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“He caught me unawares!”
“What’s his name?”
“His parents didn’t say. They barely stopped their carriage. They relinquished the boy after he tried to kill his little brother with a rock!”
Vergenti recoiled. “How horrible! Why didn’t they summon the authorities?”
“I don’t know, but the madhouse is the more humane solution, isn’t it?”
Vergenti agreed. The madhouse was awful, but the prison was far worse. At least here, the government paid to feed them.
“Dottore, he’s a bad case, I assure you. He needs to be admitted.”
“We’ll see about that.” Vergenti thought of his budget, which was strict. “I must file a detailed report, you know. Tell me more about the incident. Where did he get the knife? He didn’t have it on his person, did he?”
“No, I took him to the kitchen to offer him an orange. The next thing I knew, he grabbed the knife. The child is wicked!”
“Not wicked, insane,” Vergenti corrected.
“You’re right, Dottore.” Renzo frowned. “Nevertheless, we can’t be too careful. What if he had attackedyou, at your age? Your reflexes aren’t as fast as mine. Your wife would be left a widow and the madhouse without its leader!”
Vergenti knew Renzo was flattering him. He liked being flattered almost as much as he liked Latin. “I must examine the boy. Take me to him.”
Renzo turned to the stairwell, and Vergenti trailed behind. They went downstairs and walked the dark hallway lined with cells. The stench of the chamber pots upset Vergenti’s stomach, which was delicate.
The lunatics began shouting, “Renzo, let me out! Help me! Save me!”
Vergenti covered his ears. He never came down here, preferring his office, which was farthest from the patients, especially the lepers. He feared their contagion infected the very air. He waited while Renzo unlocked the cell and they stepped inside.
The boy was sleeping on his side, his hands under his face. He must have come from an upper-class family, because he had a fine brown jacket, a white shirt with a high collar, and dark green pants with polished shoes of black leather. He had well-formed features, smooth olive skin, and glossy dark hair, except for a red welt marring his left cheek.
Vergenti turned to Renzo. “What happened to his face? It looks like a blow.”
“He came out of the carriage that way. Perhaps his father disciplined him.”
The boy stirred, then woke up, his eyes rounding with fear. He scrambled away, dragging the rope tying his foot to the wall.
Vergenti forced a smile. “What’s your name, boy?”
The boy’s dark gaze shifted to Renzo and back again.
“Boy, don’t be afraid. I repeat, what’s your name?”
“I want Mamma,” the boy whispered, tears filming his eyes.
Vergenti didn’t have time for this. The child, the odor, the din. “Just tell me your name. That’s all.”
“Dante,” the boy whispered.
“Good. What’s your surname, Dante?”
Dante looked too frightened to speak, his terrified gaze fixed on Renzo.
Renzo advanced on the boy. “Spoiled brat! Show the doctor some respect!”
“Renzo, please.” Vergenti was getting a headache. “Dante, your parents brought you here because you tried to harm your younger brother. Why did you do that?”
Dante’s eyes widened. He shook his head, his lips still sealed.
