The House of Serenades

17



IF CATERINA HAD SHOWN ENOUGH strength and willpower to survive her reclusion and the discovery of her father’s true identity, her mother’s death sent her into an agony too strong for her to fight. She had become close to Matilda after her return. They had conversed often while strolling in the garden during the daytime or seated in the blue parlor in the evening while Matilda embroidered her handkerchiefs. In the solitude they had experienced after acquaintances and relatives had unanimously pronounced Matilda an accomplice in Giuseppe’s scheme and hence as guilty as he was of her daughter’s death charade, united by their roles of victims of the same tyrant, Caterina and Matilda had shared the parts of each other they didn’t know. Caterina had spoken at such length about her time in the convent and with such precision of detail that Matilda had felt as if she had lived there herself for two years. And Matilda had described so accurately for her daughter the life of the family and that of the city–the people, the theaters, the balls, the parties, and the political changes–that Caterina had had the impression that she had never left Genoa at all. It was as if the months mother and daughter had been apart had shrunk more with every day that went by, until they became intangible and one day ceased to exist.

Now, with her mother dead, her father dead, her brothers vanished, and her aunt in voluntary reclusion, Caterina felt like a tree uprooted by a hurricane, surviving only because of an accident of nature. She lived her life mechanically and in the present moment, without giving a shred of thought to the past, close or far, or to the future. She ate, washed, slept, and nothing more. Guglielmo and Viola took care of her, and she let them dress her, feed her, and move her from room to room with the passivity of a stone.

One evening, alone in her bedroom, Caterina resumed her imaginary drawings on the wall. She straightened her index finger, touching the white surface with the tip of it, and then moved her hand about, slowly, accurately, never covering the same area twice. Whereas at the convent she had found comfort in drawing a variety of subjects that reminded her of her hometown, the only subject she drew now was her mother’s face. She drew it tirelessly, every night, at times small, the size of letter paper, at times as large as the wall allowed. She always began by drawing the eyes, taking time to include the details of the pupils, the eyelashes, and the brows. Then she moved on to Matilda’s small ears, French nose, and silvery hair. She could never bring herself to draw the mouth, for all she could remember about it was the white of the foam.

Ivano came daily to the palazzina and spent hours playing the mandolin and talking to Caterina about various topics—the sun that was shining outside, the ships that had docked in the harbor, and the new stores that had opened in town. He held Caterina’s hand while he talked and caressed it with so deep an affection that Viola, who was always present during those visits, would occasionally burst into stifled sobs that increased in frequency with the buildup of her emotion. From behind the barrier she had built around herself since the day of her mother’s death, Caterina felt the touch of Ivano’s hand, saw the movements of his lips, heard the sound of his words and that of the mandolin, but didn’t grasp their meaning. Shattered by her silence, Ivano prayed silently to the God he had hardly ever prayed to that He see Caterina through her pain.

A second visitor came to the palazzina daily: Father Camillo. Whereas Ivano tried to reach Caterina with his caresses, his music, and the colorful descriptions of the external world, Father Camillo talked to her about faith and hope and God and the Virgin Mary. He recited prayers in her presence, hoping that those sounds, which were so familiar to Caterina, would help her overcome her inner pain. It is unclear whether it was thanks to Ivano, his music, and his tales of the world or to Father Camillo’s prayers that she lowered, one day, her barrier. Perhaps she had needed both voices, or perhaps her condition had come naturally to the end of its course. Whatever the reason, a little over a month after her mother’s burial, Caterina snapped out of her apathy, much as she had returned to life from her near-death condition at the House of Hope: the ghosts of her past dimmed, her mother’s face became a blurred vision. Struggling, she resumed life. She devoted herself to charity, spending a considerable amount of the family money helping the poor and buying land and buildings she subsequently donated to the city for use as hospitals, schools, and shelters. She saw Ivano on a daily basis and began to feel for him an affection that, though different from the passion she had felt for him in the past, gave her reassurance. She clung to him as a shipwrecked sailor clings to wreckage that can keep her afloat. He was her anchor, her safety net. He was her only link to her roots, the only steady presence through her present and past life. He knew a great deal about her, what she had been before going to the convent, what she had become after her return, and what she had gone through during and after the scandal that had shattered her family and her heart.

For his part, Ivano was a happy man, for he could see his dream of a lifetime coming within reach. He told his father to get ready for the wedding, as nothing stood in the way of it now that Caterina felt better and her family was no longer around to interfere. He even stopped by Francesca Barone’s establishment to let her know he’d no longer be a customer at Caffe’ del Gambero, as he was about to marry his true love and intended to spend every minute with her—for the rest of his life.

Francesca Barone opened a bottle of Pommery to celebrate. “Finally some good news in this town,” she said, lifting her glass to the ceiling. “I wish you all the joy in the world, Ivano. I know that Caterina will make you a very happy man.”

The following day, Ivano went to the palazzina carrying in hand a magnificent bouquet of red roses. When Caterina came to the foyer to meet him, he handed her the roses and said, “Caterina, my love, do you wish to be my bride?”

Caterina smiled her beautiful smile and said, “Yes, Ivano, I wish to be your bride.”

They hugged, they kissed, and then Ivano rushed home to give the wonderful news to his father. Corrado was so thrilled by the announcement that he shed his first tears in twenty-eight years. He had shed his previous ones on the day his wife had died giving birth to their child.

As for Caterina, she went looking for Father Camillo at the cathedral. In a thrilling voice, she asked him to officiate at the wedding ceremony. She looked like the happy girl she had been before the convent reclusion: her green eyes sparkled, her hair was lustrous and shiny, and the girlish expression that captivated everybody was back on her face.

“I shall be honored to celebrate your happiness beneath the eyes of God,” Father Camillo said. Enthusiastically, he gave Caterina his blessing.

That night, incapable of falling asleep, Caterina took her usual walk to the belvedere and sat on the bench to enjoy the fresh air and the perfumes of the land and the sea. She thought about Ivano and the perseverance with which he had stayed at her side and felt lucky to have him and be marrying him soon. She imagined the ceremony, the dress, the flowers, and her and Ivano’s happiness on that day, after so much tribulation. She was saddened by the thought that no member of her family would be attending the wedding. There would be no one to help her get ready, no one to take her to the altar, no one to kiss her good-bye. Not even Lavinia would be with her, as all attempts to track her down had failed. She had asked Viola, Guglielmo, the cook, the gardener, and even Antonio Sobrero, but no one knew anything of her beloved chaperone’s whereabouts. She had visions of the empty church and felt scared. She cursed herself again for having left the convent with Ivano rather than with her mother. And she wondered once more about the person who had contributed to the death of her father. Had that person not sent the anonymous letters and hung the cat on the door of the palazzina, she reasoned, her life would be very different today. Antonio Sobrero wouldn’t have become involved in her family affairs. Her father wouldn’t have fallen sick in the first place and would probably be still alive. Doctor Sciaccaluga wouldn’t have perhaps revealed what he knew about her father’s birth parents. Father Camillo wouldn’t have opened Palmira’s envelope, and the child trade would have been discovered only much later. Francesca Barone would have kept quiet. Her mother wouldn’t have killed herself, her brothers wouldn’t have fled town, and her family, or part of it at least, would have perhaps found a way to stay together. A wave of hate rose inside her, almost by surprise. Who was this person? she asked herself again. Why had he wanted to scare her father? Where was he now? Still in Genoa? Or many kilometers away?

“Come here!” she shouted, feeling an urge to come face to face with the villain, an eagerness to look him in the eyes and tell him what a coward he was to have acted the way he had. She stood from the bench and paced the belvedere back and forth, her golden hair shimmering under the light of the stars.

It was a brilliant, clear morning when Caterina entered the police headquarters, asking a young recruit to see Antonio Sobrero.

Shortly, Antonio welcomed her to his office. “What brings you here, Miss Berilli?” he asked, surprised.

Shyly, Caterina described to him her curiosity about the identity of the anonymous writer, her feelings of hate, her distress. “I can’t get him out of my mind, Mister Sobrero. He’s haunting me day and night. I must find out who he is. Please, help me find him. Reopen the case. Resume the investigation.”

“I understand your affliction, Miss Berilli,” Antonio said, “and if I could see a way to put an end to it, I would act without delay. There’s nothing, however, I can do at this time. You must know that I and several of my men investigated the matter thoroughly at the time your father fell sick. Based on certain stories your father told me, I personally questioned a number of suspects, but discovered nothing. All the suspects had alibis I couldn’t prove false. And now, with your father dead, it makes no sense to continue prying.”

“What stories did my father tell you?” Caterina inquired.

“He singled out several individuals who had reason to hate him,” Antonio explained. “I interviewed them all without result.”

“Who are these individuals?” Caterina asked.

Antonio leaned back in his chair. He thought a moment. “Well,” he said, “one was a lawyer your father had fired, a certain Roberto Passalacqua, but he was with the Mayor that night. Then there was Guido Orengo, a renowned smuggler of alcohol your father had helped us catch and send to jail, but he was in prison at the time, and I was never able to find out if he had given his men the order to threaten your father. Then your father mentioned Ivano Bo.”

Caterina moved to the edge of her seat. She spoke with a faint voice. “Ivano Bo? Why?”

“Apparently, Ivano deemed your father responsible for your … death. He told me that himself, when I questioned him on the night of the dead cat. He thought you had let yourself die because your father had taken you from him. He shouted threats at your father at the time your death was announced. Your father had him arrested. That’s why I included him in the list of suspects. But Corrado Bo, his father, told me that Ivano was at the bakery at the time the dead cat was placed on the door, and that got him off the hook.”

Caterina stared at Antonio with stunned eyes. She said, “I can’t believe what you’re telling me, Mister Sobrero. Ivano never said one word to me about all this …”

“I’m sorry if I upset you, Miss Berilli.”

“Mister Sobrero,” Caterina asked with a broken voice, “what else do you know about Ivano that I don’t? I’m engaged to him, and we’ll marry soon. This is the time for me to find out all there’s to know about him.”

Antonio, who had been unaware of the engagement up until that moment, concealed his disapproval. He had no idea the two had kept seeing each other socially after Caterina’s return. There was a lot, he thought, that Caterina didn’t know about her man, such as his outings to Caffe’ del Gambero and his nights at Taverna del Marinaio. He had never liked Ivano, even though, he had to admit, the young man had been correct in suspecting foul play at the palazzina. The news that Caterina was about to marry him, he realized, disturbed him. He was struck by the thought that he had come to like Caterina himself and that he was, perhaps, jealous. He tried his best to maintain his professional attitude.

“I had no idea, Miss Berilli,” he said, “that you and Mister Bo were still close. Had I known, I wouldn’t have spoken about him in that way. You shouldn’t take what I told you too seriously, Ivano threatening your father, because that’s your father’s version of the facts, and your father, as you know, told everyone a great many lies.”

“Thank you for your words, Mister Sobrero,” Caterina murmured. “They make me feel better.”

“Go home, Miss Berilli,” Antonio said, “and stop thinking about the past. Look ahead. There can still be happiness for you. Call me if you need me. Anytime.”

Antonio’s kind words couldn’t brush away Caterina doubts about Ivano. She had confided in him completely and had assumed he had done the same. The fact that Ivano had never spoken about Antonio’s interrogation or told her of his arrest was perplexing. Surely, he must have good reasons for keeping all that from her. Perhaps he had been a victim of the circumstances and hadn’t spoken in order not to hurt her more. She had no reason to question his love. He had been so solicitous to her when she had fallen sick after her mother’s death, so persistent in his quest to find her at the convent, and so faithful to her since they had met. He was a good-hearted, kind, loving man, Caterina knew, attractive and full of life, and she wanted to marry him soon. The best course of action, she decided, was to share her concerns with him openly, in order to avoid misunderstandings. Outside the police headquarters she boarded a carriage and directed the driver to take her to Piazza della Nunziata.

When Ivano saw Caterina entering the bakery, he rushed to her, excitement brimming from his every pore. His joy faded when Caterina explained to him the reason for her visit. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were on the suspects list for threatening my father and that Antonio questioned you in that regard?” she asked. “You were also arrested for shouting threats at my father, Antonio told me. Why did you do that?”

Ivano coughed and swallowed as he searched for a reply. “I never talked to you about those events because they are part of a past I want you to forget. If you really want to know, I was upset at your father when you disappeared, so in a moment of rage I screamed a few threats at him. And I was questioned because Mister Sobrero walked around for days talking to all the people who had reasons to dislike your father. That must have kept him busier than a bee, because your father, we all know, was disliked by many.”

Caterina said, “I’ve been thinking about the person who sent the anonymous letters,” she said. “It’s partly because of him that my family no longer exists. It’s his fault if I’ll have none of my people at my wedding. He has affected me so much, and yet I don’t know him. I’ve been wondering about his face, his home, his age, and the reasons he did what he did. I think about him almost every day. I try not to, but I can’t help it. I know the only way to get him off my mind is for me to find out who he is. Antonio won’t help me find him. Will you?”

Ivano waved for Caterina to wait while he helped a customer. It was a welcome break from that conversation, a lapse of time for him to put order in his thoughts. He knew how stubborn she was: she’d search until she had all the answers. Of course he was able to provide her with every answer she wanted, but how would she react to the truth?

The customer left and he returned to her. “The police investigated at length,” he said. “They found no trace of the scoundrel. What makes you think we’ll be able to do better?” He had said that in the hope that Caterina would desist, but she didn’t, and he had to promise he’d help in her quest for the truth. Then he said, “Let’s set a date for our wedding, darling. What do you think of October? I know fall is your favorite season.”

“I don’t know, Ivano,” Caterina said. “I’m so confused. What I just learned about you is unsettling me. It’s as if I saw you today for the first time, and the mysterious writer is so much on my mind. Help me find him, Ivano. Then I’ll marry you, any month of the year.”

Ivano spent the night wrestling with frightening dreams. In every one of them, he lost Caterina. In the first dream, Caterina fell into a bottomless precipice. He wanted to jump after her, but his ankles were tied to the ground with chains. In a different one, he shot her with a gun over and over. In the last dream before he awoke, Caterina was sick, pale, and breathing with difficulty. She died in his arms turning immediately into a dove.

Around two in the morning, he got out of bed dripping sweat. He opened the window, stared at the darkness outside, and pondered the advantages and disadvantages of telling Caterina the truth. When he realized he was unable to make a decision, he decided to seek advice. His first thought was to confide in Francesca Barone. Over time, during his many visits to Caffé del Gambero, he had had many conversation with her, personal ones, even some intimate discussions about his life. He had developed trust towards her for some reason, perhaps because of her no-nonsense approach to life. Plus, he reasoned, a woman might have a better understanding of Caterina’s thought process. After a moment of reflection, however, he discarded the idea: Francesca had been Giuseppe Berilli’s lover, he recalled. She might not be pleased to hear that he had been the cause, though indirect, of the lawyer’s illness and subsequent death. The only other person he trusted was his father. So he went to Corrado’s bedroom, where he was sound asleep. Gently, he shook him.

“Father, wake up. I need to talk to you.”

When Corrado was fully awake, Ivano explained to him his dilemma. He told him that Caterina wanted to know the truth about the threats that had caused her father’s death and wouldn’t marry him until she found out who the culprit was.

“I’m the culprit,” he said. “If I tell Caterina what she wants to know, I could lose her forever.” He sighed. “I’m scared. I’ll lose her if I talk, and I’ll lose her if I don’t. What am I to do?”

Corrado, who up till then had had no idea that his son was the one responsible for the threatening letters and the dead cat on the door, threw his hands in the air.

“How did it ever cross your mind, son, to do such a thing? You’re now paying the consequences of your ruthless acts.”

“I don’t need a sermon, father. I need advice. What should I do? Should I tell Caterina the truth? Or should I pretend I know nothing and hope she’ll change her mind about wanting to know the identity of the anonymous writer?”

Corrado kept silent a moment. Then he said, “Let’s assume for a moment that you tell Caterina the truth. Have you considered what her reaction might be? What if she decides to turn you in? She could call the police and have you jailed for what you did. That’s how rich people are: attached to their family prestige more than to anything else, no matter how despicably their relatives behave.”

“Not Caterina,” Ivano said with confidence. “She’s different. I don’t believe her capable of sending me to jail. She loves me, this I know. I’d never send to jail someone I love, no matter what that person did.”

“That’s you, Ivano,” Corrado refuted. “She’s a woman. One never knows what crosses women’s minds. They’re unpredictable, capricious. Believe me, it’s better if you keep quiet. She’ll get tired of searching and she’ll marry you. Take her out to nice places, restaurants, theaters. Buy her a beautiful engagement ring. You can use my savings for that. The ring will be my wedding present. Engagement rings have a great effect on women, so you know. I remember how your mother reacted when I slipped a ruby engagement ring on her finger. She coughed, her cheeks turned redder than peppers, and she couldn’t speak a word for several minutes. She tripped on the hem of her clothes, she was so excited. Besides, Caterina is alone now. She has no one to love but you. Women can’t live without love.”

Ivano said, “I don’t know if I can spend the rest of my life with this secret standing between Caterina and me. I’ll have to look her in the eyes for many years to come, knowing that I’m a liar and that when she asked me for help, I let her down.” He paused, meditated a moment. “After I helped her escape from the convent, I explained to her that her father had staged her funeral. She didn’t believe me, so I said, ‘I would never, ever lie to you, especially on a matter of this magnitude.’ How can I lie to her now? And what if she finds out the truth on her own? Then I’ll lose her for sure.”

“You heard my opinion, son,” Corrado stated. “You acted wrongly in the past, but this is no reason for you to ruin your entire life. Forget what you did and make Caterina your bride.”

“She said she doesn’t want to be my bride unless she knows the name of the anonymous writer,” Ivano moaned.

“I don’t think she’ll insist on that much longer,” Corrado consoled him. “Not for the father she had. It’d be different if her father’s figure were still intact, but with everything that surfaced about him and with what he did to her, why would she be eager to find out more?”

Ivano thanked his father for his thoughtful help and went back to sleep. In the morning, he went to work as usual, his father’s words ringing in his ears: She has no one to love but you … Buy her a beautiful engagement ring … He urged himself to listen to those words, but deep inside he had this feeling that Caterina could see through him and sooner or later would understand. She already knew he had been a suspect. How long would it take her to put the facts together? Besides, he had faith in Caterina and the depth of her love.

“She’ll get over it,” he said, “if she truly loves me.”

By noon, he had made up his mind. He left the bakery and rushed to the palazzina, where he told Guglielmo he wished to see Miss Berilli at once. Guglielmo admitted him to the blue parlor and went looking for his mistress.

Caterina arrived shortly, wearing an elegant low-necked dress of white muslin.

“Ivano!” she exclaimed. “It so good to see you.” She approached him, her arms stretched towards him.

He took her hands in his. “Caterina, I must talk to you,” he said in a decisive voice. “I didn’t tell you the whole truth yesterday, when you asked me to help you find the man who wrote the threatening letters to your father. I came here today to correct that and ask for your forgiveness and understanding.”

She looked at Ivano quizzically, retracting her hands and stepping away from him. She spoke in a feeble voice, almost a whisper. “You didn’t tell me the truth? What is the truth, Ivano? I want to know.”

In the ten minutes that followed, he told her everything he had done. He explained how no one had believed him when he kept telling that she was alive. He told her about the threatening letters he had written with his left hand so as not to be recognized, about Clotilde Pereira, her black-magic tricks, and the meaning of the dead cat on the door.

“I did what I did,” he said, “because I was angry, frustrated, and desperate. I would have never done any of this had your parents behaved in a different way.” He caught his breath. “Now you know everything. There are no secrets between us anymore.”

Caterina, who had sat through Ivano’s confession in glacial silence, looked at him with mad eyes. “You!” she screamed with her finger pointed at his chest. “It was you! Liar! Murderer! You killed my father! And my mother! And all of us! Guglielmo! Guglielmo!”

When Guglielmo arrived, Caterina ordered him to take Ivano from the parlor and out of the house and to never, ever allow him on the premises again.

“I won’t tell the police what you did,” she told Ivano in the coldest tone of voice he had ever heard, “but from now on, you should forget I exist.”

“Caterina!” Ivano cried out as Guglielmo pushed him towards the door. “I did it for you, don’t you understand? Your father drove me crazy! It wasn’t my fault. It was his!”

Caterina shouted, “You killed a cat and hung it on our door! You’re sick! You’re horrible!”

“The cat was already dead!” Ivano shouted back as Guglielmo closed the door on him. “I didn’t kill it! It was bleeding when I found it! I would never hurt an animal! I wouldn’t hurt a fly! Caterina! Caterina!”