Day of the Dead (37 page)

Edoardo had ordered a carafe of wine. He poured himself a glassful and downed it in a couple of gulps.

“Well, Commissario, I'm not going to tell you that, of course. If I were interested in filing a complaint, I would have come down to police headquarters months ago; and I'd almost certainly be dead now as a result. These are nasty people, that's all you need to know. People who want the money I owe them, and want it now. Money I don't have.”

“But not long ago you confided in a girl, somewhere, that you expected to come into the money soon. How do you expect to get it?”

Sersale was increasingly curious.

“Incredible! How do you know that? Have you been following me? How long have I been under surveillance?”

Ricciardi decided to come clean.

“No, you haven't been under surveillance. I'm on a case . . . that is, I'm interested in a situation that may involve you: the death of Matteo Diotallevi, a young boy, an orphan at the parish church of Santa Maria del Soccorso in Santa Teresa. Does that sound familiar?”

The man jumped back and recoiled as if he'd suddenly been slapped hard in the face.

“He's dead? Tettè is dead? But how on earth . . . That can't be, I saw him just last week! And he was fine! It's impossible, Commissario; if this is a joke, it's in very poor taste.”

“I wish it was a joke. The boy was found dead Monday morning at dawn, at the base of the monumental staircase leading up from the Tondo di Capodimonte.”

Sersale ran a hand over his face.

“Poor child . . . but how . . . how did he die?”

“He seems to have accidentally ingested rat poison. But there are a few dark spots, and that's what I'm looking into.”

Looking him straight in the eye, Ricciardi realized that Sersale was genuinely upset.

“At this point, I need to tell you the way things stand, Commissario. I've told you about my debts. I should also tell you that my family . . . ”

Ricciardi broke in:

“I already know about your family. I've seen . . . your half brother. His wife was very fond of the little boy, and I've talked to her a number of times. She's the one who confirmed your identity.”

Sersale's face hardened in anger.

“That harpy. She wouldn't dream of missing the opportunity. But please bear with me, Commissario: Why don't you listen to my version of events?”

Ricciardi nodded his head and gestured for the man to go on.

“I was injured in combat in the Great War, and I was left . . . like this, the way you see me now. I have to walk with a cane, and when the weather is as damp as it's been, my wound hurts so bad it practically drives me crazy. I haven't been able to work, or be as productive as I used to be; or maybe I've just taken advantage of my condition to do nothing, like my poor mother used to say. I'll admit I like living the good life; and I like beautiful women. But that doesn't mean I'm a gangster, and your family is supposed to help you when you fall on hard times. That woman . . . For as long as my brother's been in this condition—and I wouldn't rule out the possibility that she did this to him, with some spell she's cast, witch that she is—all communications between us have ceased, because of her. All the family's wealth, and therefore my own, remains in her hands.”

Ricciardi listened attentively. The man continued.

“I'd lost all my ambitions, and I went through a long and difficult time. But I've recently been in touch with one of my old enlisted men, who's started a business with northern Italy that . . . in other words, I can think about my future again, if only I could wipe out the debts I've run up. You saw them, those three . . . they wouldn't kill me, because if they did they'd never get their money. But hurt me, cut my face, yes, they'd do that: that's the way they make their point.”

“So you asked your sister-in-law for the money.”

“Who else could I go to? She's in charge of it all, the witch. And she turned me down, said that enough was enough, that it was time for me to face up to my responsibilities, and so on and so forth. I was beside myself.”

Ricciardi tried to bring the conversation back to what happened to the boy.

“And how does Tettè fit into all this?”

Sersale smiled wearily.

“He fits in, Commissario. She told you that she's infertile, didn't she? That she can't have children. That her life has been a living hell. A few months ago, by chance, while rummaging through a steamer trunk in search of a book, I stumbled upon a pack of old letters tied with a ribbon. The trunk was from my brother's home, and it contained my mother's clothing. That witch couldn't wait to get rid of it, and she shipped it off before my mother's corpse was cold. Somehow these letters, which had evidently been hidden all too well, wound up in the trunk. They were from the doctor who was in charge of my brother's care, and they date back ten years or so, to immediately after the war. In short, he and my sister-in-law had been having an affair. It went on for years, at the same time that my poor brother was losing his mind. You see, Commissario? You see how shameful?”

Ricciardi shrugged.

“These things happen. It doesn't strike me, in any case, that you're in the best position to preach morality to others, no?”

Sersale blanched, but recovered.

“It's not a matter of morals: Did she have an affair, yes or no? Was she unfaithful, yes or no? Then perhaps she has no right to grab my family's wealth for herself. Those letters were the proof. So I started to follow her, determined to find out whether she was still having that affair with the doctor, or if she'd found herself another lover to take his place.”

Ricciardi nodded.

“And you found out about the child.”

“Yes, I did. And it just seemed odd to me, how attached she was to him. This bottomless love she had for a little bastard boy . . . forgive me, Commissario. Poor little thing, after all. But I came to the conclusion that this child might be something else to her, something different, something more. Perhaps this was her son, the child born of that affair. Even if he wasn't, I still could blackmail her with those letters. You know it yourself, Commissario, in this city, defamation moves mountains. I could insinuate the suspicion, based on the fact that she'd had the affair.”

Ricciardi was putting together the pieces of the puzzle.

“So you started to dig.”

Sersale nodded.

“Precisely. I gave a little money to that disgusting pig of a sexton, a truly filthy creature, just so that I could get a chance to talk to the boy alone. I met with the boy several times; the sexton simply assumed I was a pervert, and let me tell you, I came very close more than once to beating his repulsive face in with with my cane. I have to admit that the little boy was pitiable: he was a little runt, skinny as hunger itself, and with a stutter that would break your heart. It took him half an hour just to get out a couple of words.”

Ricciardi was starting to see where Sersale was heading with this.

“You were trying to find out whether the woman had a special attitude toward the boy, weren't you? Signs of motherly love, in other words.”

“Yes, that's right. I tried everything on him, blandishments and threats, though I never hurt him, so I could find out what I could about how she behaved; but there was never anything solid, Commissario. Clearly, she loved the boy, but she never said anything special to him, never gave him anything unusual. The boy called her Signora, he adored her, and he was enormously devoted to her. But he would have bonded with anyone, like he did with the stray dog that used to follow him everywhere, and I was even sorrier for the dog than the boy. But it was just because she was the only one who treated him decently.”

“So you gave up.”

“That's right. I was hoping to use the letters and the boy, but I finally realized that I wouldn't achieve anything more than dragging my brother's name through the mud, with nothing in return. But no, I haven't given up. I'll talk to her again, the witch, and I'll threaten to make the letters public. Without the boy, it'll be harder, I know: especially because she'd never made a move to adopt him, or at least take him home to live with her.”

Ricciardi thought to himself that it was for exactly that reason that Carmen had condemned herself to eternal regret.

“One more thing, Sersale: Who, as far as you know, would have had any ill will toward Tettè? Was there anyone, for instance, who could have faced suspicion if the corpse had been found near a private home or a shop?”

Sersale thought it over, then shrugged.

“The other boys didn't much care for him, that much is certain. They had it in for him and for his dog. In fact, the last time I saw him, I had the distinct sensation that they were about to do him or the dog some harm. The sexton, too, let me say it again, struck me as the kind of guy who would sell you his sister for a couple of lire. But who could have any reason to care about a little kid like him?”

Ricciardi nodded, sadly. Who could have any reason to care about a little kid like him?

“Watch out for yourself, Sersale. Folks in the
vicoli
don't kid around. They might leave you with more than a warning, next time they catch up with you. If you change your mind and decide to tell us the names of the loan sharks, you know where to find me. In the meanwhile, until we settle all our questions about Tettè's death, I'd recommend you not leave town.”

Seven days earlier, Sunday, October 25

 

T
he man with the limp drags Tettè toward a parked car, at the corner of the street. The knot of boys has moved off and is now watching from a distance, eager to find out what's about to happen.

The dog, however, takes up a position on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, sitting on his haunches. Tettè thinks: run, dog. Run away. If those boys catch you they'll poison you, like that poor cat that hadn't done anything wrong. But the dog doesn't run away. He sits and waits.

The man with the limp puts him in the car, in the front seat, and then goes around and gets in on the other side. It doesn't feel to Tettè the way it does when he goes for a drive with his angel; she puts him in the backseat, like a wealthy young master being driven by his chauffeur. Plus, he doesn't like this car. It stinks of smoke, and it's dirty.

The man with the limp grabs him by the arm and twists it, hurting him. Listen, you retard, did you think about what I asked you? What does Carmen say to you, when she takes you out? What do you talk about? What did she tell you?

Tettè speaks, in spite of the serpent. He understands that if he doesn't say anything, it'll just be worse. We talk about me, about my life, about school, he manages to say, with great effort. It takes him a long time to say it. And now it's started raining, fat drops landing on the car windows and windshield.

What do you call her? What does she tell you to call her? I call her Signora, says Tettè. I call her Signora, what else should I call her? He thinks to himself that he also calls her my angel, but he keeps that to himself.

The man with the limp looks him hard in the eye, and nods his head. He understands.

What does she give you? What gifts does she bring you?

Tettè's eyes fill with tears. Where are you, my angel? he wonders. The group of boys hasn't moved, in spite of the steady rain. His arm hurts, in the man's grip.

She doesn't give me anything, he says softly, as the serpent coils around his throat, choking him. Nothing. She just buys me food. One time, he wants to say but can't, she gave me a wooden toy car, tiny but just like hers, only Amedeo saw it and he stepped on it and crushed it; then I gathered up all the little pieces of wood and tried to put it back together, but it fell apart.

So then, Tettè would like to say but can't, one time when I was stealing in an apartment for Cosimo, I saw a toy car on the floor, maybe it belonged to the child of the signora who was laughing with Cosimo. And I took it, but that was the only time I stole anything for myself.

And I keep it in the cabinet, I colored it with my school pencils. It's not as nice as the one my angel gave me that Amedeo stepped on, but it makes me think of my angel's car. And the happy hours we spend together.

That's what Tettè would have said, if the serpent hadn't been coiled around his throat; and if his thoughts formed into words, instead of confused images that got mixed up and overlapped in his mind.

The man with the limp gives him a disgusted look and says: you're useless. You're a useless thing. And you're getting my car filthy, too, with all the mud and slime you have on you.

Get out, he says. You're useless, and you disgust me.

He opens the car door, pushes the boy out onto the pavement, and drives off.

Tettè looks up and sees the gang of boys, Amedeo leading them, heading straight for him.

Behind him, the dog starts to snarl.

 

 

Alone again, and back out in the pouring rain, Ricciardi thought back over the conversation he'd just had with Sersale, the man with the limp.

His problems, the life he led, and the company he kept aside, the man struck him as sincere; but experience had taught him what extraordinary passions need can stir in the darkness of the human soul. He'd seen terror painted on the man's face, in his eyes, when he was being attacked, and Sersale himself had told him that the only source of funds available to him was his brother's estate, kept securely under lock and key by Carmen.

It might be, and Ricciardi certainly wasn't willing to rule it out, that Sersale had approached the woman and threatened to harm the child and, when his threats were ignored, he'd gone ahead and carried them out; even Tettè's death might have been a skillfully arranged setup, to keep anyone else from figuring out what the child meant to his benefactress and the man who hated her.