The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (17 page)

In another way, too, the thought of sex made her cringe. That night, Gaetano had reached out for her, and she had pretended to be asleep. Again. She wondered how long she could tough it out with little excuses and postponements.

As she walked to the edge of the pool, holding Riccardo's hand, she thought back to the day, months ago, when she had finally decided to be straight with herself and admit it: she could no longer stand being around her husband and son. At first it had been a relief, in fact, it had even been amusing: to speak in the same tone of voice as ever, to say the usual things; but to know that she wished she were a thousand miles away.

Then her awareness had become keener, and she'd started to think of their home as a prison cell, even the hope of an end to her sentence. And the more her husband lavished kindnesses upon her, the more her son uttered her name, pressing his head against her shoulder, the stronger grew the urge to run, to run far away.

The instructor took Riccardo from her, greeting him fondly and shooting her a long, lingering glance.

Ottavia was one of those full, mature beauties, who might not strike you at first glance but then, the more you see them, become ever more alluring; wavy chestnut hair, cheerful, intelligently ironic eyes of the same color, a sullen mouth, and a soft but lithe body that never failed to attract men, who increased the attention they paid to Riccardo in hopes of getting to know his mother. It had happened with doctors, male nurses, and schoolteachers. She almost didn't notice it anymore, and she'd never felt any urge for another man: all she wanted was freedom, also from that vague sense of guilt that followed her everywhere.

The attraction she felt for Palma, the new commissario, was entirely unprecedented, and she didn't know what to do about it. She kept the feeling to herself, without encouraging it except as a fantasy, and for the moment she preferred to believe that it was nothing more than evidence that she actually was still alive.

Riccardo stepped into the water while she went to sit on the bleachers, along with the other parents. The swim lesson had been recommended by the boy's pediatrician, who'd said that regular physical activity was a necessity. Riccardo was happy to do it, was always eager to go to the pool, and aside from the problems in the locker room, Ottavia thought it did him good. Moreover, her son had liked the water ever since he'd been a little boy; once immersed, his mood improved perceptibly.

She watched him as he launched into a breaststroke, in the lane set aside for his lesson. Next to her, two mothers chatted about their hairdressers, mine is good and yours is good, mine is cute and yours is cute, mine does feet, too, mine works really fast. It was hot, the smell of chlorine made her vaguely nauseous. Fifteen minutes passed.

At a certain point the rhythm of Riccardo's breathing changed so that it was no longer in sync with his strokes, and he breathed in a mouthful of water. She noticed it immediately, glimpsing for an instant an expression of terror in her son's eyes, though he made no noise and didn't call for help. It lasted no longer than a couple of seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. The instructor was showing a little girl in the next lane over how to kick her feet, while the other boy swimming in Riccardo's lane was a good half a lap behind him and wouldn't get there in time to realize that the boy was in trouble. The women beside her went on chatting about shopping.

For a brief moment the image of a life free of commitment and suffering, of interminable and useless visits to doctors, of fruitless conversations with special ed teachers, went through Ottavia's mind. For a moment, the image of the end of the only reason she and Gaetano were still together and so then the image of her rebirth as a woman went through Ottavia's mind. For a moment, the image of a new world, in which she would be free of that vague sense of guilt at not being a good mother, a sense of guilt that was with her every single instant of her life, went through Ottavia's mind.

Then, for a moment, the image of a nurse placing in her arms that tiny fragment of life that was her son went through Ottavia's mind.

And so she rose to her feet and let out a hoarse shout.

 

“Signora, believe me, I have no idea how it could have happened. As you know, Adelia wasn't here today . . .”

“Don't worry about it, really, these are things that . . .”

“No, signora, it worries me and then some, you know that we're always very careful about watching the kids.”

“I insist, it's not important, the only thing that matters is that I noticed in time.”

“I'll say it again, Riccardo, as you know, is one of our dearest boys. Just the thought that we might have somehow failed to pay adequate attention, especially to him . . .”

“Look, forget about it. As you can see, it all ended for the best. He only drank a little water. You saw—he didn't even want to get out of the pool, he's always so happy when he's here.”

“Then I can count on the fact that . . . in other words, we won't give it another thought, right? I can assure you that, starting next time, once Adelia is back, I myself am going to work right next to this little man; and maybe I can teach him to do the butterfly. He's such a good swimmer . . . I can't believe it happened to him of all the kids . . .”

“On the contrary, I should thank you, you went straight to him. You're always so kind.”

“Really, I can't offer you anything? A cup of coffee, a glass of juice, nothing? What can I do to earn your forgiveness?”

“Nothing at all, thanks. Listen, let's just not say anything about this to my husband, when he brings Riccardo on Wednesday. You know, he's very anxious, it might occur to him that this is somehow dangerous, he might decide to stop bringing him. But Riccardo is always so happy to come. I mean, you know, of course that he doesn't talk, but I see it.”

“Don't worry, signora. No one will know a thing, that's the last thing I want, it's hardly in my own interest. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

 

In the car, during the drive home, feeling the pressure of Riccardo's head on her shoulder, Ottavia wept.

She wept the whole way.

W
hen Lojacono and Aragona reached the area near the apartment building, which sat at the intersection of Piazza Vittoria and Via Caracciolo, the wind had died down; the waves were no longer crashing onto the street and sea spray had stopped whirling through the air above the rocks, but heavy black clouds were still gathering in the sky.

Aragona sniffed the air like a bloodhound and said: “Loja', I think we're in for a good drenching. We should have taken the car.”

“I'd prefer wet and alive to dry and dead, thanks, I'm happy to walk. The obsession you have with driving everywhere in this city is incomprehensible: it must be three quarters of a mile to the station house, maybe not even. And after all, you're just a kid.”

The officer nodded his head with conviction: “And I'd like to live to be an old man. Let me remind you that those three quarters of a mile are all uphill. Anyway, here's the concierge: a dying breed, with what they cost.”

In the building's atrium was a concierge's booth in dark wood, which clearly dated back to before the war; but these were deluxe accommodations, and had been since their construction, in the late eighteenth century—no economic crisis had ever affected this apartment building. Inside the booth was a counter, behind which a door led into the concierge's residence, into the kitchen to be exact, where they could see a man busy making a pot of espresso.

In the street, a squad car from headquarters was still parked, with two bored cops sitting inside. No sign of journalists; they'd clearly realized that there would be no more footage to shoot and no more information to gather at that address about the murder of Signora Festa.

They tapped on the glass window of the booth. The man inside turned around and gestured for them to wait, pointing to the espresso pot as if to explain the delay.

Aragona and Lojacono exchanged a disconsolate glance. The concierge stuck his head out: “Gentlemen, can I offer you a cup of espresso? Since this morning it's been a nightmare here, what with the police and the press; I don't know if you heard, there's been a terrible accident . . .”

Aragona grinned, sweeping off his glasses—as usual—as if he were on TV: “And you're still not done, because we are in fact two cops: Corporal Marco Aragona, and Lieutenant Lojacono, here, from the Pizzofalcone precinct house. And you would be Signor . . .”

“Mascolo, Pasquale Mascolo, at your service. Forgive me, I certainly didn't mean to suggest that you've been causing an inconvenience, it's just that it's been sheer mayhem since this morning.”

Lojacono nodded: “I can easily imagine. And in any case, it wasn't an accident, it was a murder. Which is why, Signor Mascolo, we need to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.”

The man, reassured by the lieutenant's jovial tone, said: “I just made a cup of coffee, as I was telling you. Why don't you come on in and I'll pour you a cup so we don't have to stand out there in the wind.”

Mascolo's kitchen was little more than a cubbyhole, but it was clean and welcoming; the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and the light that slanted in from the front entrance, illuminating the few well-loved pieces of furniture, gave the room an air of times gone by. Mascolo himself fit in perfectly: an elderly man, well over seventy, with short white hair, a pair of suspenders holding up a pair of dark pinstripe trousers, a white shirt with a black tie, and a navy blue jacket. He looked as if he'd walked out of a play by Eduardo De Filippo, so much so that Lojacono, who had been an impassioned fan of De Filippo in his youth and had watched all his plays and movies on TV, felt a kind of déjà vu.

“Poor signora, I still can't believe it. I knew her for all those years, from when my wife was still alive; I saw her move into this building as a newlywed, and now I've seen her leave in a casket. So sad. How much sugar?”

Aragona had pulled out his notebook.

“Two and a half, thank you. When do you go on and off duty, Signor Mascolo?”

“I open the doors at seven in the morning and I lock them at eight at night. Between three and four in the afternoon I take a little rest, but I don't close the front doors, just this door that opens into the booth.”

Lojacono shot Aragona a look: “You like your coffee bitter, eh? Just one spoonful for me, thanks. And the day before yesterday, did you see the signora go out, Signor Mascolo?”

“No, I didn't. Oh lord, she could have gone out and come back at some point when I wasn't here, I do the mail, the garbage—I mean I have chores to do, some of the time. And then, like I told you, from three to four I'm not watching the door. But I certainly didn't see her, I would have noticed.”

Aragona sipped his coffee with a slurp so annoying that Lojacono thought it might be criminally actionable. He shot him a glare, which the young man missed entirely.

“Why do you say you would have noticed?”

“The signora didn't go out often. Let's even say she almost never went out. Occasionally the notary's car would come to pick her up, but it always brought her back early. She was always kind, if reserved; perhaps she just didn't like being out in the world.”

Aragona had poured himself another demitasse of espresso, and he was mixing three teaspoons of sugar into the black liquid.

“One more thing: what about the notary? Did he stay home with her?”

Mascolo gave a small laugh: “No, the notary leads, let's say, a very different life. He leaves early in the morning, and I almost never see him come home while I'm still at my post, even if I lock up later than usual for some reason. Altogether, in the last year, I've seen maybe him a couple of times. At the most.”

Lojacono forced himself to think, distracted though he was by Aragona, who was slurping his espresso with gusto.

“Let's go back to the day before yesterday. Did someone come looking for Signora Festa? Did anyone, I don't know, ring the buzzer, ask about her . . .”

“No, Dotto'. At least, not while I was here. And then, the day before yesterday there was that windstorm, the water washed up right to the lobby, I broke my back getting the place dry. There was practically no one out on the street. That's just what I was saying to poor Signora Festa, that we hadn't seen weather like this in years. The seasons are changing, the climate . . .”

Lojacono interrupted, raising one hand: “Hold on, didn't you say that you hadn't seen the signora the day before yesterday? When did you talk to her?”

“You asked me if I'd seen her go out,” Mascolo clarified, his mien serious, “and I'll say it again: no, I didn't see her go out. But I did see her in her apartment, that morning. She had called me, the way all the tenants do if they need little repairs or have problems in their apartments. The roller blinds in the smaller bathroom were stuck because the clasp of the hoist strap was rusted. I cleaned it, I oiled it, and I closed the shutter, like the signora asked me to.”

Aragona asked: “And how did she seem to you? Was she on edge, worried about anything, angry, sad . . .”

“No, no. She was in her dressing gown, she had a cloth in her hand, she was cleaning those glass balls with the snow inside that she collected,
mamma mia
, she had so many. She actually apologized for bothering me, she apologized to
me
, if you can believe it. She said that she was afraid that such strong winds might push some window open, and she wanted to keep the blinds closed. She gave me a twenty-euro tip. She was so generous, poor signora. She seemed untroubled, as usual. Ah, the housekeeper, Mayya, was there, and she said to me: be careful, don't get the floor messy. As if I was going in the bathroom to take a shower.”

Aragona kept pushing: “And while you were there, did anyone else come in? Did she get any phone calls? How long were you there, and what time was it? Try to remember, this is important.”