“This is my wife Sofia. These gentlemen are Commissario Ricciardi and Brigadier Maione. They’re here to. . to ask a few questions.”
Almost a minute went by, during which the woman never took her eyes off her husband, while he looked at Ricciardi and Maione looked at the floor. For his part, the commissario continued to observe Sofia’s ecstatic expression, thinking just how nice it must be to have a wife who looked at you like that; and also how powerful the passion must be that a gaze like that communicated. In the end, the woman seemed to awaken from her trance, and stroking her daughter’s hair, said to the girclass="underline"
“Darling, go play in your room now. Then I’ll come join you.”
The girl curtseyed again and left. As he watched her run off, Ricciardi asked:
“Is she your only child?”
Sofia answered before her husband could speak, with a proud smile: “Giovanna also has an older brother, Andrea. He’s out studying, right now, even if he’s still on summer vacation. A smart and conscientious young man, just like his father. He’ll be back soon.”
The three glanced at each other with a certain awkward discomfort, even though there didn’t seem to be a speck of irony in the woman’s words; indeed, she went on smiling at her husband, as if this were the most normal situation in the world. Once again, Ricciardi wondered how long it had been since the man and woman had seen each other and why the wife failed to display any bitterness toward her husband. For his part, Capece seemed unwilling to emerge from his dull grief: in his face and on his clothing, filthy and rumpled, he still bore the marks of sleepless nights and too much wine.
“If you please, Ricciardi. Come this way, have a seat in the drawing room.”
The apartment, at least the rooms they walked past, was tidy and clean: everything in its place, the scent of lavender, wallpaper and curtains without tears, rips, or wrinkles. Yet it was lifeless.
It seemed like a diligently executed performance, more than a home where a family lived.
They sat in the drawing room. Sofia seemed completely unruffled; and yet her husband had just introduced their two guests as policemen, and she couldn’t be unaware of what had happened, and the fact that the whole city was talking about it. Ricciardi tried to read the woman’s attitude, as she sat beside her husband on a sofa.
“Signora, forgive the intrusion. As you may have heard, sadly, a horrible thing has happened. The unfortunate death of. .”
“The Duchess of Camparino, of course, I know. No one’s talking about anything else these days. And I also know that the lady was an acquaintance of my husband, who was helping her to write her memoirs. That was why the two of them were spending so much time together: for work. These are hard times, you know, Commissario: a man who wants to make sure his family lacks for nothing must often work more than one job. And my husband, who’s talented and smart, is a very hard worker. And he’s a wonderful father and husband.”
Sofia’s rant ended in an awkward silence. Maione was raptly staring at the porcelain figurine of a peasant girl, as if it had been doing the talking. Capece was staring intently at his wife, with a mixed expression of horror and compassion. Ricciardi nodded.
“I see. All the same, since your husband was one of the last people to see her alive, we must ascertain whether he is aware of anything that may be useful to our work. Could you tell me where you and your family were, on the night between last Saturday and Sunday?”
Sofia at first seemed confused, and then she burst out laughing.
“Where else could we have been? Here, of course. Like always. The children were in their bedrooms and my husband and I were in ours. Sleeping. Why, where were you that night?”
Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a surprised glance. Capece went on staring at his wife, without any change in his expression; in the meanwhile, she had placed a hand on his leg, as if to keep him there. As if she were afraid he might fly away any minute.
The Commissario went on in the same tone of voice.
“And yet that’s not what your husband says, Signora. Your husband states that he was up and about all night long, making his way through the various taverns down near the port. Are you sure of what you just told us?”
Sofia furrowed her brow in irritation.
“How dare you question my statement? My husband must be confused. I assure you that all four of us stayed home that night, and no one went out. I keep the key under my pillow at night, and I’d certainly have noticed if anyone had taken it, don’t you think? I confirm every word of what I said, and it’s up to you to prove otherwise.”
Well, thought Maione, the Signora was right about that. It’s up to us to prove otherwise.
Just as Ricciardi was about to respond, Andrea, the Capeces’ oldest child, came in. He was a tall young man, with his mother’s complexion and hair color, and at sixteen he looked older than his age. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and he carried a few books bound with a leather strap under his arm. His face was a kaleidoscope of emotions: his cheerful expression was quickly replaced by a look of concern at the sight of strangers in the place, and then chilly hostility when he saw his father. For his part, Capece looked at him with tenderness and started to get up and greet him, but Sofia intensified the pressure on his leg to make sure he remained seated.
“Commissario, this is Andrea, and as I told you, he’d gone out to study. Andrea, Commissario Ricciardi and Brigadier Maione are here to ask a few questions. For some reason, they’re convinced that on Saturday night your father was away from home, instead of here, asleep, like all of us. Can you tell him, too, that that’s simply ridiculous?”
Maione admired the woman’s speed and cunning; she had just informed her son of the situation and spoon-fed him the proper response, as well. Ricciardi hadn’t stopped staring at the woman, after a fleeting glance at the boy.
Andrea, on the other hand, was looking at his father, with an expression of absolute and unmistakable contempt. A palpable sense of tension had just descended over the drawing room.
“Mamma, I was sleeping. You know how it is, I’m a heavy sleeper: I don’t know who’s in the apartment and who isn’t. But if you say he was here, then he must have been here. I would have to guess that a woman knows if she’s sleeping alone or not. Do you need anything else from me? If not, I’m going to go wash up.”
Ricciardi was well aware of how useless the testimony of a minor would be; still, he had the impression that the son’s unmistakable resentment toward his father was the weakest link in the chain that the Capece family was coiling around its own safety and serenity.
“How long has it been since you last saw your father?”
The question dropped into the silence like a firecracker. The boy, who had already stepped across the threshold, froze and slowly turned back to look at Ricciardi. The mother tried to break in, but the commissario halted her with one raised hand.
“Commissario, I’m on vacation, I get up late. This morning, when I got up, my father had already left. And yesterday, when I went to sleep, he hadn’t come in yet. You know, he works at the newspaper; so he doesn’t get in until late. Now, if you don’t mind?”
And he turned and left the room.
XXXIII
Why did you do it? Why, Mamma? This was our chance to get rid of him, to make him pay. To free our faces once and for all of his slaps and the misery that he heaped on us, we who were once his family.
No one could have whispered behind our backs anymore; no more shame; no more slander. We could finally have walked with our heads held high, because everyone would have understood that we are the victims.
But instead you chose to save him. I don’t understand why. It would have been simple justice if they’d finally hauled him off and tossed him into the place he deserved, so he could reflect on all he’d done. Reflect on the crime he committed.