Day of the Dead (23 page)

Tettè thinks; he can't really talk, but he thinks. And he remembers, he remembers everything. He remembers good things and bad things, but he doesn't go into the bad things in his head. He holds on to them, because they might turn out to be useful someday, but he doesn't go there. He goes into the good things, and in the good things there's Cosimo telling him a story as night falls.

But this time Cosimo isn't going to be nice to him. He knows it from the look he gives him when he sees Tettè arrive, even though he doesn't look at him again right away, otherwise the women standing around will notice something is wrong.

He knows one of the women and in fact, when she sees him coming, she celebrates his arrival. Here comes Tettè, she says: hello, handsome, why weren't you here this morning? And here's the dog, too, but aren't you ever going to give your little dog a name, Tettè? Don't you know that animals get names, too?

Tettè says nothing, but he smiles. He says nothing because he's worried about the way Cosimo looked at him. And besides, he doesn't want to give the dog a name. He talks to the dog, they spend time together. They're equals. And if they're equals, how can he give the dog a name, Tettè thinks to himself. It has a name, in its dog-language. When the dog is ready, it'll tell him its name.

But the dog can't talk; so what? thinks Tettè. I don't talk, either: just with him. And I told him that my name is Tettè. He already knows.

The fat woman who greeted him when he arrived caresses his head. Cosimo notices, and he starts saying how he loves the boy like a son, and starts telling the story of his friend who died in the war, next to him in the trenches: how with his last dying breath, he had told him to take care of his son.

One time, Tettè got up the nerve to ask him, ask Cosimo, if the story was true: if his father had really died in the war. Cosimo slapped him hard in the back of the head and called him a stupid, ugly fool of a
cacaglio
, and added, You're an idiot. I never went to war, I have a heart that skips a beat. I just say it so the women will take pity on me and give me more money for the soap. Who knows what kind of good-for-nothing your father must be; your mother is probably a worthless wench. And the slap in the back of the head is for making me waste all this time, standing here waiting for you to squeeze out two words.

Now, to show the women how the boy is like a son to him, Cosimo has put his hand behind Tettè's neck. He pinches him, good and hard. Tettè doesn't cry, because he knows if he cries it'll be worse for him, but his eyes fill with tears. Oh, how sweet he is, look, says another one of the women, when he hears someone talk about his father, he still feels like crying. He wipes his eyes with his shirtsleeve and pretends not to feel the terrible pain.

The dog lets out a low snarl and bares its teeth. Only Cosimo notices, and he loosens his grip. After bartering copper saucepans for soap, the women walk away, and Cosimo says lots of bad words to Tettè, because he got there late and Cosimo had to tell the woman, the one they talked about yesterday, that he'd come back later. It's Tettè's fault that he'll have to run another risk. And, he adds, if that bastard dog of yours snarls at me again I'll kill it; I'm capable of snapping a neck with my bare hands, why don't you ask around, Tettè, everyone knows that I killed a man when I was just a boy.

They come to a wooden door with a decorative inlay. They walk through it and into the courtyard, Cosimo calls his wares, a number of women lean out their windows, the concierge comes out of her apartment on the ground floor. They start chatting, Cosimo catches and holds her attention, he starts to show her the goods he has in his handcart, the women laugh, he tells his jokes. He's good at what he does, Cosimo is: he knows what women want to hear. One of them caresses Tettè hastily, another one plays with the dog.

At a certain point Cosimo starts to tell a story he's heard, about a certain lady in Santa Lucia who has a lover, and her husband caught her with him, and so on and so forth. This is the agreed-upon signal: Cosimo always says that women can't resist, when you start to tell them stories about husbands and lovers. Sure enough, the women form a circle around Cosimo, and stand there listening, openmouthed.

Tettè slips carefully into the concierge's apartment. He doesn't have much time and he knows it. The dog sits just outside the door: if anyone came near he'd start barking and Tettè would know. They've done this plenty of times.

It's dark inside, but warm. There's a pot boiling on the fire, and a wonderful scent wafts across the room. Tettè can feel his stomach rumbling. As soon as his eyes get used to the dark, he takes a look around: he sees a drawer and pulls it open. Inside are forks, knives, and spoons that look like they're made of real silver. Tettè grabs three and slips them under his shirt. There are some linens, freshly pressed with a coal-fired iron. He grabs an embroidered handkerchief and puts it in his pocket. The secret, Cosimo tells him, is to take just a few things: the women won't notice right away, it might take them a few days, and by then it won't occur to them that we were here.

Before leaving, on tiptoe in his bare feet so that he makes no sound at all, he sees a piece of pastry that someone dropped on the floor near the table. He takes it and puts it in his pocket, too.

Now Tettè is outside, and the second Cosimo sees him, he concludes his story to the laughter and astonished “ooohs” and “aaahs” of the assembled women. He sells a few items at a good price and sends his customers away happy. They turn and wave as they walk off.

They walk until they're a good long way away, to be safe. Cosimo says nothing, he smiles at the people they encounter, and every once in a while he shouts out his wares. Tettè gives the pastry to the dog, a crumb at a time, and saves the last little bit for himself. It tastes good, even if there are a few ants in it. All you have to do is take them out first. Tettè does this carefully.

They come to a corner by a field, where the streets end and the countryside begins. Here there are no prying eyes. Tettè pulls out the three pieces of silverware and the embroidered handkerchief. Cosimo grunts with satisfaction: the utensils are solid silver. Look at that, he comments: who knows where the concierge stole them from.

Tettè talks to him. The serpent slithers up from his stomach and knots itself around his neck, as always; but this time Tettè has something important to say. He tells Cosimo that the reason he was late was that he had to serve Mass that morning. Cosimo is in a good mood, he says that it worked out fine all the same, everything is all right. But Tettè has something else that he needs to tell him. He does his best to breathe; when he breathes properly, the serpent hangs back and lets him speak. Sometimes.

He tells him that the priest, Don Antonio, has been talking about people who steal. He said that people who steal go to hell, and they burn for all eternity. One time he burned himself, Tettè says, when he was trying to get warm near a fire in the entrance to an apartment building, and it hurts, it hurts so bad. He shows him the mark on his arm, where the skin was scorched away and never really grew back. Tettè says that he's afraid of burning in the flames of hell, and that he doesn't want Cosimo to burn in them either. And so he begs him, he begs him not to make him steal anymore.

Cosimo seems to be listening with interest. But then he suddenly reaches out and wraps the fingers of one hand around his throat, and then he squeezes and lifts the boy off his feet. Tettè hangs there, his feet dangling in midair, grabbing at Cosimo's hand to keep from choking to death. The dog jumps to its feet and starts snarling and barking. Cosimo glares at the dog and sets the child's feet back on the ground, but he keeps his hand on his throat.

Listen to me carefully, you fool of a
cacaglio
, he says. Listen good, because I'm only going to tell you once. If you try to tell anyone about what we do, I'll kill you. I'll kill you,
capisci
? And I'll kill you in a way that no one will ever be able to tell that it was me. I've done it before, I told you, and I never went to jail for it. Do you understand?

First I'll kill your dog, and I'll make you watch it die. In fact, you know what I'll do? I'll light a big fire, since you say you're afraid of fire. And then I'll throw your dog in the fire. That way, you'll get a good idea of what it means to burn in hell. You'll get it into your head once and for all. And then I'll kill you.

He lets go of him, with a hard shove. Tettè falls and vomits water and the little bit of pastry. The dog comes over and licks his face.

 

Anyone who walked into the third-floor office at police headquarters, at the end of the corridor, would have been greeted by the sight of a diligent deputy chief of police at work poring over reports in surroundings gleaming with order and cleanliness. A stirring tribute to the efficiency and dedication to hard work that defined the New Fascist State.

But the reality was somewhat different. His eyes scanned the typewritten lines, but his mind was flying elsewhere, lost in his own grim thoughts.

Garzo shot a fleeting glance at the telephone that enjoyed pride of place on his desk. In his mind he heard the odious nasal voice of the chief of police, alerting him to the impending arrival of an official from an organization not otherwise identified; the man needed certain information from him in view of the Duce's upcoming visit to the city, information having to do with security and, more generally, any investigations currently under way at police headquarters. The matters in question belonged to the domain of common criminality, since that was the field in which Garzo worked.

He didn't like it, not even a little. And for a variety of reasons. First: What was this organization? Did it not have a name? Was it an agency under the Ministry of the Interior? Was it some kind of branch of the army? Second: What was the phrase, “the domain of common criminality,” supposed to mean? What other domain and what other kinds of uncommon crimes were being kept under observation that didn't fall under the jurisdiction of police headquarters? Third: Was the security to be discussed in this interview that of the Duce and of his entourage? And who was this official? How would he know him, if he hadn't even been told his name?

The deputy chief of police was one of those people who can't stand unexpected developments: they gave him a sense of chaos, and they got in the way of his planning. He liked to move along the rutted path of procedure, where everything that happened had a precedent one could go back to and an outline that could be followed, right down to the last detail. And this visit, announced and yet unannounced, was completely unprecedented, as far as he could remember.

As he was skimming the report without reading it, he heard a discreet cough to his right. He jerked in his chair in a spectacular fashion: his pen flew out of his hand, leaving a trail of ink in midair, and then a light drizzle of black drops on the desktop; his eyeglasses fell off, luckily without breaking; and he emitted a—quite mortifying—falsetto shriek.

Right in front of him, standing with a coat draped over his arm and a closed umbrella in his hand, was a middle-aged man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a rather nondescript dark suit.

“Who . . . who the devil are you? And what are you doing in my office? How did you get in here? Ponte! Ponte!”

The stranger gave him a half smile.

“Be calm, Dottore. There's no problem. Ponte's not here: he was sent on a break prior to my arrival. An order from you, which you'll be so good as to confirm later. I'm the person you've been expecting. You may call me Falco. I belong to the organization that's making all of the necessary arrangements for the Duce's visit.”

Garzo hadn't yet resumed breathing normally, and he sat there staring at the so-called Signor Falco, his eyes bulging.

“But . . . but . . . this is hardly the way! Haven't you ever heard of knocking on the door? I could have had a stroke!”

Falco showed no sign of contrition.

“We can't afford to linger in hallways for extended periods of time, Dottore. This means, in some cases, an act of apparent rudeness. Shall we discuss the matter at hand, now? I imagine that you've been briefed about what we need to know.”

After recovering a minimum of self-control, Garzo did his best to think as quickly as he could. This specter who had suddenly appeared before him was certainly with the secret police, the subject of much fevered speculation in every police station in Italy, as well as in those seditious publications printed in secret and tossed into crowds anonymously. This meant that he had to be careful, very careful; he'd heard of people and even entire families vanishing into thin air, leaving not a trace from one day to the next. There was no choice but to comply with their wishes.

He put on an off-kilter smile, placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, and said:

“
Prego
, have a seat and tell me what you need to know.”

More than three hours later, they'd minutely planned every single second of the Duce's visit, evaluating alternative routes to the ones that would be announced, people to be invited to the meetings, official and private moments. More than once, when Garzo expressed his concerns about the number of men available for a given function, Falco was dismissive, saying:

“That's not going to be a problem. Don't worry about it.”

The deputy chief of police realized that there would be a very sizable contingent of armed men serving as a protective cordon, in plain clothes and incognito. This made him uneasy rather than reassuring him; but he realized that it was better to be safe than sorry.