Day of the Dead

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  “Here she is, the beautiful Donna Rosa! How are you this morning, my lady? Have you seen how hard it’s raining?”

  “Buon giorno, Don Gera’. I’ve seen it and I’ve felt it, in all the aches and pains in my body, in every last bone. Now, better be quick, I’ve got a whole kitchen to put together, this morning I haven’t done a thing and it’s already ten. Give me a slice of lard, six fresh eggs, two kilos of chickpeas, and make sure they’re good this time; last time I had to throw out half of them. And two cups of olive oil: good olive oil. Give me two kilos of mixed pasta, wrap it up nicely so it doesn’t get wet, with all this rain. And beans, I almost forgot, two kilos of beans. A little sugar, too, and a quarter kilo of tomato paste. Ah, and one more thing: a quarter kilo of roasted coffee.”

  Gerardo followed her orders, moving nimbly from one recipient to the next behind the counter.

  “What should I do, send these things up once the boy gets back from his deliveries?”

  Rosa snorted.

  “No, absolutely not, that way I won’t get my groceries until two this afternoon! I have cooking to do; when my signorino gets home he expects to find food on the table! No, just give it here, I’ll carry it up myself.”

  It was then that Enrica coughed once and then said, practically under her breath:

  “If I’m not intruding, Signora, I’d be glad to give you a hand carrying your groceries. I’m Enrica Colombo, I live right across the street . . . ”

  Rosa turned to look at her:

  “Yes, yes, I know who you are. Your windows are right across from ours, aren’t they?”

  The young woman blushed visibly but held her gaze.

  “That’s right. If you’d like, I can help you up the steps: with all these things, your umbrella and your bag . . . I mean, if you like, I’d be happy to do it.”

  The shopkeeper and his wife exchanged a conspiratorial glance. The woman smiled and pretended to count the money in the cash register. Rosa nodded her head.

  “It would be a pleasure, if you’d like to give me a hand. I’m not as young as I once was, you know, and the more the years go by the worse my back gets. But I just can’t wait for Don Gerardo’s delivery boy to come back. Thank you, Signori’. I’ll carry the pasta myself.”

  XIII

  From the armchair in her living room, Livia watched the rain streak her window. The tracks of the raindrops across the glass enchanted and distracted her from the continuous chatter of Anna, an old friend of hers from Rome who’d been talking her ear off on the phone for almost half an hour.

  “Now you tell me, Livia: you left us, one night you were here and the next morning you were gone, you just abandoned us all! You know, just yesterday I ran into the Marchese della Verdiana, you know, that tall handsome man with the handlebar mustache: the same one who used to court you so relentlessly, the one who sent you the enormous bouquets of roses every morning, remember? Well. He stopped me, if you can believe it, while I was walking down the Via del Corso, just rears up in front of me, just think! He makes a nice little bow, he clears his throat, and he says to me, he says: Signora, how enchanting to run into you like this, and on and on, why, what a pleasure, you’ve brightened my day, and so on and so forth . . . Livia? Livia, are you even listening to me?”

  “Yes, of course, Anna, I’m here, I’m listening.”

  “Good! Because this story is interesting, you know? So, to get to the point, the marchese says to me: that friend of yours, the Signora Vezzi, hasn’t she come back from her trip yet? Capisci, Livia? Everyone in Rome is talking about your move, and he pretends to think you’re just off on a jaunt to another city!”

  Livia wished she had a good excuse to put an end to that conversation: she knew that Anna was just telling her the story in the hopes of extorting more information from her about the reason for her disappearance from Rome. Smiling as she lazily twisted the cord of the elegant white telephone around her fingers, Livia decided to keep her on tenterhooks for a while longer.

  “And you? What did you say to him?”

  “Ah, I just told him the truth: that I had no idea, that you left without telling me when you’d return, and that any day now I expected you’d let me know. You know, poor thing, he seemed so distraught and eager to know when you’d be coming back that I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that you’d sent a crew of roustabouts to get your things and shut down your apartment in Rome.”

  Livia burst out laughing.

  “And who told you that? Did you hire a private investigator to watch the entrance to my building? You’re fantastic, you know that, Anna? You take gossip to the level of fine art!”

  “Livia, you know you’re not being fair, and you’re hurting my feelings! You’re one of my dearest friends, I’m allowed to miss you, no? And it’s only natural for someone who wants to know how you’re doing to ask me, don’t you think? We always used to go out together, you and I. So, come on, I’m begging you: tell me why you left. I would think I’d have a right to know! Did something happen, here in Rome? A quarrel, a lover . . . A married man, perhaps? Come on, just tell me, please!”

  “Why, did someone tell you I was having an affair with a married man? And when could I have had this affair, with you checking on me constantly? Come on, Anna, just accept it: there’s not always a reason for everything. And if a woman leaves a city, it might be because she’s running away from something, but it also might be because she’s searching for something, no?”

  On the other end of the line, Anna loudly blew out her cheeks.

  “There, you see? You’re trying to make a fool of me again! But what sane person decides to leave Rome for Naples? And you of all people, perhaps the only woman with full access to every drawing room and salon in the city, and a personal friend, no less, of Edda Mussolini—or I suppose I should say, Edda Ciano, now that she’s married. By the way, have you spoken to her? I heard that she might travel down to Naples with her father and her husband in a few days for the address.”

  “Yes, I talked to her and we might see each other. But she for one has never scolded me for moving away like you’ve been doing, you know. In fact, she told me that it was a wonderful idea, that this is a stupendous city, and that she even envied me, just think of that.”

  Her girlfriend sighed resignedly.

  “There, now even the Duce’s daughter is on your side, poor me. I have no choice but to believe the lies you tell me, that you’re actually interested in someone in Naples. Though that’s odd too, because a girlfriend of mine who lives in Naples—and I won’t tell you who she is or else I’ll lose even this source of information—she wrote me and told me that she hadn’t heard anything about a man striking your fancy.”

  A pair of green eyes flashed through Livia’s mind and were gone, like a lightning bolt.

  “Or maybe there is a man, and he’s just not interested in me.”

  A loud, screaming laugh came through the receiver.

  “A man who doesn’t want you? You? Livia Lucani, the widow Vezzi? Now that’s something I’d like to see! I wish I had ten lire for every man I’ve seen mooning after you, you lucky thing. No, that’s impossible, if I needed proof that you’re talking nonsense, now I have it. Fine, I get it: you’ve decided to stop confiding in me. But I love you just the same, so just know that if you want to talk to me, I’m right here.”

  “I love you too, cara. Kissses, arrivederci.”

  At last, thought Livia; and she went back to watching the raindrops on the glass, thinking about those green eyes.

  Ricciardi stared at Don Antonio, trying to discern his emotions. The priest had a pained expression on his face, but he seemed to have no intention of dropping the matter of the autopsy.

  “I’d like to know from you, Commissario, who authorized you to massacre that child’s dead body. If there had been reasonable doubts about the cause of death, then I would have been the first to u
rge you to get to the bottom of it. But the doctor himself says that there’s no reason not to believe in the accidental nature of the misfortune, it seems to me that that’s what I heard. And in that case, why on earth did you decide to carve up that poor corpse?”

  “Padre, I can tell you now: the child died, not of disease or infection, but of poison. He ingested strychnine, rat poison, along with the bait it came in. This is worth a little further investigation, don’t you think? If only to ensure that such a terrible thing doesn’t happen to any other children.”

  Don Antonio seemed struck by this information; he shook his head sadly, and ran a hand over his face. Even Maione started in surprise.

  “This too is something I’ve had to see before. It happened five years ago: two of my children found some food that had gone bad. We never found out what it was they’d eaten. They fell ill, they got worse; then one died, the weaker of the two, while the other one survived, but he was never the same. He stopped talking and he was committed to an institution. These are terrible accidents, but they happen.”

  Ricciardi nodded.

  “Yes, Padre. It happens. All the same, if you don’t mind, I’d like to know a little more about this child, his life, the things he did.”

  The priest became defensive:

  “Really? And why would you want to know that, Commissario? If you yourself say that it was all a terrible accident, then all I need to do is ask the other boys where Matteo might have found the poisoned bait, don’t you agree? That way, you can go look into it and make sure nothing like this ever happens again.”

  “It’s routine procedure, Padre. The child died of other than natural causes, and we have to justify our intervention.”

  Don Antonio sighed, momentarily resigned.

  “Fine. Go ahead and ask.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me, Padre. Tell me about the child, his personality, his friends, the kinds of things he did. Anything that comes to mind.”

  “All right: his name was Matteo, but everyone called him Tettè. Because–poor boy–he had a terrible stutter. First he’d get excited, then anxious, and then he wouldn’t be able to speak. Sometimes he’d get stuck on a single letter and have to give up entirely, just stop talking. He was small for his age, he must have been at least eight, maybe older, clever but a loner, perhaps because of the stutter. He had a little dog. I can’t have the boys keeping animals, you understand, for hygienic reasons. So he’d leave the dog outside, and whatever the weather, the dog would wait for him. They were always together.”

  Ricciardi asked:

  “A dog with a white coat and brown spots?”

  Don Antonio nodded.

  “That’s right, you must have seen it yourself. Was the dog in the area where . . . where you found Matteo?”

  “Yes, Padre.”

  “I’m not surprised, it never left his side. Who knows what’ll become of that dog now. Anyway, we all loved Tettè so much: everyone doted on him. Since he was the smallest, the other boys protected him, and anyone who dared to lay a hand on him had the boys to answer to. And, I’ll admit, I always had a special fondness for the boy myself. No one would ever have harmed a hair on our Tettè’s head.”

  A huge thunderclap shook the windowpanes. The rain started coming down even harder.

  XIV

  Seven days earlier: Tuesday, October 20

  Tettè wakes up early. Daylight hasn’t begun filtering through the closed shutters yet.

  It’s cold out. The others are all sleeping fully dressed, wearing every article of clothing they own. Tettè lets his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can make out the shapes of the bodies on the pallets around him.

  He’s having trouble breathing; his nose is clogged with mucus. He tries to swallow, but his throat is sore. He pushes aside the burlap sacks that serve as his blanket, careful not to make a sound. His feet touch down lightly on the icy floor, but Tettè doesn’t feel the cold: he’s accustomed to walking barefoot, and the soles of his feet have developed thick calluses as a result, like the soles of a shoe.

  In silence, moving as stealthily as a cat, he reaches a corner of the large room and leans close to the wall. He checks again to make sure that everyone is still asleep, taking a quick look around him.

  He crouches down on the floor and counts the bricks in the wall. Two, five, six. Silently mouthing the numbers with his lips. Brick number eight sticks out ever so slightly from the wall. With both hands, very slowly, Tettè eases it out and removes it. He sticks his hand into the hole and pulls out a small packet of newspaper. Along with the packet comes a large cockroach. Tettè jerks in surprise and disgust, then crushes it with his bare foot.

  Holding the cockroach in his left hand, he uses his right hand to unwrap the newspaper packet. Inside is a pastry, a bit stale and slightly nibbled around the edges. Tettè looks at the morsel and smiles tenderly. After a moment’s hesitation, he breaks off a tiny piece and starts to lift it to his mouth.

  He feels a large hand from behind around his neck, squeezing hard. He struggles to breathe, mouth gaping as he gasps for air. Now two hands spin him around, pinning his back to the wall. Standing before him is Amedeo, the eldest boy, teeth clenched in anger, eyes red with sleep. Behind Amedeo stand the other four. Amedeo loosens his grip a little, and Tettè inhales and exhales loudly.

  “What’s wrong, you rotten cacaglio?” he says, using the derogatory dialect word for a stutterer. “Having trouble breathing? Maybe that’s how it ought to be, maybe you don’t need to go on breathing. Maybe I should drown you, with my own two hands.”

  Amedeo hisses like a serpent. No one can hear him outside the door of the room, but to Tettè’s ears, it’s like a lion’s roar. He shakes his head, terrified.

  “No, eh? You don’t want to die? Why not? What’s the point of you going on living, can you tell me? Why should people like you be alive? I’d be doing the kid a favor if I killed him, don’t you guys think so?”

  The twins laugh. One of them, the one missing his front teeth, says, yeah, come on, Amede’, kill him, please. Squeeze his throat until his eyes bug out, the way you did that time with the orange cat.

  Without taking his eyes off Tettè’s face, Amedeo delivers a well-aimed kick to the twin’s belly; the boy rolls on the floor without emitting so much as a groan and throws himself on the pallet, bent at the waist.

  “Shut your mouth, you idiot. I told you never to talk about these things. Not even when no one’s here. All right, then, cacaglio, where were we? What were you hiding in the wall? Show me, or else I’ll tear that bastard hand of yours right off your arm.”

  He still has his hand wrapped around Tettè’s throat; again the boy can’t breathe. His vision is starting to blur. He sees lots of tiny lights blinking before his eyes. He feels as if he’s falling asleep and having a dream.

  Cristiano, the last one to arrive at Santa Maria del Soccorso, lays his hand on Amedeo’s arm.

  “Amede’, that’s enough. Keep it up and you’ll kill him, can’t you see he’s not breathing? Let him go.”

  “Yeah? And who are you to give me orders? You want a little taste for yourself? A good hard kick in the balls like I gave that moron over there? Or should I just choke you, too?”

  Cristiano keeps his distance, but he knows how to handle Amedeo.

  “Think it over. If you kill him, we’ll lose lots of things, and you know it. And anyway you’ve put the fear of God in him now, you’ll see that he won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  Amedeo looks at Tettè with disgust; he lets go of his neck and lightning-quick grabs the packet out of his hand. The twin who’s still standing moves cautiously forward to get a look at it, but Amedeo shoves him away. He sniffs at it, samples a piece.

  “Phew, that’s disgusting. It’s moldy and cockroaches have been eating it. The cockroaches are just like you, rotten cacaglio: they hide in the d
ark, they scuttle away along the wall. And when I see one, I crush it. Remember that, cacaglio: I’m going to crush you.”

  He spits out the piece of pastry he had in his mouth, dumps the rest on top of it, and crushes it underfoot. Then he turns and walks away. The twin lunges at the mess on the floor, scrabbling at it with his fingers and eating it, looking at Tettè derisively.

  Tettè’s eyes fill with tears, but he doesn’t cry. He gets to his feet, runs his hand over his neck. He would like to say something, but he knows that the words wouldn’t come out. From across the room, Cristiano watches him, expressionless. Tettè smiles at him, but the other boy turns away and walks off.

  A shaft of gray light starts to filter in through the shutters.

  XV

  Ricciardi, having taken note of the priest’s laundry list of happy memories and the idyllic picture he had just painted of the dead boy’s life, asked:

  “And you, Padre, when was the last time you saw him?”

  Don Antonio tried to think back, with some difficulty.

  “Now then, let me recall. Yes, I’d say on Sunday night, after the seven o’clock service. I remember that he was there, even if he wasn’t the one who served mass. Yes, yes. I remember clearly, he was sitting in the second pew, on the left, looking from the altar.”

  Ricciardi looked at the priest, then he said:

  “And could you tell me who he was with, Padre? Who was he sitting with at Mass?”

  “With the other boys, I believe. With all the other boys. They all attend the evening Mass every Sunday. They know that’s what I want.”

  “What about after Mass? Where could the child have gone? Don’t they eat dinner, after the service?”