The House of Serenades

EPILOGUE



DARKNESS HAD SETTLED when, the following night, Guglielmo walked out of the palazzina. He crossed the street, stopping at the edge of the belvedere. As usual, Ivano stood on the bench, caressing the mandolin strings. A small crowd had gathered around him, and a few children danced at the rhythm of a fast-paced serenade. Amidst those faces, Guglielmo’s eyes searched intently for the one face he wanted to see. The man had peculiar traits—curly white hair, pointed nose—so that Guglielmo was confident he’d be able to find him, if he was there, even in the dimness of the moonlight. Indeed, it took him only a few moments to locate a head of white curls to the very left of the bench, under the thick, narrow leaves of an oleander. He walked up to him. “Good evening, Mister Bo.”

Corrado started. Caught as he was in his son’s music and his own worries, he hadn’t noticed Guglielmo approaching. His stare was the mirror of his surprise.

“Miss Berilli asked me to give you this,” Guglielmo said, handing out an envelope.

Corrado took the envelope between his thumb and forefinger, holding it in midair, unsure of what he should do.

“Miss Berilli would like you to read this letter tonight,” Guglielmo said with a hint of a smile.

Corrado took a few steps sideways, bringing the letter beneath the glow of a street lamp. He rummaged in his pockets till he found his glasses. Then he tore the envelope open.


Dear Mister Bo,



by the time you’ll read this letter, I will have already left town. I figured I need to stay away from this city to be able to give meaning to what is left of my life. I have no plans to return. Feel free to share this letter with your son, if you think it may help him realize the truth: I won’t forgive him, and he’ll never see me again.



Yours Truly,



Caterina Berilli





Slowly, Corrado lifted his head. “She’s gone?”

Guglielmo nodded.

“Where? When?”

“She went back to the convent of the Sorelle Addolorate,” Guglielmo explained. “I drove her this morning to the station.”

Corrado’s eyes widened.

“This house,” Guglielmo continued, pointing at the palazzina across the street, “is now for sale. Soon I, too, will go.” He turned his head towards Ivano. “Your son has no reason to keep singing, Mister Bo. She won’t be back.”

Corrado swallowed twice. “Thank you for bringing this letter,” he said.

“My duty,” Guglielmo whispered, bowing.

Letter in hand, Corrado approached the bench where his son was standing, singing the last notes of his most famous piece, a madrigal the director of the Civico Istituto di Musica Nicolo’ Paganini had titled “Aspettar la donna amata.” After the last note of the madrigal had faded, he tugged at his son’s pants.

“Listen to me, son,” he said. “Stop this singing madness. Let’s go home. Can’t you see you’re getting sick? What’s the point of this? Caterina doesn’t want you. How long is it going to take you to understand? She doesn’t want you! She’s not even here anymore.” He waved the letter in front of him. “See this letter? It’s from her. She’s gone. She went back to the convent early this morning. You are serenading an empty house!”

Ivano placed his instrument on the bench and squatted to bring his face close to his father’s. He was silent for a short moment before saying the words the musicians of the Istituto would forever associate with his figure and with the meaning of his serenades. “Does it matter?” Then he stood up, picked up the mandolin, and cleared his voice for the next serenade.

It was deep into the night when Caterina stepped outside. A shining half-moon and a myriad of stars cast their light over the hills, so that from the front steps of the palazzina she could clearly see Ivano still standing on the bench and singing, surrounded by his admirers. She sat on the lowest step, close to a tall clay flowerpot that hosted a beautiful purple hydrangea in full bloom, and breathed the scents brought along by the soft night breeze. She leaned to the right, so as to rest her head against the ornate edge of the vase, and stayed there immobile as the sound of the mandolin filled the air. Only then did she understand completely the futility of her lie. Guglielmo had returned from his outing to the belvedere, Ivano was by then aware that she had returned to the convent, and there he was, still singing, as if the letter she had dispatched to Corrado were a nothing—a magic scroll that had dissolved in the air. He’d never stop, she knew now, for his music and his love for her were one, and he’d never stop loving her no matter where she was. She rejected that love with all her might, shuddering at the thought of Ivano in the arms of the prostitutes and of her dead mother. Stop, she wanted to scream at him, get down from that bench and away from my street! She cupped her hands on her ears, turned her face away from the belvedere. The music ceased, the spectators applauded. Then there was silence, and in that silence the tension that clutched Caterina evaporated. She breathed calmly and deeply, not in the hope that Ivano may have decided to stop singing, which she knew was vain, but on her own resolution that from then on she wouldn’t let anything Ivano did or didn’t do affect her or torment her anymore. She couldn’t let those sounds bother her. He could play all he wanted, and she could listen all night long and be just fine. The mellow notes of yet another serenade made her smile. She closed her eyes and defiantly listened to the lyrics, which were about a sailor who had taken his lady on a boat ride under the moon to pledge to her his eternal love.

“Go ahead, keep singing,” she shouted as the notes drifted into the sky. “I do not care.”

She lay back against the steps and at some point perceived the sounds of the mandolin and Ivano’s voice like a wind that blew towards her, divided before hitting her body, passed her without ever touching her, and then merged again behind her into a single stream of air before continuing its journey. She felt cozy and safe inside that armor of wind, separated from the crowd, from Ivano, from his father, from all the memories and the ghosts of her past, far from the earth and sky. She stopped thinking about her nights of despair and her days of solitude, forgot the convent, Francesca Barone, her father’s gloomy funeral. She lost touch with the foam dripping from her mother’s mouth and the face of her aunt rotting away in an apartment downtown. She was oblivious of Doctor Sciaccaluga, his victims, the sold children, and the torture of Raimondo’s games. Then the song reached its most moving moment, with the lady pledging her own love to the sailor, and Caterina wondered if there was a happy ending for everyone, when her own would come, what it would be like. And then there was a moment when for no clear reason, without warning, the wind that surrounded her subsided, the armor faded, and the trembling light of the stars above her, the sounds of the mandolin, Ivano’s voice, the sour fragrance of the orange and lemon trees, and the syrupy odor of the wisteria blossoms all blended together into a thick, warm potion that oozed into her bones. At that moment, as a stray cloud came about to obfuscate the splendor of the half moon, her heart was stunned by the realization that she no longer knew which was stronger, her pain or her love for Ivano. Her head spun a little as she stood up, and a weakness in her knees slowed her down as she crossed the street. She walked, cautiously yet sure-footed, her dress fluttering about her body in the breeze.

The spectators had thinned out by that late night hour, though there were still a handful of them standing around the bench and next to a lemon tree. She joined them, inhaling the magic of the music, enchanted by the melodious voice. She stood speechless in front of Ivano, bewitched by his fiery eyes, his confidence, his aura. When he saw her, intoxicated and spellbound, he immediately stopped playing and rearranged the mandolin in his arms.

“The next song is titled Il mio amore e’ ritornato,” he said in a quivering voice. “I composed it long ago, fantasizing about this moment.”

As Ivano began to play and sing, gazing into Caterina’s dreamy eyes, the spectators understood at once that this was the secret song everyone had long wanted to hear. They whispered to each other then grew silent, aware of the significance of the moment. They listened quietly, religiously, as if they were witnessing a miracle that would never again repeat. The melody was intense yet sweet, the lyrics heart wrenching, tender. There was magic in that performance, everyone agreed, and the blonde woman in the fluttering dress looked like a fairy. Countless times they would recount how she stood in front of him throughout the performance, immobile, her green eyes shimmering in the night like candles, and how at the end of the song she and l’uomo inamorato had stretched their arms and grazed each other’s hands with tenderness. Among the eye witnesses was Simone Rovati, a senior member of the Istituto di Musica and a string master, who made it his duty to ensure posterity would have access to that magical, unique serenade. He transcribed it from memory and published it in revered musical journals. Thanks to him, Il mio amore e’ ritornato became a classic, played and sung by mandolin virtuosos in many towns, and would never cease to amaze musicians and untrained listeners alike for its beauty.

When, one year after the famed performance, Simone Rovati looked for Ivano to compensate him for the song’s rights, he discovered that the bakery was closed and the apartment on Via Lomellini Ivano had shared with his father empty and for rent. Puzzled, he walked up the hill to Corso Solferino only to find out that the House of Serenades had been sold and the new owners had no clue where Miss Berilli was. All they could tell him was that the last time they saw her, at the notary’s office to finalize the sale, she had on her face the most luminous, captivating smile.





Acknowledgements



I would like to express my gratitude to Judith Van, Professor of English at Arizona State University, for reading The House of Serenades at various stages of development. Her thoughtful comments and insights have been instrumental in the completion of this project. I would also like to thank the people at Il Secolo XIX, Genoa’s newspaper, for granting me, years ago, access to their archive, where I found and gathered a host of information about life in Genoa in 1910.





INTERVIEW WITH LINA SIMONI



Q: Why did you write “The House of Serenades”?

A: For two reasons. First, I wanted to present to the American public the city of Genoa, my hometown. Genoa is not on the beaten path of American tourists, and yet it has a rich, turbulent history and a fascinating personality. The second purpose was to denounce the abuse and repression of women (daughters, wives) in the Italian upper class of the 19th and early 20th centuries.

Q: How did you choose 1910?

A: In Italy, the first half of the 20th century was a politically-intense era, with WWI raging and Mussolini ascending to power. One cannot write a novel set at that time and ignore the political turmoil. I didn’t want to write a political novel though, so I went back in time to a year when no relevant political events took place. This way I could focus on the lifestyle. I spent days in the archives of Genoa’s newspaper reading the 1910 issues to understand what was going on in the city at that time. It was a memorable experience.

Q: Where do you find the inspiration for your characters?

A: During my life in Genoa I met a number of interesting men/women that are typical of that city in terms of mentality, attitude, and personality. Some of their traits were an inspiration for the characters in “The House of Serenades.” No character, of course, refers to anyone in particular.

Q: Are any parts of the plot or characters autobiographical?

A: No.

Q: What is the relationship between “The House of Serenades” and “The Scent of Rosa’s Oil”?

A: Historically, Genoa always had a strong upper class, a strong working class (with the port and its major role in the Italian economy and history), and an insignificant middle class. “The Scent of Rosa’s Oil” is set by the port and showcases brothels, prostitutes, thugs, port workers. “The House of Serenades” is set in the hills, in the world of the upper class. The two novels combined give the reader a sense of life in Genoa from two very different perspectives, which depict the main social forces. In “The House of Serenades” the clash between classes is brought about by the secret love between Caterina, a sheltered wealthy girl, and Ivano, a baker. A few characters from “The Scent of Rosa’s Oil” make cameo appearances in “The House of Serenades.”

Q: Will you be writing more novels set in Genoa?

A: Probably not. I feel that I said all I wanted to say about the city. The novel I am currently working on, “The Cabinet Spell,” is set in Brooklyn. The main character has ties to Genoa though. I guess I can’t stay away from it completely …

Q: You are also a successful artist. How can your readers learn about your art and upcoming literary work?

A: www.linasimoni.com