Maurizio de Giovanni - Everyone in Their Place

By the time she managed to wriggle out of the conversation, Livia had obtained the information that Ricciardi would in any case be back in his office that evening and that, in accordance with a route that had almost become a ritual with him, he’d be stopping at Gambrinus for a quick cup of coffee; if the signora wished to see him, then that was the best place for her to wait. Otherwise, Garzo concluded, he’d be pleased to send Ricciardi to see her, posthaste.

In a way, she found that man to be a much more asphyxiating presence than the men who, taking turns in a minuet of glances, sighs, and broad winks, were now vying for her attention at the café. And for that matter, the woman’s beauty, elegance, and solitude were irresistible elements of attraction to the dandies and gagà who killed time there, smoking and drinking. A light veil dangled from her hat, covering her eyes and leaving only a view of fleshy, sensual lips painted bright red; her body was tightly wrapped in a narrow-waisted dark-blue dress with a white-leather belt: her shoes, handbag, and elbow-length gloves were likewise in white leather. Her generous bosom and long legs were also unmistakable, even if they were technically covered.

She’d chosen an outdoor table, lest she miss the commissario as he passed, and she was watching the world go by with feigned interest as at least ten men devoured her with their eyes.

Ten men and a woman, to be exact.

The first shadows of evening were stretching out into Giulio Colombo’s hat shop, but he didn’t even notice them; nor did he hear the customer standing across the counter from him when she asked for a discount, and in fact she was forced to repeat the request in an even more doleful tone of voice. Giulio Colombo was focused on something else: he was staring at his daughter who in turn stood, motionless, looking out the plateglass window like a tiger downwind, laying in ambush for an unsuspecting gazelle.

That girl was starting to worry him. She’d never spoken to him explicitly about her state of mind, but it wasn’t hard to guess, knowing her character as he did, knowing how similar she was to him; for some time now he’d been catching her with reddened eyes, as if she’d been crying, or else with a suddenly truculent expression. She was clearly being tormented by unusual thoughts, but she seemed unwilling to talk about it; nor did her father, reserved and discreet as he was, feel able to ask prying questions. As for the girl’s mother, she hadn’t noticed a thing. She was dismissive when Giulio shared his worries with her: she’s probably finally starting to fall in love with Sebastiano, she had replied, that’s all. These are the little bumps in the road of love, she’ll get over it.

But that’s not the way it seemed to Giulio. As far as he could tell, the situation was steadily worsening, day after day; and it was obvious to him that the Fiore boy wasn’t even slightly in tune with his daughter’s state of mind. For the past few days, Enrica had been coming into the store systematically every afternoon, and she stayed for an hour, gazing out the window, coolly dismissing the young man whenever he came in on some pretext to talk with her.

Deep inside, he had already dismissed the idea of this engagement ever working out, ever since the night he’d caught the look on Enrica’s face as the young man was just about to sip his espresso with the disgusting slurping noise that he always made; it was a ferocious glare, and he could hardly blame her for it: it annoyed Giulio, and no one was pushing him to marry the boy. Just then, as Enrica stood peering out throught the plateglass window, he saw that same ferocious glare in her eyes.

There she is now, Enrica was thinking. Sitting all by herself, smoking cigarettes in a public location. But where does she get it, this bottomless pool of gall and sheer nerve? And at the exact time that he comes by for his daily cup of coffee: I know it very well, since I come to the store just to see him, now that I can no longer see him from my window every night. I have to admit: she is beautiful and elegant, not a bit vulgar, even though I told the hairdresser she was, to make sure she’d convey that information to his housekeeper.

What do I have that she lacks? Why on earth should he choose me, if he can have a woman like her? Even if I were to dress the way she does, if I weren’t ashamed of going out alone and having men look at me, I’d never be as attractive as her. But I love him, I love him with every fiber of my being, and I can’t stand living without his gaze, the sight of his eyes, even from a distance. She’s waiting for him, I know that; and he’ll stop to talk with her, he might even kiss her the way he did the other time. And it will break my heart, just like the other time. But I need to be strong, strong enough to wait and see.

You can’t turn your back on love.

You can’t turn your back on love, thought Ricciardi as he walked up Via Toledo: that’s what Ettore Musso had said. And Achille Pivani had said the same thing. And Don Pierino had said that you have to take the initiative, at least once in your life.

Now that a complete atlas of the passions that had surrounded and destroyed the Duchess of Camparino had been sketched out, the commissario was left face to face with himself, and he had nowhere to turn, no refuge from his own thoughts. You can’t turn your back on love: you have to take the initiative. But what initiative should he take? Should he inflict on the person he loved the same cross he himself had to bear, the same torture he suffered? So that he could tell her, as they strolled out arm in arm some summer afternoon, forgive me, my dear, I missed what you were saying just now because, of course, dearest, though you can’t see him, in that corner, right next to the florist shop, there’s a little boy who fell and broke his neck, and he’s screaming for his mamma and it just distracted me for a moment. Is that what a man should offer the woman he adores?

All the same, he could no longer lie to himself: the picture of Enrica with that well dressed young man was becoming an obsession, far worse than the faded images of corpses that lined every street he walked down. He couldn’t live with her, and he couldn’t live without her. He sighed and looked up: Libreria Treves, he read on the sign. He shook his head and walked into the bookstore.

Livia saw him coming, his eyes on the pavement and a book in his hand. She decided that she’d recognize him anywhere, with that air of lovable loneliness that surrounded him, as if he were walking down other streets, streets that no one else could share with him. A mysterious man; in fact, a mystery made human. She couldn’t remember ever having been so fascinated with a person in her life. Without realizing it, she had tensed up in her chair, like a wild animal scenting prey.

At first he didn’t notice Livia at all and simply walked straight to the counter. Then she stood up and caught his attention with a wave of her hand. On the other side of the street, Enrica’s heart was pounding furiously in her ears. Ill at ease, darting a fleeting glance at the envious occupants of the other tables in the café, Ricciardi took a seat next to the elegant woman from out of town. She had in the meanwhile lifted her veil, revealing a pair of dark eyes, with a luminous gaze.

“At last! And yet I was told that you couldn’t hold out very long without your daily espresso. I’ve been here for hours, waiting for you.”

Ricciardi was clearly uncomfortable, as he was every time that Livia explicitly referred to the attraction she felt for him.

“I had gone. . I had to question a person. I had no idea that you’d be here. And in any case, you understand, my work. .”

She interrupted him, laughing: