Day of the Dead

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Ricciardi nodded.

  “Yes, I’ve noticed. I’ve come across that dog several times in the past few days. It goes the same places it went with Tettè.”

  Modo gave him an ironic look.

  “Tettè, eh? So you’ve become fond of the boy, now that he’s dead, with all the digging you’ve been doing. Come to think of it, it suits you: the macabre Ricciardi who gets along with the dead better than with the living. You know, you may have picked the wrong profession; you should be in my line of work. Or maybe you should do what those gentlemen do.”

  He nodded toward the white hearse drawn by a pair of horses, next to which a couple of men were smoking and stamping their feet to keep warm.

  “It seems money was no object. Would you look at that? Whoever paid for the funeral wanted only the very best. Nothing overstated, nothing pompous, but high quality all the way. The last trip he takes will be in a horse-drawn carriage, your–what did you call him? Tettè. Just a kid, but truly a noteworthy exit from the stage.”

  “By the way, Bruno, do you happen to know who’s paying for the funeral? The priest didn’t strike me as one inclined to make much of an outlay for pomp and circumstance.”

  Modo snickered.

  “And right you are. These priests even take money for proffering the illusion of Paradise; the last thing they’d do is pay a red penny to bury a little orphan boy. No, certainly not the priest. I asked the undertakers: the funeral arrangements were made and paid for by a certain Signora Fago di San Marcello, who it seems is also a Lady of Charity at the parish church of Santa Maria del Soccorso. Evidently she has money to burn. She could have spent that money better by feeding the child when he was alive; then he wouldn’t have been driven to swallow morsels of poisoned bait, and he’d still be alive now, playing with his dog.”

  Ricciardi shook his head.

  “Always a cynic and a materialist. I find it comforting that, at least now that he’s dead, there’s someone who weeps for him. You know, asking around a bit, all I could find out was that no one gave a damn about the poor child.”

  “A phantom, in other words. Just one of the thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of phantoms in this city. The ones no one sees.”

  That’s what you think, thought Ricciardi. There is someone who can see them, the phantoms. Unfortunately.

  “That’s right, Bruno. But they have a right to a few answers, at least once they’re dead.”

  Modo took a drag on his cigarette.

  “And so Commissario Ricciardi, knight errant and defender of lost souls, begins to dig. Be careful, though: don’t forget that your commander in chief, jackboots, Fascist regalia, and all, will be here soon, and he’ll want to find everything in tip-top order. He’ll end up grabbing you by the ear and explaining, with a round of sharp kicks and a few bottles of cod liver oil, that actually everything is just fine, that the city is marvelous and neat as a pin, and that the steaming mess being served is first-rate and plentiful.”

  Ricciardi shook his head.

  “You’re getting old, Bruno. And in your old age, you’ve become fixated on some unpleasant things. These days, whatever I talk about with you, you turn the conversation to politics. You realize that this makes you not so different from those you hate? They also talk always and exclusively about politics. I’m not interested in politics in the slightest. I’m interested in doing what I can. If everyone did that, perhaps all this talk of the chief world systems would become obsolete. At last.”

  Modo laughed.

  “Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, alias Saint Francis of Assisi. Bravo! You, too, can shrug in indifference; we can just leave it to them to take care of everything. Not that that’s not what they’re already doing.”

  Ricciardi shrugged:

  “Enough, enough, please. I’ve learned my lesson: always agree with you right away; that way I can change the subject. Speaking of changing the subject: beyond the manner of death, the other day you mentioned that the child was in very poor shape. Would you mind telling me a little more about that?”

  Modo crushed his cigarette butt underfoot, exhaling a last puff of smoke.

  “All right, let me remember: he was skinny, terribly skinny, but you could see that for yourself. The subcutaneous adipose layer was just the thinnest possible film, like cellophane. Abrasions on the knees, bruises on the legs, but all things from days or weeks before, nothing that could be dated to the time of death. A burn on one arm, fairly serious but old, dating back one or two years. Deep, though. A nasty mark. One strange thing: a few bruises on the neck, from three or four days prior to death, because the marks were bluish, not red: someone had grabbed him by the throat. These boys engage in terrible fights to survive, often among themselves. But he wasn’t returning the favor: his hands were in good shape, his nails weren’t broken, no bruises on his knuckles. He was taking it, and that was it. The skin on the soles of his feet, on the other hand, was thick as the sole of a shoe from habitually walking around barefoot.”

  Ricciardi listened with his usual attention.

  “So nothing very recent. Nothing that would suggest a struggle prior to death.”

  “No, I told you. The ingestion of the bait was voluntary, not forced. The oral cavity, the esophagus, the interior of the cheeks: all intact. The injuries I listed for you were war injuries: the war that a child like that one fights every day to survive, in this lovely Fascist city of yours.”

  “It’s your city, too, though. At least until the day a couple of men dressed in black show up to take you away, after which no one will ever hear of you again.”

  Modo rubbed his hands together to warm them up.

  “I’m told that internal exile is usually to hot, seaside places as often as not. But the best thing of all would be never having to look at your ugly face ever again.”

  They stopped talking as the small cortege from the parish of Santa Maria del Soccorso arrived. Leading the procession was a somber Don Antonio, complete with vestments and round ecclesiastical hat; following him were the five boys, wearing their Sunday best but still quite down-at-the-heels, their shaven heads glistening with rain; and bringing up the rear was the sexton, with a flat cap tugged down over his ears and his hands in his pockets. The parish priest locked eyes with Ricciardi and Modo and coldly nodded in their direction before entering the hospital chapel.

  A few moments later a cream-colored torpedo-body limousine pulled into the courtyard, driven by a uniformed chauffeur. The man got out and, doing his best not to get mud on his uniform or shoes, he opened the rear door. Out stepped Signora De Nicola Bassi, as majestic as the conveyance in which she’d arrived, but dressed in a dark-brown overcoat; behind her was another woman, younger, dressed entirely in black. Ricciardi looked at this second woman curiously. She was slender, very elegant, and he could tell that she was fair-skinned behind the black veil draped over her hat. Her shoulders were bowed and she held a handkerchief clutched to her mouth: she was the very picture of grief and suffering.

  The two women entered the church. Modo and Ricciardi followed them in, but remained standing at the far end of the little nave. In the center, on a raised bier at the end of the aisle, stood a tiny white casket. Dead and in his coffin, Tettè seemed smaller still.

  The boys were all crowded into the same pew; they did their best to stay as far from the casket as possible, as if death were contagious. Passing by it on her way to the front pew, supported by Signora De Nicola, the other woman burst into heartfelt, choking sobs. Don Antonio approached her, supporting her by the arm and helping her to her seat.

  The funeral service was short and solemn. It didn’t seem to Ricciardi that Don Antonio showed any real feeling, even though he spoke beautifully; but he attributed the impression to his prejudice against him. Throughout the service Carmen Fago di San Marcello—that was the full name of the other Lady of Charity—never stopped sobbing and coughing. Th
at kind of grief couldn’t be feigned; the commissario immediately felt deep empathy for such profound suffering.

  When it was over, the undertakers came in, carried the coffin out, and placed it in the hearse. In the meantime, several floral wreaths arrived, with ribbons identifying them as having been sent by Signora De Nicola and the Ladies of Charity. On one wreath, the finest one, only these words appeared: to Tettè, with all my love. Signora Fago came over, pulled out a white rose and kissed it, then laid it gently on the small casket, shining wet with rain. Ricciardi approached her, bowing his head slightly in her direction.

  “Signora, my name is Ricciardi. Believe me, you have my sincerest condolences for your loss. I never knew the boy, but you have my sympathies nonetheless.”

  The woman lifted her veil, uncovering a pair of swollen eyes, red with crying, and a pretty face that was, however, creased and worn with grief.

  “The commissario; yes, of course, they told me about you. I’m Carmen Fago. Thank you. It’s everyone’s loss really. There’s no one who didn’t love Tettè. It would have been impossible.”

  “I’m certain of that. I apologize for having to ask you this now, but it would be very useful to me if I could speak with you, after . . . when the ceremony is over.”

  Signora De Nicola, who had come over to tell Carmen that the funeral procession was about to depart, shot Ricciardi a scorching glare.

  “Does this strike you as an appropriate time for this? You certainly are insensitive—heartless, I’d say. Can’t you see that my friend is distraught?”

  Carmen Fago laid a gloved hand on her friend’s arm.

  “No, Eleonora: please, I do want to talk to the commissario. He wants to understand, and so do I.”

  The older woman did her best to object.

  “Carmen, I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to understand. It was an accident, a terrible accident. Why do you insist on tormenting yourself?”

  The younger woman shook her head, with determination.

  “I saw him, just two days before it happened. I saw him and he was fine, you understand? He was fine. He was my little boy, the one who gave me a feeling of tenderness that nature has denied me. I can’t and I won’t just put him in the ground without knowing.”

  She turned once again to Ricciardi.

  “Commissario, I’ll be with you right afterward, once Tettè . . . once we’ve said good-bye to him. Please, wait for me.”

  XXXIV

  The hearse rumbled off, emerging from the hospital courtyard into the crowded quarter of Pignasecca, with its mix of working-class and poor inhabitants.

  Despite the fine drizzle, the market was teeming with people, accompanied by a relentless wave of noise: vendors’ cries, quarrels, loud haggling; but when the white hearse emerged a spectral silence fell and the crowd opened, forming two walls of humanity. The horses knew their job, and even though their cargo was light, they proceeded at a proud and cadenced pace.

  Don Antonio led the cortege, aspergillum in hand. After him came the twins, in their altar boy vestments. Their bearing and appearance—identical to the last detail as long as the one missing his front teeth kept his mouth closed—was quite choreographic.

  Next in the procession was Carmen, who couldn’t stop weeping, held up by a serious, stately Eleonora.

  The three other boys walked with their heads bowed. Cristiano shot a furtive glance at Ricciardi, then fixed his eyes on the pavement and kept them there. A step behind them was the sexton, following their every move like a prison turnkey.

  Ricciardi and Modo, one bareheaded, the other with his hat tugged firmly down around his ears, brought up the rear. Behind them, roaring like a panther about to lunge, was the torpedo-body limousine in which the two women had arrived at the church.

  The men lining the procession’s path either doffed their hats or saluted smartly, fingers to the hat brim; the women made the sign of the cross, and a few even pulled out their rosary beads and began to pray in silence. Many people curiously inquired of their neighbors whose funeral this might be; the poor exited this world with much less grandeur, certainly without carriages and flowers, and when the child of a wealthy family died word spread quickly, as a rule.

  When they reached the corner of Spirito Santo, where the street ran into the larger Via Toledo, Carmen opened her black purse and pulled out a handful of white Jordan almonds, flinging them to either side as if she were sowing wheat. Instantly, a horde of ragged, barefoot children silently lunged to collect the sweets, with little squabbles breaking out among them.

  Ricciardi was familiar with the custom, and exchanged a glance of understanding with Modo: the Jordan almonds represented the happy occasions that the dead child would never celebrate: first communion, confirmation, and wedding. The two men observed those children, hungry and festive, following the funeral procession. Death and life, intertwined for all eternity.

  Saverio, one of the boys from Santa Maria del Soccorso, followed his instincts and pounced on a handful of almonds, which immediately put him into a noisy clash with a pair of scugnizzi, but the sexton quickly grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him back into line.

  The cortege stayed in formation until it reached Piazza Dante, and there it halted and dissolved. One of the undertakers approached Carmen, who pulled an envelope from her purse; the man touched his hat and climbed back into the hearse, which then departed in the direction of Poggioreale cemetery. Ricciardi waited with Modo off to one side, while Don Antonio lingered in ceremonious conversation with the two ladies. The elegance and speed with which the priest concealed in the folds of his tunic a second envelope, which Carmen had extracted from her purse, did not escape the commissario’s eye.

  After a few minutes spent exchanging condolences, the priest headed off toward Capodimonte, followed by the boys and the sexton. Before leaving, he turned to look at Ricciardi, briefly looking him in the eye. The commissario returned the stare, until the priest dropped his gaze.

  Modo squeezed Ricciardi’s arm.

  “This is where I bid you farewell, my friend: after having accompanied a dead boy, I’m off to see if I can be of any assistance to a few of the living, who may not stay that way for long. Take my advice: be careful. I worry about you, even though I have to say that this new Ricciardi who does his own investigating is a refreshing development.”

  Ricciardi shot him the grimace that he often wore in place of a smile.

  “We always end up urging each other to be careful when we say good-bye. We both must be doing something wrong.”

  He approached the two women. Eleonora glanced briefly at him with a look of hostility and spoke to Carmen.

  “If you like, I’ll wait for you in my car. When you’re done, I can take you back home.”

  The younger woman shook her head.

  “No, don’t worry about it: you go ahead. I’ll ask the commissario to see me home. I live nearby; it can’t be more than a ten-minute walk, and it’s hardly raining at all. Besides, I’d like to get a little fresh air. Grazie, Eleonora. Perhaps I’ll give you a call on the phone later.”

  Continuing to glare severely at the impassive Ricciardi, Eleonora nodded.

  “All right, if that’s what you prefer. Give my best to your husband. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She turned and left, without a word of farewell. Ricciardi said:

  “I’m afraid your friend doesn’t really like me. She interprets my questions about Matteo’s life as casting a shadow on the way Don Antonio looks after his boys, and he seems to share her feelings.”

  Carmen replied in a voice still hoarse from weeping:

  “Well, isn’t that the case, Commissario? Just what is the motive behind your questions, if not that?”

  The two of them headed off, walking up Via Toledo, retracing the route of the funeral procession in reverse. Carmen had opened a charming lit
tle umbrella to ward off the fine drizzle. Ricciardi realized that she was young, probably no older than thirty, but there was a look of unbearable grief in her eyes.

  “No, Signora,” he replied, “I have no suspicions about Don Antonio. I think that he could do better, that’s true; still, he does a great deal. Nor do I doubt that Tettè’s death was the result of a tragic accident, as far as that question is concerned. What I want to understand is if and how I can prevent such an accident from happening to another one of the boys. And in order to find that out, I have to know more about the child’s life, that’s all.”

  Carmen blew her nose into the handkerchief she kept tucked into her glove.

  “I see. You should know, Commissario, that I’m infertile. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve only had one dream: to have a child of my own. I come from a humble family. My father was a schoolteacher, my mother kept house. I watched her and dreamed of being the way she was with my little brother: a mother, nothing but a mother. Then I met my husband; I would have liked to have ten, twelve children with him. One of those big, happy, healthy families. But that’s not what happened. No children came.”

  Ricciardi could hear the incessant surge of sadness in the woman’s voice: a flow that reminded him of the sea’s undertow, calm yet somehow terrible.

  “I couldn’t tell you how many physicians we went to see, how many sanctuaries we visited. My husband is rich, you know: very rich. He could have afforded to adopt hundreds of children, but I never wanted to. I wanted flesh of my flesh to hold in my arms, the fruit of my love, not other people’s. After ten years, I finally resigned myself; we both did. We’d grow old together, and we’d be the last ones to bear my husband’s family name. I turned to charity. This city needs it, and desperately, as I’m sure you know, Commissario.”