The House of Serenades

3



IN THE BLUE PARLOR, the cozy retreat where she embroidered and received visitors, Matilda was ensconced on a loveseat, fidgeting with her needlework. Worry was visible in her keen movements and eyes. Her husband’s behavior was a mystery, and she felt at a loss as to what she should do to extract from him a reasonable explanation. Should she continue to question him? Should she wait for him to speak? A knock on the door startled her. She dropped the needlework before saying, “Yes?”

The door opened in slow motion. “Lunch is served, Madame,” Guglielmo said.

Matilda acknowledged the butler with a nod. She waited for him to leave before standing up and drawing the azure velvet curtains that gave the parlor its nickname. Slowly, she gazed about the room, eyes lingering on the gray-toned loveseat, the matching armchairs, and the small fireplace with its white marble mantel. So many encounters, conversations, gossips had taken place there. With her mind’s eye she saw her lady friends in their visiting dresses and hats, their powdered faces. She heard them talking, describing the latest balls, the newest restaurants, the theatrical performances. And then she had a feeling, a discomfort that set deep inside her stomach, a premonition that the parlor was bound to remain silent in the future: no more visitors, no more sounds. “I’m losing my mind,” she said. She shook her head and walked out.

The spacious rectangular dining room was full of light at that time of day. Centered in it was a four-meter-long ebony table set for two. The off-white embroidered tablecloth, the British gold-rimmed china, the Venetian hand-blown stemmed glasses, and three golden candlesticks gave the table an air of pretentious opulence. No one was there when Matilda arrived. A quick look was all she needed to realize that the candlesticks weren’t equidistant and the glasses were asymmetric with respect to the plates. Servants in Genoa were badly trained. In her paternal home in Turin that would have never happened. As she replaced candlesticks and glasses, Giuseppe came in from the hallway. “I’m starved,” he grunted.

“I’m glad you decided to have lunch with me today,” Matilda said in a sweet voice.

Without looking at his wife, he took a seat at one end of the table. Matilda sat to his right. She stretched her arm and grazed Giuseppe’s hand with the tip of her fingers.

“What’s going on, darling? Why did you sleep in the reading room last night? And why do you do so many poultices? Your skin will rot under those stinking leaves.”

“My shoulder still hurts, if you need to know,” Giuseppe said crossly. “And how many poultices I do is none of your business.”

Matilda didn’t react, having noticed that Viola, the table maid, had come in with an open bottle of Rossese, Giuseppe’s favorite red wine. With a deliberate motion, the maid placed the bottle under Giuseppe’s eyes, label up. He nodded, and she poured a small amount in his glass—a lunch and dinner ritual. Giuseppe, a wine connoisseur and under normal circumstances a subtle and discerning taster, guzzled the wine and pointed to the empty glass.

“Fill it up,” he said.

An astounded Viola obeyed the order and filled Giuseppe and Matilda’s glasses before returning to the kitchen.

“What’s the matter with you?” Matilda asked once Viola was out of sight. “You haven’t even tasted the wine today. You’re drinking it as if it were cappuccino.”

“Please, Matilda. I have no desire to discuss my problems with you at this moment.” He waved his hands in the air. “Or with anyone else.”

“Well,” she said, raising her voice. “There’s something I would like to discuss with you.”

“What might that be?” he asked.

“Caterina.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. Caterina is dead.”

“Caterina is not dead. She may be dead in your mind, Giuseppe, but not in mine. I want her back. This is her home.”

“Out of the question,” Giuseppe stated.

The argument died when Viola came in carrying a rectangular silver tray. Matilda watched her in silence as she served the appetizers and refilled the wine glasses.

“I know you’re still upset about what Caterina did,” she whispered the moment Viola left the room, “but over two years have gone by. Don’t you think it may be time to forgive her and let her live her life again?”

Giuseppe remained silent.

“Say something,” Matilda begged.

He kept his eyes fixed on his plate. “I have no daughter.”

Matilda squeezed her hands into fists; her pointed nails sank into her skin. Nothing and no one, she knew, would ever persuade her husband to let Caterina come home. She bit her lips, but couldn’t hold back her tears. “You never listen to anything I say,” she sobbed.

“Stop whining!” Giuseppe exclaimed. “All you do is complain, complain, complain! You should be grateful to me for having married you in your condition. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d be an old spinster now, with an embarrassing past and no future.”

Matilda paled, her lips quivered. “How can you …”

She went no further because Viola had come in again with the main course. She changed the topic of the conversation. “At least tell me what worries you, Giuseppe. Your shoulder?”

He shook his head.

“Is it your heart, darling? If that’s what bothers you, we should call Doctor Sciaccaluga. I’m sure he’d see you this afternoon.”

“No doctor,” Giuseppe said firmly. “I’m not sick. I mean, I’m sick, but I don’t need a doctor.”

“Then what do you need, will you tell me?” Matilda asked, her raspy voice showing the extent of her exasperation. “You’ve been inside that room of yours since last evening. You didn’t sleep in your bed last night. I have the right to know what’s on your mind.”

Giuseppe sprung to his feet. “I told you! I want to be alone!” He threw his linen napkin, pushed the chair aside, and dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“You, you … You’re an impossible man!” Matilda burst out. Then she retired upstairs so the servants wouldn’t see her cry.

On the second floor, in her south-facing bedroom, she took a lavender-scented handkerchief from a drawer. She sat by the bow window, on an upholstered rocking chair, and stared emptily at the sky. Her eyes were wet, her throat swollen. Her fights with Eugenia years earlier had been a forewarning of the misery of her married life. Giuseppe was a difficult man to share life with, always busy, uncommunicative, and showing little or no interest in her personal struggles. The past two days, she thought, had showcased Giuseppe’s selfish disposition: something was wrong, and he wouldn’t say one word to anyone. All he could do was lock himself in the reading room and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. At twenty, she had willingly accepted her parents’ suggestion that she marry Giuseppe. She had been happy to get away from Turin and the sad life she was living after the end of her engagement to Arnaldo Della Tessiera. Now she wished she had never left. Yes, she lived in a palatial home, was in a socially-enviable position, and had all the material possessions one could imagine: money, clothes, maids, coaches, jewelry, even the luxury of a private automobile. She had electricity in every room and invitations to every party in every home that counted, but she was sad. She had been married less than a year when she had come to realize that by joining the Berilli household she had fallen into a worse misery than the one she had left behind. And all because nature had played a trick on her by forgetting to give her a hymen or by letting her hymen break on its own before the set time. Sighing, she wondered, as she had wondered many times before, what her life would be like had the doctors found her capricious hymen in its place and had she married Arnaldo instead of Giuseppe. She had often visions of Arnaldo as she had seen him last, forty-three years earlier, tall and handsome and with the bearing of a prince. She imagined how tender and loving a husband he would have been and wondered what it’d be like to wake up every morning with him by her side. It was too late now to change things. At sixty-two, she was too old. She felt too old. And she felt remote from the man she called husband and from the city she had moved to after her wedding, a city that, she was certain, would ignore her, even snub her, despite her aristocratic lineage, were she not married to Giuseppe Berilli, the lawyer. The Genoese even had a saying for that, she had been told: Mogli e buoi dei paesi tuoi, Wives and oxen from your own land. What a way to welcome out-of-towners. At least once a month, especially after her two sons had moved out of the palazzina, she had considered returning to her native Turin, where she was someone because of her own name and where she owed her social standing to birth rather than to an unloving husband. She had dreamed of taking Caterina along, showing her the castle where she had grown up and introducing her to her cousins and aunts. She had never found the courage to break away or denounce Giuseppe’s lies about Caterina’s death. So many times she had been one whisper away from revealing the conspiracy to her sons. Her tongue had frozen in her mouth on every occasion. Besides, she knew all too well that her family didn’t want her to move back home. Although they didn’t know all the facts, they considered her a living reminder of the shameful rejection her parents had endured at the Della Tessieras’ hand forty-three years earlier and which, many of her relatives thought, had brought them both prematurely to the grave. Matilda knew that she was destined to spend the rest of her life in this ungrateful town, and nothing she could do or say would change the course of the events. She dried her tears and headed to the kitchen to instruct the cook about dinner.

Lunch had been over for an hour when three knocks echoed in the corridors of the palazzina. At that point Giuseppe was in the reading room, where he had returned after the quarrel with his wife. He had kept the fourth poultice of the day on his shoulder for half an hour and was now sipping an espresso with Fernet, his favorite after-lunch digestif. His head felt light from having eaten nothing but a small appetizer.

Guglielmo came in as he was setting the empty coffee cup on the tray. “Mister Antonio Sobrero is here to see you, sir.”

“It’s about time,” Giuseppe muttered. “Bring him in.”

A tall, middle-aged man with a droopy mustache and hollow cheeks arrived shortly. His hair was dark and lustrous, longer than one would expect of a public functionary, but a good fit to his lean built. “Good afternoon, Mister Berilli. I received your message and came as soon as I could.”

Giuseppe stood up and walked towards the Chief of Police with his arm extended. Not soon enough, he thought, but said, “Thank you, Antonio. I appreciate it.”

The two men shook hands, and Giuseppe pointed to one of the leather armchairs.

“Please, have a seat. Coffee? Drink?”

Antonio sat down. “No, thank you,” he said. “Is something wrong, Mister Berilli? Your message talked about a disturbing event you wish to share with me. Is it related to your horse accident?”

“I wish I knew,” Giuseppe lamented. “Before I explain, however, I must ask that you keep our conversation confidential. Do I have your word?”

“It depends, Mister Berilli. Should the event that disturbed you require the intervention of the police force or an investigation, I can’t promise I’ll be the only one to know. I can, however, promise I’ll keep our conversation to myself as much as I can.”

“Thank you, Antonio,” Giuseppe said, thinking, ‘You can do better than this, my man. I supported you throughout the election process, did I not?’ He kept that thought to himself, for he didn’t want to alter the good disposition Antonio seemed to exhibit towards him that day. Without another word, he walked to the mahogany desk, took the letters from the drawer, and handed them over.

With interest, Antonio read both letters twice. Finished, he lifted his head and looked straight into the lawyer’s eyes.

“For God’s sake, Mister Berilli, I’m glad you decided to show me these letters. We shouldn’t take them lightly. It could be a joke, but it could also be a serious threat. When did you receive them?”

“The first one, four days ago,” Giuseppe explained. “It was the day after the horse ran me over. The second arrived yesterday, in the morning.”

“Did the letters come in the regular mail?” Antonio asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you have the envelopes the letters came in?”

“I do,” Giuseppe said. From the same drawer, he took two white envelopes that had been torn open.

Antonio examined them attentively. “These envelopes carry the stamp of a local post office,” he said. “They were mailed somewhere in town.”

Giuseppe quipped, “I noticed that myself.”

Antonio breathed deeply. “I’ll accept that drink you offered me earlier, Mister Berilli. And,” he paused, “may I smoke my pipe?”

When from the top of the staircase she saw Guglielmo escorting Antonio Sobrero to the reading room, Matilda knew without a shred of doubt that there was more to her husband’s bad mood than a few sore bones. Aware that further direct questions to her husband would be a waste of time, she decided to inform her sons about their father’s choice of the reading room as his permanent quarters and his private conversation with the Chief of Police. On second thought, she decided to call only on Umberto, who was, in her and everyone else’s opinion, the more reliable of the two brothers. Raimondo had become too much of a stray for her own taste, with all his women and heavy drinking, and she was no longer sure he could be trusted. She summoned Guglielmo to the foyer.

“I need to see Mister Umberto at once,” she told him. “He’s at the office, I’m sure. Bring him here. It’s important.”

“Very well, Madame,” Guglielmo said then headed outside to prepare the automobile for the ride.

Meanwhile, in the reading room, Antonio extracted a wooden pipe and a lighter from his pocket and flicked the lighter open. With a snap of his thumb, he rubbed the lighter’s wheel against the flint, then moved the flame close to the pipe’s bowl and began to puff. Through the cloud of white smoke, he examined once more the two letters in search of clues. Both letters had been written on high quality parchment paper and with good ink, indicating that the writer was a sophisticated individual. A man or a woman? A man was more likely to have written the letters, he thought, although the religious tone that permeated them didn’t allow him to rule out the hand of a woman entirely. Few women, however, would be able to write and draw with such an elegant hand. Many women didn’t know how to write at all.

Giuseppe broke the silence. “See what I mean, Antonio? These are threats against my family and my home. And against me personally, of course. I must confess that I’m afraid. I didn’t think much of the first letter on the day I received it. I was too sore from the horse accident to give it more than a superficial look. But when I read it again the following morning, its words took on a new meaning. I suddenly saw the threat, loud and clear. Then, when the second letter came yesterday, I began to wonder. I receive a threatening letter with the drawing of a wild horse one day after a horse sends me head over heels. Is there a connection between the two events? That horse would have killed me had it hit my head instead of my shoulder. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I fear that other attempts will be made on my life. I’m frightened, Antonio, and I’m not used to it.”

“I can’t blame you, Mister Berilli,” Antonio said. “These letters are sinister. I’ll ask you some personal questions now. Please understand it’s my duty to ask such questions in order to identify the writer and free you from worry.”

Giuseppe nodded.

“And, please, don’t hold back information,” added Antonio, who was accustomed to Giuseppe’s reticence when it came to family affairs. “Your sincerity is crucial to my investigation.”

“I’ll be sincere,” Giuseppe said with a frown.

“First of all,” Antonio inquired, “have you discussed the letters with your wife?”

“No.”

“You should,” Antonio pointed out. “The threat is aimed at your entire household. She should be aware of it.”

Giuseppe nodded. “I’ll inform Matilda later today, I promise.”

“Good. Now, do you suspect any member of the house staff?”

Giuseppe pondered a moment. “No. The majority of our servants have been with us for many years and, as far as I know, no one’s unhappy. They’re well paid and cared for. Matilda would be able to help you with this matter more than I. She’s the one who hires the staff and handles their affairs.”

“Then let’s come to the key question. Who has reasons to dislike you to the point of wanting you dead?”

Giuseppe coughed and ran a hand on his scalp.

Simultaneously, at the opposite end of the house, Guglielmo knocked lightly on the blue-parlor door.

Busy embroidering, Matilda said, “Yes?”

Guglielmo opened the door. He announced, “Mister Umberto Berilli,” then stepped aside.

Matilda lifted her eyes from the needlework. “Umberto!” she exclaimed. “So good to see you.”

“Mother,” Umberto saluted her as he came in. “You look beautiful, as usual.”

Coyly, Matilda tilted her head. Umberto always knew how to flatter her, and she loved his compliments. She gave her son a proud look. He was tall, handsome, and, at forty, an accomplished and successful lawyer, ready to take over the Berilli’s law firm should his father decide to retire from the profession. Umberto and his wife Costanza hadn’t given her the joy of a grandchild yet, and that was a disappointment. It will happen, Matilda kept telling herself, sooner or later.

“What’s the matter, mother?” Umberto asked. “Why such an urgent call in the middle of the afternoon?”

Matilda tapped the loveseat cushion next to her. “Sit down,” she said. “Your father’s the matter. He has been acting strangely since that horse hit him in the shoulder. He spends most of his time in the reading room. Last night, he didn’t go to bed. He does ten poultices a day, claims to be ill, and yet refuses to see Doctor Sciaccaluga. And he doesn’t answer anyone’s questions. He didn’t even go to work this morning, as you know.”

“I know,” Umberto confirmed. “We were told he’s not well but that we shouldn’t worry, that it was the shock of the accident and the hurt shoulder. I’ve hardly seen the office without father, I must say.”

“Did something out of the ordinary happen at the office in the past week?” Matilda asked.

Umberto shook his head. “Other than Raimondo’s pitiful performance in court the other day, no. But what Raimondo did is not a big enough reason for father to spend entire nights in the reading room.”

“Eugenia visited him this morning,” Matilda continued, “but he refused to talk to her too. At lunchtime, I asked him again for an explanation. He became angry and left the dining room after the appetizers. Then, shortly afterwards, Antonio Sobrero arrived.”

“The Chief of Police?” Umberto marveled.

“Yes. And I know for a fact it’s your father who sent for Antonio. It wasn’t Antonio’s decision to come here. Guglielmo told me. That’s when I became certain that something isn’t right. Your father and Antonio are still in the reading room, doing what, I have no idea.” She took her son’s hand. “I’m worried. Please find out what’s going on. Perhaps your father will confide in you.”

Umberto caressed his mother’s fingers. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for father’s queer behavior,” he said. “I’ll talk to him. It may not be a good idea to interrupt his conversation with Antonio though. Why don’t I come back this evening with Costanza, as if you had invited us to dinner, and talk to father then?”

“Wonderful,” Matilda said with a smile. “I’ll invite Raimondo as well, so Giuseppe won’t suspect we’re investigating him.”

“Good luck finding him,” Umberto muttered. “He left the office at noon and didn’t come back. He’s probably drinking in some bar, or seeing one of his … women.”

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Matilda gently scolded him. “We do what we can. He’s weaker than you are. He has always been.”

“The only reason I’m tolerating his behavior,” Umberto said, “is that I attribute it to his despair over Caterina’s death.”

Matilda said nothing.

“I’m surprised at how well you are handling it, mother,” Umberto continued in a kinder tone. “You are so strong.” His voice broke down. “Stronger than all of us put together.” He paused then caressed her hand. “I know I would fall apart if I hadn’t you to look up to.”

Matilda sighed. “Go now, darling. I’ll see you at dinnertime.”

While Umberto was leaving the palazzina, in her downtown apartment, Eugenia awoke from her afternoon nap, which she had taken in the drawing room, on a velvet settee. She stretched and glanced at the clock. It was four-thirty, later than she expected. Still, she could be at the café on time. Her gray silk dress and black shoes were ready for her in the dressing room. For that outfit, the brimless black hat with the transparent half veil on the front would be just right. Changed, she sat at her dressing table, a rococo piece topped by a mirror set in a solid golden frame. Keeping the veil lifted, she set the hat on her head at an angle then looked at her horsy face and smiled. A touch of color and she’d be set to go. From a round box of pink porcelain she extracted a sponge and brushed it gently on her cheeks. A warm red hue brought out the stern lines of her cheekbones. Pleased, she stood up, lowered the veil on her face, and headed for the street.

It was a pleasant, sunny afternoon, and Eugenia strolled the caruggi from Via San Lorenzo all the way down to Piazza Soziglia through the narrow Via di Scurreria and Piazza Campetto, passing ancient dwellings and fashionable stores. On Piazza Soziglia, she walked through the open doors of Klainguti, her favorite café. A chorus of greetings rose from the tables:

“Good afternoon, Eugenia.”

“Eugenia, how are you?”

“Miss Berilli, here’s a chair for you.”

Eugenia took a cunning look about. Activities were at their peak. All the tables were taken, mostly by ladies in their hats and elegant afternoon dresses, and the waiters hurried back and forth carrying trays of espressos, teas, and colorful pastry amidst the buzz of the customers’ conversations. The atmosphere was one of elegance and opulence, with large gilded mirrors and fine tapestry hanging on the walls and Oriental rugs spread casually on the marble floor. Nodding and smiling, Eugenia joined her good friends the Countess Marina Passaggi, Carlotta Defilla, and Francesca Dodero at one of the large tables in the back of the room.

“How are things, Eugenia?” the Countess Marina Passaggi asked as soon as Eugenia had taken her seat.

“Not bad,” Eugenia said, “other than for my brother, who claims to be ill but doesn’t seem to be. He’s acting odd, and no one seems to be able to figure out why.”

“What do you mean, odd?” Francesca Dodero inquired, adding sugar to her espresso with a minuscule silver spoon.

Eugenia threw her hands in the air. “Doesn’t go to work, doesn’t sleep in his room. Acts like a madman. I went to see him this morning. He almost kicked me out.”

“Why would he do such a thing?” Carlotta Defilla wondered.

“The horse accident perhaps?” the Countess Marina Passaggi proposed.

Eugenia shrugged. “Who knows. He didn’t look sick to me, but something must be wrong because, Matilda told me, he spent all of last night locked in the reading room, without going to bed. He was still there when I saw him. He hasn’t come out of that room of his in almost twenty hours. And he won’t speak to Matilda either.”

“That’s peculiar,” Carlotta Defilla said.

The Countess Marina Passaggi, who lived on Corso Solferino down the street from the palazzina, delivered a shrewd smile. “I think I may know something,” she said. “When I left the house an hour ago my chambermaid told me that Carlo, my butler, had seen the Chief of Police arrive at the Berilli’s residence shortly after lunch. Now, isn’t that peculiar?”

“The Chief of Police!” Eugenia exclaimed. “What would he be doing in my brother’s house in the middle of the day?”

“Perhaps your brother is worried about a dishonest servant and called upon the Chief of Police to investigate,” said the Countess Marina Passaggi. She reached out and took a canolo from the pewter tray.

Carlotta Defilla disagreed. “No, no,” she said. “Servants are for the lady of the house to handle. Matilda would be taking care of such a problem, not Mister Berilli. Plus, a dishonest servant is no reason for Mister Berilli to lock himself in the reading room through the night.”

“Good point,” Eugenia said.

“Perhaps the horse accident was not an accident after all,” the Countess Marina Passaggi said casually.

“What else could it be?” Francesca Dodero wondered.

“I don’t know,” Eugenia said, “but if there’s a problem in my brother’s household, I’m going to find out. And have you heard about Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse? Palmira Bevilacqua.”

“The one who died of influenza?” Francesca Dodero asked.

Eugenia nodded. “Her funeral is going to be in the cathedral.”

“In the cathedral!” Carlotta Defilla, the Countess Marina Passaggi, and Francesca Dodero exclaimed in unison.

“Yes,” Eugenia said. “Father Camillo’s idea.”

The Countess brought a hand to her forehead. “There’s no end to what the working class dare these days.”