Day of the Dead

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  For Cosimo, Tettè constituted a genuine gold mine; depending on the situation, he’d either tell people that Tettè was his son and that the boy’s mother had died in childbirth, or else that he’d found the boy on the street, or that he was the son of a comrade-in-arms who’d died in combat. He was quite astute at guessing the nuances of grief and pain in the life of any woman who approached his handcart, and he knew how to play the innermost chords of her soul; the haggling eased up and the earnings were always much greater than he had any right to expect.

  But this wasn’t the only thing that made Tettè the ideal assistant. The other thing, the most important one, had taken months of training: an investment of time and effort that had only recently begun to pay off, and which Cosimo, conscientious businessman that he was, wasn’t willing to lose without a fight.

  When Cristiano, dripping with rain and out of breath, caught up with him, Cosimo was using his running patter on a mistrustful middle-aged woman leaning halfway out the ground-floor window of a basso.

  “Signo’, this morning you’re a sight for sore eyes: you’re such a vision that if I look at you I’ll be blinded, I’ll have to stumble my way through the vicoli, I’ll run my handcart straight into a brick wall. But tell me, how do you do it—how do you keep yourself looking so pretty?”

  The woman, who had a beard and whiskers a cadet might envy and looked to weigh as much as a cartload of bricks, narrowed her eyes.

  “Your magic isn’t going to work on me this morning, Cosimo. I’ve got this handful of rags, and what I need is a large bar of soap. If you want to give it to me, fine; otherwise clear out, because your handcart in front of my window is blocking my air.”

  “Donna Carme’,” he sniveled, “you’re trying to ruin me! A large bar of soap is worth at least a shirt, and a shirt in good condition, or at least a frying pan without any holes in it. What am I supposed to do with a couple of tattered footcloths? Put at least a five-cent piece next to them, and that way you’ll send me away a happy man! Don’t take advantage of me, now that I’ve fallen head over heels for you!”

  The woman showed that she was a tough nut to crack; it had been thirty years since she’d last received a sincere compliment, and she wasn’t about to be made a fool of.

  “Nothing doing. So go on, make up your mind and make it quick. I have things to do.”

  It was then that Cosimo noticed Cristiano’s presence. After catching his breath, the boy said:

  “Don Co’, I can work with you, I’ll go into the apartments, that cacaglio won’t be coming anymore!”

  Donna Carmela narrowed her eyes to slits and asked, in an even warier voice:

  “What did the child say? What apartments is he going into?”

  With the speed of a rattlesnake, the junk seller’s hand shot out and grabbed Cristiano’s shoulder, crushing it in a violent, viselike grip. The boy immediately fell silent.

  “No, this child must have me confused with someone else, Donna Carme’. I’ve never even met this scugnizzo. You know that the only one I keep with me is my stepson, Tettè. You remember Tettè, don’t you?”

  The woman’s scowling face suddenly brightened into a smile.

  “Of course, how could I not? The lovely quiet little boy with the brown and white dog. Always so polite, the way he bows to me if I give him a cookie. Why isn’t he with you today?”

  Cosimo put on a worried expression, without letting go of Cristiano’s shoulder.

  “He’s sick, a few lines of fever. If he doesn’t feel well, I don’t take him out with me, especially in this weather, no? You have children yourself, don’t you, Donna Carme’? In other words, you can understand me.”

  The woman grew cautious again, but her voice had softened at the thought of little Tettè.

  “No, I don’t have children, I never got married, because there was never anyone who was right for me. But I have nephews and nieces, and your little boy reminds me of a little nephew of mine who died, years and years ago. All right, let’s not waste any more time: here are the rags and a five-cent coin, give me the soap and get out of here, I’ve got work to do.”

  Once the transaction had been completed, the woman slammed the window shut with a bang. Cosimo spat angrily on the ground and, once they’d turned the corner, began shaking Cristiano.

  “Who asked you to open your big mouth? What on earth made you think you could speak to me without permission? I ought to kill you with my own two hands!”

  The boy stood there, wide-eyed and speechless. He was terrified. Cosimo went on, in a hiss:

  “You know that I’d do it, too, eh? You know that all too well. Where’s your little friend? Why hasn’t he been around for the past three days, him and that disgusting dog of his? If he turns up and he’s been out scavenging food, I’ll break every bone in his skinny body, I swear it as God is my witness!”

  Cristiano caught his breath and said, the words tumbling out:

  “Don Co’, that little cacaglio won’t be coming anymore: he’s dead. He ate rat poison and died, and they found him at the Tondo di Capodimonte. So I wanted to take his place, and come around with you. I don’t want to go work with the cobbler anymore. I’m fast, I can run. And that thing in the apartments, I can do it better than he ever did!”

  Cosimo turned deathly pale; he looked around in terror and, after making sure that there was no one around to see or hear, he grabbed Cristiano by the throat.

  “What are you saying? What do you mean, he’s dead? Who knows about this? And what do you mean by ‘that thing in the apartments’? What do you know about it, who did you talk to?”

  Now Cristiano really was afraid: he hadn’t expected that reaction from the junk seller, and in the dark stretch of alley where the man had taken him there was no one to call to for help. Animal of the street that he was, he recognized the cold determination in the man’s eyes, and he understood that his life was in danger.

  “No, no, let me go, I won’t breathe a word to anyone. And no one else knows. The cacaglio himself told me, he told me that sometimes when you were out on your rounds together, he’d sneak into the apartments and grab something while the women were talking to you. But he only told me, and I’m not going to tell anyone else. Now let me go. I told the priest that I was coming to talk to you for a minute and then I’d be right back.”

  Cosimo thought fast, and he loosened his grip. The red imprints of his fingers were clearly visible on Cristiano’s throat. The man ran his hand over his face to wipe away the rain: he’d come within an inch of killing the boy.

  “Go on then, get back to the priest. And don’t let me ever lay eyes on you again. But remember this: if anyone finds out anything, I’ll come track you down wherever you’re hiding, and I’ll finish what I started this morning. You understand? Now, get out of here!”

  Cristiano didn’t have to be told twice, and he took off running, slipping on the wet cobblestones.

  Cosimo flopped down onto his cart, with a faint clanging of copper pots. He’s dead, then, he thought. He’s dead.

  And now what am I going to do?

  XXIX

  Ricciardi entered the church of San Ferdinando in an entirely different spirit from the one he’d been in as he entered the church of Santa Maria del Soccorso. He almost found it funny, all this going around to churches, so far removed from his personality; but this time he was happy to be calling on an old friend.

  Actually, not that old a friend; he’d first met Don Pierino, the assistant parish priest of the beautiful church in the city center, when he was investigating the murder of Livia’s husband, the tenor Arnaldo Vezzi. The murder had caused an uproar in the city, especially among the many impassioned opera lovers. Don Pierino was an opera lover himself, and he had been at the Teatro San Carlo the night that the murder had taken place.

  The two men couldn’t have been any more different; perhaps that was exactly w
hy they had hit it off so well. Don Pierino countered Ricciardi’s grim materialism with a simple and absolute faith, which in his interactions with society at large took the form of a constant effort to help the weak and the vulnerable. Thus the two men arrived, by very different paths, at the same heartfelt involvement in the things they saw in the grim underbelly of the city.

  Ricciardi didn’t like opera, and in general tended to shun the portrayal of false emotions. He was far too well aware of how devastating and lethal real passions could be. Don Pierino loved opera and music, in part because their beauty struck him as a testimonial to God’s love toward all mankind. The commissario had found an important guide in the little priest, and Don Pierino had been invaluable in the course of his investigation. He’d never have been able to solve the mystery without him.

  In the dim light of the central aisle, Ricciardi saw the figure of the assistant parish priest emerge from the confessional. Don Pierino was a short man, with a belly that was becoming more and more prominent, but which did nothing to keep him from being constantly on the move, as energetic and vigorous as a restless child. There was a look of weariness about him now, until he noticed Ricciardi and his face lit up with joy.

  “Commissario, how happy I am to see you! It’s been a long time since you thought of your friend here, eh? You’re soaked through, is it still raining out? I’ve been hearing confession for three hours now, and it looks like I’m finally done.”

  Ricciardi shook the priest’s hand.

  “How are you, Padre? You look tired? Can it be? Do men of the cloth like you get to the point of exhaustion, too?”

  Don Pierino joined his hands on his belly, in a gesture that was common with him.

  “Any priest can tell you, Commissario, that nothing wears you out like hearing confession. You have to look straight into the hell that every person carries within, you have to delve into it, you have to understand it, and you have to forgive them in the name of God: a forgiveness that many don’t even want, because they’d rather be forgiven by their fellow human beings. It’s draining work, and sometimes it’s atrocious, believe me. But how about you: how are you doing? When I think of you, and I think of you often in my prayers, I always remember that you promised that you’d let me take you to the opera sometime.”

  Ricciardi made his customary grimace of exasperated annoyance.

  “Padre, I know, I said I would: but believe me, the opera that this city manages to stage on a daily basis keeps me from making good on my promise. And that, along with the pleasure of seeing you again, of course, is what brings me here this evening.”

  Don Pierino turned serious.

  “I know very well how much pity and compassion you have for the poor; that is why I’m always glad to help you with your cases. If it were strictly a matter of sending someone to jail, I don’t think I’d be so happy to talk with you. These are strange and difficult times, Commissario, and no one knows that better than you: certain so-called criminals are far more innocent than the men who prosecute them.”

  Ricciardi nodded.

  “I know that, Padre. I know it all too well. But some victims are certainly innocent, too. I’m not sure if you heard, but Monday morning a little boy was found . . . ”

  “Yes, at the Tondo di Capodimonte, I heard about it. One of those poor children from Santa Maria del Soccorso. I was told by a parishioner of mine, a woman who works in a shop over in that part of town. How pitiful.”

  “Yes, Padre. Truly a pity. In any case, I’d like to get a clearer picture of what happened. Not that there’s any doubt about how the boy died, to be clear: he ingested rat poison.”

  Don Pierino sighed.

  “Hunger. Damned hunger. Things like this shouldn’t happen; much less to children.”

  Ricciardi agreed:

  “That’s exactly right. In short, I asked around to get a better idea of just how this child was living, mainly to keep such a thing from happening again. But to my surprise, I encountered a great deal of resistance from the parish priest of Santa Maria del Soccorso.”

  Don Pierino was astonished.

  “But why all these questions, Commissario? Do you think that . . . that someone could have . . . Forgive me, but I just can’t believe it. A little helpless child, a poor orphan . . . ”

  Ricciardi waved his hand to dismiss the idea.

  “No, no, Padre. No doubts there. It was an accident, unquestionably. But what I wish I understood better is how and why a child like this one could be allowed to sneak into a warehouse, by night, evidently with the intention of stealing something to eat, and instead wind up dead after eating a poisoned piece of bait, like a sewer rat. And so my questions dealt with this aspect.”

  The priest shook his head.

  “I understand that. The parish priest of Santa Maria, Don Antonio Mansi—I know him. We even studied together and were classmates for a while. He was a good student. A good student and . . . quite the diplomat, too. One of those with a gift for getting the professors to like him, if you know what I mean. Then we fell out of touch, but every so often I run into him on the street and we have a chat.”

  Ricciardi was afraid he’d been indiscreet.

  “Padre, the last thing I’d want is to create difficulties for you. Nor is it my intention to speak badly of Don Antonio, whom I met just briefly a couple of times. It’s just that his reticence on the subject struck me as odd. He went so far as to ask the curia to intervene to put a halt to my investigation. Doesn’t that strike you as absurd?”

  Don Pierino made a strange grimace.

  “No, it doesn’t strike me as absurd. You see, someone looking at us from outside might think that priests are all alike. But that’s not the way it is. We’re human beings, every one of us with his own shortcomings, a few small vices, some obsession or other. I, for example, am a music lover, as you know: and there are times when this passion of mine leads me to do things I shouldn’t, like the time we first met, when I was hiding on the steps of the back utility staircase behind the main stage at the Teatro San Carlo. Do you remember?”

  The commissario waited, patiently, for Don Pierino to wrestle with the obligations of his conscience before setting forth his doubts about Don Antonio.

  “In some cases, the vices can be quite serious, and our superiors intervene to set things right. There are priests who fall in love with women, others who have crises of faith; those are things that keep you from being a good priest, and it is right that they should be sent away for a while, don’t you agree? Then there are priests who have a certain . . . propensity, some talent that might strike some as a defect, but which proves useful to others. That’s all.”

  Ricciardi said: “And in Don Antonio’s case, what is the talent, Padre?”

  Don Pierino looked pensively at the church’s frescoed vault.

  “Don Antonio is a first-rate administrator. Very good at accounting, let’s just say that. His parish seems to produce very generous donations, and so he’s made himself practically financially independent, and the curia is very grateful to him for that, from what I’ve heard. He’s on excellent terms with everyone, wealthy families in his parish and his superiors at the archiepiscopal see. He’s universally respected and esteemed. He has lots of friends, in other words.”

  “Well? Why would you consider this to be a defect? And I’m pretty sure you do consider it a defect, if I know you at all.”

  Don Pierino laughed.

  “Yes, you do know me. I think that, these days, if you’re working in this city, especially if you’re working with children, then the money that comes in ought to go straight back out. That’s all.”

  “And instead, he rakes off a profit.”

  The priest protested forcefully:

  “No, no, Commissario, that’s not what I said. Don Antonio is an excellent priest, he takes children in off the streets and, in many cases, as you and I
both know, that means saving their lives. It’s just that, when a family adopts one of these children, or makes a large donation to the church to cleanse their conscience, he donates that money to the Curia instead of improving the lives of the older children, who aren’t likely ever to be adopted. That’s something that I just personally dislike. Just that, nothing more. But, let me repeat, what he does for the children is important; that’s what counts.”

  Ricciardi nodded.

  “Sure. That’s what counts. Thank you, Padre. It’s always a pleasure to talk with you.”

  Don Pierino studied Ricciardi’s face.

  “Same for me, Commissario. Let me ask you one question, though: why all this interest? If this is an accident, plain and simple, why would someone as important as a commissario from police headquarters take the trouble to ask all these questions? I see something in your face: like a sadness, some kind of pain. What’s going on?”

  Ricciardi fell silent for a moment, then he replied:

  “Padre, you know it yourself: going around this city and witnessing the things that happen here, you can’t help but be sad. The day it no longer saddens me to see such a small child dead and discarded like an old rag; the day it no longer grieves me to think that seven- and eight-year-old children are starving to death or, as was the case with this child, being reduced to eating poisoned rat bait out of hunger; the day I stop asking why a little boy was wandering the city alone in the rain late at night, barefoot; the day I find it normal to find a corpse sitting on a staircase at dawn, with only a dog to watch over it: that day, I swear to you, Padre, I’ll give up this profession and go home to the village where I was born.”