Day of the Dead Read Free Page A

cocked, as if waiting to be called; all the same, it seemed to sense how delicately Modo was working and, remaining vigilant, didn’t move from where it stood.
    The doctor examined the position of the corpse, crouched down to palpate the feet, inspected the face. He took notes on the back of the memo requesting his attendance. As he worked, Maione held the umbrella over him, doing his best to anticipate the doctor’s rapid movements.
    When he was done, Modo went over to Ricciardi, drying his hands on his handkerchief.
    â€œNow then: the corpse is stiff and cold. If you ask me he died yesterday evening or in the middle of the night. You’re quite right, there are no marks of violence on the body, at least nothing that could have proved fatal: old bruises, a few abrasions here and there, but nothing that was concurrent with death. He’s sitting up because he’s leaning against the wall, otherwise he would have fallen over. In my opinion, he’s seven years old, but he could be a little older; these street kids get very little to eat and develop rickets, so they can be a couple of sizes smaller than what’s normal for their actual age. He may even be ten or twelve years old. That’s something you’re going to have to find out.”
    Ricciardi asked:
    â€œAbout the time of death, are you certain?”
    Modo shrugged.
    â€œYou can never be certain, when it’s cold and raining. The corneas are already opaque, glazed over, and I’m pretty sure I’m seeing black at the edges of the pupils. You can see hypostasis, that is, red blotches from the settling of blood due to gravity, along the right side of the neck, on the pavilion of the right ear, under the thighs, and on the legs, like socks. You see? If I press on the flesh with my fingers, it doesn’t turn white. The corpse stayed in this position for a long time.”
    â€œAnd the cause of death? Agreed, no violence. So what killed him?”
    Modo fell silent for a moment as he looked at the boy.
    â€œI couldn’t say. It looks to me like a simple case of cardiac arrest. I told you, they’re weak, undernourished; every cold turns into pneumonia. They have no medicine, no one takes care of them. This is the third one I’ve seen this month. They found one of them at the train station whose ribs stuck out so much that you could examine his skeleton without even opening him up. Another one, a girl, was so hungry that she fell into the street at Sant’Eframo and a car ran over her like she was a bag of rags. It’s heartbreaking, I know. But it’s just one of the effects of poverty in this city that’s still waiting for the rising sun of the future.”
    Maione listened, shaking his head.
    â€œI feel tremendously sad for these poor creatures, Dotto’. Used to be every family would take in one of them. They called them the children of the Madonna. And they were even treated better than the other kids; people said they brought luck. But now, with the poverty you see these days, who can afford to have an extra mouth to feed?”
    Modo never missed an opportunity to slip into his favorite topic of conversation.
    â€œBut doesn’t everyone say that we now live in a perfect country? Read the newspapers, Brigadie’, and all you’ll read about are parties, receptions, inaugurations, ship-launchings, and military parades. Foreign princes and kings visiting our country, happy, cheering crowds. But you and I, and our friend Ricciardi, here, all know perfectly well that matters are quite different. That children like this nameless boy are allowed to starve to death on the side of the road.”
    Ricciardi raised his hand to stop him.
    â€œHave mercy, Bruno. I beg you, no politics this morning. I can’t take it. I spent most of my night shift filling out reports and I’m even more disgusted with our political system and bureaucracy than you are; but I think that, with this