Vipers Read Free Page B

springtime? I’m a dead man.
    I’ve been dead for years and years, even though I breathed, worked, ate, and slept. I talked to the people I met, and maybe to be polite I even laughed, pretended to be interested: but I was dead.
    If your heart doesn’t beat in your chest, then you’re dead. And my heart wasn’t beating. Not anymore.
    It’s better to be born blind. You can’t remember colors if you’ve never seen them before. If you’re born blind, then the sun is nothing more than warmth on your skin and the sea is just water on your feet; you can’t imagine how the light shimmers against the blue, while clouds scud across the sky, creating and erasing shadows. It’s better, if you’re born blind.
    But if you’ve seen the light and then they take it away from you, all you can do is remember. You just remember, you don’t live anymore: you’re dead.
    Curse you, God, why did you force me to be reborn? Why did you give back the sight that you took away from me, and the hope that I’d long since forgotten? God, you coward, why did you make me breathe again, and laugh again, and make my heart beat again, wasn’t the suffering you’d already inflicted on me enough? Did you know that you would kill me a second time? You know everything, so why? Damn you to hell: you sent me to the inferno, you pulled me back out, and in the end you locked me in there forever.
    Leaving my soul trapped in a bedroom at Il Paradiso. Motionless, breathless, awaiting a word that will never come from her mouth.
    From her dead mouth.

IV
    A t the far end of the shadowy drawing room there was a podium, and on it stood a sort of lectern made of dark wood, behind which sat a very high-backed chair, giving the impression of a throne.
    Madame Yvonne, sailing toward the podium, said with undisguised pride:
    â€œThat’s where I sit. That’s where I greet our customers.”
    Ricciardi glimpsed money on the counter, a pad of printed forms, and an open fan. Behind the desk, stuck to the wall, was a sign displaying the prices.
    Â 
    SINGLE 2.50 LIRE
    DOUBLE 3.50 LIRE
    Â½ HOUR 6 LIRE
    1 HOUR 10 LIRE
    EXTRA FOR SOAP AND TOWEL 1 LIRA
    BAR OF SOAP 10 CENTS
    COLOGNE 25 CENTS
    Â 
    Next to the cashier’s desk was a flight of stairs with a red handrail, at the base of which stood two wooden statues of black slaves: one was holding a lantern that illuminated the desk, the other a tray in which the customers deposited their cigarette butts before going upstairs. Madame started up the stairs, but Ricciardi, before following her, turned and murmured something to Maione. The brigadier said:
    â€œCama’, you stay there by the front door and make sure no one comes in and no one leaves. Cesara’, you phone police headquarters and tell them to call over to the hospital, this is important, tell them to ask personally for Dr. Bruno Modo, and to send the photographer. Then station yourself here and don’t let anyone come upstairs.”
    At the top of the stairs was a hallway, lit by wall lamps. The doors of the ten or so rooms were almost all shut, except for one which stood half-open at the end of the hall.
    Ricciardi indicated it with a nod.
    â€œIs that it, Viper’s room?”
    Yvonne nodded her head yes. She seemed to have lost the confidence she’d displayed downstairs; her hands were trembling. That hatless commissario, with his penetrating green eyes, had made her uneasy from the first and, now that they were close to the corpse, he inexplicably frightened her.
    Maione broke in, asking:
    â€œAnd which one is Lily’s room?”
    Madame pointed to one of the rooms closest to the stairs.
    â€œThat one.”
    Ricciardi gestured to the brigadier, who said:
    â€œStay here, Signo’. Don’t move.”
    The two policemen separated. Maione opened the door to Lily’s room, and Ricciardi headed for the door that stood half-open. When he came to the