just going around looking for someone to pin the blame on.”

  This reaction was also a familiar one, both to Ricciardi and Maione. The final whiplash: the last spark of rebellion.

  “Exactly, Petrone. You’re quite right; what a smart woman you are. We have no evidence and we just need someone, anyone, to pin this murder on. Otherwise, what’ll we tell our bosses? All we have in hand is this handkerchief with the money for the candy. So you know what we’re going to do? We’re going to haul you off to jail. We’re going to say you were blackmailing the Calise. And that’s all there is to it.”

  Without changing his tone of voice, without changing his expression.

  “You mean you’d actually have the nerve to do such a thing? You’d have that much nerve? What about my daughter?”

  Ricciardi shrugged.

  “There are excellent orphanages. She’ll be well provided for.”

  Nunzia ran a hand over her face.

  “All right, Commissa’. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
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  XXXI

  It had all started years earlier, five years, perhaps, when her daughter was still a little girl. The old woman, crippled by the pain of arthritis, could no longer take on the small seamstressing jobs that had allowed her to make ends meet in her poverty. One summer evening, as they sat side by side down in the street, seeking refuge from the crushing heat and trading tales of woe, Carmela had told Nunzia that when she was a little girl she’d learned to read tarot cards. Her mother had taught her, and she in turn had learned from her grandmother, and on and on, back through the generations to the earliest mists of time, when the sirens sang on the shoals of Mergellina. She couldn’t remember which of the two of them had first had the idea to devise a nice little con.

  In those days, not far away, there lived the widow of a merchant who was obsessed with her deceased relatives. The local children liked to howl beneath her windows for fun, and one morning she confided to Nunzia—whom she regularly ran into at the vegetable cart—that she would give anything to talk to her husband just one more time. Anything—she’d give anything.

  The two women came to an understanding. Nunzia told the widow that she knew a woman who was capable of telling her anything that those in the great beyond wanted her to know with tarot cards. After many years of listening to her confidences, Nunzia knew the things the woman most wanted to hear, and sure enough, Carmela told her all of them. A little at a time. First five, then seven, and finally ten lire per séance.

  When the widow died, overjoyed to be rejoining the devoted and loving soul of her husband, who had forgiven her for all her betrayals, the respected corporation of Nunzia and Carmela already boasted a dozen or so loyal customers. And word was spreading fast.

  Here’s how it worked. A person would hear about Carmela. They’d show up one day and the old woman would say that she was busy just then and couldn’t find time to see them until the following week. She would take first name, last name, address, and reason for calling: love, health, or money. At that point, Nunzia would swing into action. Thanks to her dense network of porter women, hairdressers who made house calls, and gossipmongering women street vendors, by week’s end she was ready to provide Carmela with all the information she needed to ply her prospective new client with delectable scraps of news from beyond, for five lire apiece.