I’ve seen plenty of dead people, child. And I still see them, every day. Today it’s you on this table, with the skin of your chest held up over your face by a couple of forceps, and these few little white bones splayed out. Tomorrow it could be anyone else. It could be your mother, who doesn’t even know you’re dead, or one of the brothers or sisters you’ve never even met.
Tell me, child: are you happy about Mussolini’s visit? Are you as eager as everyone else to kiss his shiny boots, to get a nod of approval from that massive bovine head? Do you think too that we’ll conquer the world together, and that Mussolini will restore the legacy of power and wealth that others took from you?
He picked up a large pair of surgical shears and started cutting through the ribs, on either side of the sternum. The ribs were soft and yielding, like those of a lamb. It broke his heart.
No, he murmured. You don’t care about the Duce’s visit anymore. Nothing matters to you; not now, my little one.
And he went on cutting, not realizing that his eyes were red with tears.
IX
Tuesday, October 27th
It was around nine in the morning when they finally learned who the child was, or at least who he could be.
Ricciardi had been in the office for almost two hours. He’d expected to find a note from the hospital waiting for him upon his arrival, or a woman sobbing and screaming at the foot of the stairs leading up to the sentry post, but there was no one. He started working on the report he’d have to file concerning the discovery of the body, but there was a sense of disquiet growing inside him: it wasn’t possible that no one had noticed the child’s disappearance.
The feeling of anguish was heightened by the fact that the dog he’d seen where the boy’s body had been found was following him: he’d noticed it outside his apartment, on the other side of the street, sitting in the rain, one ear cocked. He’d set out for headquarters with the dog trailing behind him, some thirty feet back, on the opposite sidewalk. He’d stop and the dog would stop, too. He’d start walking again, and the dog would start again, too. In the end, he’d decided to simply ignore it, and he hadn’t looked back again. When he got to headquarters the dog was gone, but it had left him swathed in a sense of some unfinished business.
That feeling vanished, in fact, a couple of hours later, when Maione appeared in the door and politely cleared his throat.
“Commissa’, there’s a priest here to see you who says that he might be able to identify the little boy from Capodimonte. Prego, go right in, Don . . . ?”
A priest walked into the room. He was a nervous, pudgy man, of average height, his ragged tunic buttoned up the front and a round hat in his hand. He was wiping a mixture of sweat and rain from his brow.
“Don Antonio Mansi, parish priest of Santa Maria del Soccorso at Santa Teresa.”
He spoke in a dolorous tone, as if he felt sorry for someone, probably himself. Ricciardi took an immediate dislike to the man.
“Prego, Padre, come in. My name is Ricciardi. Have a seat. Maione, you stay too. Tell me, what can we do for you today?”
“As I was telling your warrant officer here . . . ”
Maione corrected him. He was punctilious about his rank.
“It’s brigadier, Don Antonio. Brigadier Raffaele Maione, at your service.”
“Forgive me, of course, Brigadier Maione; in any case, I have reason to believe that this child, so regrettably deceased, the one who was found at Capodimonte, is one of mine.”
“One of yours?” Ricciardi asked. “What do you mean by that?”
The priest had taken a seat with his hat on his knees, and he’d slid the handkerchief back up one of his sleeves. He spoke in a subdued voice, his hands resting on his belly.
“In my parish, among the other good works we carry on, we take in a number of the orphans from the quarter. I house them in a building behind the rectory; right now we have six. One of them, the youngest, is named Matteo, and we haven’t seen him since the day before yesterday. Seeing as he’s never been away this long, I thought I should come report the matter to you.”
Ricciardi was thrown by the priest’s untroubled tone of voice. He sensed neither tension nor worry in the man’s words, words that were uttered, moreover, in the sniveling whine that he’d immediately noticed.
“But Padre, didn’t you notice the child was missing before? Why did you wait until this morning to come to us?”
“Well, you see, Commissario, I’m not running a boarding school. What I have is just a shelter for these children who have neither a home nor a family. They’re free to come and go as they like, they learn a trade, or they beg in the street; I certainly can’t keep track of what all six of them are doing, twenty-four hours a day. Sometimes it happens that they stay out all night. These are children accustomed to life on the streets, unfortunately: but they’re perfectly capable of looking after themselves. Sometimes they just leave and don’t come back, they find someplace else to stay, and they don’t even come to say thank you for what we’ve done for them. But I don’t do it to receive gratitude, I do it only for the glory of God.”
Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a glance: it struck both of them as a speech the man had used on more than one occasion, a speech he kept handy in case he needed it.
“Well then, how did you come to the conclusion that the boy we found is . . . what did you say his name was, the child who lives in your shelter?”
“Matteo is his name. Matteo Diotallevi, but we assign them a surname ourselves when we don’t have any other, just so we can register them with the office of vital statistics. He’s the youngest one, I think he must be seven or eight; I can’t say for sure, because they come to us not knowing when or where they were born. I thought it might be him because until now, as I told you, he’d never been away for so long. This morning, when I didn’t see him, I asked the others and then inquired a little around the neighborhood, and no one had seen him in the past few hours. That’s when I decided it would be best to report him as missing, to be safe. Then, when I got to police headquarters, the brigadier told me about the body you found at the Tondo di Capodimonte. Perhaps, if I saw him, I’d be able to confirm.”
Ricciardi studied the priest’s expressionless face.
“Forgive me, Padre, if I may take the liberty of saying so, you don’t seem especially concerned. Resigned, perhaps, if anything. Why is that?”
A moment of silence followed. Both the priest and Maione were surprised by what the commissario had said, in such flat and direct terms. At last, the man heaved a sign and replied:
“That’s not the way it is, believe me. I care deeply for the children I help, and the fact that I keep the house going, at great personal cost and sacrifice, and receive nothing in return is the proof. But these times we live in aren’t easy, and who would know that better than you? The conditions the poor live in are terrible, and the ones who suffer most are the weakest, the elderly, and the young. They’re vulnerable to accidents, diseases. They die on the streets, in the vicoli and in the bassi. The brigadier here was telling me that the boy you found probably died of natural causes; if it’s Matteo, and I still have some hope that it isn’t, he’d probably still be alive if he’d stayed home, with me. But these things happen.”
Ricciardi was unwilling to dismiss the death of a child so glibly.
“They shouldn’t happen, though, should they, Padre? It’s up to us, to keep them from happening.”
The priest smiled a melancholy smile. Never once during their conversation had he moved his hands, which rested on his belly, fingers knit.
“No, indeed. There are a great many things that ought not to happen but still do. What does the state do for these children? I’ll tell you, Commissario: nothing. Nothing at all. It’s all left to us, to the Church, or to the charity of the few wealthy people who still have a conscience. In twenty years, I must have lost at lea
st ten or twelve of these boys. They’ve fallen off trolleys, drowned in the sea in the summertime, or been run over by a cart or a carriage. Or else killed by a fever or an infection, caught by eating who knows what, or cutting themselves in any of a number of ways. And the minute a place is vacated, there are a hundred more to bring in off the streets. We can only do what we’re able, and that never changes. Perhaps that’s why I seem resigned to you, my dear commissario.”
Another silence ensued. Even though Ricciardi instinctively disliked that man, he had to admit that his reasoning was impeccable; he even felt irrationally at fault, as a representative of a government that was doing little or nothing for these children. For some reason, his thoughts turned to the dog that had followed him that morning, the young dead boy’s last friend.
“Padre, if the child does in fact turn out to be Matteo Diotallevi, I’ll have to ask you some more questions. But what we need to do first is proceed to the identification, so you’ll need to come with us to take a look at the body, at the Ospedale dei Pellegrini.”
This time, it was the priest’s turn to be thrown.
“The hospital? But didn’t you say the boy was dead when you found him? Perhaps you meant to say the cemetery.”
“No, the corpse is at the hospital. I asked the medical examiner to examine the body, to determine exactly what caused the boy’s death. I see that it’s still raining out; Maione, call down and have them bring up a car.”
The brigadier shook his head regretfully.
“No, Commissa’. Both cars have been sent to the garage to get spruced up for the Duce; I told you yesterday. Seems we’re going to have to go on foot this time, too.”
And he looked down sadly at his boots: polished and gleaming, but not for long.
X
The walk to the hospital wasn’t long, but the rain made it unpleasant. As Don Antonio walked, he kept the hem of his tunic lifted with one hand and held his hat to his head with the other, taking care not to stumble into any of the numerous puddles of unknowable depth that had formed on the sidewalks. Maione had the same problem, and he muttered curses under his breath, so that they would not reach the priest’s ear, while trying to hold up the umbrella to shelter Ricciardi, who, as usual, seemed indifferent to the water drenching his uncovered hair.
They finally reached their destination and stood dripping in a waiting room, where they were met by Dr. Modo. The physician was dropping on his feet, his face creased with wrinkles and stubbled with in a day’s growth of whiskers. Ricciardi felt a stab of remorse for having forced him to take on that extra, no doubt draining task, which would probably turn out to have been pointless.
“Ah, there you are,” said the doctor. “I would have called you later, I’m waiting for the results on some tests that I’ve ordered from the lab. And after that, with your permission, I’d like to head home and get at least twenty-four hours of sleep. Who is this gentleman with you?”
Maione hid a smile: Modo never missed a chance to display his nonconformist views, especially his anticlerical ones. Don Antonio looked back at him offendedly and then turned to Ricciardi, waiting for the commissario to introduce him.
“This is Don Antonio, the parish priest of Santa Maria del Soccorso. Did I get that right, Padre? He runs a small shelter for orphans and he thinks that the child you have here with you might be one of his, a little boy who disappeared a couple of days ago. He’d like to take a look at the corpse to see if he can identify it. May we?”
Modo ran a hand through his hair, a habitual gesture.
“Yes, I would think so. I’m done with him; I’ll tell you the findings later.”
Don Antonio squinted, in an expression of mistrust. He spoke not to Modo, but to Ricciardi.
“Excuse me, Commissario. What does the doctor mean when he says that he’s done with him? Just what has been done to the child?”
The doctor answered brusquely:
“We’ve done what we thought necessary. We performed an examination to determine how this child died, while those who ought to have been keeping an eye on him were doing other things. That’s what was done.”
The priest took a step back, blinking.
“We look after these children for as long as they allow us to. If they go out and wander the city by themselves, that’s hardly our fault. Can I see him, now?”
Modo, still glaring angrily at the priest, turned and led the way back to the hospital morgue.
The boy’s corpse had been reassembled and dressed in the tattered clothing he’d been found in. Even though Ricciardi was hardened to terrible sights, he still felt his heart break when he saw the body, which looked so tiny on the marble table. The signs of the restitching done after the autopsy were clearly visible, on the head and on the shoulders; from there, the incision disappeared underneath the boy’s shirt.
Don Antonio rocked back on his heels; his eyes filled with tears. He took a step forward and approached the corpse. He made the sign of the cross over the child’s forehead, then murmured a prayer and a benediction. Then he ran his thumb over the incision on the top of the head and gave Modo a cold, hard look. Finally, he said to Ricciardi:
“It’s him. This is Matteo, little Matteo. But someone is going to have to answer for this, this thing that’s been done to him. This massacre.”
Maione, hat in hand, shot a glance at Ricciardi as if to say: I told you so. The commissario returned the priest’s look with a level gaze.
“Well, report me, if you’re going to report anyone, Padre. I’m the one who arranged for the body to be examined further, and I take full responsibility. Neither the doctor nor Maione, here, thought it was necessary. But I felt a need to know how the child died, and so I ordered the autopsy.”
The priest hissed:
“And now, do you know how he died, at least? And, more importantly, does it make a difference?”
Modo was about to break in, but Ricciardi gestured to him to be quiet.
“Forgive me, but that’s still under investigation. It’s not something we can share with the public. But would you please be so good as to return to headquarters now? Brigadier Maione will accompany you. I’ll have to stay behind for a few minutes to talk with the doctor, but I’ll meet you there shortly.”
Don Antonio seemed to have calmed down, but his expression remained fierce. He nodded a brusque farewell, directed midway between Modo and Ricciardi, and left the room, escorted by Maione.
The doctor lit a cigarette.
“The very idea of bringing a priest here. You know, they bring bad luck, from my experience. I never want to see one in my hospital if I can help it.”
“But the place is full of nuns, I see,” said Ricciardi.
“What does that have to do with anything? They’re nurses, and they’re first-rate nurses, too. The best, believe me: even in wartime, at the front, they were tireless. That might be a form of fanaticism, too, but at least it’s useful fanaticism.”
“All right then, what can you tell me? Do you know what killed the little boy?”
Modo gestured for Ricciardi to leave the room. A muscle in his jaw was twitching. His exhaustion aged him.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. I need some fresh air, even if it’s raining.”
They found a place to talk under an awning at the entrance to the wing where the morgue was located. From behind a couple of scrawny saplings being whipped by the rain came the calls of the strolling vendors in the market. Ricciardi guessed they were calling their wares in vain: there couldn’t be a lot of people out in this weather.
“Well, Bruno? What can you tell me?”
The doctor said nothing for a moment, then replied:
“No, first you tell me. Why did you insist on this autopsy? What made you suspicious?”
Ricciardi, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, replied:
“You know, Doctor, the work you and I do is based on intuitions. That’s what you always say, isn’t it? The clinical picture steers you toward one diagnosis, but then you glimpse another: and you pursue that other diagnosis, and in the end you’re either right or you’re wrong. That’s the way it is for me. It was just an instant, when the morgue attendants were carrying him off. The way his head was dangling, all that rain. The pity of it. I don’t know: it was just an impulse.”
Modo went on smoking in silence. He looked out at the rain falling on the trees. Then he said:
“Sure, intuitions. Things you can’t put your finger on. But you know what an autopsy is like. It’s sheer butchery. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to open up the child’s head. But I did. I even had to carve into his back, to gain access to his spinal cord.”
“If you’re worried about the priest, don’t be, Bruno: I take full responsibility, whatever the outcome . . . ”
“I don’t give a damn about the priest,” the doctor snapped, “I don’t give a damn about him, the bishop, or the pope himself. It’s the child, the fact that he couldn’t complain. If I hadn’t found anything, then I would have seen him at the foot of my bed every night, demanding an explanation, asking why I’d sent him to his grave chopped into little bits.”
“So you’re telling me you found something?”
The doctor laughed.
“And out comes the policeman. Straight to the point, eh? Okay, yes, I found something.”
“I knew it! That means we’ll have to do a full investigation; we can start with the priest and . . . ”
Day of the Dead Page 5