Maurizio de Giovanni - Everyone in Their Place

“Don’t talk to me about your work. Believe me, I know everything, all about your investigation and the brilliant way you wrapped it all up. I had to listen to that insufferable colleague of yours, you know the one I mean, Garzo, who buttonholed me and wouldn’t stop talking about your achievements. But I told him that I was well aware of what a hero you are. My hero, to be exact.”

Ricciardi furrowed his brow.

“First of all, Garzo is my boss, not my colleague. And I certainly don’t confide in him. Last of all, I’m no hero: the murderer confessed, that’s all.”

Livia dismissed his explanations with a gesture of annoyance.

“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to give you some important news. First: I’ve decided to stay on for a while in your magnificent city. I called an old friend of mine, a theatrical impresario, to ask him to arrange to find an apartment for me.”

Ricciardi stood openmouthed.

“What, an apartment? But why?”

The woman smiled.

“You wouldn’t want me to be stuck in a hotel, would you? I’ll be much more comfortable in an apartment. And then I could hire a maid and finally be able to entertain. Don’t you think that a little company would do me good?”

Ricciardi shrugged, and she went on talking, carefully enunciating like a schoolteacher addressing a slightly dim pupil:

“Second: I’ve decided that our friendship should evolve. Since you keep pretending not to notice, I’m going to tell you clearly: I’m interested in you, Commissario Ricciardi. I’m very interested in you. I don’t remember when a man has caught my fancy the way that you have, and I intend to get to know you much better.”

Ricciardi wished he could have been anywhere but there. Above all, he had the disagreeable sensation that, at least at the four tables closest to them, all conversation had ceased as the customers listened to the two of them. But there were certain things that needed to be said, and so he said them.

Now he’s stopped and he’s sitting down, the girl on the other side of the street thought to herself. He doesn’t look comfortable, but he’s sitting down. She called him, she even stood up, he hadn’t noticed her at all. How can you miss a woman who looks like her? And now what are they saying to each other? She’s counting something on her fingers, first, second. What could she be counting? And now, what is he answering? She felt her head start to spin, and she leaned her forehead against the plateglass window. Enrica, do you feel all right? her father asked. Yes, of course, she replied, as her eyes welled up with tears.

Never been better.

“I’m not sure that’s really a very good idea, you know. This isn’t an easy city to live in, and the climate can be harmful for someone who isn’t used to it. And then there’s the fact that you don’t really know anyone. You’d have to build up a network of friends, and that wouldn’t be easy for a single woman. And just where would this apartment be? In what quarter? You’d need help, you’d want to have someone you could rely upon. And I’m not sure I’d be the right person. In fact, I’m quite certain that I wouldn’t. I have no time to spare, I have no friends of my own, it certainly wouldn’t be. .”

Livia interrupted with a loud laugh; she wanted to act cheerful, but there was sadness in her eyes.

“Why, what eloquence, and so unexpected! Do you know that I’ve never heard you talk this much? And just to get rid of me, think of that. Well, my dear man, do you know what I say to that? I say that Livia Lucani is not about to retreat. And that the more you tell me I ought to leave, the firmer my decision to stay. Actually, though, there is one thing you could say, if you want to get rid of me. Tell me the truth: do you have a girlfriend?”

Time ground to a halt around Ricciardi. The four men sitting at nearby tables all held their breath, as anxious to hear his reply as Livia herself. He opened and shut his mouth, once and then twice. If he answered in the affirmative he’d be lying, but he’d also get himself out of this sticky situation, possibly once and for all. But was that what he wanted? Livia was beautiful, cheerful, and passionate. He liked her and being around her gave him an odd, unsettled feeling that was more than just simple queasiness. In good conscience, however, he couldn’t say that his heart was entirely unfettered.

“No. I don’t have a girlfriend. But. . I do have feelings for a person, yes. She doesn’t know it, but I have feelings for her.”

As he whispered such a profound and personal thing, in the crowded café, his head spun: he felt as if he had a fever. It was as if a cloud passed over Livia’s face, and her eyes were tinged with pain. Ricciardi felt as if he’d just beaten her. But it was over in an instant: she immediately got to her feet with a smile on her face.

“Well, then, my dear man, I’ll go on fighting. It seems to me that I still deserve a little happiness, and that you have this happiness tucked away somewhere. I intend to seek it out, find it, and seize it for myself. Tell your would-be girlfriend, deep in your heart, to pack her bags and get ready to move. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get going: I have some apartment-hunting to do.”

And she left, her progress followed by dozens of eyes.

Sunday is a holiday. But it seems like a war.

The armies are summoned by the bells, pealing out the announcement of the seven o’clock mass in scolding tones: how could you have failed to think of God first thing, instead of lolling on your pallets, with open windows, trying to obtain the faintest whiff of a breeze? For shame!

And the armies respond, descending from the quarters inhabited by the poor to take the best seats, on the steps of the churches or in the streets popular with strollers: no one is out yet, but to lose a position means being forced to find another way to make a living, another way to fill one’s belly. It’s an army of a thousand colors, the army of beggars: purple mutilations, verdigris uniform jackets worn by veterans just returning from the front, gauze bandages concealing, variously, empty eye sockets or perfectly healthy eyes, parakeets in their little cages, trained to extend little notes to passersby, telling their fortunes. And an army of a thousand sounds, accordions, ocarinas, mandolins, old violins with cracked soundboards. Even wrinkled black shirts, to win the pity of the newly powerful.

Shortly after dawn, the sound of hammering began to ring out as improvised stages were built: upon which bands would play, beneath which pickpockets would buzz like bumblebees, slipping deft hands and light fingers into pockets and purses, without marring the delighted smiles on the faces of the many listeners-at least, not until they got home that night.

Sunday is a war of commerce, for the street vendors who take the place of the shops, closed for a day. Cobs of corn, golden brown or scorched black, an irresistible aroma wafting in the air; seeds and nuts, advertised by the shrill whistle of the peanut cart; doughnuts sprinkled with silver and particolored dots of sugar, with a fat female vendor shooing away flies with a fan; juicy slices of watermelon, liquorice sticks, greasy fritters. Rattletrap old ice cream carts, shaped like a ship’s prow with an umbrella to ward off the heat of the sun, and wooden penguins carved into the sides. All of them snatching the best locations, whoever arrives last is poorly lodged: Sunday is a holiday but it seems like a war.

And like all wars, here comes the cavalry riding into the fray: most of the carriages rolled in shortly after dawn, though some of them had been there all night long, with the coachmen fast asleep, hats on their faces and whips under their arms, stretching in discomfort from the dankness in their bones. The straw scattered under the dray horses, capturing their urine and feces, if not the foul smells that poison the surrounding air.