Vipers (7 page)

“Was. I have to remember to say ‘she always was so beautiful.' Because she's dead now, no? She's dead, Pietro, and I'll never see it again, that light that was inside her.”

There came a strange sobbing sound, a wail from his belly at once high-pitched and deep, that made a shiver go through Ricciardi. The young man standing behind Giuseppe put a hand on his brother's shoulder and whispered:

“Go on, Peppi'. Go on, the commissario is listening.”

Coppola went on.

“As far as I can remember we were always together, me and Rosaria. We fell in love right away, and everyone knew that we would live our lives together. We dreamed of our children, the house we'd build, the things we were going to do. We spent our days immersed in thoughts of our future together. But little by little, as time went on, it became clear that there was a problem, Commissa'. There was a danger that threatened all our dreams. The danger was Rosaria's beauty.”

A clap of thunder rumbled outside, from out over the water.

“Rosaria was beautiful, and she was becoming more beautiful with every day. No one who came through our farms, the merchants who came to buy broccoli, the butchers who brought us their hogs to fatten, could look at her without being tempted to touch. I was sixteen years old and she was fourteen, and I can't tell you how many times the others had to hold me back, to keep me from winding up in prison for stabbing someone. But now I understand that such a beautiful woman can't be born in a place like that. It's not right. Beauty, Commissa', it's something you have to be able to afford.”

A few drops began to pepper the panes of glass.

“Villages like ours always have a master. A rich man, a nobleman, or a violent man who buys the world at gunpoint. That's the kind of man we had: he'd managed to become mayor through the power of fear. He was married, he had lots of children, and plenty more scattered throughout the countryside; he had a soft spot for beautiful women. A real weakness. One day, going by in his carriage, he saw Rosaria walking barefoot down the road, with a basket on her head; she was tattered, starving, filthy. But as always she was incredibly beautiful. That man was old enough to be her father, maybe even her grandfather: he had children much older than her. But he saw her, and he wanted her. And he took her.”

Those last words told the tale of an old wound that had never healed. The man fell silent, and then sighed:

“There was nothing anyone could do. Of course, I could have killed him, and then I would have been dead: and afterward, who would take care of my family? My brother was still a child, and so were my sisters. My mother looked me in the face, begged me on her knees. That's how I lost her, the first time. I didn't see her again for years, that man had sent her far away from his wife. He'd lost his senses too: Rosaria's beauty is like the
vino novello
, the light sweet wine that, when the weather is hot, knocks you flat on your back before you know what's happened. Was. It was like the
vino novello
.”

He seemed beaten by his inability to come to terms with Viper's death.

“I found out that she'd had a baby, a son. That's when I realized that I'd lost her for good. That child was the definitive destruction of our dreams, of our afternoons spent dreaming, sitting on the scattered straw under the sun. And that's when I started working hard: there was nothing else left to me.”

Pietro, standing behind his brother, whispered:

“You cared about us, Peppi'. Your family.”

“Yes, I cared about you. And it was for you that I really started working. I bought a horse and a cart, Commissa'. I brought vegetables into the city. I thought to myself: why sell them for pennies to wholesalers, when I could sell them directly? It wasn't easy, they don't let you just bite into their market: they split the districts up among themselves. More than once I found myself with a knife in my face, and I was forced to react. Maybe you know this, Commissa', but when someone doesn't care about his own life, it becomes difficult to reason with him. I didn't kill anyone, but I had no choice but to split a few skulls. But in the end, I won a place for myself.”

Pietro, standing, had a clear surge of pride that Ricciardi didn't miss. The relationship between the two brothers, despite the younger brother's obvious subservience, must have been extremely strong.

“I spent all my days on that cart, I've always liked horses, and that's why I have the nickname I've had since I was a boy. As soon as Pietro here was old enough, we got another cart: and with the money we made we bought another garden, and my sisters started working that one. And then another cart and another garden, until we grew to become what we are today: the biggest fruit and vegetable company in all Vomero.”

Ricciardi listened very closely.

“And Rosaria? When did you see her again?”

The momentary distraction of telling how he'd built his business was swept away like a cloud in the wind, and pain welled back up in the man's face.

“I hadn't heard from her in a couple of years. I'd learned that the bastard who stole her from me met the end he deserved: somebody took a stiletto and gutted him like a fish. Rosaria had left, no one knew where; she'd given the boy to her mother, he still lives with her back in the village. I'd landed a number of important customers—when you deliver to them at home they're willing to pay extra; one of them was the bordello. One day when I was unloading crates, a woman came into the kitchen and said: ‘Say, do you have any good apples like the ones we eat where I come from?' Commissa', you have to believe me: if she hadn't spoken, I'd never have recognized her. She'd always been beautiful, but the girl I was looking at wasn't just beautiful, she was a miracle. Still the voice, that voice, I knew it. And I said: ‘Rosa', is that you?' ”

Overwhelmed by the power of that memory, he was speechless. His brother, embarassed, once again put his hand on his brother's shoulder and he went on.

“She gave me a look, and who could forget that look. And she burst into tears, and ran upstairs. But like I told you before, Commissa', I'm a hardheaded customer; so I gathered my courage and one night I walked in through the front door, climbed the stairs, and sat down to wait. Every so often the Signora would ask me: young man, what, are you waiting for a train? And I would say: no, Signo', I'm waiting for a girl I like, the ones I see here are clearly rejects. Until I looked up at the little balcony where the young ladies parade, and there she was, my Rosaria. And she looks at me, and she doesn't say a word. I get to my feet, I wait until she gives me a sign, I pay what I'm required to pay for an hour, and I go up to her room. For a few minutes, Commissa', we don't say a word: we just look each other in the face. Then, we start sobbing like a couple of fools, and we embrace.”

The rain, which by now was driving, left streaks down the panes like the tracks of tears. The piazza was filling up with people looking up at the sky in bewilderment, using both hands to grip the umbrellas that the wind was trying to tear away.

“Six months went by. I have plenty of money, I don't have bad habits, and the company's doing well. I'd go to see Rosaria every day: I paid for her time. I'd stretch out on the bed with her, and we'd talk; we had so many stories to tell each other. And of course we'd kiss. But not
that
, no, we didn't do that. I wanted to wait.”

Ricciardi thought of the blond hairs on the pillow that had smothered Viper, identical to the hair of the man before him.

“What were you waiting for, Coppola?”

“I had found the love of my life again, Commissa'. The only woman I wanted by my side, the companion I'd chosen when I was still just a child. In your opinion, what else could I have wanted? I'd asked her to marry me. To leave that job, that despicable place, and to come live with me and be the queen of my home, to take the place that was waiting for her.”

“When did you ask her to marry you? And what was her answer?”

Coppola ran a hand through his hair, the color of ripe wheat.

“I asked her many times, over the past few months. We talked it over, we talked it about it a lot. She was always vague, she said that by now everyone knew what work she'd been doing these past few years, that she would have brought me shame, thrown it in my face, that everyone would laugh at us. I told her that for her I'd be willing to move to a new city, that we could move somewhere no one knew us; I'd have taken her son with me, and I'd have raised him as my own. I'd talked her into it, I know that she'd made up her mind to marry me. Just yesterday, she'd asked me for a few more hours before making a definitive decision.”

Ricciardi was listening carefully, attentive to every last detail.

“So you're saying that she had not yet given her answer. And what was your last conversation like? Did you argue?”

Giuseppe replied with great vehemence:

“No, absolutely not! She kissed me tenderly and told me: don't you worry. Come back tomorrow, and I'll tell you what I've decided. But she was smiling, and I knew her very well: she'd decided to say yes, I'm telling you. She was going to marry me. That's why they killed her, don't you see? Precisely because she had decided to marry me and to leave that vile place!”

He slumped back in his chair, overwrought, sobbing uncontrollably, both hands pressed to his face. His brother, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, turned to Ricciardi:

“My brother is innocent, Commissa'. He'd never have lifted a finger against Rosaria. When she died, he died too; he'll never have a wife now, never have a son or a future. It's up to us, up to his family, to stand by him now.”

Ricciardi rose to his feet.

“All the same, I have to ask that you remain at our disposal and that you not leave the city without our authorization. For my part, I can only promise you that we will do our utmost, let me reiterate, our utmost, to make sure that the person murdered this young woman doesn't get away with it.”

Giuseppe stood up, still sobbing. His brother accompanied him to the door, his arms wrapped around him. Ricciardi was touched by that immense and desperate affection.

“One last thing, Coppola: you said that you've had a nickname, ever since you were a boy. What nickname?”

Giuseppe seemed incapable of answering for himself, and so it was his brother who stopped at the door and, half-turning to speak to Ricciardi, said:

“We're a family that has always relied on horses, Commissa'. Everyone calls my brother Peppe' a Frusta—Joey the Whip.”

T
he sudden rain caught Livia off guard. The night before she'd asked her housekeeper to put out a light flower-patterned dress, the skirt and jacket a color that contrasted nicely with her hair, bobbed short as was the fashion; but now that the weather smacked more of autumn than spring, it struck her as totally inappropriate.

Not that she really felt much like going out at all, to tell the truth. Perhaps it would be better just to stay home and read a good book, to seek distraction without going in search of company or noise in a smoky café.

She walked past the mirror and looked at herself: the silk dressing gown wrapped around her ample breasts and shapely hips. The food was just too good in that city: she wasn't worried, at least not yet, but she'd have to be careful; otherwise she'd become fat and ugly, and she'd no longer have any real chance.

Actually, she thought, running her hand through the hair whose cut she was still having a hard time getting used to, that was a fairly remote danger, at least to judge from the bouquets of flowers that arrived every day: men were as interested as they had always been in her. Married or single, soldiers or noblemen, government functionaries or Fascist
gerarchi
, men continued to proffer their chivalrous service to a woman who was certainly the most alluring of all the women who traveled in the best circles. But that mattered little to her. Very little.

Why are you here, Livia Lucani, widow of the tenor Vezzi? she asked herself as she looked into the mirror. Shouldn't you really be in Rome, the center of the world, cultivating important friendships and possibly landing a man of enormous prestige, to whom you can hitch your fortunes? Shouldn't you, like every other woman in your condition, be thinking about your future in these difficult times?

For that matter, the increasingly infrequent phone conversations with her girlfriends in the capital gave her a picture of things that struck her, from a distance, as intolerable. The race to get close to the new potentates, vulgar self-important individuals who shamelessly ventured into the realm of the ridiculous, was one that took no prisoners. To join the competition with dozens of silly geese to win her way into the bed of some drooling Fascist was certainly not the most appealing of prospects.

In that case, what is it you want? How do you picture your life, Livia Lucani, the widow Vezzi, in a few years, when your charms are no longer quite so commanding, when men stop hanging on your every single word?

She picked up a silver hairbrush and lazily began brushing her hair.

The answer to her question materialized in the image of a pair of green eyes, clear as glass, watching her feverishly from the shadows.

Ricciardi.

He was the reason she'd come to this city; he was the objective she was aiming at, the goal she aimed to achieve, the summit she had to scale, the harbor at which she hoped to arrive.

She couldn't say why that man—not nearly as good-looking as so many others, less powerful, less wealthy than the men she could have had with a snap of her fingers—had captured her heart. But the thought of him caused her stomach to twist in a way it never had before, and would certainly never again. And she'd never be able to accept the idea that she couldn't have him.

The last few months hadn't been easy. Since Christmas he had been trying to avoid any situation in which he was likely to run into her, and when they did come face to face, he looked at the floor. Obviously, something had happened.