Day of the Dead

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  He took a more careful look around, but saw no one: the boy hadn’t died in the warehouse. Not that that added up to much, since he could easily have taken something and then run off to eat it elsewhere; but the boy’s spectral shade wasn’t there now.

  Cristiano was increasingly anxious; he tugged at Ricciardi’s sleeve, pulling him toward the narrow entryway they’d come in by. The commissario was turning to follow him when a muscular arm reached out of the shadows and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck.

  Before Ricciardi could stop him, the man violently struck Cristiano twice in the face. The boy squawked in fright and tried to squirm free, while the man shouted:

  “You damned thief, damn you, I finally caught you. You’re done eating at my expense!”

  Ricciardi finally recovered from the shock and shouted:

  “Halt! Let him go! Police!”

  This caused the man to yield momentarily, loosening his grip; Cristiano took advantage of the chance to sink his teeth into the hand that had held him in a vise grip just a second before. The man shouted out an oath and kicked his foot in the boy’s direction, but Cristiano was by now well out of range.

  Ricciardi stepped forward.

  “Stop, I said! Who are you, sir?”

  “Who am I? Who are you! If you’re with the police, what are you doing in my warehouse? How did you get in, and why didn’t you knock at the front door, like honest people do?”

  By now, the commissario had regained control of the situation; Cristiano was standing safely behind him, massaging his neck and shooting the owner of the warehouse a defiant glare.

  “I apologize for the way in which we entered, but it was necessary. This is a police investigation, and I’m Commissario Ricciardi of the royal police headquarters of Naples. Please be so good as to provide me with your name and surname.”

  The man continued to stare angrily at Cristiano and, holding his bleeding hand, he replied:

  “Vincenzo Lotti’s my name. And this is my warehouse you’re in. I battle from morning to night with these shameless marauders: they’re worse than rats and cockroaches. They slip in under the doors and steal everything in sight. I’ve already filed two criminal complaints, right where you work, at police headquarters, and no one even came out to see me, nothing happened, and they just keep on stealing with impunity. They’re a scourge, I tell you: a scourge!”

  Ricciardi did his best to be conciliatory:

  “You’re right: I’ll show you where they get in, that way at least the boys won’t be a problem for you anymore. You’ll still have to deal with the rats, though. How do you handle them?”

  He pointed to the carcass of the dead rat, midway between foodstuffs and front door. Lotti, a big strapping man in shirtsleeves and wide suspenders, gradually changed his tone of voice as his anger steamed off:

  “That would be great, Commissa’. To at least get rid of the problem with the boys, I mean. I understand that they’re hungry, I ate constantly at their age, too, but I can’t afford to satisfy their appetites. They aren’t my children after all, are they? With the rats, now I’m putting down this poison I buy at the pharmacy and, as you can see, it seems like it’s starting to work. But the poison’s expensive, and the flour and cheese to make the poison bait aren’t free, either. I’ve tried using traps, but you get a couple of them and then the others catch on quick as a blink. Rats, scugnizzi, they’re the same thing. They learn right away how to steal.”

  Rats and scugnizzi, both just as bad; they aren’t my children: the man’s words hit Ricciardi like a slap in the face. The back of Tettè’s neck appeared before his eyes again, as thin as the neck of an Easter lamb, as the attendants were carrying him off like a piece of scrap wood to be discarded, and he felt a stab of pain in his stomach.

  “I just hope for your sake that all your permits and papers are in order,” he said in a harsh tone of voice. “Licenses, food rations, customs, everything. That the goods have all been purchased on the up and up and that you’re issuing the proper receipts for your sales. Criminal complaints, you know, are a two-way street. Did you know that a few hundred feet from here, early Monday morning, at the foot of the Tondo staircase, a little boy was found dead? The investigation has shown that he was poisoned. Exactly what kind of rat poison do you use, in here?”

  Lotti stood there openmouthed; his mind was trying to process the information he’d just received as quickly as it could.

  “I . . . my permits? My permits are all in order, my brother-in-law, who’s an accountant, takes care of them. I’m not so good at reading words, though I’m all right with numbers. And . . . a dead boy, yes, I heard about that, one of the kids from Santa Maria del Soccorso, I think. I was sorry to hear it, too. They may be thieves, but they’re still God’s creatures, and I have six children, so you can imagine my feelings about it, Commissa’. Poison? I buy it at the pharmacy, and it costs plenty. I don’t know what kind of poison it is, but let me go get the receipt from the pharmacist. Just wait here for a moment.”

  He left through a door in the back. Ricciardi asked Cristiano how he felt, and the boy shrugged dismissively, as if to say: it takes a lot more than that to scare me.

  Lotti came back with a paper envelope, the kind they sell stamps in, and a receipt. He handed it to Ricciardi.

  “Take care, Commissa’: if the pharmacist told me once, he told me a hundred times to handle this stuff with gloves on. It’s deadly poison, as you can see for yourself,” he said, pointing at the dead rat.

  The second the commissario laid eyes on the envelope he recognized the word he was looking for: strychnine.

  “Where do you put them, the poisoned morsels? Think carefully, Lotti: it’s very important for me to know.”

  The man shook his head decisively.

  “Only in here, Commissa’, I swear it. It wouldn’t even make any sense to put them outside: they’re expensive, and it would just be a waste of money. The only thing I care about is protecting my merchandise. If I keep losing product, I’ll have to shut down my business; that’s the only reason I would spend all this money on poison, you have to believe me.”

  Ricciardi looked him in the face and felt pity for him, too.

  “Come on, I’ll show you where the kids are getting in. If you hurry up and seal up that entrance, it will help everyone to sleep better: you’ll stop losing merchandise, and they’ll stop dying like rats.”

  XXIII

  By a curious coincidence, less than a mile away from Livia, Enrica, too, was sitting at the desk in her bedroom, staring at the rain beating against her window; by an equally curious coincidence, she was thinking about the same person.

  She had decided to take Rosa’s advice and answer Ricciardi’s letter. And that was an important step forward.

  She smiled as she thought back on Ricciardi’s tata: meeting her had been both an enjoyable and an encouraging experience. It showed her that there were moments in life when it was necessary to take the initiative, show some courage. She had been brave, in a way she would never have expected, and it had paid off.

  She felt a shiver at the thought of herself running down the stairs of her building and out into the rain; arriving at Don Gerardo’s shop, without needing to buy a thing (what would she have said, if they had asked her what she wanted? She would have had come up with something, she thought); waiting for Rosa to finish ordering; offering to help carry her groceries.

  Above all, it struck her as incredible that she had been capable of talking about her feelings with that woman, who was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.

  And yet, thinking back on it now, as she looked through the rain at the window of what she now knew to be Rosa’s bedroom, nothing could have seemed more natural than to find herself there, sitting on the sofa in his apartment, drinking a cup of coffee. And to smell his scent all around her, the aroma of his aftershave; to look at the marble
tiles on which he walked, the big wooden radio he listened to. Even the door to his bedroom. She hadn’t had the nerve to ask to see his window, the window; and to imagine herself embroidering, just fifteen feet away.

  From now on, those fifteen feet would never be the same; now that she could picture it all in her head, now that she knew for certain what objects and what lines of sight her eyes were exploring. The barrier had been torn down, more by her visit to the apartment than by his letter.

  The letter, she thought, dipping her pen for the umpteenth time in the light-blue inkwell. The letter that she now had to answer.

  In her mind, she pictured him in the act of opening the envelope containing her reply. She imagined his remote gaze, his nervous hands, the lock of hair dangling over his forehead. What on earth could drive a man like him to live a life of such complete solitude? Why did he share nothing with anyone, ever?

  She sensed, as she always had, that behind those silences and behind the wall he’d built around himself there was actually an infinite kindness and gentleness, an unexpected tenderness toward his fellow man. She had no real reason to think this, but she did think it: and her conversation with Rosa had confirmed it for her. If she won his heart, if she were able to get close to him and love him the way she could feel she wanted to, that tenderness would emerge, and he would become a different man.

  She smiled at the rain. She’d never been with a man romantically, she’d always been reserved, disinclined to date or court: now she knew, for a certainty, that all her life she’d only really been waiting for a man like him. The time for hesitation and uncertainty was through; it had ended with his letter and with her visit to Rosa.

  With a determination that she’d never expected from herself, she leaned over the blank sheet of stationery and wrote the salutation: Gentile Signore. Dear Sir.

  As night began to fall, Livia heard someone knocking politely at her door. When she called out come in!, her maid, a lovely young girl in a black apron and a white ruffled lace headpiece, poked her head in:

  “Signo’, forgive me. There’s a gentleman at the door, he wouldn’t tell me his name. He says that you’re expecting him, and that you already know who he is.”

  After a moment of puzzlement and annoyance, Livia remembered that she was expecting a visitor after all: the man from the security agency who was to review the list of guests for her reception.

  She took a hasty look at herself in the mirror to make sure she was presentable, then she went into the living room where a distinguished but nondescript middle-aged gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair stood waiting for her, hat in hand and his overcoat wet with rain.

  “Buona sera, I’m Livia Lucani Vezzi. And you would be . . . ?”

  The man gave a slight nod of the head and smiled:

  “Delighted to meet you, Signora. You are indeed enchanting, just as I was told. You’ll have to forgive me but I can’t tell you my name. You can call me whatever you like, just pick a surname at random.”

  Livia laughed nervously.

  “Well, that’s curious! I can’t even know who’s entering my home. It’s a good thing that, as you must know, I have nothing to hide.”

  The man put on an aggrieved expression.

  “I understand, Signora. This is standard procedure, you know. But I don’t want you to see this in any way as a lack of respect toward you. It’s just that the agency . . . or, I should say, the organization to which I belong stipulates secrecy as a moral imperative. It’s in your own best interests, Signora. Let’s do this: why don’t we say my name is Falco? It’s a code name, and it’s not really all that far from my real name. How are you? Well, I hope? Enjoying your time in our fair city?”

  Though still uneasy, Livia’s curiosity was piqued by this individual.

  “I’m well, very well indeed, grazie. Even if the nasty weather we’ve been having recently does keep me from getting around. Signora Ciano’s secretary had alerted me earlier that you’d be paying a call. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

  The man looked around, admiringly.

  “Nice place; the parlor is so large, perfect for a party with so many important people attending. Did you prepare the guest list as requested? If you’re not ready yet, I can come back whenever you like.”

  “No, no, there’s no need for that: I have it right here. Here you are.”

  The man opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  “I took a look at the building. A magnificent choice: centrally located but not suffocated by the noise from the traffic or the open-air markets. And from our point of view, that is, in terms of security, it’s just fine: a single entrance, which can be easily kept under surveillance from the street. And windows on the interior courtyard.”

  Livia was taken aback.

  “Easy to keep under surveillance, my goodness! Do you really believe that there is any danger? And so much danger that you need to keep my home under surveillance! Should I be worried, then?”

  “Signora, these are difficult times. The Duce and the Fascist Party are carrying on a process of consolidation that is far from complete. There are numerous dissidents and they too are starting to organize, establishing alliances and making agreements. A picket line that takes the concrete form of demonstrations or even, still worse, violent attacks is not something we can afford to rule out. Naples has thinkers, intellectuals who have repeatedly expressed strong anti-Fascist views; there is no reason not to believe that they might have established alliances with anarchists and Communists, ready to do whatever it takes.”

  Livia laughed again, to undercut the drama.

  “Now you’re frightening me! I honestly haven’t sensed this atmosphere, in the time I’ve spent in this city. If anything, everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve observed what seems to be a complete loyalty to the regime; for that matter, who would be so mad as to reject the future of prosperity and well-being that the Duce is building for the nation? Moreover, the Neapolitan police force strikes me as extraordinarily capable and vigilant, don’t you agree?”

  The self-described Signor Falco shrugged.

  “The police do police work. They enforce ordinary laws, deal with evidence, and go after criminals: thieves, rapists, murderers. Things that are easy to track down and understand. We deal with a different set of problems, things that are underground, hidden. A professional of unquestioned rectitude, a man leading a normal, ordinary life, with a family and children; a factory worker, who rides his bicycle every morning to the Ilva steel plant in Bagnoli and comes straight home every night, and goes to bed early; a washerwoman, who sings at the top of her lungs as she slaps her sheets against a stone by a fountain in Vomero. People who walk down the same streets as you, brush past you on the sidewalk, tip their hats in greeting. These are our enemies, potential terrorists, dissidents. People ready to take up arms against the government, against the Duce. Or against the Duce’s daughter, for that matter. Our organization, Signora, tries to find these people, and to find ways to protect us all from them.”

  “I can’t believe this, Signor Falco. It seems impossible that there could be situations like the ones you’ve just described.”

  The man smiled.

  “And yet, Signora, all three of the examples I just gave you are true: three situations that actually took place, over the last year, and right here in this city. Three individuals now serving time in prison, far from here, all three of whom confessed their participation in seditious assemblies, where they plotted against the regime.”

  Livia sat openmouthed.

  “Really? And how . . . by what means were you able to catch them? How did you do it?”

  “Like I was saying, Signora: with extreme care and discretion. We have a network of informants that you couldn’t imagine, not even in your wildest dreams. Dozens of people faithful to the regime who cover the entire city: strolling vendors, shopkeepers, teachers, prof
essors, students. Normal people, just like those other people I described to you, who gather and report things they are told in confidence, personal impressions—sometimes something as simple as a criticism, blurted out in an unguarded moment. We sift through their reports and denunciations, and we do research of our own: we look for confirmation, we add up pieces of evidence. And then we proceed to questioning, and we conduct an interview or two. And we form an opinion, we come to a decision: it’s in no one’s interest to send an innocent person into domestic exile, or to prison, don’t you agree? Surely you can see why we have to be careful.”

  Livia shuddered in spite of herself. A gust of rain shook the window.

  “Yes, I do see. I imagine that your organization is necessary, too. In any case, my guest list is complete.”

  The man rapidly skimmed the list of names.

  “Mm . . . yes, I’d say by and large that it corresponds to what we’d expected. There are a few small surprises . . . Garzo, the deputy chief of police, for example: small fry, among so many prominent figures. But if you like, feel free to invite him. All right, Signora. We’ll examine it more carefully, and if no objections arise, you can send the invitations out as early as tomorrow afternoon. Among the guests there will be two of our own men. They’ll introduce themselves to you with the utmost discretion, and I assure you that they will cause you no annoyance; but I’m sure you understand that it’s necessary, to prevent any potential disagreeable developments. Even at the finest high society gathering, it happens that someone might get drunk, or take unacceptable liberties.”

  Livia didn’t much like the idea of strangers in the apartment, carrying out surveillance on her friends’ and her own behavior; but she concluded that there was nothing she could do about it. She hoped that the reason for all this vigilance was the presence of Edda, but regardless, from that moment on she’d always feel that she was being watched.