Day of the Dead Read Free Page B

fixation you have on Mussolini and the Fascists, you’re going to get yourself in trouble sooner or later, and very serious trouble, too.”
    Modo ran his hand through his thick white hair and put his hat back on his head.
    â€œSo? You think that at my age I could really be afraid to speak my mind? After what I did in the Great War, for my country? For my reply to you I’ll borrow a reply of theirs:
me ne frego
! I don’t give a damn!”
    Ricciardi shook his head.
    â€œYou don’t understand. Or perhaps I should say you pretend you don’t understand. Men like you do a great deal of good for their people. You’re the best doctor I know, and not only because you know what you’re doing and you’re good at it, but also and especially because you feel pity. I was watching you, before, as you were examining this poor corpse; you showed respect for it, as if it were still alive. Do you think it would be the best thing for them, for us, if people like you, who are few and far between, were yanked out of circulation because of a phrase or even a single word uttered in the wrong place at the wrong time? Don’t you think it’s better to try to change things day by day?”
    Maione added, from under the umbrella:
    â€œThe commissario has a point, Dotto’. In any case, I have to do my duty as a spy, and in five minutes I’m going to turn you over to the proper authorities, so that they can send you off to internal exile in a hot, dry place, and I’m doing you a favor, at that.”
    Modo burst out laughing, and waved to the two morgue attendants who had accompanied him.
    â€œIt’s no use, and more the fool I for even trying in the first place: you can’t have a serious conversation with a couple of cops. It’s as if I were trying to talk to a pair of oxen, except that they’d at least pretend to listen to me, without making idiotic jokes. Okay, okay, I’m heading back to the hospital; at least the dead don’t have a bunch of smart retorts. And I’m going to send this poor child to the graveyard, so that he might rest in peace, even if I can’t.”
    The rain had turned to a faint drizzle, indistinguishable from fog. The two attendants lifted the corpse, laboriously straightening the stiffened limbs. Ricciardi saw them start toward the wagon, which was drawn by an old black horse glistening with raindrops. The child’s head lolled to one side and a rivulet ran down his neck. An involuntary mechanism of memory recalled to Ricciardi’s mind the image of a lamb that he used to play with as a child, after it had been sacrificed by the farmer for Easter dinner: the same head lolling to one side, the same tender neck. Two defenseless little animals. Two victims.
    In the spectral atmosphere of death and fog, the dog howled once, briefly. Ricciardi felt a shiver run down his back.
    Impulsively, he called out to Modo, who was walking away with the undertakers.
    â€œBruno, listen to me, I need you to do me a favor: Don’t send him to the cemetery. Have them take him to the hospital, perform an autopsy on him. I want to know exactly what he died of.”
    Modo looked at him in surprise.
    â€œWhat do you mean, what he died of? I told you, cardiac arrest. These children have practically no immune system to speak of; he could have died of anything. Why do you want to subject him to further torture? Besides, you can’t imagine how much work I have to do at the hospital! With this weather, two out of five doctors are sick, and people come streaming in with bronchitis, pneumonia, and bruises from falls and accidents.”
    Ricciardi laid his hand on the doctor’s arm.
    â€œPlease, Bruno. I never ask you for anything. Do this for me: as a personal favor.”
    Modo grumbled:
    â€œThat’s not true, that you never ask me for anything. To be exact, you’re an unbelievable pain in the ass. But fine, fine. I’ll do you