Free Day of the Dead by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

hat in place with a couple of hatpins, picked up her umbrella, and went out, double- and triple-locking the door behind her. She was only going to do a little shopping in the neighborhood, but she wasn’t taking any chances: even if people said that everything was safe these days, it was still a rough quarter.
    Actually, the whole city scared her. They’d moved there ten years ago, and she still wasn’t used to all those people, all the hustle and bustle, and the fact that you could go out every day and walk around for hours and never run into anyone you knew.
    Back home, in the village of Fortino, in the southern part of the province of Salerno, almost in Lucania, things were quite different. Everyone knew everything about everyone: they never had strangers visit from other towns, or when one happened to pass through, they looked at him as if he had two heads, until he felt so uncomfortable that he left, and then everyone heaved a sigh of relief. There was no need for strangers, back home.
    What’s more, there was respect. When she walked down the main street of town (the only street, for that matter) everyone doffed their hats at the sight of the Barone di Malomonte’s
tata
. She knew it, and she strode proudly, head held high, eyes straight ahead. No one dared to address her, unless she spoke to them first. She had been chosen to raise the next baron, and that was all anyone needed to know. She made her rounds of the farms and workshops, checking to make sure that no one was stealing, that everyone set aside the finest products—the fattest hogs, the best cheeses—for the family that lived in the castle. That’s how it was meant to be, and that’s how it was.
    Circumspectly walking down the staircase of the apartment building, Rosa sighed as she thought about what it must be like back there, now that everyone had been left to their own devices. In the past, her mere presence had been enough to make big, strapping farmers tremble; they knew all too well how capable her sharp eyes were of detecting even the slightest deception. But then, someone had to look after things. The baron had been dead for years, and the poor baroness, the Good Lord love her and keep her in glory, had never been up to such duties.
    As always, the thought of that gentle, petite woman brought a smile of tenderness to Rosa’s lips: her childlike face and lovely green eyes. Immediately after meeting Rosa, at the time a twenty-year-old housekeeper with strong arms and red cheeks, the baroness had decided that when she became a mother, this would be her child’s
tata
. Many years went by before that came to pass; in the meantime Rosa had helped the baroness to keep things running smoothly during those long periods when her migraine headaches and lethargy forced her to stay in bed. But then the baby boy was born.
    Her baby boy.
    Rosa had immediately set about caring for him, with simplicity, and without any ado. From the very beginning she dedicated her life to him, as if she’d been born for this purpose, as if the years she’d lived before setting eyes on him had been nothing more than a long period of preparation.
    She’d loved him unreservedly, unconditionally, unquestioningly. As the baroness had told her—before her extended stay in the hospital, culminating in her death—Rosa would have to be the child’s mother in her place; and so she had been.
    Not that she understood him, she thought as she looked out at the water pouring down. She’d never understood him. His habitual silences, the way he stared into empty air, his sudden bouts of melancholy. In every respect, and for all intents and purposes, he was just like his mother, with the same clear green eyes, looking out at a world that they alone could see. But it wasn’t Rosa’s job to understand Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, Barone di Malomonte; her job was to take care of him, to make sure that he lacked for nothing.
    And