Vipers (30 page)

And there's a shepherd from Avellino who cursed at the dedication of a statue of Old Bull Head, as they call the Duce.

And others, who have thoughts that now constitute crimes punished by exile in a concentration camp.

Because, you tell the night, that's what we're talking about: a concentration camp. And you're about to be shipped to one of those camps.

Who knows when you said something out loud, who knows what you did and when, within hearing of vigilant ears which hurried off to report. Perhaps it was just the other morning, at Viper's funeral, when you spoke to those four drunken thugs. The good you've done doesn't matter, it doesn't matter who you've been or who you are.

Do you remember the night, Doctor? Do you remember it on the Carso, when the chilly morning sunlight found new corpses strewn on the ground, when the mortar marked time with greater precision than your wristwatch? Perhaps the night was less frightening then.

At least then you knew who the enemy was, and you fought him. Now someone out in the street might perfectly well tip his hat as you go by and then turn around and report you.

Someone's crying softly. Wives, children: at least you don't have that regret. At least you're not leaving anyone behind.

For some reason you find yourself thinking about the dog, Doctor. And you hope that Maione will take care of him, as you had the good sense to ask him to do.

Maione, Ricciardi. Sunshine and people.

God, how you miss your life, Doctor.

Now that they're taking it away.

You think you're close to the water, you can smell it in the air. The air also smells of diesel fuel from ocean liners, and every so often you hear voices calling. The port, probably. So it's going to be a ship that takes you away, along with the high school teacher, the shepherd from Avellino, and the other poor bastards.

For no good reason, you think back on Viper, on her laughter and her beauty, lost now. Seven days ago you were at Il Paradiso, drinking and laughing and playing cards, and she walked past and you blew her a kiss. Too bad about her, and too bad about you.

How you miss it.

How you miss a world you never thought you loved so much.

The night, Doctor.

The night that won't end.

L
ivia sprang into action immediately.

She didn't want to think about the personal implications of what Ricciardi had said, nor did she wish to cultivate hopes that might have to be crushed underfoot as soon as they germinated; but she did sense a new euphoria washing over her.

And after all, she'd told the truth: she liked the doctor. She'd liked him instinctively the first time she'd met him, with Ricciardi, in the aftermath of her husband's murder, and that opinion had been reaffirmed in the few minutes she'd spent with him during that unfortunate episode at Gambrinus.

Livia didn't think of herself as a Fascist, or for that matter as an anti-Fascist. Politics, as she had said on that occasion too, was of no interest to her; anytime she was at a party or at the theater and her companions started arguing about politics, she lost interest and thought about other things. Still, she was convinced that there had to be something wrong if a man like Modo, open-minded, intelligent, and, as Ricciardi said, kind to his fellow man, were to be incarcerated, sent into internal exile, or whatever it was they had in store for him.

She'd taken an envelope, written her own name on it, and inside, in accordance with the instructions that she had been given, she placed a blank sheet of paper. She handed the envelope to her housekeeper and told her where to take it—a nearby apartment house, where she was to give it to the doorman.

Then she went to the mirror: she was greeted by a sight that filled her with horror. She immediately set about fixing her appearance, hardly suspecting that Ricciardi had never before found her so beautiful.

 

Not even half an hour had gone by when she heard her housekeeper knock at the door again. There was a visitor, and the gentleman had declined to give his name.

She found Falco standing by the window, looking down into the street. When she walked into the room, he said without turning around:

“How beautiful springtime can be. Even in the city, the air is fresh and you can sense it. It's the smell of hope, don't you agree?”

Livia sat down in an armchair.

“
Buonasera
, Falco. Thank you for coming immediately; not that I had any doubt you'd be prompt, of course.”

The man bowed his head. He was of average height, well and soberly dressed in a dark double-breasted pin-striped suit; he gave off a faint whiff of lavender. His thinning salt-and-pepper hair was combed back, and he seemed to be freshly shaven.

“Signora, of all the tasks that my job requires of me, your summons is certainly the most welcome. And let me take the opportunity to compliment you on your new hairstyle, which highlights the loveliness of your features.”

Livia, in spite of herself and in spite of the tension she felt, burst out laughing.

“Careful, Falco! I see a bit of gallantry peeking through the chinks in your armor! I'll wind up thinking you're human.”

Falco sat down across from her.

“At last, I'm tempted to say. It doesn't happen often, sadly, that anyone takes us for human. In any case, to what do I owe the invitation?”

Livia waved her forefinger:

“I should scold you, though: you don't seem to be worried in the slightest, in spite of the fact that this is the first time we're meeting at my request. I might have needed you for some very ugly reason, no?”

The man shook his head.

“The last report was from the day before yesterday, and you came home by car without any problems. At the very worst, you might have been feeling uneasy, but nothing serious. Am I wrong?”

Livia changed demeanor, her face darkening.

“I don't like to be reminded of the fact that I'm constantly being watched. Nor is it particularly nice of you to remind me.”

“You're quite right. But it's also true that I take special care of you, and I only wanted to reassure you: nothing bad can happen to you, as long as we discreetly watch over your well-being.”

Unfortunately that's not true, Livia thought. But she said:

“Then you must know that I received a visitor today.”

Falco stood up again, went to the window, and looked out.

“Yes, you received a visitor. I was informed by the same person who told me about your invitation. I hope that the person who came to call on you here didn't bother you in any way.”

She replied in a cutting voice:

“I continue to feel that these matters are none of your business, Falco. And they're none of the business of the person who asked you to watch over me. The person who came to see me, and let me add that I was very happy to see him, brought a matter to my attention that I feel I need to discuss with you, and urgently. That's why I summoned you here.”

Falco continued to look out the window, saying nothing. Then he said:

“As you think best, Signora. I'm here to listen and, if I can, to obey your every wish.”

Livia took a deep breath.

“I have the idea, Falco, that you already know everything I'm about to tell you. If you want to hear it explicitly, then I'm asking you to help free Dr. Bruno Modo, whom you're holding for no good reason in some location you know well.”

Falco turned to look at her.

“All right then, Signora, let us speak in terms of pure conjecture. Let us say that I know the person you mention, and let us suppose that I know that he is under arrest and being held in a place familiar to me: how can you be so certain that there is no justification for it? Don't you think there might be reasons, and important ones, why this has happened?”

The woman puffed out her cheeks:

“Please, Falco. We both know perfectly well what the reasons are. My friend, my visitor, told me everything, and I trust him. Blindly.”

“You trust him. Blindly. So much so that you moved here from Rome for his sake, in order to pursue him with no thought for your pride. So much so that you allow him to be utterly unfeeling about the pain he's causing you.”

Livia leapt to her feet, furious. The feline impression that she always gave, in the elastic gracefulness of her movements, was accentuated by her anger.

“I ought to throw you out of here,” she hissed, “and put in a phone call to Rome immediately, telling them loud and clear what you've just dared to say to me. Don't you ever dare say such a thing again, understood? Never again!”

The man blinked.

“Forgive me. I beg you to forgive me. It's hardly professional to say so, but I believe that a person like you doesn't deserve to suffer, with the life you've had. And for the woman that you are.”

Livia calmed herself, and sat back down.

“In that case, you'll understand that the fact that I've called you, instead of calling Rome directly, shows how much I trust in your sensibility as a man.”

“Yes, and I thank you for that. Moreover, I must admit that I admire the work that the doctor does, the way he puts his heart into helping people. This is still my city, after all. That's the reason we've turned a blind eye to certain of his behaviors and to a great many statements he never abstained from making in public. But this time matters have gone, as you know, well over our heads.”

Livia leaned forward.

“I know that, Falco. But perhaps it's not too late to do something about it. Is it true that the transfer is scheduled for Sunday morning?”

The man stared at her without answering. Then he said:

“I have no idea how your friend came by this information, which even I don't have. But yes, it's possible. The ship. . . the conveyance that is scheduled to transfer the prisoners could arrive at any time between tomorrow and Sunday, in fact.”

“In that case, we only have a few hours. I have to know whether I can count on you, Falco: otherwise I'll have to call Rome directly; and that is something I'd rather not do. It would mean having to explain too many things, and I would have to draw on credit that may not even be available to me. Dolls like me, as you know, are never forgiven for talking about serious matters.”

“You are no doll, Signora. You are a wonderful person, endowed with an incredible talent: I heard you sing, once upon a time, and I know just how incredible.”

This time it was Livia's turn to be surprised:

“Really? And when was that? I haven't sung since . . .”

“. . . since the tragic death of your son, yes. But in another life, I allowed myself to indulge in the pleasures of the opera house. And it was my good fortune to see you.”

There followed a silence heavy with memories. Then she said:

“In that case, in the name of the pleasure that you had that day and in the name of . . . this strange, secret friendship of ours, if you can help me, please help me. I'm begging you.”

Falco fell into a thoughtful silence.

“All right. I don't know what effect this may have: I assure you that we must deal with people who can have very unpredictable reactions. And I don't even know whether there is any likelihood of success: but we'll try. With the greatest goodwill, we'll try.”

“I thank you, Falco. I thank you in advance. I understand that it isn't easy, and I understand how complex the work you do must be. How do you intend to go about it?”

“I don't know yet. I'll have to try to identify the proper contacts, and I have to come up with a reason why it woud be more costly to detain the doctor than to free him. Possibly the pigheadedness of your friend and his brigadier, their continued insistence, will be considered valid justifications. I couldn't say. You wait to hear from me—and I assure you that you will—but not for at least twenty-four hours. And in the meanwhile, take it from me: don't do anything. Do you promise?”

Livia looked at him; now she would have to decide whether or not to trust that man. She decided to do it.

“All right then. I'll wait for you here, at home. And I'll wait for you to tell me where I can go to collect the doctor. After that, you only need tell me what I can do to repay you for this immense favor that you're doing.”

Falco picked up the leather portfolio and hat that he'd set down on a counter.

“If I do manage to pull this off, and believe me, it will be quite a challenge, then I will ask you to sing for me. Just once.”

R
icciardi didn't like telephones.

He'd never managed to become comfortable with that instrument of communication, out of which came a metallic and inexpressive voice that made it impossible to capture the half-tones, the hesitations, and most important, the look in the eye that allowed him to understand what was being hidden behind the words. And then, there was the awareness that all conversations could be heard by the switchboard operators, who theoretically only connected the lines by inserting a plug into a socket but who could actually break in at will, which seemed to him to rob all conversations of confidentiality.

But at times the telephone was necessary: he was relieved when he got Livia's call. She had told him in a whisper that “the letter has been delivered” and that “we can only wait for an answer.” She had assured him that he “would be the first to hear” and that she would contact him via “a visit from her chauffeur” to police headquarters, but no sooner than Saturday night. In the meanwhile, “there was no need for them to talk to or see each other.”

The woman's voice seemed not only metallic, but also flat and expressionless. He'd been surprised and chagrined at how distant she'd seemed: it was clear that the wound he'd inflicted was still open, though she had given him the help he had asked for.

Ricciardi wondered whether her decision to leave the city, which Livia had mentioned in the same conversation in which they'd discussed Modo, was definitive. And he wondered why it gave him such a pang of sadness.