Maurizio de Giovanni - Blood Curse

A new feeling, perhaps an impulse to protect her womb, dominated her and roiled her in confusion. All the selfishness that had driven her life till now, her relationship with Attilio, her intolerance for the world she had always lived in, had dissolved. She was going to be a mother. It was as if her entire life had been leading up to this one thing; she found herself experiencing everything in a radically different way than she had imagined, and she felt so distant from and so unlike her girlfriends, who had limited themselves to bearing children only to entrust them, as mere necessary annoyances, to hordes of nannies and governesses.

She felt a vague feeling of compassion for Ruggero, in whose overwrought eyes she’d detected genuine pain; but she had convinced herself that he was Calise’s murderer and, for the good of her child, she would have to separate herself from him and his grim fate.

She’d listen to her heart, she decided. She’d make up her mind when she saw Attilio walk on stage with that kingly gait she knew so well. To the theater, then.

For the last performance.

Ricciardi and Antonietta were in the orchestra seats, a little off to the side but still up front, close to the stage. The commissario wanted to make sure the girl could clearly see the faces of both Romor and the Serras; he just hoped that Ruggero had arranged to sit near his wife who, as always, had reserved the box in the first row, the one closest to the stage.

He didn’t really know what he was expecting: a false move, an off-key reaction. He had identified the guilty party, beyond the shadow of a doubt, but the clues he had amassed were just that: clues, not proof.

He was pinning everything on a misstep by the killer, or else solid identification by the only possible eyewitness, Antonietta, even though he was well aware that her mentally impaired status meant she’d never be allowed to testify at trial. But it could be enough to unhinge the killer’s confidence. He’d seen it happen before.

Hunching his head down between his shoulders, he did his best to blend into the dim light of the orchestra seating. As he had entered the auditorium, he had spotted Camarda, Cesarano, and Ardisio, three men from Maione’s team, in plainclothes and strategically deployed. The brigadier himself had taken a second-row seat right below the stage, concealed by the upturned lapel of his overcoat and the brim of his hat. Ricciardi looked up at the box just as Emma was taking her seat, more beautiful than ever, but with eyes that betrayed uncertainty, grief, and weariness. She was alone.

After a few minutes, the commissario glimpsed an indistinct figure standing in the shadows behind her. The professor, he decided. Maione locked eyes with Camarda and darted a glance in that direction; the plainclothesman nodded and left the auditorium. Ricciardi understood that the brigadier was sending him to keep an eye on the door of the box, so he could be in place if things started moving quickly. He knew what he was doing, good old Maione. He really knew what he was doing.

The house lights went down and a round of applause rose up. All the actors were on their marks, both the ones behind the curtain and those in the auditorium. Everyone was ready.

For the last performance.

The play began with an opening monologue by the lead actor. Ricciardi recognized the man who had spoken so rudely to his brother the night before. Even if his attention was focused elsewhere, the commissario perceived the sheer magnetism that the actor emanated, immediately captivating the audience. Antonietta looked straight ahead, continuing to mumble meaningless strings of words. The stage lights lit up the front rows, giving Ricciardi a clear view of both Emma and Ruggero. The woman was gripping the balustrade, her hands white, her face tensed in clear expectation of something; her husband’s face looked like a mask, with the expressionless features of a mannequin.

When the monologue was over, the lead actress made her entrance, an extraordinarily ugly woman of equally remarkable talent. Ricciardi guessed that she must be the lead actor’s sister, given the resemblance between them, and he absentmindedly thought that it must be quite a savings, to have a family-run theater troupe. The audience was delighted: the duet was brilliant, the pace was good and quick, the jokes were dry and salacious; everyone was laughing except for Signor and Signora Serra, the policemen, and Antonietta, dreamily chasing after who knew what visions.

After a while, hard on the heels of the exchange of banter, Romor made his entrance. The main character greeted him with a sarcastic phrase, prompting the audience to break into a thunderous burst of laughter. Ricciardi remembered the actor mentioning how much the man disliked him, and he now saw that he wasn’t overstating the case. In the row in front of him, three young women, showing no regard for their dates, whispered something among themselves and giggled nervously; the man had a following. When silence returned, the actor took a step forward, ready to speak his line; and then something unexpected happened.

Even from backstage, as he was awaiting the moment to make his entrance, Attilio had realized that the front-row box was occupied once again. That box had been empty for many nights now, and he had grown accustomed to the resulting feelings of uncertainty, doubt, and loneliness. Like a lamb to the slaughter, night after night, he had been forced to submit to the damned lead actor’s mockery, without a chance to fight back, without any hope of revenge.

But tonight, the last night of all, Emma had returned. He’d seen her, and she was alone, no longer shielded by a girlfriend. That could only mean one thing: that she had decided to live up to her word, to meet him there so they could run away and start a new life together, in defiance of fears and social conventions. He was radiant as he strode on stage. Let that conceited mountebank take his last sadistic pleasure; he was beyond caring now.

When Attilio made his entrance, Emma practically leaned out over the balustrade of the box. She was looking at the stage, but to an even greater extent, she was looking inside herself. She searched for the echo of the passion that she thought she could feel just fifteen minutes earlier. But she felt nothing. The man she had once loved more than anyone in the world suddenly seemed like a perfect stranger. She clearly understood that he no longer meant a thing to her, and in a flash she realized that their affair was well and truly over. She wondered whether this was what Calise had seen in her tarot cards that last séance; and, just as she was thinking of Calise, she heard the old woman’s voice down in the orchestra seats. Behind her, Ruggero took a step forward, raising his hand to his overcoat pocket.

At first, Ricciardi thought he was having a vision. Not wanting to miss Emma’s reactions or even the slightest movement from Ruggero, he had turned his attention away from the stage and the orchestra seating. In complete silence, the audience was waiting for the next line, while the performers acted out a moment of discomfiture following Romor’s entrance. Suddenly, the stillness was broken by a loud voice that he instantly recognized as the voice of Calise’s ghost. He turned like a shot and a bloodcurdling image met his eyes.

Antonietta had risen to her feet. Hunched over, she’d shrunken in size: her legs were slightly bowed, her head tilted to one side at an almost unnatural angle; her left hand was dangling motionless at her side, while her right hand sketched out an uncertain, flailing gesture, almost as if she were trying to drive someone away or ward something off. Her normally obtuse expression had taken on a melancholy air, so that she seemed in thrall to some terrible memory.