The House of Serenades

12



FROM HIS CORNER TABLE Ivano had kept watch on Antonio as he exchanged words with Francesca Barone and walked out of Caffe’ del Gambero. He wondered what their conversation had been about and why Francesca had tried twice to prevent Antonio from leaving. Where they in cohort? What did they know? And why was the Chief of Police roaming the town asking questions about Giuseppe Berilli at such late hour? It was the job of a rookie. How had he known to find him at Caffe’ del Gambero in the first place? He ordered a glass of red wine and sipped it slowly. He should wait a while before leaving, or he would raise suspicion. Acting naturally, he joined a card game, losing all his money out of his inability to concentrate. That’s when he stood up, waved to Francesca Barone, and left. Outside, inhaling the cold night air, he found once more his determination. It was two in the morning when he headed surefooted to Piazza della Nunziata.

The alley behind the bakery was dark and silent when he got there, and the oven-room door was wet with dew drops. He entered with caution. Groping about the familiar territory, he lit two candles, placing them at one end of the table. With poise, he approached the shelves and reached up for a cloth bag kept closed by a gauze twine. His fingers rustled against the cloth as he untied the twine unhurriedly and with care. From the bag, he extracted a sheet of parchment paper, an inkwell, and a pen, and placed them next to each other on the candle-lit table. As he took a seat, he smiled. At first Antonio Sobrero’s interrogation had unsettled him, but then he had rejoiced that one aspect of his plan had finally succeeded: the police were getting involved in the Berillis’ life. It was important, at that point, to keep Mister Sobrero’s curiosity aroused. With that goal clear in mind he set out to write threatening letter number three.

The first thoughts about writing Giuseppe menacing letters had taken shape one week earlier, after another one of Ivano’s endless attempts to reach the Berillis had miserably failed. He had spent a tormented night, waking at six in the morning with a feeling of exhaustion cloaking him. His certainty about Caterina being alive rather than dead, which vacillated occasionally depending on his mood, seemed particularly shaky that day. He loathed indecision and the inertia that overcame him whenever his investigation stalled. To avoid lingering in negative thoughts, he resolved to try a new venue. On the way to work, he stopped at a police station, a small one, not the central station where Antonio Sobrero was headquartered. There, blaming himself for not having considered that option before, he told a young policeman on duty he had a story to tell the authorities would find intriguing.

“It’s about Caterina Berilli,” he explained, “Giuseppe Berilli’s daughter, whom everyone thinks dead. She’s not dead,” he added, “I know it.”

The young policeman asked Ivano to wait and returned shortly with his superior, a gray-haired man with grades on his uniform and a look of incredulity on his face. “Did you actually see this non-dead woman?” he asked.

“No,” Ivano said, “but I know for a fact that she’s alive. Her family is hiding her. Where, nobody knows.”

Immediately the senior officer thought the young man had to be mad to come up with that kind of story—a story that discredited one of the most respectable families in town. He personally accompanied Ivano to Piazza della Nunziata, where he asked Corrado if his son had his mind in the right place. Corrado confirmed that his son had indeed lost his reason and had been acting crazy since the day Caterina had died. He told the policeman about the days his son had spent seated on the bakery floor, about his disappearance, and about the mandolin and the love songs.

“You’d better keep an eye on your offspring,” the officer told Corrado, “because we’re busy down at the police station. We’ve no time to look after the delirium of some enamored bum. The next time your son bothers us with his fantasies, I will inform the Berillis. They’ll press defamation charges against him. He will end up jailed.”

In vain Ivano begged his father and the policeman to believe him. The policeman left, and Corrado gave his son a sad look. “It’s all right, son. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry.”

At his father look of pity, Ivano’s anger exploded. He let out a long, loud shout, sustaining it until his lungs screamed for air. While he was still shouting, Corrado rushed out the bakery, fearing for his life.

After that episode Ivano’s thoughts began to follow unchartered paths. Giuseppe Berilli was the key to Caterina’s false death, he reasoned, the one hiding the truth from everybody, and if the lawyer refused to see him and tell him what he had done to Caterina then he’d have no choice but to scare him into talking. He figured that if he managed to bring Giuseppe to a high state of fear, the lawyer could lose his composure and talk. Anonymous threatening letters would be a good way to start his scare tactics: they would protect his own identity, and Giuseppe, with his dirty conscience, would hardly dismiss them as a prank. Not only the letters would frighten the lawyer, but they might also prompt the police to intervene. In order to avoid being identified as the writer, he’d write the letters with his left hand, which he could use for several tasks and produced a handwriting completely different from his right-handed one. In his bottled-up fury, Ivano didn’t stop a single moment to consider the consequences of his plan. Before he had time to reconsider, he had sent Giuseppe threatening letter number one. He had written its text joyously, his frustration fading with every pen stroke. The final touch had been the drawing of the horse with its mane in the wind, a symbol of the freedom he wanted for Caterina. As it turned out, Ivano had nothing to do with Giuseppe’s horse accident on Piazza San Matteo. When he read about the mishap in the newspaper, however, he thought some saint up in heaven must finally be on his side.

“Thank you,” he murmured, staring the sky, “for making my letter so much scarier.”

Two days went by. Then he wrote the second letter, gloating at the frightening power of its words. The following evening, while he was returning home late from Taverna del Marinaio, he spotted a cat lying still by a street corner. It had died recently, Ivano concluded after examining the animal, because there was fresh blood around a wound on its abdomen. Life was tough for stray cats in the caruggi, he brooded, and this cat was likely the victim of the animals’ fights for survival. Suddenly, as he stared at the dead animal, he remembered a practice he had become acquainted with during his time with the underworld. One day a Caribbean woman named Clotilde Pereira had arrived in Genoa from South America on a cargo ship. She was a black-magic expert and, upon her arrival in town, had given free public demonstrations of her art and sold her special services to those who wanted to hurt their enemies or punish their unfaithful spouses. During one of her public demonstrations, Clotilde had explained that hanging a dead cat to a door would cause evil winds to blow into the house, bringing along ill luck and great affliction lasting three years. In order to aim the evil winds at one specific member of the household, Clotilde had added, one had to pronounce that person’s name three times while dipping a finger into the cat’s blood and then use the wet finger to write the word morte—death—on the door. Whether Clotilde was right or wrong, Ivano had no idea, but he thought the gruesome ritual would be a good one to stage on top of the anonymous letters in order to bring Giuseppe to a high state of fear. So he did exactly as Clotilde Pereira had said, asking for forgiveness up in Heaven for disrespecting an animal after its death.

“It’s for the sake of my lost love,” he said aloud as he gently picked up the stray cat. “She’s a victim too,” he whispered in the cat’s ear, “just as you are.”

The staging of Clotilde’s black ritual on the palazzina’s door took him only a few moments. He hung the cat to the knocker, dipped his finger in the cat’s blood, and wrote morte above the cat’s head while whispering Giuseppe’s name. Finished, he knocked on the door and rushed across the street, where he hid in the shadows. From his post, through the tree leaves, he watched the turmoil as the Berillis came to the door.

Back home, he begged his father to lie for him should anyone ask where he had been that evening between eight and nine. “Tell I was at the bakery with you. Please.”

Corrado’s eyes filled with worry. “What did you do?” he asked. “Are in you in some trouble again with the police?”

“I’m in no trouble whatsoever,” Ivano replied. “Just do as I say. You have nothing to worry about.”

Under Corrado’s perplexed eyes, he walked out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the street. A sensation of power spread through his bones, growing stronger as he walked up and down the caruggi for over two hours. He was certain that Giuseppe Berilli must be scared out of his mind by now. He had heard the screams from across the street and seen the silhouettes scrambling about the door. He was sorry he hadn’t been able to catch all the details of the commotion, because the vegetation in the garden had blocked his view. Had Giuseppe felt sick? Had the sight of the cat and the blood sent his black soul into a hell of fear? He hoped so. Shoulder open, chin high, he entered Caffe’ del Gambero half an hour before Antonio Sobrero arrived.

Now, as he penned more menacing words in letter number three, he wondered if Antonio Sobrero would give any consideration to his claim that Caterina was alive. He should write something special in the new letter, something that would steer Mister Sobrero’s investigation along that path. As usual, the words came to him effortlessly. He rejoiced as the last one fell into place.

In the morning Antonio awoke with a pounding headache. He decided, nevertheless, to go to work and pay Giuseppe a visit later in the day. The results of his nocturnal investigation were meager, but he wanted the lawyer to know he was on the case. On his way to the office, he made a detour and stopped by the jail. In the warden’s office he had a fifteen-minute conversation with Guido Orengo, a tall, thin man with eyes of ice, who denied having anything to do, directly or indirectly, with the threatening letters, the dead cat, and Giuseppe Berilli or his entourage. Examining the two sentences Guido Orengo had written on a sheet of paper upon his request, Antonio noticed that the man’s handwriting was disorderly in nature, the rounds of the a’s and o’s hardly round at all. Those a’s and o’s looked like defective wheels, he thought, and the ensemble of the characters like the trajectory an automobile would follow on a bumpy country road. Guido Orengo’s handwriting, he concluded, bore no similarity whatsoever to the handwriting in the threatening letters. He returned to headquarters with a feeling of emptiness inside. Perhaps none of the three suspects had committed the attack, and all his nightly work had been in vain.

It was raining when he left the office headed for Corso Solferino. When he arrived at the palazzina around two in the afternoon, he was soaking wet. Guglielmo dried his jacket with a cloth and accompanied him to the blue parlor, where a pale Matilda welcomed him with open arms.

“Antonio! I’m so happy to see you. Look,” she said, handing out an envelope. “Look what we found on our doorstep this morning.”

Antonio opened the envelope and extracted a sheet of parchment paper. He unfolded it and read it twice.


Did you enjoy last night’s show, Mister Berilli?



I hope so, because there’s more coming.



Unless you talk.





“Another one,” he mumbled, putting the letter back in the envelope. “I’ll take it to the police station. I want to know if it was written by the same hand as the first two letters. I am sure it’s the case, but I’d like to double-check, because whereas the first two letters were mailed,” he turned the envelope over, “this one was hand-delivered. At what time did it come?”

“Guglielmo opened the door at eight this morning,” Matilda explained. “The letter was there.”

“I assume Mister Berilli wasn’t informed.”

“Of course not,” Matilda said. “I’m the only one who read it. I have been waiting for you all morning.”

“Be brave, Madame,” Antonio said kindly. “I’ve been working on this case all night. This morning, too. We’ll stop this harassment soon. Is your husband in any condition to receive visitors? I need his input in order to keep my investigation going.”

Matilda nodded. “Doctor Sciaccaluga stopped by earlier. He found my husband’s heart in good order, though his morale is still low. Please, be considerate, Antonio.”

Antonio assured Matilda he’d limit the conversation to what was strictly necessary, and she led him upstairs.

Giuseppe opened his eyes at the sound of steps approaching.

Matilda spoke. “Giuseppe? Antonio is here.”

“Ah, Antonio,” Giuseppe whispered.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Matilda said. With a rustle of her gowns she walked away, closing the door behind her.

Antonio placed a chair at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mister Berilli, but I need your help in order to make some sense of this matter.”

“Yes, of course,” Giuseppe said. “What did you find out?”

“Unfortunately, not much. Last night, after I left you, I met with Roberto Passalacqua and Ivano Bo. They both seem to have an alibi for the time the dead cat was placed on your door. Mister Passalacqua was at City Hall with the Mayor, Mister Bo at the bakery with his father. Their handwritings don’t match the handwriting in the letters. Before coming here, I stopped by the jail to question Guido Orengo, who denies any wrongdoing. I asked my men to track down his known associates. Meanwhile, I had some tests run on the envelopes and the parchment paper. We now have a new method to isolate and classify fingerprints, recently perfected by Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, my men were unable to locate even one complete fingerprint. Too many people handled the letters: mailmen, post office employees. As to the letters, in theory, only you, the writer, and I handled them. Still, we couldn’t find a print clear enough to be used as evidence. So I’m back at the beginning. I’m not totally convinced of Mister Bo’s innocence, I must say. His father is the one giving him his alibi, so we can’t be sure.” He paused. “When I questioned him, he said something strange. He said that Caterina is alive and her family is hiding her.” He watched the lawyer closely.

Giuseppe wheezed. “Is this some kind of joke?” Tears flowed down his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Mister Berilli, but I had to ask. Why, in your opinion, would Mister Bo make such an outlandish statement?”

“He’s mad!” Giuseppe exclaimed with all the strength he could gather. “I told you!”

“Calm down,” Antonio said, noticing Giuseppe’s agitated state. “I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise. But besides Mister Bo, can you think of someone else?”

Giuseppe shook his head. “I’m sure it’s him, I can feel it.”

“How can you be so sure?” Antonio asked.

“I just am,” Giuseppe insisted. “Trust me. And arrest the scoundrel.”

“I can’t arrest him unless I have proof of his wrongdoing.”

“You don’t understand …” Giuseppe lamented.

“Then make me understand, Mister Berilli.”

Giuseppe remained silent a moment, the only sound in the room that of his shallow breathing. “I told you all I know,” he said coldly. “Please go now.”

Quietly, Antonio stepped out. Downstairs, before leaving the palazzina, he stopped by the blue parlor. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Madame,” he said. “Could I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Certainly,” Matilda said, inviting Antonio to sit down.

“Do you have any idea,” Antonio asked, taking out of his pocket the new letter, “what ‘unless you talk’ may mean?”

Matilda shook her head.

“Does your husband have … secrets?” Antonio insisted.

Matilda sighed. “I’m sure he does,” she murmured. “I would be the last to know.”

After some pondering, Antonio decided against questioning Matilda about Ivano Bo’s conviction that Caterina was alive. It was clear to him that whatever the Berillis were hiding, Giuseppe was to blame, not her. She was a victim of the lawyer’s overbearance. On his way out, Antonio asked himself how Giuseppe could be so sure Ivano was the anonymous writer and the one responsible for hanging the dead cat on the door. In the back of his mind, a voice was telling him that Mister Berilli was hiding something, perhaps a frightening truth. He was in an awkward position though, because Giuseppe’s precarious health prevented him from pressing the lawyer to speak. He shrugged then decided he needed a few hours of sleep.

Behind the blue parlor’s closed door, Matilda sobbed until her eyes swelled and her tears dried out. She had been so close to letting everything out, to telling Antonio all about Caterina and the lies she and Giuseppe had told everybody over and over for two years. The words of confession, so clear and well formed in her mind, had stopped short once more. That morning, after reading the third letter, even before Antonio arrived, she had decided to tell someone about Caterina’s reclusion. First, she had considered telling Umberto, but the fear of his reaction had made her change her mind. He had looked up to her all his life, and she couldn’t find the heart to explain to him what she and Giuseppe and done. She was an accomplice, and who knows what Umberto would do or say to her if he found out. She’d have to talk to him about her reasons, explain the circumstances of her wedding to Giuseppe and the pact of silence Giuseppe had made with the four parents. It was too much. Her own parents had judged her a whore at the time the doctor had confirmed that her hymen wasn’t there. Why would her son react otherwise? There was no one in her family she could confide in, no one who could understand her struggle, no one who would help her without judging her or condemning her behavior. She had felt relieved when Antonio had arrived. As a stranger, not a family member, he would judge her only within the law. She believed she’d find the courage to open herself to him. While she had been waiting for his return from Giuseppe’s room, however, she had almost choked at the thought of what she was going to reveal. Now that Antonio was gone, Matilda realized to her dismay that she’d never find the strength to confess, not to Antonio, not to Umberto, not to anyone—ever. She stood from the loveseat, followed the hallway to the staircase, and climbed it to Giuseppe’s bedroom. As unlikely as it sounded, her only hope to bring Caterina home was to change Giuseppe’s mind.

“Giuseppe?” she called from the threshold. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” he murmured.

“We need to talk about Caterina,” she said, approaching the bed.

Giuseppe wheezed twice, like an asthmatic. “No,” he said.

“Antonio is beginning to suspect,” Matilda said. “We should tell him everything before he finds out.”

“No!” Giuseppe hollered. “Don’t even think of saying a word to anyone about Caterina!”

“You’re sick,” Matilda insisted. “It’s time to undo the unspeakable things we’ve done to our daughter.”

“The only one who did unspeakable things is our daughter,” Giuseppe said. “She’ll stay where she is. Now let me rest. Go away.”

Matilda ignored the command. “Locking a young woman in the convent of the Sorelle Addolorate for the rest of her life serves no purpose,” she said angrily. “Do you think she’s repenting? I say she spends her time hating us. Is that what you want?”

“Go away,” Giuseppe repeated, closing his eyes.

A few days passed, during which Giuseppe remained stable but unable to leave the bed or walk. Umberto and Costanza stopped by every evening to visit him and comfort Matilda, who seemed to them more distressed than ever. They assumed it was because of Giuseppe’s illness, when instead Matilda’s distress was due to her inner fight. Guilt about her complicity in Caterina’s reclusion spread inside her like a canker, making her irritable and depriving her of sleep. Raimondo showed up at the palazzina once in a while, half-drunk and in wrinkled clothes, whereas, unfailingly, Eugenia visited Giuseppe every morning. Never during her visits did she pass up the opportunity to remind him of his lies, the letters, and his unforgivable betrayal, all along blaming Matilda for everything.

“You are a coward,” she told her brother over and over. “You do everything Matilda tells you to do. When are you going to stand up to her and remember who your real family members are?”

Giuseppe began whining the moment Eugenia entered his bedroom, turning his back to her and hiding his face in the pillows. “I can’t talk, I am sick. Please go away …” His guttural, deep moans were no deterrent for Eugenia’s complaints and accusations.

During those visits, Eugenia and Matilda exchanged only half sentences and bitter words, always ending their encounters on heavily sarcastic notes. As for Antonio, he went out of his way to keep an eye on Ivano but lost track of him after only a day. He wasn’t at home or at the bakery or at any of his favorite hangouts, and his father had no idea where he was. Puzzled, Antonio wondered what Ivano’s sudden disappearance might mean. He informed Giuseppe of Ivano’s absence, which served to further agitate the lawyer. As for Doctor Sciaccaluga, he stopped by the palazzina as often as he could and went out of his way to make Giuseppe feel better, for he didn’t want to lose his precious ally—not until his entrance into the upper class was ratified with either a marriage or the establishment of steadfast relationships with other members of the Genoese society.

One day the doctor noticed in Giuseppe signs of an unclear mind. On a couple of occasions he heard him utter disconnected words and sentences without a meaning. And when he tried to make conversation with him, he realized that Giuseppe took longer than normal to understand what he was saying. Frightened at the thought that Giuseppe might become incapacitated or die, Damiano asked himself what he should do to prepare for the lawyer’s imminent passing. The Parenti document he had in his nightstand would not be as valuable with Giuseppe no longer alive, although he could perhaps still use it for blackmail, as he had originally thought. Giuseppe’s sons, even Matilda, would want to keep that document away from indiscrete eyes. Opportunity knocked when one least expected it, he knew all too well, so he resolved to keep the document in question in his pocket at all time in case he found himself in a situation that required the document to be put to use. Meanwhile, out of professional scruples, he warned Matilda that Giuseppe’s condition was not improving.

“His mind is fading,” he said sadly. “You should prepare for the worst. I’ll be back tomorrow, but call me if something happens overnight. I’ll bring a nurse with me in the morning, someone who can stay with Giuseppe all the time.”

That night Matilda sat at the foot of her bed, staring at her own shadow on the floor. She wondered about Giuseppe’s condition and hoped it would continue to deteriorate. She could soon be a widow and free to do as she pleased. The secret of her hymen would die with Giuseppe and nothing would prevent her from freeing Caterina. She moved to her dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. She had aged visibly during the past year, and her face showed signs of the long hours spent at her husband’s bedside and of the emotions of the past days. Her skin was wrinkled in places that had been smooth, her eyes were torpid and sad. She stared at the unfamiliar image the mirror was sending back to her. Past her own reflection and the dancing light, deep into the glass, Matilda saw the ghost of Caterina. She saw the blond hair, the green eyes, and the joyful smiles. She heard her laughter, loud and sudden like fireworks in the dark of the night, and her tingling voice, and the sound of her steps in the corridors of the palazzina. Then she saw Caterina as she had seen her last, standing under the rain by the locked gate, begging for her and Giuseppe’s forgiveness, shouting Raimondo’s name to save herself from the punishment that had been set for her. Eyes fixed to the mirror, Matilda wondered if there was some truth in Caterina’s words, if Caterina knew secrets no one else knew. She wondered about Raimondo and the life of dissolution he led outside the firm, women and alcohol and tobacco a gogo’. It was then that Caterina’s words echoed in her mind.

“Do you want to know who? Do you? Raimondo did it! Do you understand, Father? Your son Raimondo did it! My brother!”

Brusquely, Matilda turned away from the mirror. She stood up, fluffed her dress, and calmly descended the staircase. Downstairs, she summoned Guglielmo and the rest of the staff to the blue parlor.

“I will be going on a trip that will keep me away from home for a few days,” she told everybody. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Do you need to be accompanied, Madame?” Guglielmo asked.

“No. I’ll travel alone. You will only take me to the train station.”

Guglielmo’s breath stopped momentarily in his throat. Madame had never taken a trip alone before, not even in town. He quickly recomposed himself. “Do we need to inform your sons, Madame?”

“You will inform them after my departure,” Matilda ordered. “You will also ask them on my behalf to look after their father while I’m gone. There’s nothing to worry about, because starting tomorrow a nurse will be assisting my husband day and night.” She paused a moment then flipped her hand in the air. “This will be all.”

It was pitch dark when after a long train journey and a bumpy coach ride Matilda arrived in Mirabello, the village east of Milan. She checked in at the only inn, a country estate that had seen better times. Untrimmed plants and dry grass covered the neglected ground, mold sprouted visibly on the façade, and the front door was scratched, with paint falling off in places. Exhausted from the train and coach rides, Matilda took no notice of the disarray. She retired to an unadorned bedroom on the second floor, where she spent the night tossing and turning, rehearsing what she would say to Caterina after a two-year-long separation. It’d be difficult to find the right words, no matter how long or short the speech. How would she explain? Had Caterina understood what happened? Had she made sense of her reclusion? A shroud of anxiety wrapped around her, and her throat dried. In search of drinking water, she got up and tiptoed on the creaking wooden boards that paved the hallway. Smells of burnt wood from the inn fireplace and melted sugar from the kitchen filled the air. They were familiar odors from her childhood in the family castle. She remembered the afternoons spent reading in front of the imposing marble fireplace while outside the snow fell and covered the ground; the multi-layered cakes that appeared as if by miracle on her birthdays; the weight of the blankets and spreads that covered her bed; and the warmth of her mother’s good-night kisses. Why should Caterina be deprived of all this? Why should her life end at eighteen because of a mistake any young girl could make? Walking back to her bedroom, inhaling the odors of her youth, in a moment of clarity, she resolved to tell Caterina the whole truth: her hymen, her fears, the mock funeral, the threatening letters, the cat on the door, and the gravity of Giuseppe’s illness. Then she would beg Caterina to forgive her and come home with her to start a new life. As she slipped again under the covers, she began to dream of Caterina’s arrival at the palazzina, of her first meal, her first walk downtown. She imagined the girl’s smile as she embraced her brothers and her happiness as she resumed her old life. Had she changed? Had she grown? Lying in bed, eyes closed, she dreamed on, stopping only when, once more, fear took over. Would Caterina be able to forgive her for having stolen two years of her life?

At dawn, in a mist of fog and drizzle, she boarded a coach and gave the coachman directions. The trip across the countryside lasted close to half an hour, during which Matilda relived every detail of the previous trip, its tragic outcome, its absurdity. There was fog over the fields, which were deserted and soaked by the morning dew. She could hear the horse’s hooves and the wheels slush along the dirt road. In front of the convent gate she looked for the bell Giuseppe had rung two years earlier. The bell, however, wasn’t there. Puzzled, Matilda searched for the bell in the nearby bushes, pulling branches and shoving leaves aside. There was no bell anywhere. Tears flowed down her cheeks. How was she supposed to get in? How was she supposed to let the nuns know that she was there? In a panic, she took hold of two gate posts and thrust her face forward, cheeks against the iron. She shouted, “Hello? Hello?”

Ten minutes later, when Matilda’s strained vocal chords could emit only scratchy, faint sounds, three silhouettes emerged from the tree grove and walked in small, tentative steps towards the gate. They were nuns, and like on the day of Caterina’s arrival, they were dressed in black and veiled.

“Finally,” Matilda exclaimed with the little voice she had left. “I have been calling for a long time. No bell?”

Through the veils, the nuns stared at Matilda without moving.

“I am Matilda Pellettieri, Caterina Berilli’s mother,” Matilda explained. “I’m here to see my daughter. Please take me to her.”

The nuns turned to each other and then back to Matilda. One of them lifted an arm and opened the palm of her hand. Matilda interpreted the gesture as a request that she wait while the nuns fetched Caterina. Indeed two nuns left and one remained, standing still in front of Matilda, on the other side of the gate. Shortly a forth nun arrived. Unlike the others, she wore a white uniform and was not veiled.

“I’m Sister Anna,” the unveiled nun told Matilda. “I’m not part of this congregation. I’m only visiting, which is why I can speak. Your daughter is not here. She fled yesterday with a man who appeared all of a sudden in our chapel. I was present when it happened, and I can assure you we were all very scared.”

Matilda felt the ground shift beneath her feet. “A man?” she murmured. “Who?”

Sister Anna said, “We have no idea.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Matilda exclaimed.

“But we did,” Sister Anna replied calmly. “The Mother Superior sent a telegram to your home only a few hours after your daughter fled. Are you all right?” the nun asked, noticing Matilda’s ghastly face.