The Bottom of Your Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

arguing over a heel of stale bread, a
scugnizzo
chasing after a rag ball, a child escaping the grasp of a distracted mother. Or any of the countless children who traveled, dangerously and illegally, clinging to some projecting part of the streetcars themselves, until they lost their grip and fell, to be cut in half by the heavy wheels.
    And that was exactly what had become of the little boy who was waiting for Ricciardi just inches from the spot where he died. Though he didn’t look up, the commissario’s doleful eyes received the horrible image of an unharmed face, a head shaved bald to ward off lice, shoulders covered by an oversized smock of a shirt, and arms lopped off clean at the elbows.
    The black mouth emitted a gush of blood and the words came, mumbled but still quite clear:
I’m falling, I’m falling, I can’t hold on any longer
. A handhold that had failed, arms that lacked strength. The torso, cut in two, was floating in midair and telling Ricciardi that the poor creature hadn’t died instantly, that the boy hadn’t been spared any suffering.
    With a knot in his stomach, Ricciardi broke into what was almost a run, lifting his handkerchief to cover his mouth. God, how unbearable this was. An old tramp, half-asleep in the shade of an apartment building, raised his bleary eyes at the sound of the commissario’s quick steps and watched him with unfriendly curiosity; something about that young man in a hurry upset him, and he recoiled against the wall. There are people who can see it in my face, they can see my curse as I go by, thought Ricciardi.
    Lately, his misery had been more intense than usual. He couldn’t even count on the sweet relief of looking at Enrica through the window. She had vanished, and the only fleeting images that appeared behind the panes of glass in the apartment across the way were those of her family. He couldn’t blame her; if anything, rationally, he was happy for her. What could a man like him possibly offer her? Perhaps she’d met someone, or she’d made up her mind not to grant the pleasure of seeing her to a man who lacked the courage to take the initiative. If you only knew, my love, if you only knew the inferno I have in my heart, how much I wish I could be at your side like any ordinary man, and love you and smile at you and embrace you and make love to you the rest of my life. If only you knew how badly I want to be normal, and have the thousands of worries and petty concerns that everyone else has, and not have to listen to the severed torso of a young boy as it vomits blood onto a street corner.
    The young woman’s absence left a much bigger hole in Ricciardi’s life than he ever would have expected. Even Rosa, who up until Easter had referred to Enrica as a newfound acquaintance in a way that almost seemed to hint at an invitation to the apartment, had stopped talking about her for some time now. Ricciardi had been tempted to ask her why, but now Rosa herself was a source of growing and increasingly urgent concern.
    Rosa was not well. More than once he’d caught her leaning against something or other, suffering from a dizzy spell that she stoutly denied, or else opening and closing her right hand as if it had gone to sleep. Now and then she’d sit down and remain seated even when he walked into the room, breaking a habit she’d maintained since Ricciardi was just a child. She dropped things, even light things like a fork, and sometimes she’d just stop in the middle of a sentence, having lost the thread. He had tried to persuade her to go see Bruno Modo, the doctor at Pellegrini Hospital who also served as the medical examiner, one of the very few people the commissario trusted, but she had refused the suggestion so vehemently that Ricciardi was discouraged from pressing the matter. It’s completely out of the question, she had told him. Why don’t you worry about yourself, you’re getting skinnier