Day of the Dead (18 page)

“Just a moment, Padre. As long as we're here, there are some other things I'd like to ask you. You told me that the boys are apprenticed out to various artisans. Was this true of Tettè, also? And if so, could you tell me which artisan he was apprenticed to–perhaps you could give me his name?”

Don Antonio shook his head, regretfully.

“I'm sorry, Commissario, but that's something I don't know. As I told you, the boys are free to choose the trade they'd like to learn and, if necessary, I intervene to recommend them to someone. Tettè never asked me, so I'd have to guess he was working with some strolling vendor or artisan. He'd only been going out to work for a few months; his health wasn't terribly robust, poor child. Now, if you don't mind, I'll see you to the lecture hall. I need to get back to work on my sermon for Sunday.”

What Don Antonio had pompously called the “lecture hall” was actually a room even smaller than the sacristy, with a few rattletrap desks and a table where the teacher sat, serving as the lectern. There was also a badly chipped blackboard with a crack running diagonally from one corner to the other. The place felt like an icebox. There were five children, the two biggest each with a desk of his own, the other three clustered at a single desk, huddling together for warmth. Ricciardi noticed that all their heads were shaved almost bald and they were wearing several layers of shirts, clearly every piece of clothing they possessed.

The woman who was teaching the lesson was a rosy-cheeked matron about fifty years of age, wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar and thick leather gloves. When the priest came in she smiled and invited the boys to stand, but her joyous expression vanished the instant she caught sight of Ricciardi; the commissario realized immediately that he'd been introduced in advance, in abundant detail, to the Lady of Charity.

Don Antonio said sweetly:

“
Buon giorno
, Signora De Nicola. At ease, at ease, children. This gentleman is Commissario Ricciardi, from police headquarters. He's here to find out a few things about poor Matteo, and the misfortune that took him away from us. A tragic mishap, as we all know. Now, remember, Commissario: I want you to keep your promise not to take too much time away from their lesson.”

With these words, he turned and left. Ricciardi noticed that as the priest left the room, several of the boys exchanged rapid glances, and then lowered their gazes again. No one had said a word, and they had remained on their feet. The commissario turned to address the lady.

“
Buon giorno
, Signora. I'm trying to shed some light on certain aspects of Matteo's life, in the hopes of arriving at a better understanding of how he died.”

“
Buon giorno
to you, Commissario. My name is Eleonora De Nicola Bassi, I'm a member of the Ladies of Charity of Capodimonte. We help these children, doing our best to lend support to poor Don Antonio, who's a saint in every sense of the word. Let me tell you first of all that I don't know much about Matteo's life, because our work largely consists of ensuring that donations come in and conducting these two weekly lessons, which unfortunately don't produce great results. The only reason the boys come at all is to get the sweets that we offer as a reward,” and she pointed to two macaroons sitting on the table. “But, please, feel free to ask any questions you might have, and I'll do my best to answer them.”

Ricciardi pointed to the door.

“I'd prefer to speak in private, if it's all the same to you.”

The woman nodded and, after ordering the boys to maintain absolute silence while she was gone, left the room.

“Now then, Signora: how long did you know Matteo?”

Although she answered politely, the woman could hardly conceal her hostility toward any man who dared to call into question the sainthood of Don Antonio; in fact, she probably wasn't even trying to conceal it.

“Not long. I've been working with the parish for two years, and my interactions have been primarily with Don Antonio, helping him with administrative work and with the many things he does for his community. We only started teaching the lessons a few months ago. The little boy, as no doubt they told you, had a very bad stutter. I don't have the patience for such things, and the more I lost my patience the worse his stutter would get. And so my friend, who's not here today, was the one who spent the most time working with him. Her name is Signora Carmen Fago di San Marcello. The news of Tettè's death devastated her: you see, she can't have children of her own, and she's a young woman. She had grown very close to the child, she cared for him and spoiled him, to an excessive degree, in our opinion. She was in no condition to come in today. She's at home, crying. It's heartbreaking.”

Ricciardi did his best to return to the point.

“Yes, it is heartbreaking. Especially for the little boy. But did you notice any signs of bad blood among the younger boys, or perhaps with the older ones? Any episodes, fights, or . . . ”

“Commissario, they're boys,” the woman said curtly. “That's what males are like, they fight and they never get tired of mocking each other. Tettè is . . . was the runt of the litter, and what's more he stammered so much that he couldn't finish a sentence. It's only natural that the others would peck at him a little, don't you agree? But they meant no harm by it. Again, I just couldn't seem to be patient with him. I only saw him an hour at a time, once a week. The rest of the time, he was with my girlfriend.”

“What about with adults? What were his relations with the sexton, for example, or even with Don Antonio himself?”

The woman visibly stiffened.

“Anyone who can't get along with Don Antonio just has something filthy in their soul, take it from me. He's a saint, and he, too, is suffering a great deal over the child's death. I never saw any other adults with Tettè, except for the sexton, who never speaks to a soul. Never saw any adults with the other children, either. There aren't many of us, you know, who look after them.”

Ricciardi nodded. On that point, unfortunately, he had to agree with the woman, however much he disliked her. Signora De Nicola concluded, brusquely:

“Are we done, Commissario? I'd like to get back to the boys. I'm all alone and I need to finish up; my chauffeur will be coming to pick me up in an hour.”

Ricciardi shot a glance through the door of the schoolroom: the boys hadn't moved. But the two macaroons had vanished.

As he left the parish church, the commissario felt rather demoralized. True, he still had to talk with the other Lady of Charity, the one who was close to Tettè: but it was also true that he kept coming up empty-handed. As far as he could tell, a heavy curtain had been drawn around the boy's life, and it was impossible to see anything through it.

Unless, that is, he couldn't keep from thinking, there really was nothing to see: unless he was just losing his mind, driven mad by the Deed and its consequences.

The woman, this Carmen Fago di San Marcello, who had no children of her own and had therefore bonded with Tettè. Children with no mothers, children with mothers; real mothers and fake mothers; mothers who abandoned their children, mothers looking for a child. He thought of his own mother, for no reason in particular, as he walked home with the wind and gusting rain pushing him down the street.

He wondered if the madness that was taking possession of him was the same one that had killed his mother. He remembered her, white-haired even though she was still quite young, in the hospital bed where she was to die of what was hastily diagnosed as a nervous fever. In his memory he saw her eyes gazing blankly, with dark circles beneath them. She was barely conscious from the sedatives they gave her continuously. He remembered her light, delicate hand, holding his own: it seemed to be made of paper.

So what should we do now, Mamma? he found himself thinking. Should we just discard him entirely, poor Tettè, with his strange dog and his thin neck, along with the nothingness that seemed to surround him? No, he answered himself. I have to know. I have to understand. If it's the last thing I do, before they send me to the same hospital you died in. Because if there's one thing I know, Mamma, it's that I ought to have seen his image if he died where we found him. Just as you would have known it, if you'd been in my place.

Waiting outside the entrance to his building, awkwardly trying to shelter himself from the rain and wind, was a dimly lit silhouette familiar to Ricciardi: a very embarrassed, very wet Brigadier Maione.

 

 

 

At the exact instant lunch was served, the doorman of Livia's apartment building blew loudly into the interphone. The maid went out on the balcony to see what he wanted and, irritated at the rainwater that had drenched her from head to foot in a matter of seconds, she walked into the dining room.

“Signo', that gentleman who was here yesterday is downstairs, the doorman says. He says that the man asked if he could come up, but if you're eating he can come back later. Should he send him away?”

Livia dabbed her mouth with her napkin and replied:

“No, Maria, have him tell the man to come right up. Put my lunch away and keep it warm, I'll finish it afterward.”

When she walked into her living room, Falco was already there, as if he hadn't moved since the previous evening. He smiled and greeted her in the exact same way, with a slight nod of the head.

“
Buon giorno
, Signora. Forgive me for coming at this hour; I just thought I'd take advantage of a little free time at the office to bring you that report we talked about. I have to ask you to read it in my presence, though. I can't leave it with you, as I'm sure you can understand. But take your time. I'll wait.”

Livia took the slim file that the man had pulled out of his leather briefcase. She noticed that her guest wasn't even wet, in spite of the fact that it was pouring rain outside. He must have come by car.

“Thank you very much. I hope I haven't caused you any inconvenience.”

“None whatsoever, Signora. I merely made the request to Signor . . . to my superior officer, who was happy to oblige. Please, read away.”

Livia sat down in the armchair, gesturing for the man to make himself comfortable; he declined the offer politely, standing and looking out the window at the rain so she could read in private. She was once again forced to appreciate the discretion that Falco wore like a second skin.

The report consisted of two typewritten pages, plus a handwritten note on a third sheet of paper.

In it she read that Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, fourth baron of Malomonte, born in Fortino, province of Salerno, on June 1, 1900, resident of Naples, at Via Santa Teresa degli Scalzi, number 107, was unmarried. Livia learned that he lived with Rosa Vaglio, seventy-one years of age, who had been his wet nurse and now served as his housekeeper; that he was employed by the police with the rank of commissario, and had worked at the royal police headquarters since 1923, when he first joined the police immediately after graduating from university in Naples with a degree in law, summa cum laude, with a thesis in criminal law.

The person who drafted the report included a few bare bits of information about Ricciardi's childhood, at a boarding school run by Jesuits in Naples, then back in Fortino at the age of fifteen, when his mother died in her late thirties; his father had died when he was a child. Livia learned to her immense surprise that, along with the aristocratic title, which she had never heard him mention, Ricciardi also possessed a large fortune in real estate and farmland, but the report also clearly indicated that he was not at all involved in their upkeep or administration: his properties were looked after by Vaglio and several relatives back home, who reported directly to the woman.

His academic record, both at boarding school and at the university, had been impeccable. He'd always had top grades. The report explicitly expressed some bafflement about Ricciardi's virtually nonexistent social life: he did not seem to frequent women, not even casually, nor was there any reason to suspect homosexuality. He was friendly with one Raffaele Maione, a brigadier at police headquarters (married to Lucia Caputo, five living children, one deceased; see specific personal report), and with Bruno Modo (unmarried, medical officer during the Great War, on the Carso Front; see specific personal reports 127 and 15B), a physician at Pellegrini hospital: but these friendships were largely restricted to the professional sphere. Next to the note about his personal and social life there was a long red line, drawn in pencil.

Livia instinctively looked up at Falco, who hadn't moved a muscle and continued to look out the window. As if he'd been reading over her shoulder, he said:

“It means that it's strange. A man without women, men, or friends in his life. A man who lives only for his work. A man without vices. Strange, don't you agree? That's why there's that red mark in the margin.”

The woman looked back down at the pages of the report. She found that man profoundly unsettling.

The report mentioned a number of cases brilliantly solved by Ricciardi, including the case of her husband's murder. It noted that he was viewed with dislike by his colleagues at police headquarters, probably due to professional envy; as a result it was a widely held belief that having any dealings with Ricciardi brought some kind of bad luck.

The report said that it was believed that he was slated for imminent promotions, but that there was no evidence that the man had made any applications for such promotions, as would be normal practice.

The last note in the report had to do with her. It appeared that over the past few months Ricciardi had been occasionally seeing Livia Lucani, the widow Vezzi, who probably as a result of this acquaintanceship had decided to transfer her official residence to Naples, current address Via Sant'Anna dei Lombardi, number 112.