Day of the Dead (21 page)

And now what am I going to do?

 

 

 

 

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 why 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.”

Ricciardi had spoken under his breath, whispering in the cold, dank silence of the church of San Ferdinando; but to Don Pierino it had seemed as if he were shouting at the top of his lungs. He couldn't help laying a hand on the arms that Ricciardi had crossed over his chest, as if he were suffering from some stabbing abdominal pain.

“You know, Commissario, you may be the only person I learn something from every time I see you. And even though you say that you're an unbeliever, you're more of a Christian than the many people who fill these pews every Sunday just to show off their new clothing. You're right; and forgive me for not having understood. Just one thing: be careful, very careful; Don Antonio has powerful friends in the Curia, precisely because of the stream of money he brings in. He can make a great deal of trouble for you.”

 

 

 

 

Gambrinus was crowded that evening. The rain and the cold made it impossible to sit at one of the outdoor tables and people were in the mood for something warm.

Ricciardi, who had arrived ahead of the time agreed upon with Maione, had to wait to be seated at his usual table, which was located off to the side, near the plate glass window overlooking Via Chiaia. He watched a steady stream of people go by, doing their best to stay dry under the rain as they headed home from the shops and offices in the city center.

He saw a woman begging, almost out of his field of view: she was sitting on the pavement, drenched and ill-clad, her open hand extended. Behind her was a little boy, in the shelter of the overhanging cornice, wrapped in a blanket. The mother, if indeed that's what she was, mumbled an appeal to every person who passed by, though Ricciardi couldn't hear what she said; just a couple of people tossed her a coin or two, and they did so without even slowing down.

Some ten feet away, a well-dressed young man in a white suit stood noisily mocking someone as a gash in his elegant waistcoat pumped out a gushing stream of dark blood. He kept saying:
Come on, I'd like to see you. I'd like to see if you have the nerve
. Ricciardi remembered the street fight, two months earlier: the young man in white had been stabbed to death by a friend, his best friend, in fact, who was sick of being derided for his nonconformist style of dress and his alleged cowardice. Just another way of expressing a difference of opinion among
guappos
, foppish young toughs, on the subject of men's fashion.

If there was one thing that tormented Ricciardi when it came to the Deed, it was being forced to recognize the complete pointlessness of certain deaths. Not that there was any such a thing as a useful death, of course; he was perfectly in agreement with Modo on that point. But the sheer futility of certain motivations for a stabbing or a suicide offended him deeply.

As he sat waiting for Maione to arrive so he could order, he mused on the contrast staged before his eyes: the little boy's desperate attachment to life, as he shivered under his blanket at his mother's side while she took advantage of the spectacle of her son's misery to stir pity in the hearts of the passersby, and that raucous laughter that served as the final exclamation mark in the life of the stabbed
guappo
. One life struggled for; another life casually discarded. But a life was a life, one the same as the next. Or was it?

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a wet and circumspect Maione, who warily scanned the room like an adulterer operating in flagrante.