Day of the Dead (24 page)

In the end Falco, who hadn't even unbuttoned his waistcoat, asked:

“Now tell me something, Dottore: how many investigations into serious crimes are currently ongoing? Please tell me about each. We like to have the situation entirely under control, as you must surely have gathered by now, and we certainly don't want to have some problem rising to the surface just when the highest-ranking government official after the king as well as all the top officials in the ministry are present, do we?”

Garzo fiercely returned the man's gaze.

“No, certainly not. There haven't been any events recently, heavens be praised, and the investigations now under way have to do with petty crimes, property crimes. This city, my dear man, is running efficiently and in perfect order.”

Falco stared him in the face for a long, uncomfortable moment, after which the notorious red patch appeared on Garzo's neck and began spreading in a northerly direction. Finally, Falco nodded and said:

“Very good. In fact, that's what we hear. Your staff is all present, I trust?”

Garzo pulled out the personnel registries and leafed through them in front of his guest.

“We have suspended all regularly scheduled vacation time. The only person absent is Commissario Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, who requested a few days off but will return to duty the day prior to the Duce's visit. We decided to authorize that vacation because he is seeing . . . that is, he is friends with a person who is close to His Excellency's family, a girlfriend of his daughter, who will be hosting a party which Donna Edda is expected to attend.”

Falco assumed a thoughtful expression.

“Ah, Signora Ciano. That's another problem, though it doesn't concern you directly. The daughter is far less easily controlled than His Excellency, unfortunately. She resists all attempts to rein her in, and she's very dynamic and strong-willed. She needs to be protected without being made aware of it.”

Garzo immediately decided that anything he said was likely to be used against him and kept his mouth shut. Falco went on.

“Of course, we know about this reception. And we also know about this Ricciardi, and his friendship with Signora . . . Vezzi, no? The widow of Arnaldo Vezzi, just recently arrived in the city. A beautiful woman, held in very high regard in Rome. Your Ricciardi is a lucky man.”

Garzo thought he'd sensed which way the wind was blowing, and jumped in enthusiastically.

“One of our finest men, no doubt about it. Capable and trusted, and an indispensable support to me. I don't know how many times he's successfully concluded exceedingly complex investigations, with my guidance, of course.”

Falco nodded.

“Certainly, certainly. I've heard this as well. But not all his acquaintances are so eminently praiseworthy; certain individuals he is close with are causing us some concern, to be perfectly frank. For one, the medical examiner, Modo. A man who never misses an opportunity to shout to the four winds bitter criticism of the regime. Which, as you can imagine, we are none too happy about.”

Garzo gasped like a dying trout and performed an impressive 180-degree turn.

“Ah, but of course I have no relationship of any kind with Ricciardi outside of work! Indeed, let me tell you, Your Excellency, there is a dark side to that man's personality that I don't like one bit. I intend to keep him on a tighter leash in the future, you can rest assured.”

Falco stood up with a faint smile.

“Let's not go overboard, Garzo. And don't call me Excellency. In fact, you will be so good as to forget that this conversation ever took place, and pretend you don't know if we were ever to cross paths in the street, though that's highly unlikely to happen.
Buona sera
, and enjoy yourself with your wife at the widow Vezzi's reception. Don't worry: it will be a delightful and carefree evening, without unexpected developments of any kind.”

With that he left, as silently as he had come.

When he was alone, Garzo started trembling; he couldn't even manage to light a cigarette. He felt like a man who'd just narrowly escaped death and was only realizing it now, after an improper delay. He pulled open the drawer and looked at the envelope from the Curia, with its request for clarification regarding the alleged investigation into the boy's death. He ran his hand through his hair and unbuttoned his shirt collar, letting out a long sigh. It was necessary, absolutely indispensable, to make sure no one even thought of bothering the parish priest of Santa Maria del Soccorso again. He'd see to it personally, if necessary.

He thanked the Lord above that Falco's organization knew nothing about that letter.

Friday, October 30

 

Ricciardi arrived at the hospital quite early. He wanted a chance to talk to the doctor alone, to have a calm, leisurely conversation before Tettè's funeral began.

It was raining, for a change; but that morning the rain was mostly atmospheric, a light, constant drizzle that colored the air gray, as it did people's souls. The perfect color, thought the commissario. He hadn't seen the dog along the road, and he wasn't surprised; he found it exactly where he'd expected to find it, in the courtyard outside the hospital morgue, off to one side, sitting in a nook in the outside wall. Smoking a cigarette under the overhang stood Modo, looking at the dog.

“I find that dog unsettling. I see it all the time now, ever since the kid was brought here. Every once in a while it leaves, as if it had been summoned; but then it comes back. The other night I was working the night shift and it never moved the whole time I was here. I offered it something to eat, but it wouldn't come near me. It waited for me to walk away, and then it gobbled down every last speck in a minute.”

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. That 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.