Day of the Dead (16 page)

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, professors, 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.

The man said farewell and turned to go. She stopped him, impulsively:

“Listen, Falco: there actually is someone . . . a man, who will probably be at the party, though I haven't included him on the list. I'm planning to ask him if he'll come, but I'll do it in person, not with a written invitation. This is a person that I'd be disposed to . . . whom I'd like to spend more time with, in the future. A man I'm interested in, in other words. Could you possibly provide me with a report on him? I understand that it's unusual, but I really would like to know something more about him.”

Falco already had his hand on the door handle. He turned to look at Livia with a sardonic smile.

“Certainly, Signora. A prominent woman such as yourself, and with friends in such high places, can make whatever use of us she sees fit. And if this man lives here in the city, it's quite likely that we already have something about him in our files. What's his name?”

Livia sighed, hesitantly. Then she said, all in one breath:

“Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi. He's a commissario at the police headquarters, in Via San Giacomo.”

The man smiled.

“And in fact, we do know him. He's even had a couple of meetings with my boss recently. I doubt there will be any problems, Signora. I expect to have a response for you by tomorrow. Have a pleasant evening.”

 

 

 

 

 

On the short walk back to the parish church, Ricciardi and Cristiano had remained in silence. The boy had said only, after they had left the warehouse:

“Did you really have to tell him how we get in? If I'd known you were going to do that, I wouldn't have shown you.”

Ricciardi had shaken his head.

“And do you all really have to steal? Haven't you seen what it can lead to? What happened to Matteo should have taught you a lesson, if you ask me. And that man was bound to kill another one of you kids sooner or later, the way he was standing guard over his merchandise.”

Cristiano had shrugged in response: his favorite gesture, it would seem.

“The
cacaglio
was a fool, I already told you that. If he hadn't died from eating rat poison, he would have died from being run over by a car or a carriage. And that guy from the warehouse, even if he waited around all day with a gun in his hand, couldn't have killed us. We never go there at this time of day because we know he's there: we go late at night.”

Late at night. Which corresponded to Tettè's presumed time of death. Cristiano concluded:

“In any case, we certainly don't eat his food. It's not worth it. Besides, what would we eat? Dried beans? We sell the food we steal.”

Ricciardi spent the rest of the walk thinking to himself that it would be worth talking to the priest again, and this time the kid gloves would come off. It seemed to him that these kids were left to their own devices a little more than they should be. He'd have to do it without exposing Cristiano to the priest's reprisals, though. He'd need to move carefully.

Don Antonio had finished saying mass and was reading in the sacristy. Ricciardi walked in without knocking.

“Commissario, you're back, I see. Did you search the place thoroughly? Are you satisfied, now?”

Ricciardi stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the priest. No emotion was apparent in his still eyes.

“Yes, I'm done for now, Padre. But no, I'm not satisfied, not even a little bit.”

“Really? And why not?”

The commissario dropped the ironic tone.

“The conditions here—this is no way for children to live. And leaving them free to wander the streets, exposing them to all sorts of dangers, including life-threatening ones, hardly strikes me as a model of childcare.”

Don Antonio leapt to his feet. Now he really was infuriated.

“Ah, so that's what you think? Then why don't you devote yourself to taking care of children? Why don't you spend your days with these poor little beasts, who've spent their lives fighting stray dogs and rats for scraps of food? Do you realize that if I were to shut down this house, most of these boys would probably die of typhus or some other disease before the year is out? Do you realize that if it weren't for parish priests like me, the ones who managed to survive would become criminals, and they'd wind up either with a knife in their gut or in one of your prisons?”

Ricciardi was unimpressed by the priest's outburst of anger.

“No, I don't know that. What I do know is that you keep them in a room that's filthy and cold. That two days after his disappearance, you had barely even noticed that Matteo was missing. And above all, I know that, from what I've heard around the neighborhood, your boys spend their days pilfering where they can and selling the things that they manage to steal. That's a fairly serious state of affairs, you know, Padre. A state of affairs that, I believe, would make quite a splash even in the curia.”

The two men stood glaring at each other, eyes leveled, the priest's dark and flashing with rage, the commissario's green and unblinking. In the end, the priest was the one to yield.

“I see. Now, we have extortion, along with the rest. All right, Commissario. Go ahead: what do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the other boys, and relations among them. And if you please, the facts, Padre.”

“They don't behave the same way when I'm not around. That seems natural enough, no? The bigger ones take advantage of the smaller ones, they command and the others obey. For instance, there are two cots, as you've seen: they were donated by the hospital. In theory, the two twins ought to sleep on them, because they both suffer from curvature of the spine, but Amedeo and Saverio, the two boys who've been here longest, have requisitioned them for themselves. Some things that happen I'm aware of, and I do my best to put a stop to them. Other times I'm not around to see, so I can't intervene. It isn't easy, you know, running this whole parish. And as for the sexton Nanni, he's incompetent; he can't be trusted to do anything.”