Day of the Dead (40 page)

He'd gone away, but he'd come back to her. This would no longer be a time of loneliness.

Her thoughts turned to the reception that she'd be holding in just two days, and the people who would be attending. That would be a magnificent opportunity because, beyond all the pointless formalities and empty words, everyone would be able to see how radiantly happy she was. She'd want him by her side, so that there could be no doubts about the reasons for her contentment.

She shook her head at the thought of his shyness and intractability, both qualities she had come to know well. He would probably be unwilling to advertise their relationship until it was on a sounder footing. She'd try to talk him into it. But if she couldn't, she didn't care. She'd do without it; the only thing that mattered to her was to see him again, as soon as possible.

Smiling, she decided that it was time to really get to work planning her party. She summoned the maid.

The trolley that went to the cemetery was the number 31, and it left from Porta Capuana.
Ricciardi had to walk for half an hour to reach the end of the line, but he didn't mind; it helped to clear his head of the contradictions and inconsistencies of the past few days. He still didn't feel well; his sore throat was very painful and every so often a dizzy spell would make him feel queasy. Then he'd have to stop and rest, but his mind remained clear.

Not that that was necessarily a good thing, he thought with a hint of irony. A clear mind is no help in understanding certain events. Livia, for example: the conclusions she'd leap to, after what had happened. Enrica, with whom he was still not on sufficiently intimate terms to discuss certain topics; in point of fact, they'd never even spoken, but she was so important to him that he wanted to be sincere with her from the very beginning. So how could he tell her that he'd betrayed her, before he'd even declared his feelings for her?

With an effort, he tried to turn his thoughts to the story of Tettè, Carmen, and the man with the limp. It was a grim distraction, but a distraction nonetheless, he told himself.

Desperation, he knew well, could lead to acts that were entirely out of keeping with a person's nature. Sersale hadn't seemed to him to have a violent character, and the fear he'd read in his face during the attack was umistakable. But fear itself could trigger a sudden, out-of-control act, a brutal reaction to, say, being cut off from the family fortune; which meant Carmen might be in real danger.

And as for Carmen, Ricciardi felt genuine compassion for her. She'd been unfortunate, in spite of her great wealth: no children, a deranged husband, and a family of in-laws with whom she had nothing in common but the wealth over which they squabbled. A malignant, toxic loneliness, an ironic fate that had taken from her the only true love she'd managed to find in life.

Then his thoughts went to Tettè: an even deeper loneliness, a small, brief life that had ended who knows where–and so tragically. And then there was the body, moved roughly, the same way he'd seen the morgue attendants carrying him on the stairs of the Tondo di Capodimonte, and placed where someone would be sure to find it.

The trolley was full of people, even though it was still early. Many carried bouquets of flowers; the women were dressed in black, their hair gathered beneath knotted handkerchiefs, while the men wore black armbands and black neckties, a black button on their lapels: all signs of mourning. Many had dark circles under their eyes from weeping.

The trolley car made its way along the tracks, screeching as it passed over switches, in the damp morning air that promised rain, just like every morning before it. Inside the car there was a silence unusual for such a crowd, at least in that city. Death was a passenger on that trolley: today was His day. Ricciardi looked out the windows and watched the quarters of the city stream past, the streets filled with knots of silent people, all walking toward the same destination as him: the Vasto district, Via Foria, Piazza Carlo III. A populace united for once by an absence, the wish to remember.

At the cemetery entrance, Ricciardi inquired where a certain Matteo Diotallevi might have been interred: a recent arrival, only here since last Friday. A bored attendant checked a ledger book and told the commissario that the child was a guest of the Fago di San Marcello family chapel, and pointed him in that direction. He was touched by Carmen's gesture: she hadn't had the chance to welcome Tettè into her home while he was alive, but she'd chosen to do so at least after his death.

He walked up the tree-lined lane that would take him to his destination, shooting fleeting glances at chapels and tombs that were gradually being populated with visitors. Every so often he had to look away, because among the living and the statues he occasionally glimpsed the dead.

This was why he always avoided trips to the cemetery, if he could. There were many who found life no longer worth living after the death of a loved one, often choosing to put an end to their own lives on the very spot where the last remains of the one they had loved now reposed. And autumn, the saddest time of the year, was their season.

Ricciardi saw an elderly woman kneeling in prayer on her son's grave, a stream of blood flowing slowly from her wrists. She kept saying
just a little longer, my son, just a little longer and I'll kiss your face again
. Not far away, almost invisible because of the time that had passed since his demise, a man stood with a pistol in his right hand, the right side of his head almost obliterated, as he thought of the woman he had loved and lost to death:
I'll always love you, I've always loved you, and I love you still
. To Ricciardi's eyes, the man oozed despair and gloom.

This was also a gift that the Deed had given him: the exact feeling that certain people had of how impossible it was to survive certain events. The opposite of the instinct that led to most crimes, the survival instinct. Both impulses, in most cases, seemed to him pointless causes of death.

He recognized the chapel by the many fresh flowers arranged outside. The door was open and he glimpsed Carmen sitting inside. Already here, at this early hour.

The woman recognized him and smiled, hastily drying the tears that were running down her cheeks.

“Commissario, thank you so much for coming.
Prego
, come inside. You see, Tettè is here, and when I die I'll be here with him. I couldn't stand the thought of him lying next to just anybody, in some potter's field. And I didn't ask anyone's permission: I just brought him here, that's all.”

“
Buon giorno
, Signora. I didn't expect to find you here so early. But I wanted to talk to you, and I knew that you'd come sooner or later, today.”

Carmen smiled sadly.

“Where else could I have been, on a day like today? You see, Commissario, I'm not an old woman, I'm just a little over thirty. But my loved ones–aside from my husband, and you've seen the state that he's in–are all here. I went by my parents' grave, because, God rest their souls, they passed away many years ago, and now I've come to see Tettè. I brought flowers, as I do every week, to my in-laws; not that they cared much for me, truth be told, but I'm happy to do it on my husband's behalf. Did you want to talk with me? Are there any new developments?”

Ricciardi was still standing, his hands stuck in his pockets.

“Yesterday I met your brother-in-law, Signor Sersale. I wanted to understand what kind of man he was, what walk of life he occupied. I was just approaching him when . . . well, when he was attacked by three individuals, tough characters, who took to their heels when I showed up. But then I had a chance to talk to him. He really is in dire straits, as you no doubt already know.”

Carmen stared back at Ricciardi, scowling.

“I told you, Commissario. Gambling, prostitutes, shady dealings. Think of something illegal or immoral, and he's done it.”

Ricciardi nodded.

“Yes, Signora, I realize that; and to tell the truth, he doesn't deny it. If anything, he seemed fully aware of the situation he's gotten himself into, as well as the fact that the only funds that could help him get out of debt are in your hands. He told me that he discussed this with you, unsuccessfully, and that he therefore tried to find a way . . . in short, tried to find evidence that he could use to blackmail you. And he found certain letters.”

Carmen continued to stare at him.

“Letters? What letters?”

“These matters are none of my business, let me make that clear, Signora: but I believe that it might be useful for you to know just what your brother-in-law has in his possession, what weapons he intends to use against you.”

Carmen seemed to have been turned to stone.

“But why, Commissario? Why would you want to help me?”

Ricciardi sighed.

“You were kind to the boy, Signora. The only good thing in his life. It seems to me that I owe it to you, on his behalf. This investigation of mine is not a proper police investigation, as you know. In fact, I'm working on it in my own free time; I'm not on duty now. But the work I did to understand the days of Tettè's life helped me to get to know him, you see: and his life wasn't an easy one. So take it as a gift from him, if you like.”

The woman nodded, pensively.

“The letters. That's why I couldn't find them. So he has them. So what? What does he want to do with my letters?”

Ricciardi shrugged.

“He followed you. That's how he managed to find out about Tettè. He hoped to obtain some evidence that your . . . friendship with the man who wrote those letters might still be going on. He wanted to find out from Tettè whether you'd said anything to him, if you'd mentioned this man, anything he could turn to his own advantage. For purposes of extortion.”

The woman could barely contain her rage. The knuckles of the hand clutching the handkerchief were white with strain.

“Damn him. Damn him. Just because he has a black heart, he assumes the same about everyone else. He wanted to use the boy to hurt me. What could that blessed soul have ever told him? What could he have known about it?”

Ricciardi waited, in silence. She went on:

“I had a love affair, it's true. I had an affair, and I don't regret it a bit. My husband . . . you've seen him. He's been like that for many years, too many years. And I'm infertile, so I couldn't have had a child to devote myself to. There was this man, a physician . . . for a long time we'd hoped he could cure my husband, find the cause and keep him from vanishing into that world of his, that world of monsters, slowly, inexorably. We grew closer, without realizing it. We fell in love. I was married, he was married; I was unhappy, he was unhappy. Sure, I had an affair. A wonderful love affair. And I'd have been willing to give up everything, my money, my comfort, for him. But he wasn't willing. He couldn't bring himself to abandon his wife, his children, and his work. That's the whole story.”

Ricciardi was increasingly uncomfortable.

“Signora, I have no right to know these things. They're none of my business. I only wanted you to know, so you could defend yourself. That's all.”

Carmen ran a hand over her eyes.

“I don't need to defend myself, Commissario: not anymore. This is something from long ago; it's over, dead and buried, just like my poor, sweet Tettè. And like Tettè–whom I was too afraid to adopt and bring into my home when I still could have, and ought to have–it's something that will weigh only on my conscience, and for the rest of my life. These are all things that Edoardo, wallowing in his poverty and misery, couldn't understand. But, Commissario, are you all right? You're absolutely ashen.”

Ricciardi waved a hand dismissively.

“Just a touch of fever, Signora. Nothing serious. These have been trying days, and with this nasty weather I just caught a bad cold, that's all.”

The woman looked at him with a note of concern in her eyes.

“If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't be so dismissive. You don't look a bit well. Let me drive you home; my car is parked just outside the cemetery entrance. I was just going home now. Unfortunately, nothing's going to change here.”

Ricciardi tried to refuse her offer, but the signora wouldn't hear of it. Truth be told, he didn't mind sparing himself the trolley ride back. The car was sure to be full of people returning home from a visit filled with grief and regret. Once Carmen had locked the chapel gate, the two of them headed toward the entrance.

 

 

 

As they walked up the tree-lined lane, Ricciardi wondered what difference there was between the woman walking beside him and the one with slit wrists he saw dying over her son's tomb, just some fifteen feet away.

They were both alone, both in the depths of despair. Both tied to life only by bonds of obligation that over the course of time had come to seem increasingly meaningless. Love, Ricciardi mused, can tie you to life or evict you from it entirely. Without love, there's not much difference between living and dying. Carmen had struck him as an empty shell, devoid of any strength. Tettè's death, the memory of her lost love, the steadily declining condition of her mad husband. No worldly fortune, no amount of money could make up for those losses.

They came to the car, in the cemetery parking area. The woman walked around to the driver's side.

“I prefer not to have my chauffeur drive me, Commissario. I like not having to depend on anyone else. Tettè liked it too, you know? It was a game we played, to go for a drive, as if I were his own personal driver.”

As they did every time she spoke about the boy, her eyes filled with tears. Ricciardi realized that her lost child could easily become a burden too heavy for her to bear, and that poor Carmen might well have more to fear from herself than from any blackmail her brother-in-law could even dream of. He got into the car and sat beside her.