I Will Have Vengeance Read Online Free PDF Page A

proving to be equal to the task, and their execution, having now arrived at the chorus following the musical intermezzo, was evolving from noteworthy to memorable. Don Pierino was so moved by the poignant music that he didn’t realize he had shifted, stepping back into part of the narrow staircase that led backstage. When he felt someone bump into him from behind, he turned around, surprised.
    â€œExcuse me,” a tall, stout man whispered distractedly; he was bundled up in a roomy black overcoat, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a white scarf.
    â€œNo, my fault, excuse
me
,” don Pierino replied, hastily repairing to his niche. Worried about being discovered, he was afraid of causing problems for poor Patrisso. But the man didn’t seem to think anything of his being there, and descending the remaining steps, headed for the dressing rooms. Don Pierino followed him with his eyes: was it possible that he was . . . In fact, the man, glancing around, paused a moment outside the door bearing a plaque which read:
Arnaldo Vezzi
. He said something and slipped into the dressing room. The priest nearly fainted: he had bumped into the greatest tenor on the planet! He sighed, and smiling, turned his attention back to the stage, where Turiddu was proposing a toast, extolling the praises of unadulterated wine.
    Â 
    The dressing room was cold, Ricciardi noted that right away. He looked toward the window and realized that it was partly open, letting in blasts of wintry wind and the scent of damp grass from the Royal Gardens. The bulbs over the mirror were lit, flooding the small room with light. There was blood everywhere. The corpse was on the chair in front of the mirror, bent over the dressing table, his back to the door. The mirror was completely shattered, except for the upper part that was spattered with blood. Glass was all over the place.
    The body’s head lay on the tabletop, resting on the left cheek; on the right, a large fragment of mirror jutted out from the throat, reflecting a vitreous eye and a twisted mouth from which a trickle of drool oozed. Ricciardi heard singing in a soft voice:
    â€œ
Io sangue voglio, all’ira m’abbandono, in odio tutto l’amor mio finì
. . . ”, I will have vengeance, My rage shall know no bounds, And all my love. Shall end in hate.
    On the visible side of the face, the thick layer of grease paint was lined with the trace of a tear. The Commissario turned and, in the corner between the shattered mirror’s frame and the wall, saw the image of Arnaldo Vezzi standing up, slightly bent at the knees, his face covered with make-up, his clown’s mouth laughing. Fake tears drawn on his eyes, real tears down his cheeks. The right hand, palm open, stretched out as if to push someone away, and thick streams of blood pumped out by his dying heart through the gash on the right side of his neck. Ricciardi studied the ghost, taking his time: the lifeless eyes stared ahead without seeing him, the lips mouthed the lyrics and the chest no longer moved. The Commissario took one last look at the corpse. The clown’s final song, just for him, and he didn’t even understand opera. He turned towards the door and went out.

VII
    D on Pierino, entranced, watched the audience give a standing ovation to the troupe who had just concluded
Cavalleria Rusticana
. He was particularly proud, since he had seen the rehearsals the day before—using his usual mode of entry—and had grown fond of the singers. There were no prima donnas, only talented young people and some unassuming, easy-going professionals. A certain team spirit could be felt among them and it was pleasant to see how their camaraderie and mutual respect had generated the evening’s success.
    For the most part, the company was made up of local artists and served to fill in the ‘gaps’ that the season sometimes experienced due to illness or injuries on the part of the established players.