He smiled, hesitantly, and held up the sheet of paper with his trembling hand. She blushed and dropped her embroidery to her lap for a moment. Then she picked it up again, with a smile on her face, too.
Ricciardi decided that he definitely had a fever.
XLI
Saturday, October 31
For the past few days, Maione had liked going to work less and less. He thought about it as he walked, doing his best not to slip on the slippery black cobblestones, glistening with rain, along the steep hill down from his home to police headquarters.
First of all, he wasn’t used to working without Ricciardi. Not that the commissario was much company, to be clear: not even Maione, the only one there who was fond of him, would have claimed that. But he was still a constant point of reference, a landmark, a center of gravity around which the brigadier’s workday revolved.
Then, there was another thing: he didn’t like atmosphere that he’d been sensing at police headquarters and throughout the city for the past few days. It was a sort of menacing euphoria, an unrelenting state of feverish excitement over the impending visit of the Duce. With each passing hour, as painted slogans and portraits appeared on the walls of buildings all over the city, as posters were put up singing the praises of Mussolini, and as groups of idlers strolled arm-in-arm through the streets singing anthems and fight songs, Garzo became increasingly hysterical, testing the nerves of the entire headquarters staff. It was not merely annoying, it was also dangerous: in those combustible conditions, all it took was a spark, and in fact in the past few hours there had been brawls at several points around town, with emergency calls and squads of patrolmen summoned to the scene, usually too late to do anything more than tot up the damages and injuries.
Last of all, and no less disagreeable than the other factors, was the weather. It had been raining and raining for almost two weeks, with only rare, brief breaks in the downpour. Hard rain, drizzle, and wind. Water got in everywhere and caused flooding, collapses, bad falls, and car crashes. For a policeman, there was nothing worse than rain.
Caught up in these grim thoughts, and taking care not to slip himself, Maione almost failed to notice the figure waiting for him, standing beneath the overhang of a cornice at the corner of Via della Tofa, some fifteen feet from police headquarters.
“Hey there, Commissa’, what are you doing here so early? I was just thinking about you, and here you are before my eyes! How are you? Everything all right?”
In effect, Ricciardi wasn’t much to look at: he was pale and his eyes were red. He looked feverish.
“I’m fine, grazie. A little bit of a headache, but it’ll pass. I wanted to talk to you before you went in to work; could I buy you an espresso?”
Maione shot a quick look around. He wanted to make sure that they were safe from prying eyes, that no one could report their meeting to Garzo. He lacked the patience to let himself be interrogated by the deputy chief of police about just how Ricciardi was spending his time off.
He followed the commissario into a small café already open and serving at that hour of the morning. They sat down and ordered, Maione, as usual, something to eat, and Ricciardi a glass of red wine. The brigadier looked at him in surprise.
“Commissa’, I don’t think you ought to be out on the street in the rain, if you don’t feel well. If you ask me, you have a fever, too, and a glass of wine first thing in the morning isn’t enough to set you right.”
“It helps take the chill off. I’ve got the shivers; this damn water never seems to stop. But why don’t you tell me: Did you find anything out?”
Maione relayed in detail the information he’d received from Bambinella about the junk seller, the priest, and the sexton. Everything fit in with what they’d come to believe about the actual life that the child led, in spite of the rosy pictures painted by those they’d interviewed.
Ricciardi said, thoughtfully:
“All these people are violent individuals. People who might have an outburst of rage, or hurt someone, no doubt about it: but crudely. They may well have been responsible for the marks and bruises on poor Tettè’s body–bruises, cuts, even a burn mark on one arm. And no doubt they were. But I can’t imagine them committing a premeditated murder. After all, what reason could they have?”
Maione broke in forcefully:
“And in fact, they didn’t do it, Commissa’. No one murdered that poor child. You yourself admitted it, no? And the doctor said the same thing, I believe. I still don’t quite understand what it is we’re looking for.”
Ricciardi decided he needed to tell Maione something; if for no other reason than to motivate him in the investigation he was carrying out on his behalf.
“I have reason to believe, Raffae’, that Tettè’s corpse was moved. I’m not trying to say that anyone killed him, let that be clear; but I don’t think that he died there, where we found him.”
Maione opened his eyes wide. He was truly surprised.
“Really? But what makes you think that? What marks did you see?”
Ricciardi had an answer ready:
“No actual physical marks, which is to say, no evidence; otherwise you’d have seen them yourself or I would have told you about them immediately. But, first and foremost, death from strychnine poisoning causes convulsions–Modo said so–and I don’t think that dying of convulsions would leave a person sitting, still and serene, with their legs stretched out straight and their hands in their lap the way we found Tettè, looking sad-eyed into the middle distance. He would have fallen over, wouldn’t he? We would have found him sprawled out on the pavement, in the rain. Then there’s the problem of the dog.”
Maione was increasingly baffled.
“The dog? What does the dog have to do with it, Commissa’? Come to think of it, which dog?”
Ricciardi tapped his forefinger on the empty wineglass
“Do you remember the dog that we found near the boy? Everyone we talked to told us that Tettè and that dog were inseparable; which means the boy must have fed the dog, no? In that case, why would the dog still be alive? The dog should have been poisoned, too, don’t you think? But it wasn’t, it was sitting there calmly, watching over that poor dead child.”
Maione nodded, pensively. He wasn’t entirely convinced.
“Sure, that’s odd, I admit. But still, don’t you think it’s possible, Commissa’, that the child snuck into the warehouse by himself, grabbed several different things to eat, and only by chance, or misfortune, in the dark, he also grabbed one of those poisoned morsels, just one. The doctor said that just a few grains of poison would be enough to kill such a small child. Now, as for the convulsions . . . the child was already so weak, maybe he died right away of a heart attack and didn’t have time to suffer. Which would be nice to think, no?”
Ricciardi nodded.
“Sure, it would be nice to think that. But until I’m certain I want to try to figure it out. I told you, there’s no evidence; it’s more of a feeling that I have. But you know what I’m like: if something doesn’t look right to me, I want to figure it out. That’s all.”
Maione smiled.
“Yes, I’m all too familiar with your hardheaded ways, how could I not be? All right, Commissa’, let’s proceed; also because, according to the information I got from Bambinella, and as you know she’s always reliable, there’s a disgusting world behind all this, and those kids are right in the middle of it. The most important piece of intelligence that she gave me, though, is something I haven’t told you yet: and it has to do with what a verdummaio saw, a strolling fruit and vegetable vendor who’s a client of hers: he told Bambinella that he saw the boy, exactly a week ago, with a strange individual.”
And he told Ricciardi about the tall, well-dressed man with a limp, and his meeting and discussion with Tettè. The commissario immediately became more attentive.
“What do you mean, discu
ssion? Were they arguing, or talking calmly? And what did this person look like? How old, more or less? And how tall?”
Maione threw his arms open wide.
“How would I know, Commissa’? We’re talking about something glimpsed in passing by a strolling vendor, a week ago, in the middle of the street. It’s already a miracle we even know about it, and it’s thanks to Bambinella, who seems to me to be the central clearinghouse for information in this city. If you ask me, the newspapers ought to hire her. She could write the whole paper, from the front page to the back.”
Ricciardi ran his hand over his forehead. It was burning hot.
“We have to find out who this gentleman was. Something strange, and unusual for him, the very day before he died: that’s extremely important. And it strikes me that at this point it’s necessary to speak directly to two people I haven’t interviewed yet: the saponaro and the sexton. And we should also talk to Cristiano, the boy, who I know will be a tough nut to crack.”
Maione spoke decisively:
“Then we’ll have to split up and work in parallel, Commissa’. Maybe you can talk to the sexton and I’ll go see the junk seller and the kid, because when they see the uniform, it puts the fear of God in them; and as you know, fear loosens the tongue better than a glass of wine.”
Ricciardi objected:
“That’s out of the question. You know what the atmosphere’s like at headquarters. That’s all we need now: for you to get charged with insubordination and thrown in jail. Let me take care of it, grazie.”
But when Maione made up his mind about something, there was no changing it.
“No, Commissa’. This is how we’re going to do it this time. First of all, because you don’t look strong enough to me to be running all around town in this weather; second, because in any case I don’t trust myself to hang around at police headquarters, with that maniac Garzo on the warpath; and last of all because we’ll almost certainly have to talk to Bambinella again, and as you know, she refuses to talk to anyone but me. So face the inevitable and do what I tell you for once, instead of the exact opposite.”
Ricciardi raised his hands.
“All right, I surrender. You go ahead, and I’ll talk to the sexton, Nanni. Let’s not waste any time: I have a feeling that the more time goes by, the less evidence we’re going to come up with.”
XLII
Seven days earlier, Saturday, October 24
Tettè is happy because he managed to successfully smuggle in the piece of pastry that he didn’t finish at the pastry shop the day before; now he’s outside and he’s with the dog, seeking shelter from the rain in the entrance hall of an apartment building.
With his fingers he breaks the stale pastry into three small pieces. He eats one himself, and he gives two to the dog, which wolfs them down.
Suddenly something blocks the faint light, looming up between them and the front door. Tettè looks up in surprise and sees the man with the limp. He holds his breath in terror. He’s very afraid of that man.
Ciao, bambino, he says. He always speaks in a low voice, he looks around, he seems to be on the verge of taking to his heels. He’s never done him any harm, and yet Tettè is still afraid of him. The man rears up in front of him like a ghost when he least expects it, and never when he’s at home, at the parish.
Ciao, bambino, he says. What are you doing, are you and the dog having something to eat? Who gave you something to eat?
The serpent quickly slithers up and coils around his throat. Tettè doesn’t even try to answer him. He shakes his head no, he doesn’t even know why.
Then the man looks around, tells Tettè to get up, says let’s get out of here. Tettè doesn’t want to leave, because he doesn’t know where the man wants to take him; so the man grabs him by the arm and yanks him to his feet.
The minute the dog sees that the man has laid his hand on Tettè, he leaps to his feet and snarls loudly. The man has a walking stick in one hand, and he uses it on the dog: one sharp rap, on the dog’s back. Both Tettè and the dog whine together, almost the same sound. The animal backs away, but stands there snarling and watching the man with the limp, even as he continues to yelp in pain.
If you’re good I won’t hurt you, says the man with the limp. I won’t hurt you, or your dog. You know that. But you have to do what I say. For example, you have to answer my questions. If you don’t, you know what will happen.
Tettè knows, and how: Nanni has said it a hundred times over if he’s said it once, in the week that’s passed since he came to fetch him and take him outside, around the street corner, to where the man with the limp was waiting for him. If you tell someone, anyone, about this meeting, about the fact that the man with the limp comes to talk to you, I’ll talk to the blonde woman. And then you’ll never see her again, never ever again. I’ll tell her certain things and she’ll take to her heels in horror, she won’t even come back to teach school. But if you go with the man with the limp and talk to him, I won’t say anything to anybody. It’s a secret, you fool of a cacaglio: just a little secret. You’ll know it and I’ll know it, and if no one else ever knows then everything will be fine. But if someone finds out, you’re the one who’ll be worse off. Just you.
The man with the limp drags him by the arm, and with his other hand braces himself against his cane. Every so often the end of the cane slips on the wet street, but the man with the limp never falls. Tettè walks fast, otherwise the man will lift him off the ground and that hurts his arm.
The dog follows at a distance, still snarling; he’s walking normally. Thank goodness, the man with the limp didn’t hurt him too badly, Tettè thinks.
They stop by a vicolo. The man with the limp gets all nice again, he smiles, he pats Tettè’s head. Bravo, he says, you really are a good boy. Would you like a piece of candy? Look, I brought you a piece of honey candy. Tettè takes it and puts it in his pocket. He thanks him, seriously, the way his angel taught him to do. Aren’t you going to eat it? asks the man with the limp. Later, he replies: I’ll eat it later.
The man with the limp starts asking questions, in a relaxed tone of voice: that’s how he always begins. What do you do? What do you eat? How old are you? How long have you been at the parish? And then, the way he does every time, he starts to delve into the memories that Tettè doesn’t have: Don’t you know who brought you here? Didn’t the priest ever tell you anything? Don’t you have anything, a piece of clothing, a sheet? What do you remember from when you were a tiny little boy? But how can it be that you don’t remember a thing?
Even with the serpent coiled around his throat, Tettè answers. The man with the limp isn’t patient, but he waits. His face is polite, but he squeezes Tettè’s arm.
He starts with the questions that scare Tettè most: Who comes to see you? Is there anyone at church who looks at you with greater interest than the others? And when you go out with her, with the blonde woman, where is it you go? Where does she take you? What does she say to you? What do you talk about? And what do you answer her?
Tettè doesn’t want to tell the man with the limp about the time he spends with his angel. He’s afraid that the man will somehow take it away from him, that precious time. Plus, he’s jealous; that’s his business and he doesn’t want to say anything about his angel.
And so the man with the limp realizes that Tettè doesn’t want to answer, and he starts to get mad. His hand clutches the end of the cane very tight; Tettè can see creases appear in the man’s white gloves. The man’s lips grow thin and bloodless, and his eyes narrow to a pair of slits.
The other hand squeezes his arm hard, harder, and harder still: Tettè can’t feel his hand anymore, and he whines in pain.
The dog takes a step forward, snarling again, and the man with the limp raises his cane in his direction. The dog stops where he is, but he goes on snarling, the fur on his back bristling, the tail still, the ears flat against his head.
He looks as if he’s about to lunge, cane or no cane.
Talk, says the man with the limp. Talk, you stuttering idiot, you ugly retard.
He squeezes too hard: Tettè cries out long and loud, just as a fruit vendor passes by with his handcart out on the street near the vicolo. The vendor hears the boy cry out and turns, squinting to see into the shadows.
Who’s there? he shouts. What’s going on?
The man with the limp turns around and immediately changes his expression. He lets go of the boy’s arm and tousles his hair. Poor little children, he says to the vendor. The things they’ll make up, just to get a few pennies. The vendor glares at him from under the visor of his flat cap, standing with a hand on each handle of the cart. He says nothing. He has children at home, and he doesn’t like it when gentlemen come down into the vicoli to do strange things.
The man with the limp realizes that the vendor isn’t going to go away unless he goes first. He stares hard into Tettè’s eyes, gives him a grimacing smile, and then lifts his gloved forefinger to his lips, opening both eyes wide. Be careful, he whispers. Be careful.
And he limps off, with his cane slipping on the wet cobblestones.
XLIII
At the end of Mass Maione hid around the corner from the parish church of Santa Maria del Soccorso. He’d reckoned the time that it would take Cristiano, after serving Mass in church, to come out and head for the streets.
Right on time, almost down to the second, the boy sauntered past, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the pavement, whistling a popular tune. The brigadier took a step and emerged from the shadows, coming to a stop right in front of him, in all his considerable size. Cristiano almost slammed into him.
The boy’s first instinct was to run. Maione had expected that, and his hand shot out and grabbed the boy by the arm. Cristiano tried to twist out of his grasp, but Maione held him firm.
Day of the Dead Page 23