Blood Curse Read online

  Maione shook his head, awestruck.

  “No doubt about it—people really are stupid. How could anyone be so gullible? Calise was a fraud. She’d gather information about people, the way I’m doing right now with you, and then tell people their present and their future. And she took anyone willing to listen for all the money she could squeeze out of them.”

  Bambinella looked down at her lacquered fingernails with a sigh.

  “Brigadie’, sometimes people just need something to believe in. Don’t you ever feel that need yourself?”

  Maione looked out the window, where the countryside was gradually turning to greet the spring. The evening carried chirping cicadas in its arms and you could hear the tall grass rustling. Believe in something? He immediately thought of Lucia, laughing in the sunshine on the rocky beach at Mergellina, twenty-five years earlier.

  “Sure, Bambine’, I see your point. A person has to believe in something, to make it through this life. But I’m here for another reason. The other night a woman in the Spanish Quarter, on Vico del Fico, was cut, badly. Her face was slashed.”

  “Yes, I know. Filomena la Bella. There’s been a lot of talk about her. The virgin whore.”

  Maione squinted.

  “What do you mean, the virgin whore? What is that supposed to mean?”

  Bambinella giggled, lifting one hand to cover her mouth in an affected manner.

  “It’s just a figure of speech. That’s what I call those women who get a reputation for being a whore without ever doing anything wrong. The fact is that when people gossip, they say just the opposite of the truth. It happens all the time, Brigadie’.”

  “In this case, what’s the truth of the matter?”

  “Well, let me start by saying that everything I’m about to tell you I know through one of my closest girlfriends, who was her late husband’s cousin—because this woman is a widow, in case you didn’t know.”

  Maione nodded his head yes.

  “And she has a twelve-year-old son, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Almost thirteen, I think. A quiet boy, dark-skinned like his father. I saw him a couple of times, when I went with Irma, the cousin I mentioned, to pay a call on them. You can’t imagine they way they looked at the two of us, there in the vicolo,” Bambinella said, giggling again behind her hand. “There was this one old bag looking down at us from right above the basso, dressed in black; she looked like one of the witches of Benevento, with a face that you couldn’t even begin to imagine.”

  Maione remembered Donna Vincenza, with her compressed lips and the hissed insult she spat at Filomena.

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure I can imagine it, trust me. Go on.”

  “Well, the Lord Almighty gave Filomena Russo the gift of beauty. If you’ve ever seen her, even now that her face has been slashed, you know what I’m talking about. She’s the most beautiful woman in Naples, and possibly on earth. That is, she used to be. Poor thing.”

  “What do you mean, poor thing? Because someone slashed her face?”

  “No, Brigadie’: because she was born beautiful. That was the curse of her life. You have to understand that when a woman is that beautiful, it’s best if she’s also born with a whore’s heart. If she has the heart of a whore, then she can enjoy a life of luxury, she and her children, her mother and father, the whole family. She’ll let herself be kept, she’ll show off and conceal that thing she’s got between her legs, lucky her; while the men, miserable shits that they are—no offense meant to you, Brigadie’—get a whiff of her scent and run after her like dogs in the street. But if you’re like Filomena, and you don’t have the heart of a whore, then you just have to live your life in hiding, if you want to live in peace. And no one will let you live in peace anyway.”

  “And just who is it who won’t let her live in peace?”

  Bambinella looked Maione right in the eye, for a moment that seemed to last for a long time.

  “Lately, the guappo, Don Luigi Costanzo. And also the merchant who owns the fabric store where she works. She told us about it the last time we went to see her. One of them was threatening to hurt her son, the other one wanted to turn her out onto the street.”

  Maione clenched his fists. This wasn’t lost on Bambinella, who went on with her story.

  “Of course, now I sincerely doubt anyone will be bothering her anymore.”

  “And in your opinion, who could it have been?”

  The femminiello shook her head.

  “Take it from someone who works with beauty and tortured love: when someone becomes infatuated with a beautiful person, they might kill them, but they’d never disfigure them. It was neither of those two, Brigadie’. I don’t believe it. But I really couldn’t tell you the name of the lunatic who destroyed that splendid beauty.”

  “So why do they call her a whore, if she’s such a respectable woman?”

  “Because women refuse to admit that another woman might be superior to them in some way. They think that if men lose their heads, it must be over a certain something else—not just what they see alone. If you only knew how many times the same thing had happened to me—and continues to happen!”

  Maione stood up and moved toward the door.

  “Thank you, Bambine’. If you find out anything else, please send for me. And stay out of trouble; I don’t want to spend the rest of my life fixing your problems. You’re not my son.”

  Bambinella smiled fetchingly, but with a hint of sadness in her eyes.

  “Sure, Brigadie’, I’ll be a good girl. But there’s something I want to say to you. Beauty can make you lose your head. A beautiful face can do it, but so can a beautiful soul. You have a wonderful family; don’t let yourself get sucked into anything. If you don’t mind my telling you so.”

  Maione stood stock still in the doorway.

  “Well, I do mind. This is strictly a professional matter, as far as I’m concerned. Take care of yourself.”

  And he left and hurried home.

  XXXIV

  The following morning was the fourth since the first gust of new spring air had swept through the narrow lanes just off the waterfront. The air was growing warmer by the hour, overcoats had vanished almost entirely, and straw hats were starting to appear here and there.

  Inside the apartments that now had their windows open, jackets and skirts that had lain forgotten all through the long winter were being brought out of hiding; and people were singing and quarreling loudly, to the greedy delight of the old gossips eavesdropping from their balconies.

  Out on the street, the breeze, fortified with the scent of the sea, was having fun lifting hats off heads and snapping branches. Men and women who for months had walked past each other without so much as a glance now eyed one another intently, exchanging silent messages concealed behind a smile. Slumbering feelings, sluggish from the cold, began to reawaken: attraction, tenderness, envy, and jealousy.

  Along the streets of the city center, where the smell of horse manure had intensified, street vendors hawked their wares with reinvigorated spirit. The air was filled with promises, and among them twirled the invisible springtime.

  The sun was shining, the air was soft and fragrant, and perhaps all was not lost.

  Attilio filled his lungs with the faint breeze that was coming in through his bedroom window. For the first time in days he went back to thinking that he might be able to steer his life in the direction he had hoped.

  Not that things had gone better than usual at the theater the night before; quite the opposite. That damned pompous ass had been, if possible, even more cutting and abusive than was his wont. He had even come up an offensive moniker for his character: the “fop.” Just one more way to undercut him, to belittle his talent. And, as if that weren’t enough, the box remained empty.

  He shuddered at the thought that he might not even be able to take refuge in Emma’s adoring eyes if the audience laughed at him.

  That man had been there at the stage door, come to make him a deal, and
his heart had raced in his chest, in spite of the fact that he had nothing to fear. Still, he’d turned his offer down, contemptuously. Let no one think that Attilio Romor could be bought.

  And yet, that encounter had made him realize something: that there might be another way. And he was determined not to let that opportunity slip through his fingers.

  He stretched his arms, making his pectoral muscles pop underneath his sleeveless T-shirt and suspenders. He shot a dazzling smile at the woman lingering over the laundry she was hanging out on the balcony across the way. Let her enjoy herself too. The sun was shining and the future was bright.

  Ricciardi was reading over the list of the last people to see the Calise woman alive. A message from beyond, written in the dead woman’s own hand. Not the only message he had received from her. ’O Padreterno nun è mercante ca pava ’o sabbato. God Almighty’s not a shopkeeper who pays his debts on Saturday.

  He took his time, studying the shaky handwriting of the names.

  Passarelli: male, muther.

  Colombo, female, new, love.

  Ridolfi, joolery, wife.

  Emma.

  Iodice, pay.

  It had been a quiet day for her. Some of the pages of the black notebook with red trim contained as many as ten names, and the average was six or seven. Perhaps one of those sessions had gone on longer than usual. Perhaps the old woman had read her own fate in the cards.

  Ricciardi loved cold air and would throw open the windows to let the spring breeze in as early as possible. The smell of salt air wafted up from the large market piazza, bringing with it the voices and songs of the new season.

  Maione stood gazing out the window, rapt in thought. That morning he felt a pain inside him, though he couldn’t have said exactly what it was. Bambinella’s words came back to him, stirring a vague sense of remorse. Impressed into his brain was the recent memory of Filomena’s still-bandaged face and her sad smile. When she had found the shaggy-haired brigadier on her doorstep that morning, she had said to him: Brigadie’, you’re making me get used to hearing you say hello. Maione had replied: Then get used to it, Filome’.

  “Maione, what are you doing, dreaming on your feet?”

  “Commissa’, it’s nothing. I just haven’t slept well for the past couple of nights. Maybe because it’s getting warmer. Now we’ll have a lot more work on our hands, same as every year. That’s how it always is in the spring. No?”

  Ricciardi nodded, with a sigh.

  “That’s what experience tells us. Let’s hope for the best. Now then, tell me all about your date.”

  Maione opened his eyes wide and went on the defensive.

  “What date, Commissa’! I just stop by to say hello, to see how she’s doing with the wound. There’s nothing personal between us, for heaven’s sake. I just drop by to see if she needs anything, but I’d never dream of . . .”

  Ricciardi looked at him with a certain intensity.

  “What on earth are you talking about? I mean the chat you had with the Petrone woman to decipher this list. Listen to me, Raffaele: I’m not somebody who pries into other people’s business, except when it’s my duty. But there is one thing I want to say to you: I was there for your . . . that terrible moment for you and your family. I met your wife and your children. I remember Luca. Believe me when I tell you that what you have at home can’t be bought at any store on earth.”

  Maione looked down at the floor.

  “Why would you say such a thing to me, Commissa’? What did I make you think? I’m a lucky man, and I know it. It’s just that ever since . . . since that thing you mentioned, we don’t talk anymore. Me and Lucia. That is to say, it’s not like we don’t talk at all. It’s just that she’s always somewhere else. Even the kids look at her funny. She doesn’t say anything. She just looks straight ahead of her; who knows what she’s looking at.”

  “What about you? Don’t you reach out to her? Don’t you talk to her?”

  Maione smiled sadly.

  “I have, Commissa’. I still do. But it’s like talking to a wall. Sometimes I act like a lunatic, walking around the apartment talking to myself. It’s as if the two of us could only talk to each other through Luca. Luca’s memory. And we never say his name.”

  Ricciardi looked at him.

  “It’s not as if I can tell you how things work in a family. You know I don’t have a family of my own, and I never did, not even as a child. I grew up with my Tata, and I live with her still. I love her, but I can’t call her a family. You know what I think? I think it’s easy to stick together when everything’s going well. The hard thing is when you have to climb over the mountains, and it’s cold out, and the wind is howling. Maybe that’s when everyone should huddle a little closer together, to try to find a little warmth. Take it from someone who lives out in the cold. And who doesn’t have anyone who can give him warmth.”

  Maione stared at Ricciardi in astonishment. He’d never heard him talk so long, and certainly not on topics having to do not with an investigation, but with himself, his life, and his family. Maione knew that he wasn’t married—or, rather, that it was as if Ricciardi were married to his own solitude.

  “Commissario, there are times when I think that the love between me and Lucia died the day my son died. What does she think, that she’s the only one who’s grieving and suffering, just because she was his mamma? That I don’t see him standing in front of me every day, with that smirk on his face, telling me, ‘Ciao, Brigadier Potbelly, what do you expect me to do now, snap you a military salute?’ And that I don’t see him in my arms every time I close my eyes? He’s seven years old and he wants to see my service pistol. There are times when I can’t breathe at all, my heart is aching so bad. But my pain doesn’t matter: all that matters is her grief as a mother.”

  Ricciardi shook his head.

  “I couldn’t say, Raffaele. You might be right. Still, if you ask me, it’s not a contest to see who suffers most, me or you. Sometimes grief and pain can bring people together. Maybe you just need to try to talk a little, at night. I can feel that chill I was telling you about at night, especially. And when it comes . . . I look out the window, and I get some fresh air. I listen to a little music on the radio. And I go to bed, hoping for dreamless sleep.”

  A street organ starting playing in the piazza, two floors beneath his office window. Amapola, dolcissima Amapola. A flock of doves took flight, filling the air with wings. A bit farther off, from the port, came the loud cry of a seagull. Maione looked out to sea and imagined his son. Ricciardi looked out to sea and imagined Enrica.

  “Anyway, if you ever want to talk to someone, I’m right here. Now then, let’s take a look at this list.”

  XXXV

  As he works with his hands, his mind sees it all again: the blood, the body on the floor, the biscuit tin, him rummaging through it, looking for his promissory note among all the others, the note he had signed when he still believed in his dream.

  He works with his hands, kneading, rolling out, gently slapping the dough, his heart filled with anguish, the real significance of things. Of his children, his wife, his mother, my poor little old darling mother. His dishonor, the rumors, the heads turning as they walk past.

  As he works with his hands, only with his hands, the heat of the oven scorches the hairs on his arms, the fire crackles and mutters promises of hell; but not his eyes, his eyes scurry from the dining room to the front door, to the tops of the hats going by in the street, to the glances of people out walking in the air of rebirth.

  If only this spring had never come. If only he’d never given up his pushcart.

  Madonna mia, so much blood. How could there be so much blood in such a tiny body? The carpet—the carpet had turned another color. I called out to her, she didn’t answer. Twice. Madonna mia, help me if you can.

  He remembers when he was little and a man from the vicolo was sent to prison for stealing who knows what. Then he remembers how his Mamma would divide up their meal, already so small, a
nd set part of it aside for the now fatherless family, just as everyone else in the quarter had done. Still, the children were all forbidden to play with the children of the thief. He’d never let that happen to his own children. Never.

  They’d never take him alive. He wouldn’t let them take him.

  He stopped mincing the salted anchovies, reached his hand down under the counter to check the long, razor-sharp blade of the filleting knife.

  Today would be the day. He could feel it in his bones. But they’d never take him alive.

  Maione had pulled out his notebook and was reading back over his notes.

  “Mamma mia, I can’t make sense of any of it, even though I wrote it all myself. That day, Calise didn’t see anyone in the morning, so there were only five appointments. She told Petrone that she had to go out to take care of some business of her own. Apparently, that wasn’t a common occurrence. Anyway, she was back by lunchtime and she started receiving clients in the early afternoon. I sent for all of them. Perhaps you know some of them, Commissa’? There are people from your part of town. A certain Ridolfi, Pasquale; he can’t come in to headquarters, we’ll have to go see him. He fell down the stairs as he was leaving Calise’s apartment, in fact, that same morning, and now he’s at home with his leg in a cast. You remember those stairs, don’t you, Commissa’? I almost fell down them myself the last time I was there. Luckily they’re so narrow that even if I did fall, I’d’ve stuck fast between the walls. Then there are the others. The first one to come in was Passarelli, Umberto; he lives in Foria. He’s an accountant who works at the Department of Records.”