or at Forte dei Marmi or Viareggio, when the girls are lying on the sand baking themselves, when they let you glimpse whatever they want. With those tight jerseys they wear nowadays.
Ingravallo, his head bared, looked like the ghost of himself. He asked: "Have you moved her?" "No, sir," they answered. "Have you touched her." "No." Some blood had been tracked around by somebody's heels, soles, over the wooden parquet, so you could see that they had put their feet into it, into that swamp of fear. Ingravallo became infuriated. Who did it? "You're nothing but a bunch of hicks!" he threatened. "Lousy goatherds from Sgurgola!" {9}
He went out into the hall and the vestibule: he addressed Doctor Valdarena, slumped on a chair, a kitchen chair, with Pompeo who hovered over him like a kid sticking to his ma. The concierge wasn't to be seen; she had gone down to her lodge maybe; they had called her. "Well, what are you doing here?"
"Doctor Ingravallo," Valdarena said, his voice serious, calm, and yet pleading, accepting the interrogation as an obvious necessity, looking the other man in the eye. "I had come to say good-bye to my cousin, poor Liliana . . . she wanted absolutely to see me before I left. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow for Genoa. I think I even mentioned it —that I was going to live in Genoa—when you were here, that Sunday, for dinner. I've already given up my room."
"For Genoa!" exclaimed Don Ciccio, absorbed in thoughts. "What room? . .."
"The room where I live, Via Nicotera number twenty-one."
"He happened to be the first . . ." Santomaso, one of the policemen, said. "He was the first to come in here, anyway," Porchettini confirmed. "Then they called the station . . ."
"Who called?"
"Why ... all of us together," Valdarena answered. "I didn't know where I was or what I was doing. There was me, a man from the floor above, all the women. The concierge wasn't here. Her lodge was shut up."
"You were the one who ... who gave the alarm?"
"I came up: the door was open a little way. 'May I come in?' I asked. 'May I?' Nobody answered."
"Where was the concierge? You didn't see her, then? And did she see you?"
"No. No, I don't think so."
La Pettacchioni returned and confirmed all. She was on Stairway B, doing her daily cleaning. She began at the top, naturally. In reality, besom in hand, she had stopped first to chat a bit on the landing, with Signora Bolenfi of the fifth floor, Stairway B: the widow Elia Bolenfi nee Gabbi from Castiglion dei Pepoli: (gabby by name and gabby by nature). Then she went on up, with her broom and her bucket. She went "just for half a sec" into the home of the general, Grand'Ufficial Barbezzi, who lived in the penthouse apartment: to straighten up a little. She had left the bucket outside, with the broom.
A little girl, who had gone up to the Bottafavis, the Felicetti's little girl it was, who always had to go and say "good morning" to the Bottafavis every day, after which they would give her a sweet, well, Signora Manuela showed her into the vestibule, and asked her was it true or wasn't it: and she, with a little simpleton voice, confirmed that it was true, that she'd seen only two women, who were coming down the steps. They had two shopping bags, one each, like they were going marketing. "They looked like they were from the country, to me," la Pettacchioni added, from her fund of wisdom.
"What women were they?" Ingravallo asked, absently. "Show me your hands!" he said to Doctor Valdarena. "Come over to the light." The young man's hands seemed perfectly clean: a white skin, healthy, warm, faintly veined: suffused with the warmth of youth: a signet ring of yellow gold, with a stupendous jasper, and in the jasper an initial: on the right ring-finger, it stood out, solid, imposing, ready to seal a letter, one would have said, a secret avowal. But the right cuff of his shirt . . . bloodstained! in the corner: from the gold of the cuff link to the cuff's edge.
"This blood here?"
Ingravallo, his head bared, looked like the ghost of himself. He asked: "Have you moved her?" "No, sir," they answered. "Have you touched her." "No." Some blood had been tracked around by somebody's heels, soles, over the wooden parquet, so you could see that they had put their feet into it, into that swamp of fear. Ingravallo became infuriated. Who did it? "You're nothing but a bunch of hicks!" he threatened. "Lousy goatherds from Sgurgola!" {9}
He went out into the hall and the vestibule: he addressed Doctor Valdarena, slumped on a chair, a kitchen chair, with Pompeo who hovered over him like a kid sticking to his ma. The concierge wasn't to be seen; she had gone down to her lodge maybe; they had called her. "Well, what are you doing here?"
"Doctor Ingravallo," Valdarena said, his voice serious, calm, and yet pleading, accepting the interrogation as an obvious necessity, looking the other man in the eye. "I had come to say good-bye to my cousin, poor Liliana . . . she wanted absolutely to see me before I left. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow for Genoa. I think I even mentioned it —that I was going to live in Genoa—when you were here, that Sunday, for dinner. I've already given up my room."
"For Genoa!" exclaimed Don Ciccio, absorbed in thoughts. "What room? . .."
"The room where I live, Via Nicotera number twenty-one."
"He happened to be the first . . ." Santomaso, one of the policemen, said. "He was the first to come in here, anyway," Porchettini confirmed. "Then they called the station . . ."
"Who called?"
"Why ... all of us together," Valdarena answered. "I didn't know where I was or what I was doing. There was me, a man from the floor above, all the women. The concierge wasn't here. Her lodge was shut up."
"You were the one who ... who gave the alarm?"
"I came up: the door was open a little way. 'May I come in?' I asked. 'May I?' Nobody answered."
"Where was the concierge? You didn't see her, then? And did she see you?"
"No. No, I don't think so."
La Pettacchioni returned and confirmed all. She was on Stairway B, doing her daily cleaning. She began at the top, naturally. In reality, besom in hand, she had stopped first to chat a bit on the landing, with Signora Bolenfi of the fifth floor, Stairway B: the widow Elia Bolenfi nee Gabbi from Castiglion dei Pepoli: (gabby by name and gabby by nature). Then she went on up, with her broom and her bucket. She went "just for half a sec" into the home of the general, Grand'Ufficial Barbezzi, who lived in the penthouse apartment: to straighten up a little. She had left the bucket outside, with the broom.
A little girl, who had gone up to the Bottafavis, the Felicetti's little girl it was, who always had to go and say "good morning" to the Bottafavis every day, after which they would give her a sweet, well, Signora Manuela showed her into the vestibule, and asked her was it true or wasn't it: and she, with a little simpleton voice, confirmed that it was true, that she'd seen only two women, who were coming down the steps. They had two shopping bags, one each, like they were going marketing. "They looked like they were from the country, to me," la Pettacchioni added, from her fund of wisdom.
"What women were they?" Ingravallo asked, absently. "Show me your hands!" he said to Doctor Valdarena. "Come over to the light." The young man's hands seemed perfectly clean: a white skin, healthy, warm, faintly veined: suffused with the warmth of youth: a signet ring of yellow gold, with a stupendous jasper, and in the jasper an initial: on the right ring-finger, it stood out, solid, imposing, ready to seal a letter, one would have said, a secret avowal. But the right cuff of his shirt . . . bloodstained! in the corner: from the gold of the cuff link to the cuff's edge.
"This blood here?"
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