Day of the Dead (32 page)

When he reached the corner at the far end of the nave, near the main entrance that let out onto the street, he noticed a man standing in the shadows, his hands in his pockets, his hair dangling over his forehead. He noticed him because he saw his eyes shining in the dark, like the eyes of a cat. Green eyes.

“You're the sexton, aren't you? Nanni, that's what they call you. I need to talk to you; come outside with me.”

Nanni recognized him: it was that police commissario who kept asking about the
cacaglio
child. The sexton took fright: the policeman's face was pale, with purplish circles under his eyes. It looked like
he
was dead.

“Who do you want, Don Antonio? Is that who you want to talk to? I'll go and get him for you, he's resting just now, he has Mass in two hours.”

The dead man shook his head.

“No, I don't want to talk to Don Antonio. You're the one I want to talk to. Come outside with me, I said.”

His tone was cold, emotionless. Nanni felt uncomfortable. That man was scaring him more and more.

Outside there was a damp chill in the air. The temperature had dropped even lower, and heavy clouds were gathering, portending another night of rain. It seemed like the rain would never end. They stopped just outside the church, on the steps, under the overhanging wooden shed roof that kept the entrance dry.

Ricciardi got straight to the point:

“Listen closely, because I have no time to waste. I need information about Tettè's life, what he did here and who he saw.”

Nanni laughed nervously, a high-pitched titter.

“Those aren't things you should be asking
me
about. I'm just the sexton, I see no one and nobody talks to me. You ought to ask Don Antonio; he's the one who spends the most time with the boys. I don't know anything.”

Ricciardi's face was a mask.

“I told you I don't have any time to waste. I've already talked to the priest: now I'm talking to you. In fact, the priest doesn't need to know anything about what we're discussing right now. Nothing at all.”

Nanni dragged his feet back and forth on the ground, more anxious than ever.

“Commissa', forgive me, try to understand: I can't . . . Don Antonio gives me work, surely you understand that . . . ”

Ricciardi spoke in the same tone of voice, whispering as if they were still inside the church, so that Nanni had to strain to hear what he was saying:

“I must not have made myself clear. Don Antonio may give you work, but I'm keeping you out of jail. You just try keeping the things I want to know to yourself, and tonight you'll be sleeping next to twenty people, all of them worse than you, and eager to get to know you. Take your pick.”

Nanni tittered again, as if he'd just been told a funny joke.

“Me, in jail? Why on earth would I go to jail, if I haven't done anything wrong?”

“Nothing wrong, eh? I can file three criminal complaints immediately, from women you've molested when you were drunk. Or men, if it comes to that. These days, we don't need a guilty verdict: it's enough to spread a rumor. Even if you got out of jail the next day, you'd never work again, and certainly not in a place like this. And you'd find yourself face-to-face with a nice squad of jackbooted enforcers, who'd beat you to death to help keep the streets safe. So what'll it be?”

The sexton ran his tongue over his chapped lips, looking around as if in search of help. He was in a transitory state of sobriety and knew that the commissario was right: if he felt like it, he could toss Nanni into a world of trouble.

“What do you want to know, Commissa'?”

“You just need to tell me what you know. I want to know anything and everything that Tettè did that was different from the other boys, no matter what it was, even things that seem unimportant. And fast.”

Nanni ran his tongue over his lips again: evidently a habit with him, and an especially disgusting one.

“The
cacaglio
. . . the child was good, he never did anything wrong. But the others picked on him, they made fun of him because he was a
cacaglio
. They played pranks on him.”

“I know all about that. Go on.”

“He was the favorite of one of the two ladies, the younger one. She'd given him a new suit of clothes. Don Antonio put the clothes away in a little cabinet. He kept it locked, and we only got them out when the child was going on an outing with her. The signora was fixated on him. She petted him, she kissed him. I don't understand: why didn't she just have a child of her own?”

Ricciardi let the comment go unacknowledged.

“That's not what interests me, and it's none of your business, either. Go on.”

“The priest, Don Antonio, he exploited this thing, this fixation of the signora's. Because she's rich, very rich, and when Don Antonio smells money, he grabs on to it and never lets go. Every time she'd talk to us, she'd say, the child needs this, the child needs that, and she'd give us money. One time, she even gave me a gift, when the boy had a fever, to make sure I'd keep an eye on him and give him his medicine.”

Ricciardi was so keenly focused on every word that he didn't even blink.

“How did Don Antonio act with him? How did he treat the boy?”

Nanni waved his hand.

“That Don Antonio only cares about money. He doesn't care about the children at all. To him the
cacaglio
was just another kid; if you ask me, he barely knows one from the other. But the child was his way of getting money, so he punished him a little less. Only when it was necessary; otherwise the others would have killed the
cacaglio
out of envy.”

“Why, if he punished Tettè the others wouldn't envy him? They wouldn't envy what the signora did for him, the gifts and the outings: didn't they envy him for that?”

“Of course they did; but it worked out well enough for them, because he'd always bring back something for them, too. Now that the
cacaglio
's dead, they don't get any more treats.”

That must have struck the sexton as funny, because he started tittering again. Ricciardi's icy glare shut him up immediately.

“Now I want you to tell me something else. I need you to talk to me about the man with the limp, the man who came to see Tettè.”

A silence fell between them, as cold as the air that surrounded them. Nanni looked at Ricciardi, afraid to breathe, his eyes open wide. How could that damned policeman know about the man with the limp? Who could he have talked to, if the
cacaglio
was dead and he himself hadn't told a soul? He tried to stall for time.

“What are you talking about, Commissa'? I don't understand.”

Ricciardi said nothing. Then he said, all in one breath:

“Very well then. Then let's go get your things. You're coming with me.”

The sexton turned pale and staggered, as if he'd been slapped.

“Commissa', I beg you, don't ruin me. I wouldn't know where to go, if they kicked me out of here.”

“Then don't make them kick you out. All you have to do is tell me everything you know about the man with the limp. This second.”

The man looked down at the ground. His tongue darted first in one direction, then in the other over his lips.

“Ten days or so before the . . . death of the
cacaglio
, this man stopped me, just outside the church. A gentleman, well dressed, with a walking stick with a handle made of bone. He gave me money to bring the child to him.”

“Which child? Tettè in particular, or just any child?”

“No, that one, the
cacaglio
. I thought that . . . sometimes it happens that a gentleman, or even a lady, sees a boy and wants him. They say it's just to do a little work around the house; I don't believe them, but what does it matter to me? If they give the boys gifts, money, and there's a little something in it for me, then everyone wins, right? I just thought that it was the same thing with the
cacaglio
. I brought the
cacaglio
to meet the man with the walking stick. But I never heard anything more about it.”

Ricciardi realized that rarely in his life had he been in the presence of anyone slimier and more repugnant than the sexton.

“How many times did you arrange for them to meet? How many times did Tettè see the man with the walking stick?”

Nanni concentrated, trying to remember.

“Three, four times, as far as I know. No more. Then he died.”

Then he died
. Ricciardi shivered. He was increasingly finding the dead less frightening than the living. The man was disgusting, but he didn't seem to have the courage to actually hurt anyone.

It was becoming more and more important to find out who the man with the limp was, and what he wanted from Tettè.

He turned on his heel and walked off, leaving the sexton standing on the church steps, filled with new fears. As for him, he was even more baffled than before.

 

 

 

 

Maione tracked down Cosimo the
saponaro
late that afternoon, after asking around a little in order to reconstruct his route. It wasn't very hard; he was a fairly well-known local character.

He caught up with him outside an upper-class apartment building, over Montecalvario, addressing a little crowd of half a dozen women. He watched Cosimo from a distance for a while, without making his presence known. The junk seller's whole manner was contrived and affected: he gesticulated wildly to emphasize the nonsense he was spouting; he was wearing an ancient, tattered frock coat, with a crooked, slightly dented top hat; he displayed his wares as if they were fine jewelry; and somehow he managed to come across as attractive rather than ridiculous. Maione thought once again that he lived in a city of actors.

He waited until nearly all the women had left, many of them carrying something, a saucepan or a rag. One woman stayed behind, and Cosimo grew confidential; he took a quick look around, then furtively pulled open a secret compartment in his handcart and extracted a bundle, which he unwrapped. A metal object of some kind emerged, perhaps a piece of silverware. It gleamed in the grayish light. Maione chose that moment to step forward.

“Good evening. What are we talking about, over here?”

At the sight of the brigadier, the good-looking young woman's eyes opened wide.

“Oh,
buona sera
, Brigadie'. You'll forgive me, I was just about to leave; my signora wants dinner served early tonight.
Arrivederci
, Cosimo. I'll see you the next time you come through.”

The junk seller was conflicted between his desire to complete the transaction, which he felt sure he was about to close, and his fear of the cop. After a second's hesitation, his fear won out decisively.

“My good Brigadier, what an honor! I was just passing the time of day with this lovely young
signorina
at the end of my rounds, to finish the day with a face that's so easy on the eyes. But now, as you yourself just pointed out, it's evening, time for weary workers to rest their bones, and so I think I too had better be going; it's been a long, hard day. If you'll excuse me, then . . . ”

Maione stared at him, his hands in his pockets.

“Not so fast, Cosimo Capone. I have a feeling your weary bones aren't going to get to rest just yet. First we need to have a little conversation.”

The junk seller's mind registered the fact that the oversized brigadier, whom he had never met, seemed to know him very well, first name and last. A long shiver ran down his back, and the dampness in the air had nothing to do with it.

“Have we met, Brigadie'? I don't remember being introduced, but such a notable and important personage as yourself would certainly have stuck in my memory. I guess I'm just getting old, is all.”

Maione smiled satanically.

“I know you, and that's all that matters, Capone. I know you and I know your sort. That's my line of work, people like you: the same way you work with copper pots and washerwomen.”

Capone put on a baffled expression.

“Brigadier, I don't know what you mean. I'm a hardworking man who spends all day on the job, pushing this handcart all over Naples, just to get a crust of bread to eat. I have a family to feed, up on the Vomero. What are you talking about?”

“I also have a family to feed. Everyone has one. And they feed theirs without slipping their sticky fingers into other people's possessions.”

A scandalized expression appeared on the junk seller's face.

“I don't know what infamous wretch told you that, but it's a lie! I swear on my honor, Brigadie', that I've never dreamed of stealing a thing! I've been accused in the past, but all due to the malevolent envy of some son of a good woman bent on destroying my reputation. I'll let you speak to my customers, all good women who love me dearly and have been buying from me for years, and they'll tell you . . . ”

Maione broke in with a curt wave of the hand.

“Capone, you can't charm your way out of this one: you're a burglar and a thief. And the worst kind, too, because you don't look like a thief. I have a certain respect for thieves who creep out at night, with their jimmies, dressed in black. We catch them and we throw them in a cell; it's our job to be policemen, and it's their job to be thieves. They don't deny what they've done, and once we've cornered them, they resign themselves and come along quietly. They're proper thieves. It's their profession. Thieves like you, on the other hand, will be the ruin of this city. You pretend to be honest but you're rotten to the core.”

Capone was starting to get genuinely scared.

“Brigadie', I don't understand. Why are you saying these things to me? What are you accusing me of?”

Maione shrugged.

“I could easily find a reason to lock you up. And I wouldn't rule out the possibility that, once I'm done with the case I'm on now, I might come pay a little call on you and search this handcart thoroughly.”