Day of the Dead (13 page)

She didn't mind it: it gave her a chance to say her prayers, to calmly plan everything she planned to do that day, the meals she would cook; and then she liked to watch her
signorino
leave for work, be sure that everything was in order, that he was nicely dressed. He was so distracted. How many times she'd had to chase after him, to button his jacket, tie one of his shoes: when he was little, and even now that he was an adult.

She was surprised to see him still in his nightshirt at seven in the morning that day. She immediately asked him if he felt well. He had a grim expression on his face that worried her right away. He reassured her with a smile.

“Don't worry, I'm fine. I just took a few days off from work to take care of a few matters. So I'll be spending a little more time at home.”

Rosa, who was all too aware of Ricciardi's complete lack of interest in his own business affairs, was at a loss. As far back as she could remember, with the possible exception of a funeral or a wedding involving the distant relatives he still had back home in Fortino, Ricciardi had never missed a day of work. There must be something else to this; she was willing to bet on it. She'd have to be on her guard. Moreover, her recent meeting with Enrica, to whom she'd taken an instant liking, had set in motion the beginnings of a strategy; and the closer the tabs she kept on Riccardi, the more likely it was to be successful.

Ricciardi, on the other hand, was determined to find out what had happened to the little boy, and he'd decided to start with the place he'd lived: the parish church of Santa Maria del Soccorso.

The church was just a few hundred yards from his apartment building, going in the direction of Capodimonte. That morning, too, the weather was ugly, as it had been for days. It wasn't raining yet, but dark black clouds hung low as a cellar ceiling, and thunder could be heard in the distance, drawing closer.

When he reached his destination, he realized that no service was being held. The church wasn't big, with a single aisle and a few small side altars; a few elderly women were saying their rosaries in the first few pews, the ones closest to the main altar. The scent of incense and candles, and a great deal of dampness.

He spotted a door in the back that presumably led to the sacristy, and he opened it. One of the old women shot him a hostile glare. He stepped over the threshold, and saw a narrow corridor leading to a brightly lit room, where he found Don Antonio putting a stole away in a cabinet.

The priest's reaction was interesting: he narrowed his eyes, as if he couldn't be sure of what he was seeing; then a surge of disheartened resignation seemed to wash over him; and finally he assumed a decidedly irritated expression, though he adopted a tone of icy courtesy.

“Commissario, what a pleasure to see you here. For one thing because, if I'm not mistaken, you're one of my parishioners, aren't you? You don't live far from here, I seem to recall. And yet I don't think I've seen you here in church all that often.”

Ricciardi wanted there to be no misunderstanding about why he was there.

“That's right, Padre. I live nearby, but I don't come to church often. I'm one of those people who believe that the Good Lord is everywhere. Do you disagree?”

Don Antonio closed the cabinet with a bang.

“Certainly, I agree. But what's not everywhere is community. It's one thing to pray, quite another to pray together. But if you're not here to pray this morning, then may I ask you the reason for this visit?”

Straight to the point.

“Let me begin by saying that I'm not here on official business, Padre. There is no police investigation under way, in other words. But, as we said earlier, both you and I are very interested in making sure that an accident like the one that befell Matteo doesn't happen again. And so I'd like to see if I can find out—perhaps by talking with a few of the other boys or by taking a look around the place where he slept or kept his things—where he might have found the poisoned morsels of bait that killed him. I promise not to disturb your parish activities.”

Don Antonio eyed him intently, doing his best to figure out the commissario's real intentions, all talking aside.

“I see. Of course, as you said, I'm just as interested as you are in making sure that another misfortune like the one that befell poor Matteo doesn't happen. Let me therefore allow you to conduct this—what would you call it?—this ‘non-investigation.' But I'd like for this to be a one-time visit; I can't accept any further meddling in the life of my parish, among other reasons because it would interfere with all the other things that I have to do. Otherwise, I'll have to inform the curia, as I've already told you.”

Ricciardi put on a show of confidence that deep down he didn't feel:

“Certainly, certainly, I understand perfectly. But you'll see that it won't be necessary, Padre. All I want is to take a look around and have a quick chat with some of his friends. That's all.”

“All right then. Wait for me here, Commissario. I'll go see if any of the boys are still around. You know, they all have apprenticeships so they can learn a trade, and they leave pretty early in the morning. With your permission . . . ”

The priest left the room, and Ricciardi looked around. It was a cramped space, with a wall covered with cabinets, a chair, a prie-dieu, and a little table on which lay a missal and a Bible. Everything you'd expect to find in a sacristy, crucifix included. A short while later, the priest returned, accompanied by a boy who looked to be about thirteen, very swarthy with dancing dark eyes, his hair cut extremely short, almost to the scalp.

“This is Cristiano; as I told you, we all loved Matteo, but Cristiano might have been the one who was closest to him. Cristiano, say hello to Commissario Ricciardi.”

The boy looked Ricciardi steadily in the eye, with an air of defiance more than of curiosity. Perhaps introducing him as a police detective had been deliberate, Ricciardi thought. The priest continued:

“
Prego
, Commissario: ask your questions.”

Ricciardi didn't have the slightest intention of talking in the priest's presence, knowing that the boy's answers would be strongly influenced.

“I don't want to take up too much of your time, Padre. Perhaps Cristiano could show me where Matteo slept, and on the way I can ask him a few questions. That way you'll be free to get back to your work.”

The priest seemed undecided; he looked at Cristiano with a vague expression of concern, then he pulled a watch out of his tunic pocket and said, with a hint of annoyance:

“Yes, all right, in any case I have a service in a few minutes. Now, Commissario, listen carefully: don't go beyond the limits that we agreed upon. And don't keep our young Cristiano too long. He's assigned to cleaning the dormitory room; it's his turn today.”

Ricciardi said his farewells with a nod of the head and left the sacristy with the boy. Next to the church was a small courtyard, beside which was a low building that looked like a warehouse. The boy walked ahead of Ricciardi to the door, and the commissario noticed that his clothes were similar to the ones Matteo had been wearing when he was found: an old unbleached linen shirt; short britches tied at the waist with a length of twine; a pair of wooden clogs under calves blue with cold, riddled with scars, insect bites, and chilblains.

Once he was inside, Ricciardi took a look around. A single room, roughly twenty feet long and a dozen feet wide, at the far end of which stood a wooden screen that hid a latrine in one corner and a washbasin in the opposite corner. Set against the walls were two rickety cots and four straw pallets, the cloth linings torn in more than one place. The general impression was one of neglect and desuetude.

Cristiano stopped in the middle of the room and pointed to one of the pallets. In the middle of the bed, he could see the impression left by Matteo's small body.

Seven days earlier, Wednesday, October 21

 

T
he boys are getting ready to go out and start their workdays as apprentices with various artisans, for which they receive a few cents a week; all but Cristiano, who's been fired by the cobbler for his disrespectful manners. Cristiano always has a smart answer. Cristiano won't obey.

The door flies open and in comes Don Antonio, beside himself with rage. The door slams against the wall with a bang as loud as a gunshot; Tettè, who is washing up, jumps in surprise.

The priest strides into the middle of the room, then shouts:

“Everyone here, in front of me!”

The boys rush to get into position. Amedeo and Saverio, the two oldest, who have a right to the two cots, are the first to jump into line. Tettè sees the two boys exchange a glance, and starts to get scared.

When they're all standing in a line, the priest says:

“Do you know what's happened now? Three apples are missing. Three apples from the pantry: and I'm sure of it, because I put them there myself, only yesterday, and I counted them one by one!”

The six boys keep their eyes on the floor. They know from experience that the best thing to do now is keep quiet, because whatever they say, the rest will pay for it. Tettè clutches his shirt, which he had no time to put on, tight to his naked chest. The downcast heads are all shaved bald, to ward off lice.

Don Antonio resumes:

“Who did it? I'm only going to ask you once. If whoever did it confesses, then he will be punished, and no one else; if on the other hand the culprit doesn't step forward and admit that he stole from the house of the Lord, which is a mortal sin, then you'll all be punished for it. Also because if you know that someone has committed a sin and you don't say it, then you go to hell just the same. I'm going to let you go without food for two whole days. You know me: I'll really do it. And the culprit will be punished, you can be sure of that. He
will
be punished.”

Terror fills the room, like a gust of wind. Everyone knows what will happen to the culprit. The broom closet. He'll be put in the broom closet.

In the dark, in the cold. Surrounded by a thousand nameless creatures that crawl on your skin, with quick little feet. If you go into the broom closet you come out with boils and rashes on your skin, and you scratch and scratch for days on end, but the itch still stays with you. And it's dark as the blackest night in there, only you can't move around because there's no room, not even enough room to breathe. It's a terrible place, the broom closet.

The other boys are breathing hard and loud. Tettè hears his own heart beating in his ears. He looks at his feet, on the rammed-earth floor. They're purple from the cold. A minute goes by. Then two minutes. Then Amedeo takes a step forward.

Don Antonio looks at him.

“Speak up, if you have something to say.”

Amedeo's metamorphosis as he stands before the priest is an incredible sight. He sinks his head down between his shoulders; he seems to shrink; his legs bend at the knees. Even his voice changes, becoming as faint and small as a child's.

“Padre, forgive me. I don't like playing the spy, but this is something I have to tell you. I don't want to go to hell.”

Silence. Everyone's eyes remain on the floor, except for Cris­tiano's, which flash angrily for an instant as he glares at Amedeo, then look down again. Don Antonio demands:

“Well?”

Without looking up, Amedeo points a trembling finger at Tettè.

“The
cacaglio
. It was him, that rotten
cacaglio
. He thought no one was watching, but I saw him. Last night, he ate them, the apples. Last night, in his bed.”

The serpent of horror rises up from Tettè's stomach and coils around his throat from within. He never even saw the apples. He looks up, tries to say something, but can't speak. The serpent coils tighter.

“Really? And do you know what happens when you accuse someone without being able to prove it? Do you?”

Don Antonio's voice is menacing. Nanni, the sexton, has come in through the door, and he's rubbing his hands together. He likes it when punishments are handed out. Everyone knows how much he likes it.

At last, Amedeo looks up and nods. Then he turns around and walks over to Tettè's pallet. He lifts it with a confident gesture and grabs something; then he walks back to the priest and opens his hand. The priest takes the object and shows it to everyone: an apple core, cleaned all the way down to the last bite. Two ants fall to the floor.

Tettè feels like shouting out in desperation: it wasn't me, Padre! Can't you see that it wasn't me? I never even went into the kitchen! Why don't you ask yourself who helped make dinner last night, and you'll have your answer! Please, Padre, not the broom closet. I'm afraid of the darkness and the bugs and critters there!

But the serpent is coiled tight around his throat, and all that comes out of his mouth is a guttural gurgling sound. One of the twins can't stop himself from laughing, out of relief for having dodged a punishment and because Tettè can't speak, and the sexton slaps the back of the twin's head. No one laughs this time, as the twin rubs his hand over the shaven stubble on his head, the way he does when the lice make his scalp itch.

Don Antonio goes over to Tettè. He gazes down at him sternly.

“Again. And yet you of all people shouldn't be stealing. People give you things for free. You're a lucky boy.”

Tettè would like to tell the priest that he's not a lucky boy at all. That every time he comes back, the other boys take everything away from him. Everything, down to the last crumb. But the serpent keeps squeezing, and he feels like he's suffocating.