The House of Serenades

13



‘LOCKING A YOUNG WOMAN in the convent of the Sorelle Addolorate for the rest of her life serves no purpose,’ Matilda had said to Giuseppe during their heated discussion in his bedroom. Viola, who was passing in the hallway with brooms and brushes, overheard. That was the first time since Caterina’s funeral Matilda had mentioned the convent’s full name. The consequences of that slip of the tongue would be unimaginable. That very same night Viola, who from her conversations with Lavinia knew about the relationship between Ivano and Caterina, left the palazzina in secrecy and rushed to Ivano’s home. They had never met, and when Ivano opened the door he couldn’t fathom who the woman in front of him was. When she told him she was a maid in the Berillis’ household, Ivano’s heart skipped a beat.

“I know where she is,” she told him. “You and Lavinia were right.”

‘I knew it,” Ivano shouted. He grabbed Viola by the shoulders. “Where is she? Where?”

“Calm down. She is in a convent,” Viola said, showing Ivano a piece of paper. “This is the address and how to get there. I have a niece who is a nun. She gave me the information.”

Ivano hugged Viola. “Thank you,” he said with an energized tone of voice no one had heard in months. “I don’t know how, but I will repay you.”

“The only thing you can do to repay me is bring Caterina home,” Viola said. “I’m only a maid, and my opinion counts less than an anchovy’s tail,” she added, “but I like that girl.” She paused. “I like her way more than I like her father.”

An hour later, having reasoned it’d be pointless to involve the police as he had no proof other than an overheard conversation, Ivano found his father.

“I’m going on a trip,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but there’s no reason for you to worry. I’ll return soon.”

Sadly, Corrado looked at his son, the small bag he was carrying in one hand, the mandolin he held in the other.

Ivano handed him the mandolin. “Take care of this for me.”

Corrado took the instrument and caressed Ivano’s cheek.

As Matilda would do two days later, Ivano traveled to Milan by train and then to the village of Mirabello by coach. He did not spend the night at the inn, as he didn’t want to leave a trail. Across from the inn was an abandoned building, part of which was being rebuilt. Inside, amidst tools and boards, Ivano found a pile of rags, which he arranged into a bed on the cold ground—it wasn’t a foreign experience for him to sleep in improvised quarters. The night was cold, and the humidity rapidly sank into his bones. Shivering, he lay on the rags and curled into a ball, hugging himself and warming his hands with his breath. The night went by slowly, so slowly Ivano thought time had stopped and would never resume its course. He dozed off occasionally, never long enough to fall completely asleep. Then he was awake again, counting his breaths as proof that life still existed and time was moving forward. Finally, the light of dawn filtered in. He stood up and left the building. At an ever-running fountain in the middle of the only piazza he splashed cold water on his face. The map Viola had given him was in his pocket, and he read it over and over before heading on foot through fields moist with dew drops. The morning fog and drizzle confused him more than once, but he was still able to move in the right direction, despite the poor visibility and the cold.

He arrived at the convent one and a half hours later, shoes and feet soaked from the moist soil. The compound was surrounded by deserted countryside. The silence was heavy, oppressive. Through the posts of the locked convent gate, Ivano observed the gravel path leading to the oak-and-pine grove. Whether the path continued past the grove, he couldn’t tell, because the grove was too thick to see through. The gate itself was set into tall walls of stone that surrounded the property and hid everything from sight. Puzzled, he slowly followed the perimeter, stopping occasionally to touch the wall as if in search of a secret passage that would lead him inside. He found no passage, saw no one. Back at the gate, he grazed the lock several times, analyzing its shape and mechanism. He didn’t like the idea of picking that lock, because he had left those tricks behind when he had abandoned the underworld, but he saw no other way to enter the compound. A closer examination, however, revealed a sad truth: it was a double lock, with cylinders so thick and long it would take at least three turns of a sturdy key to slide them all the way. In addition, there was a small protrusion inside the keyhole that needed to be pushed for the cylinders to be able to turn. Only the proper key would be able to push the protrusion and turn the cylinders at the same time. Despite his long practice, he realized he wouldn’t be able to pick that lock, even if he had a host of tools. The nuns had gone to great trouble to make sure the uninvited would be kept outside. He stepped away, sat on a small rock, and spent several hours in silent observation, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement or hear a sound. He saw no one entering or leaving the convent, no one walking along the gravel path. The place seemed deserted and impregnable. It would be no simple matter, he realized, to be admitted beyond the convent walls.

The sun had broken the fog barrier and the grass had dried when he walked back to the village for a brief lunch, after which he returned to the convent right away. As his observation post, he picked a secluded area under a tree some fifty yards from the gate. He stayed there most of the afternoon, puzzled by the total lack of activity and asking himself what could possibly gain him admittance to that impenetrable place. Suddenly, as discouragement started to prevail, a man emerged from the grove. Ivano’s first thought was that his mind was playing tricks on him, showing him ghosts. But as the man kept walking on the gravel path towards the gate, Ivano understood that he was real. At the gate, the man, an elderly fellow with a curly gray beard, extracted a large skeleton key from his jacket’s pocket and let himself out. Then he locked the gate behind him, replaced the key in the pocket, and walked away. Swiftly, Ivano left his observation post with only one thought in his mind: the man with the key, whoever he was, would be his Trojan horse.

He followed the man down the country path, until the path merged into a larger graveled road. At the intersection the man stopped and lit a cigarette. Looking for an opportunity to start a conversation, Ivano caught up with him and said, “Hello.”

The man returned his greeting. After introducing himself, Ivano waited to see in which direction the man was headed then pretended to be going the same way, entertaining a casual conversation about the weather, the crops, the new car models, and the soccer games. As they walked, Ivano found out that the man’s name was Silvio Motta, that he was the nuns’ gardener, and that he had been born only a few kilometers away. At some point, Silvio asked Ivano what he did for a living.

“I’m field hand in a farm one kilometer down the road,” Ivano lied. “It’s hard work, but I don’t mind.”

Silvio nodded, and the two men continued to walk and make conversation until the road came to a group of buildings built in the style of farmhouses. Noticing a sign that read Osteria del Gallo Nero (Black Rooster Tavern), Ivano invited Silvio to have a glass of wine. Silvio accepted.

The tavern was small, with only three dusty tables and a counter. Glasses in hand, four men were chitchatting and smoking. A fifth man, the owner, stood behind the counter uncorking bottles of wine. Silvio waved at him, and he waved back. Ivano and Silvio sat at a free table, and Silvio hung his jacket over the back of his chair. They spent an hour drinking and talking about their lives. The gardener spoke about his youth spent farming in his father’s fields and his gardening job at the convent, and Ivano told Silvio he had been born in Genoa to a family of bakers and had moved north, to Mirabello, after his parents’ death to be with an old aunt who needed assistance with an illness that had left her bedridden for years. The aunt had recently died, he said, and he was now living on his own and in the process of reorganizing his life. Silvio was impressed with the young man’s altruism and dedication.

After the fourth round of red wine, Ivano asked Silvio about the nuns, in particular how they spent their time in that isolated, solitary place.

Silvio shrugged. “I’ve been the nuns’ gardener for fifteen years,” he said, “and never caught a glimpse of any of them. I never even set foot inside the building where they live. As for how they spend their time, only God knows, because, to the best of my knowledge, no layman, or laywoman for that matter, has ever been admitted into their home.”

Ivano refilled Silvio’s glass for the fifth time. “What else do you know?” he asked. “The life of confinement of these nuns intrigues me.”

“All I know is that the nuns leave their quarters early in the morning, at six, to gather in a chapel at the very back of their garden where they sing and pray. On Sundays a priest comes to officiate Mass.” He chuckled. “He must be their treat.”

Ivano chuckled along.

Silvio brought a finger to his temple. “You could go batty in that place, all alone without talking. That’s what happened to my predecessor. He was brought to the asylum because he talked to himself incessantly, day and night.”

Ivano noticed Silvio’s speech becoming slurred. He said, “We should go home. I’m starting to feel tired.”

The two men stood up, and Silvio made an attempt to put on his jacket. He swayed a couple of times; his hands couldn’t find the right holes.

“Let me help you,” Ivano said, taking the jacket and holding it in position.

As Silvio eased his arms into the sleeves, Ivano let go of the jacket and dipped a hand into the left pocket, grabbing the key. He winced as his fingers made contact the cold iron. He extracted the key in slow motion, careful not to touch the pocket lining, all the while telling Silvio how good the local wine was. In his dizziness, Silvio never noticed. He thanked Ivano for his help, and the two men walked out of the tavern.

“It was very nice meeting you,” Silvio said, his words more and more slurred by the alcohol and the weariness that comes at the end of a working day.

“Are you sure you can get home safe?” Ivano inquired, slightly worried about Silvio’s state.

“No problem,” Silvio reassured him. “My home is only one minute away.”

Back in Mirabello, Ivano returned to his raggedy bed inside the construction site and immediately took out of his pocket the stolen convent key. “Thank you, Silvio,” he said aloud, resolving to return the loot before leaving Mirabello. Staring at the rusty, iron instrument, Ivano realized the magnitude of what lay ahead of him. He had a way into the convent now, but once inside what should he do to find Caterina? And what if Caterina wasn’t there? What if Viola had overheard the wrong information? He felt exhausted—from the trip, the months with no sleep, and the emotion of being close to Caterina. He fidgeted with the key, pacing the building back and forth for hours. At three in the morning, after much thinking and brooding, he finally came up with a plan.

At four AM he gathered a few tools—two screwdrivers, a pick, and a foot-long piece of wire—and, undaunted by the darkness and the hostile weather, took on the country paths. The way to the convent was by then engraved in his mind. He could hardly see his feet the visibility was so poor, but made no mistakes. He took all the right turns at the right time, arriving at the convent shortly before five. The fog was thick, and the usual drizzle was falling on him without respite. In the darkness, he slid the skeleton key in the keyhole and turned it three times. He smiled as the gate opened with a squeak. Like a ghost, he tiptoed on the gravel towards the oak and pine grove, crossing it and continuing along the path until he was in the clear again and the path curved to the right. In the twilight, Ivano finally saw buildings: the main house with the golden inscription, a couple of sheds next to a manicured garden, and at the back of the garden a small structure topped by a dome. Based on Silvio’s description, it had to be the chapel. He approached it, furtively looking about, hoping the nuns would be and remain fast asleep.

The chapel door was made of thick wood decorated with worn incisions representing plants and flowers, the work of an artist from a time gone by. A chain ran across it, with a rusty padlock in the middle. That was a lock Ivano knew how to pick. Calmly, he took the wire from his pocket, bent its tip, and pushed it in. He turned and shifted the wire until, a few seconds later, he heard a click and the padlock opened, letting the chain slide to the ground. Chain-free, the door opened docilely under the pressure of his fingers. Thick odors of incense and burnt candles welcomed him inside. He stood still a moment, overwhelmed by the deep silence. The chapel was small but tastefully decorated with tall stained-glass windows and paintings of saints and angels. It had one nave in the center, bordered by rows of wooden benches. Four gas lamps burned on the side walls, two on each side. Calmly, Ivano walked along the nave, the sound of his steps echoing around him. There was an altar at the end of the nave, and he climbed four steps to reach it. It was smaller than the altars he had seen in the churches of Genoa and covered from top to bottom with a white, thick, gold-embroidered drape. To the side of the altar was a door. Past it, Ivano found a wood-paneled room, where religious vestments hung in an open closet. Next to the closet, Ivano noticed a door. It was lower than regular doors and wider. An iron bar was set across it, and when Ivano lifted it, the door opened to the outside. He bent forward to pass. Outside, he followed the chapel’s external walls all the way to the front door. The walk revealed nothing of interest to Ivano, other than for the fact that he now had way to lock the front door with chain and padlock and reenter the chapel from the low door. No one would suspect someone was inside. Moments later, he was back in the wood-paneled room and by the altar. He remembered what Silvio had told him: a priest came to celebrate Mass on Sundays, whereas during the week the nuns prayed in the chapel on their own. He figured the altar wouldn’t be used that day, a Tuesday, and when he noticed a crawl space beneath said altar concealed by the drape, he thought it a good place to hide. So he lifted the drape, squatted, and sat in the crawl space. He took a moment to examine his improvised shelter. The drape had a seam running vertically down the middle. He pulled on its edges with both hands until the stitching came loose. As he pulled harder, the stitching broke, forming a hole the size of a coin. When he put his eye to the hole, he saw a clear view of the nave, the benches, and the entrance door. Pleased, he pulled back and waited, hoping his conjecture that Caterina would be coming to the chapel with the nuns would prove right.

At 6 o’clock sharp, he heard sounds. Through the hole, he saw the chapel door opening and a veiled nun making her appearance. Shortly, the nun began to move forward, along the nave, and behind her, in an orderly line, came her sisters, also veiled and dressed in long black robes. By the altar steps, the first nun kneeled, signed herself, and moved aside. One by one, the rest of the nuns did the same and took their seats on the benches, on both sides. From the hole in the drape, Ivano followed their movements like a hawk. When all the nuns were in their seats, he began to count. He counted five nuns in the first row then his eyes moved on to the row behind it. He hadn’t counted halfway through the second row when suddenly and in unison, as if a signal had been given to them from above, all the nuns kneeled and lifted their veils. Breathless, Ivano watched their transformation. While the nuns, led by one of their own, began reciting litanies and chanting in Latin, he let his gaze wander back and forth along the filled benches in search of the face he wanted to see. Some of the faces, those in the far back, were not clearly visible in the dimness of the gaslights, but Ivano kept scanning the benches slowly, row by row, until he saw, in the third row, all the way to the right, the soft, girlish features of Caterina. His heart jumped. It was true that Caterina was alive! She had been shipped to the convent and kept there. Then the Berillis had told everyone that she had died. He bit his lips, squeezed his fists tight. She was a prisoner, he knew, because however hard he tried, he couldn’t imagine Caterina making such a choice. Besides, had she freely chosen to stay at the convent, he reasoned, why would her family have told everyone that she had died? He swallowed, conscious of the movements of his tongue and throat. His heartbeat was so fast he thought everyone in the chapel could hear it. To calm down, he concentrated on the patterns of the embroidered drape. He moved his eyes along the golden thread, which turned and twirled to form the shape of two leaves and then departed from the leaves’ stems in a curved line to give life to the shape of a lily. He scanned the contour of the lily then shifted his gaze to the leaves and from the leaves back to the lily. Stiff like a mannequin, he continued to shift his gaze back and forth between the lily and the leaves, occasionally bringing his eye to the hole to look at Caterina. He thought of the time past—the funeral, the night in jail, the time spent with the underworld, and the months spent playing the mandolin on Piazza della Nunziata. He tried to imagine how his life would have been with Caterina at his side, and his heart ached at the thought of all the wasted time. She was alive though, and that was all that mattered. He counted: one, two, three. On three, he leaped out of the altar shouting, “Caterina!”

The nuns’ chant faded as a few of them murmured and others screamed. They all covered their faces in a hurry as Ivano ran down the altar steps towards the bench where Caterina was seated. He stretched his arm towards her. “Let’s go,” he shouted. “Haven’t you had enough of this place?”

The moment Ivano had jumped out of the altar, Caterina had thought her head was playing tricks on her as usual. But when Ivano called out her name and ran towards her she realized it was no phantom she was seeing. He was real. Her eyes widened and a shriek came out of her mouth.

“Let’s go!” Ivano repeated, grabbing her by the arm.

At the contact with him, she stood up. With no understanding of what her body was doing, she let Ivano pull her from the bench. Together, they raced down the nave and out the door. They ran along the gardens, to the grove, and from there to the convent gate. When Ivano pulled the key from his pocket and opened the gate, Caterina sprung to the other side and let out a scream so loud Ivano thought her throat might explode. Then they ran again, faster, faster, stopping only when the first houses of Mirabello were in sight.

Panting, in the middle of a meadow, Caterina and Ivano embraced each other tightly, their emotion so strong they couldn’t speak.

“You have no idea,” Ivano murmured several minutes later, “what happened in Genoa after the day your father barged in on us in the oven room.”

“You have no idea what I went through in that horrible convent,” Caterina said, her voice quivering. “I thought I was going to be there for the rest of my life.” She still wore the black prayer veil over her hair, fastened by strings around her neck. She yanked it from her head and threw it on the ground.

Ivano picked it up. “We’ll keep it,” he said then finished the sentence with a voice so faint Caterina couldn’t hear him. “In case someone shouldn’t believe where I found you.”

That’s when Caterina noticed how much Ivano had changed. He was much thinner than she remembered: the skin on the back of his hands was marked by brown spots, and the expression on his face was darker and deeper, like the expression of a much older man. Ivano noticed changes in her as well. Her skin, perfectly smooth in the past, was blemished by fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her green eyes didn’t spark like they used to, and her hair, always perfectly groomed and shiny, was now a duller blonde and in disarray. Those tired features, he thought, were the mirror of a very deep pain. Suddenly Caterina’s shoulders twitched, and she broke into sobs. He held her in his arms for a long time.

When her sobs subsided, Caterina said, “What do we do now? Do you think we are in danger? Do you think the nuns are looking for us?”

Ivano shrugged. “Even if the nuns found us here, what could they do?” He paused. “There are other dangers, much bigger than a few religious hermits. I need to tell you things, things you won’t like. You need to know everything before we can make a decision about our lives.”

Caterina looked at him in puzzlement. “I can see my father resolving to lock me in a convent for some time. He gets enraged often, and for matters less important than our love. But I can’t imagine my mother, my brothers, and my aunt letting him do it. Has no one tried to help me? To find out where I was?”

“Come,” Ivano said. “You need to sit down.”

By then the sun had begun to show through the early-morning fog, which was lifting quickly leaving behind a clear blue sky. They found an oak log lying beside a path and sat on it. Choosing his words, Ivano talked of his own incredulity at the news of her illness, of Lavinia’s skepticism, and of his many attempts to talk with her father.

Then he hesitated, pondering the pros and cons of telling Caterina the rest of the story. When he concluded there was no other way, he reached for her hands and spoke gravely. “At some point, your parents told everyone you had tuberculosis and you were in a sanatorium in the mountains. Then they staged your funeral in the cathedral.”

Caterina gaped at Ivano. “What?” she exclaimed. “It can’t be true. My family held a funeral service for me? Ivano! Are you making fun of me?”

“I wish it were a joke,” Ivano said sadly, “but it’s not. As of today everyone in Genoa, except for your parents, thinks you’re dead.”

“My mother, too?” Caterina exclaimed. “I don’t know if I should believe you. I think you’re making this up for some mysterious reason.”

“I was the only one,” Ivano said, “who never believed you were dead, the only one who kept looking for you when everyone else mourned you. How can you think I may be lying?”

“I don’t know,” Caterina murmured. Shadows of confusion lingered in her eyes.

“Let’s go back to Genoa,” Ivano said. “I realize that the information I gave you is too much for you to accept in such a short time. We’ll talk more on the train. And in Genoa I’ll show you something that will clear all your doubts. And so you know,” he added, “I would never, ever lie to you, especially on a matter of this magnitude.”

She looked at him with lost eyes. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Let’s go,” he said. “You’ll have all the time in the world and every opportunity to decide who’s lying and who’s telling the truth.”

Confused, scared, and mistrustful of Ivano and his tale, Caterina followed him nonetheless to a carriage and then to the train station. On the way to the station, Ivano made sure to drop the convent key by Osteria del Gallo Nero. The front door was locked at that early morning hour, so he left the key on the doorstep along with a note asking the owner to return it to Silvio Motta, the nuns’ gardener, with his apologies and his thanks for having unknowingly helped him save the woman he loved. When the owner knocked on Silvio’s door a few hours later and handed him the key and the note, Silvio was astounded. In the evening, tipsy from the excessive amount of wine, he had gone to bed soon after arriving home, without having the time or the opportunity to realize that the skeleton key was no longer in his pocket. As he slowly sobered up throughout the morning, he kept staring at that key over and over, unable to tell then or even days later which parts of that story—the young fellow he had met on the road, the drinking at the osteria, the return of his key—were true and which parts he had instead dreamed.

The train pulled into the Stazione Principe late at night, screeching as it came to a complete halt. A subdued joy took hold of Caterina as she descended on the platform.

“I thought I’d never set foot on Genoa’s soil again,” she said. Then she looked about with wondrous eyes, as if she were seeing the station for the first time.

Next to her Ivano waited, weary from the talking he had done along the way. He had told Caterina about the fake funeral over and over, filling the tale with all the details he could remember: the flowers, the white casket, the mourning people. Then he had spoken about Lavinia, her anguish, her tears, and how, after the funeral, she had left town without letting anyone know her destination. A tender frustration had worn him out: all his explanations, details, and recollections could not get through to Caterina enough to erase her doubts. She had listened, nodded, cried, but her eyes still spoke her disbelief. In his account of the events, he had left out a few details, such as the time he had spent with the underworld, the threatening letters, the dead cat on the door, and the precarious health of Caterina’s father. He gave himself several reasons for omitting those facts. One, Caterina didn’t need more distressing news that day. Two, he wasn’t sure how she would react to finding out that he had been the cause, though indirect, of the worsening health of her father. Three, the mock funeral was, in his opinion and surely everyone else’s as well, a much more dreadful crime than sending a couple of letters and staging the superstitious cat act, all actions he had committed in moments of deep despair. Four, all those actions had been a consequence of the Berillis’ misdeeds; he would have never even dreamed of joining the underworld or writing anonymous letters or picking up a dead cat in the street had the Berillis not misbehaved first. They were the criminals, he had only reacted.

When they left the station and stepped out into the street, Caterina said, “Where should we go?”

“I always wanted to show you my hideout in the hills,” Ivano replied. “The time has come for us to go there. Please put this on your face,” he added, handing Caterina the black veil. “I realize that you don’t believe me, but what I told you is true. The whole town thinks you’re dead. The last thing we need tonight is for you to be recognized.”

Caterina looked at the veil dubiously then did what Ivano asked and wrapped it around her neck and the lower part of her face.

The streets were dark and quiet when Ivano and Caterina began to walk uphill. They were soon out of the downtown area, following steep back alleys that eventually took them closer and closer to the hilltop. Ivano had thought prudent to avoid public transportations, such as trams, carriages, or any of the funiculars that connected the low city to the higher roads, as the probability that someone would recognize Caterina on any of those was, in his opinion, high. They slowed their pace after a while, when Caterina began to breathe heavily. During the last part of their ascent, they hardly talked. At some point Ivano stopped and pointed to the structure standing alone in the middle of a grassy area.

“This is it,” he said. “No one will come looking for us here.”

Caterina looked about, slightly taken aback by the ruined aspect of the building.

“I always liked the idea that there’s a place in the world only I know about,” he said as she sat on the grass in front of the doorway. “Not even my father knows about this place. Look,” he added, stretching his arm and moving it back and forth in a semicircle. “Isn’t this view it amazing?”

From the fortress doorstep, looking south, the view was stunning with the city lights twinkling without pause, but by that time Caterina felt so exhausted she hardly noticed the magnificent panorama that lay beneath her eyes. Her eyelids were heavy, falling over her eyes against her will. Ivano noticed.

“Let’s go,” he said, helping her up and leading the way.

The depth of the darkness inside the fortress stopped Caterina inches past the entryway.

“I keep candles in that corner,” Ivano said, pointing at the darkest area of the room, “and matches. It’s been a long time since I last came here, but they should be where I left them.” He groped in the dark for a while. “Here they are,” he said, striking a match. He lit two candles, and a dim flickering light filled the room. Through her dazed eyes, Caterina saw the four bare stone walls and the uneven mud floor. She walked to a corner, sat on the cracked, dusty ground, and whispered, “I’m so tired.”

He sat next to her and took her in his arms. She stretched her legs and set her head on his shoulder.

“We’ll find a way to fix things with your family,” Ivano said, caressing her hair. “We could go see your mother—”

He stopped, because he realized that Caterina had fallen asleep. He began to hum softly, as if he were singing a lullaby, and at the rhythm of that slow melody he mimicked the motions of his hand on the strings of an invisible mandolin.





14



THE SUN WAS HIGH WHEN they awoke. Lying on the floor, next to each other, they breathed the warmth of their bodies and the scent of their comingled breaths.

“Good morning,” Ivano said, caressing Caterina’s hair. “Feeling better?”

“I’m not as tired,” Caterina murmured, stretching, “but I feel far from well, I can assure you.”

“This is the first time I wake with you by my side,” he said. “I thought it’d never happen other than in my dreams. I love it. I want to sleep with you forever and ever and ever.”

“I woke up alone in a solitary convent cell for the past two years,” she said. “Every morning when I opened my eyes I had to face my solitude and the possibility I’d never see any of the people I love. You have no idea how happy I am,” she caressed his cheek, “to find you by my side this morning.”

They embraced a long time before Ivano stood up.

“Let’s go,” he said, standing up and helping Caterina off the floor.

She shook the dust off her clothes. “Where?”

“To see something that will convince you that I’m not a liar.”

That was the same morning Matilda had arrived at the convent and discovered that Caterina had run away. She had left the House of Hope in a state of frenzy, ordering the coach driver to rush her to the station. At all cost she had to intercept the nuns’ telegram before someone had a chance to read it. On Doctor Sciaccaluga’s instructions, the servants were to bring Giuseppe no mail, so she wasn’t too worried about her husband reading the news. She was worried about the maids though, and the cook, and the rest of the staff. She knew all too well how curious the servants could be, and with her gone and Giuseppe bedridden it was likely that some of them, even Gugliemo for that matter, would take liberties they’d never dream of taking before. Furthermore, a telegram would not go unnoticed. And what about Caterina? Whom had she escaped with and where was she now? Was she hurt? Was she safe? How had anyone come to know where she was? That baker? The police? Had Antonio’s investigation into the threatening letters and the dead cat led him to suspect foul play? Had he discovered what he shouldn’t have? She trembled at the thought of the scandal and of what Caterina would think or do should she learn of her faked death and funeral from someone other than her mother. She wanted to push the train, tell it to go faster. “God help me,” she moaned as the train made a stop to a small station on the way.

While Matilda’s train ride was reaching its midpoint, Caterina and Ivano arrived in Marassi, the neighborhood northeast of downtown that hosted Genoa cemetery. They walked through the cemetery gate and followed a path bordered by dull grass. By then Caterina had stopped asking questions and was following Ivano docilely, as if an invisible thread tied her to him. She began to realize what that visit was about when they stopped in front of the Berilli family tomb, a stand-alone mausoleum with a locked entry gate that reminded both Caterina and Ivano of the gate of the House of Hope: wrought-iron, posts that allowed visitors to see inside.

“You have no idea,” Ivano said gravely, “how many times I came here to try to find a reason.”

Hesitantly, Caterina approached the gate, placing her hands on the posts and gazing in. Incense was burning at the foot of a small altar, and the candle smoke was aglow with the bright colors of fresh flowers set in crystal vases. She inhaled, letting the odors fill her nostrils and throat. It was the scent of death, she knew, the pungent, sorry smell that grew like mold out of people’s sorrow and out of the restlessness of the souls. She stood still, letting the odors envelope her, the sadness swell. She turned to the left wall where, she knew, were the tombs of her grandparents, Filiberto and Giulia, whom she had never seen alive. She smiled as she recalled the childhood days when her mother would take her to the mausoleum to pray for the dead, change the water in the vases, and light new candles. She had always wanted to be the one to cut the flowers’ stems and dip them in water. One day she had cut her thumb with a pair of large gardening scissors, and her mother had sung her a favorite nursery song to make her forget the pain. Nostalgically, she shifted her gaze and noticed that the bottom tomb on the right wall was taken. She squinted her eyes: the inscription screamed at her and hit her with a punch.


Caterina Berilli



5 Maggio 1890 – 2 Aprile 1908





Her head spun, the candles danced, and the flowers jumped out of the vases like fireworks shot into the sky. She ran away, stopping, short of breath, at the edge of a lawn. Her knees felt watery as she sat on the grass. Eyes glazed, she stared at the shapes of the clouds in the sky, the thickness of the grass blades, the patterns of the pebbles in the path. At every breath the air hurt her inside, as if she had been inhaling fire. She took her time returning to the gate. When she did, she looked again at her grandparents’ tombs, then at her own tomb, then at the candles, the flowers, the vases, and amidst those redolent vapors of death, she understood completely and unequivocally that while she was at the convent her family had buried her alive. She turned to Ivano, who in all that time had kept a distance, standing where the grass spilled over the path.

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you,” she said. “Let’s go. I can’t be here any longer.”

They walked out of the cemetery hand in hand, maintaining a speedy gait, stopping only when the cemetery’s buildings were out of sight.

Later that afternoon, Matilda arrived at the palazzina and rushed at once to the desk in the foyer where every morning Guglielmo placed the incoming mail. To her horror, she saw that nothing was there.

“Gugliemo!” she called.

The butler arrived momentarily. “Welcome back, Madame,” he said, slightly surprised. “We weren’t expecting you for another few days.”

Matilda didn’t waste time. “Where’s the mail?”

“The new nurse brought it to Mister Berilli,” Guglielmo explained. “He’s feeling better, I believe.”

Matilda faltered. “Was there … a telegram?”

“Yes, Madame,” Guglielmo nodded. “There was.”

“Thank you,” Matilda said as her bones turned to jelly. “I’ll see my husband now.”

Upstairs, she tiptoed into Giuseppe’s room. She heard the regular rhythm of his breathing and realized he was asleep. On an armchair at the foot of the bed, an older woman, the nurse, was also dozing off. Matilda approached the bed stealthily, careful not to wake anyone, and gazed about. On the bed stand, next to the water carafe, were two open envelopes and their contents. They were bills. Nowhere did she see anything that resembled a telegram in any way. She felt as if her life had been unhinged. Where was the telegram? How many people had seen it? Could a scandal be avoided? And where in the world was Caterina?

The reason Matilda hadn’t found the nuns’ telegram in Giuseppe’s room was that the telegram was in Damiano’s pocket, not at the palazzina. Giuseppe had read the telegram earlier that morning and, at the moment he had grasped entirely its meaning, he had sent Guglielmo to fetch Doctor Sciaccaluga. Damiano had arrived in hurry, worried sick over Giuseppe’s condition.

“My health is not the problem,” Giuseppe told him once they were alone in his bedroom. He was agitated, but speaking slowly and with fatigue.

“What is the problem?” Damiano asked, placing a stethoscope on Giuseppe’s heart. He noticed that the lawyer’s face was redder than usual and his eyes spotted with blood.

When Giuseppe handed Damiano the telegram, his hands were shaking. He said, “Read.”

As Damiano read, his ferret eyes dilated. “Good God,” he exclaimed. “What do we do now?”

Giuseppe grabbed him by the sleeve of his coat. “You must find her,” he wheezed, “and take her back to the convent.”

“Me?” Damiano said in disbelief.

“Yes, you,” Giuseppe insisted. “Unless you have a better idea.”

“Where could she be?” Damiano wondered.

“I bet she’s with that baker,” Giuseppe said, coughing. “Give me pen and paper. I’ll write the address. Go there. Don’t let Caterina get away.” He stopped to catch his breath. “And take this telegram with you before anyone sees it.”

“I’ll do anything I can,” Damiano said, pocketing the address and the yellow telegram paper. “I must find her,” he added, talking to himself, “or my dream will be cut short. I’ll be disgraced.”

The trip back from the cemetery gave Ivano and Caterina time to put their thoughts in order.

“There’s one thing I’d like to do right away,” Ivano said, as they rode an electric tram headed downtown, “if it’s all right with you.”

“What?” Caterina asked.

“I’d like to tell my father you are here,” Ivano said. “All this time he thought I was mad because I kept looking for you. Besides, he can help us, and help is one thing we’re unquestionably going to need.”

Caterina nodded.

Eight tram stops later, they were on Piazza della Nunziata, entering the oven room from the alley. “I’ll be right back,” Ivano said, rushing through the door that led to the storefront.

Alone, Caterina took a seat at the table—the same table she had sat at on the day her father had barged in and taken her away. She felt like an eternity had passed rather than little over two years.

Shortly Ivano returned, followed closely by his father. At the sight of the woman seated at the table, Corrado swayed.

“You … you …” he babbled, pointing a finger at Caterina.

“Didn’t I tell you that she was alive?” Ivano said. “Now do you believe me?”

Corrado kept staring at Caterina and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, son,” he said when he regained his composure, “for doubting you and thinking you had lost your mind.” Then he grimaced as he realized what the Berillis had done. “They faked her death!” he shouted. “And staged her funeral! I cannot believe it!”

“We’re going to correct this,” Ivano said, “but first we need to find the proper way.” Thinking of his recent encounter with Antonio Sobrero at Caffe’ del Gambero, he hinted, “We could go to the police.”

Caterina spoke for the first time since entering the oven room. “I should discuss this matter with my family first. But I don’t know if I have the strength to go home and face my father. And my mother…. I am not sure I’ll be able to look her in the eyes.”

“What about the rest of your family?” Corrado inquired. “Don’t you have two brothers?”

Caterina shook her head. “Umberto is so close to my mother I’m wondering if all this time he has been aware I’m alive. And Raimondo,” her voice broke, “is someone I do not talk to.”

“Why?” Ivano asked.

Caterina shook her head. “Years ago he did things he shouldn’t have.” She paused. “I can’t talk about this. I don’t want to talk about this. Please.”

“I told you that rich families are a disaster,” Corrado mumbled, looking specifically at Ivano, “and that you should have stayed away.”

Ivano shook his head. “This isn’t helping us, father.”

“There is someone,” Caterina said in an energized voice.

“Who?” Ivano and Corrado asked in unison.

“My aunt Eugenia, my father’s sister. She was always good to me, and she’s the only one in the family who can stand up to my father. I’m sure she’d be outraged by what my father did and she’d help us in any way she can.”

“Let’s go find her,” Ivano said. “Let’s go find her right away.”

A half hour later, the three were on Via San Lorenzo, entering Eugenia’s building. At that time, Eugenia was having her afternoon nap on the velvet settee. Sound asleep, it took her a while to realize that the sounds she was hearing were knocks on her door and not something she was dreaming. She got up slowly, giving her body time to adjust and cursing the fact that she had no maid. She was still in a daze when she opened the door, but her daze vanished the moment she saw two strangers standing on her landing. One of them held an instrument in hand, like a beggar. She shouted, “Ottavio! I’m being robbed! Help! Ottavio! Help!”

In vain Ivano tried to calm her. Before he could explain himself, the doorman and Grazia Mordiglia were running up the stairs.

“Hold it right there!” Ottavio boomed, grabbing Corrado from behind.

“Eugenia, are you all right?” Grazia asked, keeping at a safe distance a few steps down.

Caterina, who up till then had stood quietly behind Ivano and Corrado, stepped forward. “Stop, everyone. There’s no reason to be afraid. It’s me, Caterina.”

Everyone froze as Eugenia’s breathing accelerated. She moaned as she stared at the young woman, unable to understand. She stretched her arm and touched Caterina’s shoulder. Then her knees bent and her thin body began to fold down. With a quick move, Corrado grabbed her at the waist, preventing her from falling off the landing.

The hour that followed was one Eugenia would never forget. She regained consciousness in her bed, assisted by Grazia and Caterina. “Am I having nightmares?” she whispered as she opened her eyes.

“Hello, Aunt Eugenia,” Caterina said. “No, you didn’t have a nightmare. I’m real. I’m not dead.”

Despite hearing Caterina’s voice and seeing the blonde woman standing by, Eugenia was having a hard time grasping the implications. It took her a good five minutes to comprehend that the girl in her bedroom was her beloved niece, who was very much alive. All along, Grazia kept looking at Caterina with wondrous eyes, unable to say anything suitable for the occasion. Meanwhile, in the living room, Ottavio kept a vigil and mistrustful eye on Ivano, wondering if he was some sort of black sorcerer who resuscitated the dead with his incantations. Corrado had gone home, wearied by the turmoil.

“Giuseppe sent you to a convent?” Eugenia asked, incredulous, once she regained her strength. She was out of bed by then, standing next to Caterina.

Caterina nodded.

“And he invented your funeral?”

Caterina nodded again.

“You poor child,” Eugenia exclaimed. She burst into tears as she hugged Caterina. Then her shock turned to rage. “That miserable rat!” she screamed. “And that mother of yours? I always knew it that she is good for nothing, that Torinese.” She paused a moment to think. “And who’s the fellow you came with?”

Caterina summarized for her aunt the story of her love for Ivano and how Giuseppe had found out about them and, as a punishment, sent her away. At once, Eugenia rushed to the living room, followed by Grazia and Caterina.

“Who are you, young man?” she asked in her inquisitive, snobbish voice.

“My name is Ivano Bo,” Ivano said, politely, “and I intend to marry Caterina.”

Eugenia turned to Caterina. “What does he do?” she asked. “Is he from a family we know?”

“I’m a baker,” Ivano said proudly. “My father is a baker. My grandfather was a baker, too.”

Eugenia continued to talk to Caterina as if Ivano weren’t there. “A baker? Have you lost your mind?”

“We came here to ask for your help, Aunt Eugenia,” Caterina said. “I need to let my parents know I’m in town, but I don’t know if I can face them. I don’t know what will happen once everyone knows I’m alive. Can you help me, please?”

“I will most certainly do that,” Eugenia stated. “As for you marrying this … baker, I find it to be highly inappropriate.” She gazed towards the vestibule. “What is that funny violin I saw in the other room?”

“It’s a mandolin,” Ivano said, showing irritation. “I play it.”

“A mandolin?” Eugenia exclaimed with disdain. “That’s such a low-class instrument. I hear barbers play it to their clients while they wait. On the other hand,” she continued, staring at Caterina, “what would you expect from a baker? That he should play Mozart?”

“I do play Mozart on my mandolin,” Ivano stated, grinding his teeth and standing up. He took Caterina’s hand. “This was a mistake,” he said. “We don’t need her. I can take care of letting the whole town know you are here.”

“Hold it there, young fellow,” Eugenia shouted. “You’re not going anywhere in the company of my niece.” She paused. “Sit down,” she said. She brought a thin hand to her forehead. “Let me think.”

There was silence in the room as Caterina kept looking at Eugenia with imploring eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Eugenia said at a certain point. “You have no idea how much I cried for you. Your father—

“Then help me,” said Caterina.

“I need a drink,” Eugenia said. “Ottavio!”

The doorman, who hadn’t left the apartment or missed a single word of the conversation, poured shots of Sambuca for everyone, doubling his own dose.

“Caterina and I will go to the pakzzima,” Eugenia said after gulping down the liquor. “As for you,” she turned to Ivano, “go back to your bakery or your home or wherever. I’ll deal with you later.”

“I’m not leaving Caterina,” Ivano declared, standing up and clutching Caterina’s hand. “And I don’t take orders from you.”

Eugenia looked at him with icy eyes. She realized it wouldn’t be easy to get rid of the disturbing lad.

“Don’t you understand, Aunt Eugenia?” Caterina said. “He’s the one who found me! He helped me escape from the convent. Without him, I’d still be there!”

Eugenia looked at her niece with tenderness. She gazed at Ivano and said the first reasonable thing that crossed her mind. “This is a delicate family matter. It’d be best for everyone, including you, young man, if only the family members were involved at this time.”

“She’s right,” Caterina said, moving towards the vestibule. She whispered, “Don’t be put off by her ways. She’s upset. But she loves me. With her by my side, I feel strong enough to face my father.”

“All along she’s been talking about me as if I were made of thin air,” Ivano pointed out angrily. “Then she orders me around. My father was right when he kept telling me to stay away from rich people.”

“I heard that,” Eugenia shouted from the living room. “And I agree that your father was right!”

“She means well,” Caterina insisted.

Ivano embraced Caterina. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you,” he said.

“It’s temporary. Only for a few hours,” Caterina reassured him. “Whatever happens, I’ll sleep here tonight, not at the palazzina. So you’ll know where to find me.”

Ivano felt moderately reassured. “Fine,” he grunted. “I’ll come back here later tonight. Be here, please.”

Caterina nodded, and Ivano, reluctantly, walked out the door.

“First things first,” Eugenia said, once Caterina was back in the living room. “You need a bath, a rest, and some decent food. Then we’ll go to Corso Solferino.” She turned to Ottavio. “If you are thinking of running to the closest bar and telling your drunken friends what you just saw, think again. You talk, I’ll get you fired.”

Ottavio nodded.

Then Eugenia turned to Grazia, who all that time had sat silently in an armchair. “And you, don’t you go out gossiping about this story until I set it straight.”

Grazia nodded as well, and Eugenia escorted her and Ottavio to the door.

Wandering along the crowded sidewalk, Ivano wasn’t convinced that leaving Caterina alone with her aunt was wise. The aunt was Giuseppe’s sister, he reasoned, and he didn’t trust her to take Caterina’s side when facing the lawyer and his contorted, sick plan. After a few moments of reflection, he decided to go looking for Antonio Sobrero and tell him where Caterina was. He trusted that Mister Sobrero would do better than the elderly aunt at protecting Caterina. For sure Giuseppe wouldn’t be able to intimidate him. So pondering, he ran to the top of via San Lorenzo, where the police headquarters was located. It took him several minutes to be admitted to Antonio’s office. He succeeded only when Antonio heard from one of his lieutenants that there was a Mister Bo wanting to see him urgently regarding Caterina Berilli. Antonio’s investigation into the threatening letters and the cat on the door had come to a dead halt in the past days, plus he had lost track of Ivano altogether. He had no idea how to proceed. He had even considered visiting Giuseppe and telling him he was going to give up for lack of leads. So when he heard that a Mister Ivano Bo was looking for him, he was relieved. Perhaps he would learn something that would bring the investigation back to life.

When a clerk gave him permission to meet with Antonio, Ivano rushed into his office shouting, “Come with me now! Caterina is in her aunt’s apartment a few blocks from here!”

“What?” Antonio exclaimed, giving Ivano an angry look. “I asked you this once before. Have you lost your mind?”

“Come with me,” Ivano repeated. “It’ll take us only five minutes to get there. Then you can judge for yourself whose mind is lost and whose isn’t.”

The expression of anxiety on Ivano’s face and the positive energy with which he was talking convinced Antonio it may be worth taking the short trip to Eugenia Berilli’s home. He had to admit he was intrigued. “If you made this up, I will arrest you and keep you in jail for at least three months,” he growled.

Ivano smiled. “I bet you will arrest someone tonight. Not me, Mister Sobrero, I can assure you.”

The two men arrived at Eugenia’s apartment shortly, and when Eugenia responded to their knocks she gave them a stare. “What are you two doing here?” she asked. “Mister Mandolin, didn’t I ask you to go home?”

Ignoring her, Ivano stepped in. “In the living room” he told Antonio. “Now do you believe me?”

Swiftly, Antonio crossed the vestibule and froze on the living-room threshold. Seated on the sofa was Caterina. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating. Then he realized that Caterina was real. Caterina, who didn’t know who the man was, huddled defensively on the couch.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Eugenia said. “He’s the Chief of Police.” She sighed. “It’s not such a bad thing that he’s here. He’s already involved in our family affairs.” She turned to Ivano. “Now will you go home?”

“Yes,” Ivano said. He kissed Caterina on the cheek. “See you tonight, dear.”

In the minutes that followed, Antonio asked Eugenia and Caterina questions until he was certain he had understood completely the situation. All along, he did his best to maintain his professional demeanor. Once he grasped the entire story and its meaning, Antonio said, “You two ladies should be thankful to Mister Bo for leading me here. Faking someone’s death is a serious matter. You couldn’t have dealt with this situation alone.” He looked at Caterina. “Do you feel well enough to go to Corso Solferino?”

Caterina nodded.

He stood up. “Let’s go then. The sooner we’ll get this over the better.”

Meanwhile, ignoring Eugenia’s order not to speak, Grazia had rushed to Klainguti’s and bolted into the main room screaming like a banshee: “Caterina Berilli is alive! Caterina Berilli is alive!”

As for Ottavio, he went straight to Taverna del Marinaio. “I’m not drunk,” he told the barman, “and I’m telling you I just saw Caterina Berilli in the flesh, talking like you and I.”

Immediately, the news followed the double grapevine, and before an hour went by everyone in the caruggi knew that something was very wrong in the Berilli household.

While the gossip was being disseminated, Antonio was driving uphill, with Eugenia in the passenger’s seat and Caterina in the back. He squeezed his hands around the wheel. He couldn’t believe Giuseppe had told him over and over such an enormous number of lies and that he had fallen for those lies like a novice. Not only that, but he had spent a pointless night investigating. The lawyer had sent him on a wild-goose chase, and he’d never forgive that hypocrite for the waste of his energy and the lost sleep. As he braked and parked the car in front of the palazzina, he slammed his fist on the dashboard feeling no pain. He swore that if Giuseppe ever recovered he’d arrest him and have him spend the rest of his life in jail. Should he die, instead, he’d look for the bald head of the lawyer in every corner of Hell after his own death and use it for an infernal soccer game. He took a deep breath then prepared himself to face the loathsome family and their lies.

While Caterina, following his suggestion, remained temporarily in the car, he and Eugenia approached the front door and knocked. Gugliemo met them and escorted them upstairs, to Giuseppe’s room, where a family reunion was in progress. Doctor Sciaccaluga had called Matilda, Umberto, and Raimondo to Giuseppe’s bedside. As Giuseppe had asked him, the doctor had left the palazzina earlier with the nuns’ telegram in his pocket and rushed to the bakery with the intent of finding Caterina and preventing her from showing her face all over town. He had missed her and Ivano by a hair, for by the time he had arrived, Ivano and Caterina had left Piazza della Nunziata minutes earlier, headed to Eugenia’s home. After a couple of hours spent stalking the bakery inside and out to no avail, Damiano had returned to the palazzina and told Giuseppe he had no idea where Caterina was. At that, Giuseppe had coughed and brought a hand to his heart, moaning. Damiano saw immediately the signs of a worsening health in his ally. “We must take him to the hospital,” he was saying to Matilda and the brothers the moment Antonio walked in with Eugenia by his side.

“Good afternoon,” Antonio said. “I’m glad to find you all here.” He turned to Giuseppe. “Would you care to tell us, Mister Berilli, what exactly you did to your daughter?”

Matilda’s face blanched as she lowered her head. Giuseppe wheezed and his lips turned blue. With clumsy motions, Damiano lifted his chest to help him breathe.

Umberto said, “What are you talking about?”

Antonio felt no compassion for any of the people in the room. “Ask your father,” he said. “Or, given that he may not be able to speak, you should perhaps ask your mother. I’m sure she’ll be glad to explain how it happens that Caterina is alive and well, and, at this moment, seated in my car.”

Umberto and Raimondo, with their bewildered faces, were so clearly at a loss that Antonio knew immediately that the two brothers were unaware of the plot.

“Mother?” Umberto murmured. “What is he talking about?”

Matilda spoke gravely. “Antonio is right,” she said, keeping her head down. “Your father and I did something unspeakable to Caterina.”

Giuseppe gasped, “Shut up.”

Matilda ignored Giuseppe’s order. She said, “Antonio, can I see Caterina?”

Giuseppe grabbed Damiano’s arm. “Make her shut up,” he squawked.

Damiano kept looking back and forth at Giuseppe and Antonio, his head swirling, incapable of making decisions.

Eugenia, who had kept silent up until that moment, took a step forward. “You weasel,” she sneered at Giuseppe with all the contempt she was capable of. “And you,” she shouted, pointing a finger at Matilda, “how dare you lock my only niece in a convent?”

Umberto babbled, “Convent? What convent?”

“The convent of the Sorelle Addolorate, I understand,” Antonio said calmly. He gave Giuseppe a look that was more piercing than a needle. “Would you care to explain to your sons what you did, Mister Berilli?”

Giuseppe opened and closed his mouth without speaking.

Meanwhile, following Antonio’s instructions, Caterina was knocking on the house door.

“May I help you?” Guglielmo asked. He froze and stared at the young woman standing outside.

Caterina smiled. “Good evening, Guglielmo,” she said, stepping into the foyer.

He obstructed her way with his body. “This is not a good time for tasteless jokes, Miss.”

“Don’t you recognize me? I am Caterina!”

“It can’t be,” Guglielmo stuttered, gazing up and down the woman’s face. The resemblance was stunning, but the woman’s eyes were not Miss Caterina’s sparkling, childish ones, and her hair was opaque, not shiny.

“Am I that different, Guglielmo?” Caterina said, realizing that the butler was in shock and couldn’t think straight. “I’m tired, but it’s me. Let me in.”

Guglielmo shook his head as his face, for the first time in his long career as a butler, showed one emotion: fear.

“Do you want proof?” Caterina said. “I was born in this house. I know every corner of it by heart. Ask, if you don’t believe me. Ask me about the passage from the kitchen to the laundry room. Or about the double mirror in my mother’s bedroom. Or about the color of the canopy over my bed. It’s violet. Anything else you’d like to know?”

Guglielmo’s hands shook as he stepped aside.

“Thank you,” Caterina said. “Please show me to my father.”

Hesitantly, Guglielmo preceded Caterina up the stairs. On the threshold of Giuseppe’s bedroom, he cleared his throat.

“I’m awfully sorry to disturb you,” he said in his deferential voice, “but there’s a lady here who seems to be,” he paused, “Miss Caterina.”

He stepped aside and Caterina entered the bedroom, stopping half way between the bed and the door.

There was a long moment of silence then Umberto screamed and stared at his sister with eyes full of fright. After several futile attempts at talking, Raimondo fell into a catatonic state from which he awoke only days later. He had been clutched by guilt ever since learning of Caterina’s illness, wondering if he could have in any way caused it, and his guilt had grown unbearable when he had been told that Caterina had died. His drinking and partying habits had been his way not to think of what he had done to his baby sister and of fighting off the nightmares of her that hunted him whenever he closed his eyes.

At the sight of her daughter, Matilda joined her hands in prayer.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered, “for keeping my daughter safe and for returning her to her home.”

Giuseppe’s face turned red and blue, and his breathing became so difficult Damiano thought his precious friend had come to the end of his life. In his befuddled mind, he thought that perhaps Giuseppe’s death was the best course of events for him at that point. The secret of their friendship would die with him and he would be safe. He stepped away from the bed, hoping the lawyer’s weak heart would stop beating.

“Would you care to tell me, Mister Berilli” Antonio asked, “how you managed to get a death certificate for your daughter?”

Giuseppe coughed repeatedly then pointed a finger at Damiano. “He did it,” he said with a thread of voice.

Antonio turned to Doctor Sciaccaluga. “You? Well well,” he said. “This is a day full of surprises.”

Damiano stuttered, “No, no … I don’t know what he’s talking about …” He swallowed repeatedly as he felt his shirt collar tightening around his neck like a hanging rope.

“Yes,” Giuseppe wheezed. “It was all his idea.”

Suddenly, Damiano felt lost. “Liar,” he hissed, yanking the nuns’ telegram out of his pocket and waving it under the lawyer’s nose. “This telegram is addressed to you, not to me! How do you explain it?” He handed the telegram to Antonio. “There,” he said. “Now we can all know for sure who concocted this plan.”

Giuseppe lifted a limp hand. “He wrote the death certificate,” he stated.

“I’m sure the handwriting will tell us who is responsible for filing Miss Caterina’s death certificate,” Antonio said confidently.

At that Damiano lost the little that was left of his composure. Squeezing his ferret eyes, he grabbed Giuseppe by the collar of his pajamas. “You think you’re smart?” he screamed. “I’ll show you smart, you traitor!” He let go of Giuseppe and took a second sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Do you know what this is?” he shouted, parading the document under everyone’s eyes. “It’s your birth record, Giuseppe, written by my father! Everyone look! Read this paper! He was born to a prostitute! And a drunken sailor!”


The moments that followed were even more confused than when Caterina had arrived. Antonio snatched the sheet out of the doctor’s hands and read it aloud.



Date: January 28, 1841



Biological parents: Mercalia Parenti, prostitute; Cristiano Zolezzi, sailor.



Child: Sex, male. Weight at birth: three and a half kilos. Length at birth: forty centimeters



Sold to: Filiberto and Giulia Berilli



Amount charged: 500 liras



Amount given to Mercalia: 450 liras



Note: I helped Giulia Berilli through a difficult pregnancy, which ended in a stillbirth. Mercalia’s boy was born on the day of Giulia’s stillbirth, and when Mercalia decided she didn’t want the child, I offered him to the Berillis. They accepted him with joy and named him Giuseppe.



Doctor Federico Sciaccaluga, aka the Doctor of Dreams





When Antonio had read the last word, everyone’s eyes were fixed on Giuseppe. In his fading consciousness, he had heard everything Antonio had said. His face was painted with an expression of incredulity beyond repair. Matilda was frozen by the bed, as were Caterina, Eugenia, and Umberto. Raimondo, in his catatonic state showed no reaction at all. Suddenly, Giuseppe opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but emitted instead a long wheezing sound. His leg muscles twitched, his back arched. Then his body fell flat on the sheets, and his neck bent softly to one side.

“Do something!” Eugenia shouted, pushing Damiano towards the bed.

Damiano, however, couldn’t hear her. He had begun to hum a song and was looking about the room with an expression of stupidity in his eyes. Matilda was the one to take charge.

“We need to transport him to the hospital,” she said. Then she turned to Eugenia. “And don’t you dare argue!”

She left the room without rushing, looking for Guglielmo. When she found him, she gave him the order to prepare the automobile for Mister Berilli, as his health had unexpectedly worsened. Shortly, Guglielmo transported Giuseppe to the Pammatone Hospital where they were met by a swarm of solicitous nurses and doctors. Giuseppe was assigned an austere private room furnished with a bed, a small table, and a rusty lavatory. No member of his family had followed him there. Later, the Head of Medicine, a friend of the Berillis, examined Giuseppe’s limp body and at the end of the visit sent a messenger to the palazzina asking that Matilda come to the hospital right away.

“It seems that Giuseppe suffered extensive brain damage,” he told a disoriented Matilda. “Most of his body functions are impaired. He can’t move. He can’t talk. He can emit sounds, but nothing that resembles words. He can swallow liquids, and that can keep him alive for some time. It’s impossible to predict how his illness will evolve. The likely course of it, I’m sorry to say, is that he will die. It could happen in a few hours or in a few days. It may even take months if the doctors can continue to feed him. Even if he should regain consciousness, he may never be able to function like a normal person again.” He sighed. “He’s not dead at this moment, but you should consider him as such. It’s best for everyone.” He took Matilda’s hand. “I’m awfully sorry, Matilda. I wish there was something I could do.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Matilda said coldly. “I’ll make the rest of my family aware.”

The stupefied doctor watched her leave the ward, wondering what in the world Giuseppe had done to her to make her act in such a detached way.

Matilda took her time returning home, where in the meantime Antonio had lined up the family and all the servants in the social living room and was subjecting everyone to a thorough interrogation. Weary from the events of the past two days, Caterina had retired to her old bedroom, where she had immediately fallen asleep. The moment Matilda stepped into the living room, Umberto looked at her with eyes of fire.

“You knew! You knew all along! How could you? How could you have lied to us for over two years? You put us through a mock funeral! A mock funeral, do you understand?”

Matilda said nothing.

“What was in that coffin, mother?” Umberto screamed. “I lifted it to set it in the mausoleum, and so did Raimondo. What was in it? Tell me!”

Matilda lowered her eyes to the floor. “Stones.”

Umberto stepped back. “Stones? We buried a coffin full of stones?”

Eugenia lifted her chin and turned her face to the back wall.