The House of Serenades

4



IN THE READING ROOM, Giuseppe spoke between his teeth.

“Lots of people have reasons to dislike me.”

I wonder why, Antonio thought to himself, careful not to show sarcasm on his face. He said, “Could you be more precise? Think of someone who deems himself a victim of your injustice. Someone who hates you. Someone who wants,” he paused, “revenge.”

Giuseppe jerked in his seat. “Antonio! Don’t be so crude. My heart is weak.”

“My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please, tell me who comes to mind when you think injustice.”

“There’s that lawyer I fired,” Giuseppe said after a moment. “Roberto Passalacqua.”

Antonio showed his surprise. “The Mayor’s secretary?”

Giuseppe nodded.

“How long ago did you fire him?” Antonio inquired.

“A little over a year. Fifteen months perhaps.”

“Why did you fire him?”

“It was because of certain,” Giuseppe coughed, “changes in his family’s composition.”

Antonio gave Giuseppe a perplexed look. “Would you care to explain?”

Giuseppe nodded and in the minutes that followed told Antonio a story that was well known to those who practiced law in Genoa.

The events dated back to the spring of 1908, when Umberto had defended a doctor accused of malpractice. The prosecutor that day was a young man named Roberto Passalacqua. Umberto won the case, but was so impressed with his opponent’s ability that back at the office he mentioned Roberto to his father.

“If this young man is as good as you say, we’d better hire him,” Giuseppe said. “Recruit him at twice his current pay. But do some background research first,” he added. “Let’s find out all we can about his family.”

Promptly, Umberto contacted his informers—colleagues, wives of colleagues, his aunt Eugenia, and more—and discovered that no one in the Berilli’s entourage had ever heard of Roberto Passalacqua or his family. Then he sent one of the firm’s clerks to the vital statistics office. From an employee of that office and with the help of his own wife, the clerk found out that Roberto was the son of a steelworker and a seamstress. Meanwhile Umberto had learned from the Head Prosecutor that Roberto had graduated with honors from the University of Genoa law school six months earlier, was an apprentice, and had been sent to court that day to fill in for a more experienced colleague who had fallen sick.

When Umberto reported the results of the investigation to his father, Giuseppe shook his head. “We can’t hire him, Umberto. All our lawyers come from wealthy families with long-standing traditions and names. You know better than I that none of our clients would ever confide in someone who is not their peer.”

Umberto pointed out that Roberto’s family was honest and there was a growing need in the firm for someone who could handle the cases of middle-class, perhaps even working-class, clients. “Times are changing, father. Our economy is still feeling the aftermath of the recession. The political situation is unstable. The Socialists are stronger than ever, and we’re in the industrial era. The working class has power now, and it’d be a mistake to ignore it. The world is moving in a different direction. It’s time for us to take a more open and modern view of the firm’s mission and consider acquiring new clients who aren’t necessarily as wealthy as our current ones. Roberto is the man we need to initiate our expansion.”

Compelled by his son’s argument, Giuseppe agreed, though reluctantly, to hire Roberto on a trial basis. “We’ll evaluate Mister Passalacqua in six months,” he said. “If all is well, we’ll ask him to stay. If not, he’ll have to find another job.”

So it was that in May of 1908 Roberto was granted an office at Berilli e Figli, an event that left Roberto’s mother and father incredulous and celebrating the event for days.

The six months of Roberto’s trial period went by smoothly. At the November meeting, Umberto, Raimondo, and Giuseppe unanimously conceded that Roberto’s performance had been more than satisfactory and the firm should retain him. They also agreed that he should continue to represent the two lower-income clients the firm had recently acquired and perhaps add a few more to his portfolio.

Meanwhile, Alessandro Passalacqua, Roberto’s younger brother, had become engaged to Concetta Lo Cascio, a dark Sicilian beauty with long lustrous hair and a down on her upper lip. Since her arrival in Genoa from her native Palermo three years earlier Concetta had earned her living as a maid in several of Genoa’s wealthy households. Shortly after Roberto’s confirmation with Berilli e Figli, Concetta was hired as a kitchen maid in the household of Michelangelo Tassani, the owner of a fleet of cargo ships. On her first day on the job, Concetta made a point of letting the rest of the Tassani’s kitchen staff know that she was about to marry, and marry well, and she’d no longer be working after the wedding, not as a maid or anything else, because she’d be marrying Alessandro Passalacqua, the brother of a famous lawyer with a prestigious position at Berilli e Figli. The news of Concetta’s wedding plans didn’t take long to find its way out of the kitchen quarters. The first cook told the chambermaid, the chambermaid told the dining maid, and the dining maid told the butler. Then the butler told the neighbors’ butler, who told his sister, who told her cousin, who was married to Arcangelo Rossi, barman at the courthouse. In the morning, Arcangelo told Concetta’s story to Marco Costello, the clerk in charge of filing at Berilli e Figli, when Marco went to see him around ten o’clock for his cappuccino. By noon, the news of Concetta’s wedding plans had filtered through the walls of Berilli e Figli, traveling from room to room at the speed of a frightened hare until it reached Giuseppe’s ears early that very same afternoon. He darted into Umberto’s office.

“Did you hear?” he screamed. “I told you we shouldn’t hire him! I knew it that hiring against our traditions would be a mistake! You insisted. You and your democratic ideas. I can’t believe I listened! What do we do now? How do we deal with this embarrassment?”

Umberto stood from his chair. He spoke calmly, with the soothing voice he always used when he attempted to calm his father’s fury. “I can see that this matter could cause us some embarrassment—”

“Some embarrassment?” Giuseppe shouted. “One of our lawyers becoming the brother-in-law of a Sicilian maid? The maid of one of our most prominent, long-standing clients? I say it’s one of the biggest embarrassments we have had to endure since the day your grandfather started this legal institution! What do you think the story of this maid will do for the firm’s name? Everyone’s talking about it! This gossip is never going to stop!”

Umberto was forced to admit his mistake. “You’re right, father. What can we do to contain the damage?”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll tell that Passalacqua of yours that he’s finished here. That’s what I’ll do.”

At the end of the working day, Roberto was summoned to Giuseppe’s large, dark, intimidating office, where Giuseppe fired him using a few standard words of dismissal. He told Roberto that business was slow, but Roberto and everyone else knew that the real and only reason for his dismissal was the maid.

Roberto walked home that evening in a state of confusion that turned into uncontrollable rage once he told his parents that he had been fired on account of Alessandro’s engagement to Concetta.

“Those damn snobs!” he screamed in the family kitchen. “Who do they think they are, those Berillis? Nothing but a bunch of arrogant, pompous bigots!”

Roberto’s mother, a short tiny woman with a hairy mole on her chin, sat in tears at the kitchen table. “How could they do this to us?”

Roberto’s father slammed his fist on the table. “Damn it! I always say it that someone from the working class should take over this city and sweep away all the dirt in it, once and for all. It won’t end here, you can be sure. We’ll show the Berillis who the Passalacquas are and what they can do!”

The matter of Roberto’s dismissal from Berilli e Figli ended instead there and then. It took Roberto all his strength of character and willpower to get over it, but after a few days went by, he managed to convince himself and his bellicose father that nothing they did would change the status quo.

“Even if Alessandro were to call off his engagement,” he told his family, “the Berillis would never give me my job back. We have no way of fighting them. We’d better let go.”

It wasn’t easy for Roberto’s parents to accept that proposition, but in the end they resigned to it, and within weeks the matter of Roberto’s unjust treatment became a bad memory they all tried to forget as fast as their hurt pride allowed. Soon, Roberto began looking for another job outside the legal field, which had become for him terra proibita as all the law firms in Genoa were aware that he had been fired. That the reasons for his firing may have been wrong was of no interest to the legal elite, which was a very tightly knit circle.

During the Christmas holiday Roberto answered an advertisement for the position of personal secretary of Cesare Cortimiglia, the Mayor, who at the time was specifically looking for someone with legal expertise. His application arrived on the Mayor’s desk with perfect timing. The Mayor gladly hired him for the job, and with the new year Roberto began his career at City Hall.

“It all worked out,” he told his father at the end of his first week. “The job is interesting, and I don’t have too many regrets. I’m disappointed I had to abandon the practice of law, but not that I lost my job at Berilli e Figli. I dislike that family. I’m glad I’ll have nothing to do with them for the rest of my life.”

It made things easier (and Roberto proud) that Alessandro and Concetta were happy and in love. They would get married in one month and were already discussing the number of children they would have.

“I can see that Mister Passalacqua may have reasons to dislike you,” Antonio said. “I believe I’ve met him on a couple of occasions. He struck me as a reasonable man, I must say. I wasn’t aware he had worked for you in the past. Now that I know, I’ll make sure to investigate him thoroughly. Let’s go on. Can you think of someone else?”

Giuseppe pronounced the name with contempt. “Guido Orengo.”

“Guido Orengo?” Antonio marveled. “He’s in jail.”

“True, but he has a network of criminals at his service, as you know,” Giuseppe insisted. “The threat may have been carried out by one of his men.”

“Were you involved in Guido Orengo’s arrest?” Antonio asked.

“Indirectly.”

“Meaning … what?”

“I helped spread rumors about his illegal operations,” Giuseppe explained. “Those rumors, as you certainly remember, prompted a police investigation that culminated in the confiscation of over a thousand liters of smuggled alcohol stored in a warehouse by the docks.”

“I remember,” Antonio said. “I was there when it happened. How exactly did you help spread the rumors, Mister Berilli?”

“One of my clients, whose name is not important and I won’t reveal, sought my assistance in a blackmailing matter,” Giuseppe explained. “He had received anonymous letters threatening to reveal to his wife his steady relationship with a waitress at the Stella Maris establishment and his drinking habit. Given that the woman was acquainted with Guido Orengo and that he was the one who refilled my client’s cellar with tax-free alcohol, my client thought Guido Orengo could be the blackmailer. I suggested to my client that he contact the police, but he refused to do so for fear of a scandal. I then suggested that he write a letter to the police. He did. He mailed a three-page long report in which he described in detail everything he knew about Orengo’s illicit activities. I read the report to make sure it contained nothing that would send the police or Orengo’s gang chasing after my client. He signed the report with a false name.”

Antonio nodded. He said, “I remember that report, and it’s true that we used it as the starting point of our investigation into Orengo’s alcohol contraband. I had no idea that the report had come from one of your clients and that you were behind it. Was Guido Orengo the blackmailer?”

“I never found out,” Giuseppe admitted, “but I know for a fact that after Orengo was arrested, the anonymous letters ceased to arrive at my client’s residence. It may have been a coincidence, but, as a lawyer, I regard coincidences with mistrust.”

“So do I,” Antonio said thoughtfully. “It looks as though I should pay Orengo a visit, although I don’t know how he would have found out that you were involved in his arrest. If we assume, nonetheless, that he was the one blackmailing your client, then we can also assume that he may have gotten into the habit and sent these two letters as well. Not personally, of course, given that he’s in jail. Perhaps at the hand of one of his men. That’s two suspects. Anyone else on your list?”

Giuseppe looked away. Suddenly he stood up and walked to the fireplace. From the nearby rack, he took an iron poker and prodded the unlit logs several times. He replaced the stick in the rack and coughed.

In silence, Antonio observed Giuseppe’s aimless moves: the lawyer was obviously buying himself time. He decided against urging him to talk, for he didn’t want to indispose him and lose his trust. So he waited patiently in his seat.

One full minute went by, during which Giuseppe walked from the fireplace to the window, where he stood still, staring at the glass pane. Outside, the silvery leaves of a tall oleander flickered in the breeze. He took no notice of them, as his stare was absent and glazed. When he turned around, he cleared his throat before saying, “I’ve been wondering about someone, although the events I’m thinking about happened over two years ago.”

“Let’s not dismiss clues only because they’re old,” Antonio said. “Hate, experience tells me, can bottle up a long time and then explode all of a sudden, when one least expects it. Whom are you thinking of, Mister Berilli?”

Giuseppe sat down, lowered his voice. “There’s a man. Ivano Bo. He lost the woman he claimed to love. He blamed me for that and swore he’d take his revenge on me before he died.”

“Who’s Ivano Bo?” Antonio asked. “And who’s the woman he lost?”

“Ivano Bo is a baker,” Giuseppe explained. “At least he was one at the time the events took place. His father owns a bakery on Piazza della Nunziata. As for the woman in question, I’m afraid I can’t tell you who she is.”

Antonio shook his head. “You must tell me the entire story, without holding back, if you want me to investigate.”

“I can’t tell you more than I already have,” Giuseppe said firmly. He became agitated. “You can talk to Ivano Bo, can you not? You could track his moves of the past days. Retrace his steps.”

Antonio shook his head again. “If you want me to investigate and find out if Ivano Bo is the author of the two letters, you must tell me what business you had with him. What did you mean when you said that he lost the woman he claimed to love? Is the woman dead?”

“Yes. The woman is dead.”

“What was your role in her death?” Antonio asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Giuseppe said. “Sorry.”

Antonio stood up. “Then I should probably leave. I see that I can be of no help to you.”

Stone-faced, Giuseppe observed Antonio walking to the door and turning the handle. The moment the policeman took one step out of the reading room, he sprung from the armchair. “Don’t leave!” he shouted. He placed a hand on his heart. “I’m afraid, don’t you see?” he whined. “Please, help me. Please.”

Antonio turned around. He spoke dryly. “I can’t help you, Mister Berilli, unless you tell me everything you know.”

“I told you all I know about Ivano Bo. About the woman, I can’t say any more.”

“I don’t understand,” Antonio said, waving his hands in frustration. “You want my help, but you give me only half the story. How can I do my job?”

“Please, Antonio,” Giuseppe begged. “Do what you can with the information I gave you. Check on Roberto Passalacqua, Guido Orengo, and Ivano Bo. I can assure you that the reason for my disagreement with Mister Bo is not relevant to this investigation.”

Antonio spoke crossly. “That is for me to say.” He paused. “All right, I’ll work with what you told me for the moment. You may have to speak though, sooner or later.”

“Perhaps,” Giuseppe conceded, “but not now.”

Antonio sighed. “Anyone else I should know about?”

“No one comes to mind,” Giuseppe said. “Of course there are all the people who lost lawsuits against me or representatives of my firm, but it’d be difficult to make a list of all the names. My firm is involved in hundreds of cases.”

Antonio pondered a moment. “It may not be necessary to investigate everyone who lost a case against your firm. Let’s keep to these three suspects for now. Call me immediately should more letters arrive.”

“I certainly will, Antonio. I feel better now. Discussing this matter with you makes it seem less dramatic.”

“I’m glad. Still, you should be careful,” Antonio pointed out. “We may have an insane mind out there waiting for the right occasion to hurt you and your family. If I may, I’d like to suggest that you and your wife don’t take the chance of walking the streets unescorted.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll talk to Matilda right away.”

Antonio nodded. “Good. So she, too, can take precautions. I shall now leave. May I keep the letters?”

“Suit yourself, Antonio. They are all yours.”

Alone again in the reading room after Antonio’s departure, Giuseppe returned to his armchair, where he spent a long time sitting still, scrutinizing the ceiling. At exactly five PM, he stood up and headed for the blue parlor. As he turned the corner of the hallway, he saw Matilda through the parlor open door: she was alone, seated on the loveseat, embroidering a silky cloth. She looked radiant in her blue dress, and her silvery hair shone in the orange light of the late afternoon. At the door, he stood still awhile, absorbed in the rhythmic movements of his wife’s thin hands along the edge of the cloth. At some point, Matilda lifted her head. She dropped the cloth on her lap. She said, “Giuseppe! You startled me.”

He spoke with no sentiment. “We must talk.” He sat next to her and in the fifteen minutes that followed summarized the letters’ contents and his conversation with Antonio, leaving out of his narrative the names of the three suspects.

Matilda listened in silence. When Giuseppe stopped talking, she took his hand. “You should have spoken earlier, darling. I didn’t know what to make of your strange mood. Now, at least, I understand. What should we do?”

“Nothing, for the moment,” Giuseppe said. “Let’s wait and see what Antonio finds out. Meanwhile, we should be careful. Don’t go anywhere unless a staff member accompanies you. Understood?”

“Yes, of course,” Matilda said. “Do you think we are in serious danger?”

“I can’t say,” Giuseppe admitted. “Neither can Antonio for the moment. Don’t worry though. He’ll protect us. I’ll leave now. I haven’t been at the office all day and I’d like to go in for a few hours before the day ends.”

“Please don’t go alone,” Matilda warned him. “Have Guglielmo or the gardener drive you.”

He nodded. “I’ll ask the gardener to take me to the office and then back home.”

“Don’t be late, darling,” Matilda added, glancing at the clock. “We have dinner guests.”

“Who?”

“Umberto, Costanza, and Raimondo. Dinner will be served at quarter to eight.”

“I’ll be home at seven-thirty,” he said, then left the blue parlor and asked Guglielmo to fetch his hat and light coat.

In the hallway, Eugenia pulled a rope that hung from the ceiling. There was no sound, because the other end of the rope, the one with a bell attached to it, was two floors down, in the doorman’s lodge. There were eight bells hanging on the lodge wall, one bell for each apartment, with a number written next to each, identifying the caller. When bell number three rang, Ottavio rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Dragging his feet, he took to the stairs, reaching Eugenia’s apartment two minutes later.

“Did you call, Miss Berilli?”

“Yes, Ottavio,” Eugenia said. “I’ll need a ride to Corso Solferino at seven o’clock tonight.”

“Should I ask for a metered automobile?” Ottavio inquired. “The Malagò car company provides very good service, I hear.”

“I don’t like those modern boxes,” Eugenia grumbled. “They’re loud. They shake you left and right. The last time I was in my brother’s automobile my stomach was sick for two days. I’d rather walk than ride on one of those clunkers.”

“In this case, Miss Berilli, a carriage will be here for you at seven.”

“I’ll be ready,” Eugenia said. She turned away from Ottavio, signaling that the end of that conversation had been reached.

Alone again, Eugenia changed into dinner clothes. Then, in the living room, she poured herself a shot of Sambuca and sat comfortably on the sofa, wondering what her best strategy would be to convince her brother to tell her all about his encounter with the Chief of Police.

The evening shadows had settled when, shortly after seven, Matilda answered the door. From the garden, the perfumes of the lemon trees floated towards her in waves, pushed by the light southern breeze. “Hello, dearest,” she said, welcoming Umberto and Costanza into the foyer.

They were both soberly elegant, Umberto wearing a vest under a dark-gray suit and Costanza in a mauve silk dress with puffy sleeves and pleated top. She had curly, raven hair; liquid, dark eyes; and an ashen complexion that often prompted people to wonder if she was ailing. She always took small steps, as if afraid of hurting herself while walking. She said, “Good evening, Matilda,” in a withering voice that could hardly be heard across the room.

“Please come this way,” Matilda invited them. “I need to talk to you about an important family matter.” She lowered her voice. “A disturbing matter.”

Once everyone found a seat in the living room, Matilda shared the conversation she had had with Giuseppe in the afternoon.

Umberto listened in silence, occasionally sighing and shaking his head. At the end of Matilda’s report, Costanza wept and Umberto said the matter shouldn’t be ignored and all the family members should take precautions. As he was still expressing his view on the matter’s gravity, Raimondo came in. He didn’t look like Umberto at all. He was one full palm shorter than his brother, stockier, and had none of Umberto’s stylish presence. His hair was uncombed and the puffiness around his eyes so pronounced one could hardly see his pupils.

“Where did you sleep last night, in a fish dump?” Umberto asked with contempt.

“Mind your own business,” Raimondo said in a hoarse voice.

“I am minding my own business,” Umberto specified. “That is, the law firm. The whole town is still talking about your last court performance.”

Raimondo slapped his forehead. “I forgot. Mister Perfect never makes mistakes.”

“I certainly don’t get drunk as a skunk every night,” Umberto rebutted. “At least, you could have cleaned up before coming here.”

“Stop it, both of you!” Matilda intervened. “There’ll be no fighting in this house.” Her voice sweetened. “Good evening, Raimondo. I’m glad you could come.”

Raimondo produced a tired smile. “I’m glad, too,” he said, sitting down.

For the second time that evening, Matilda summarized the threats and the reasons the Chief of Police had visited with Giuseppe earlier that afternoon.

“This family is cursed,” Raimondo mumbled when Matilda had finished.

Umberto hissed, “Our only curse is you.”

“I said no fighting,” Matilda repeated. Her lips stretched into a smile when Giuseppe entered.

Umberto stood from his chair. “Father,” he said, shaking Giuseppe’s hand.

As he acknowledged the rest of the family with sharp nods, Giuseppe noticed that Costanza was holding back tears.

“What are you crying for?” he asked.

“I told everyone about the letters and Antonio’s visit,” Matilda explained.

“That was unnecessary,” Giuseppe commented.

“I disagree, father,” Umberto said. “We all need to be careful. And we all want to help put an end to this outrage.”

Giuseppe turned his hands palms up. “I wish I knew how,” he said sadly. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I feel confused, as if I had fog in my brain.”

“I say we all need good food and a few bottles of the best wine,” Matilda stated, having noticed that Viola was at the door, signaling that dinner was served.

Eagerly, they all moved to the dining room and took their seats around the ebony table. Giuseppe opened a bottle of Dolcetto D’Alba and tasted it with more thoroughness and pleasure than he had tasted the Rossese at lunch. Viola served the soup, and soon the conversation steered away from the anonymous letters.

It was when Viola began serving the stoccafisso in umido, a stew of cod and potatoes that was typical of the Ligurian cuisine, that the peace of the family dinner was interrupted by two loud knocks.

“Who might this be?” Matilda wondered. “Viola,” she ordered, “please see who is at the door.”

“Yes, Madame,” Viola said, curtsying. She left the room, reappearing shortly to announce, “Miss Eugenia Berilli is here to see you, sir.”

Matilda raised her hands in irritation. Umberto and Costanza looked into each other’s eyes but said nothing. Raimondo let out a deep sigh.

“At this time? It’s past eight!” Giuseppe exclaimed, wondering what might prompt his sister to pay him a visit at such late hour. “Something happened?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Viola replied.

“Very well, Viola,” Giuseppe said. “Have Miss Berilli join us.”

Viola nodded and tiptoed out of the dining room.

“Really, Giuseppe. Don’t you think that she could find a better time to visit than while we’re having dinner?” Matilda complained, but received no answer because Eugenia was already in sight.

“Good evening, everyone,” Eugenia said, approaching the table. She gazed quickly about the room and grimaced when she noticed that Raimondo was there.

“Good evening, sister,” Giuseppe said, standing up and pointing to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

“Have you had dinner, Eugenia?” Matilda asked with a sour smile.

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

What a coincidence, Matilda thought, for she knew all too well how much her sister-in-law enjoyed eating in other people’s houses—for free. She spoke without concealing her sarcasm. “Then why don’t you have some stoccafisso, Eugenia, given that you are here?”

Eugenia said. “If you insist.”

“Viola, please serve Miss Berilli some dinner,” Matilda ordered. Then she picked up her silverware and closed herself in silence.

“What brings you here tonight, Aunt Eugenia?” Umberto asked.

“I’ll go straight to the point,” Eugenia said, turning to her brother. “I met with the Countess Marina Passaggi this afternoon. Apparently, her butler saw Antonio Sobrero arrive at this house shortly after lunch. And, according to what the Countess told me a few minutes ago when I stopped by her house on the way here, at least two hours went by before Antonio left. Now, I’ve been thinking. You were upset when I saw you this morning. I don’t recall having seen you so edgy in ages. Then the Chief of Police shows up. What’s the matter, Giuseppe? I know something is wrong here. I’m your sister. I have the right to know.”

Matilda squeezed her linen napkin. She hated Genoa, where one couldn’t sneeze without everyone knowing about it.

Giuseppe stared blankly at his sister. He sipped his wine to delay his reply. He knew that nothing short of the truth would satisfy Eugenia’s curiosity, but he had no heart for another conversation about the threatening letters. He wanted those thoughts out of his mind, at least while he was eating dinner. Besides, he was all too familiar with the restlessness of his sister’s tongue: should he tell Eugenia the truth, the story of the threatening letters would be dissected at Klainguti’s the following afternoon, something he didn’t have the slightest desire to see happen. On the spot, he decided to lie. He surveyed the space around him to make sure Viola wasn’t in the room, then said, “This morning Matilda discovered that two pieces of jewelry are missing from the safe. Antonio came to interrogate all the servants.”

“I see,” Eugenia said. “Which pieces are missing, Matilda?” she asked in a tone of false complacency.

“A pearl necklace and matching earrings,” Matilda said promptly.

Eugenia swallowed a piece of stoccafisso. “Any suspects?”

Giuseppe exchanged a quick glance with his wife. “Everyone in this household is a suspect,” he said. “We’ll spare no effort in our search for the felon who—”

Three heavy knocks stopped him in mid-sentence.

“Again?” Matilda exclaimed.

Umberto said, “What’s the matter tonight? I’ve never seen a more eventful dinner.”

Costanza giggled at her husband’s humor.

With a tap of her fingers, Matilda rang the table bell. “Viola,” she said when the maid came in, “see who’s at the door now.” Then she sat, immobile, with her hands at the sides of her plate. The three men sipped their wine, while Costanza fidgeted with her napkin.

The silence was soon broken by a shrill cry.

“What in the world …” Raimondo said.

When a second cry broke into the air, he sprung from the chair and rushed out of the dining room, followed by Umberto and his father. In the hallway, he saw Viola running towards him at full speed. The maid grabbed him by the sleeve and screamed, “Aaah! Aaah!”

Raimondo freed himself from the maid’s grasp. He said, “Calm down!”

“Viola!” Giuseppe called out in frightened surprise. “What’s the matter with you?”

Viola pointed a shaky hand in the direction of the house door. Hastily, Umberto, Raimondo, and Giuseppe entered the foyer. The room was deserted, the house door wide open. A dark elongated object was hanging from the door’s knocker. Beneath it, on the marble floor, was a red stain. Umberto approached the open door, stared at it, and recoiled. Giuseppe joined him. He froze when he recognized the silhouette of a black cat attached to the knocker by a string tied around the cat’s neck. A second glance was all it took him to realize that the cat was dead: it had an open wound on its abdomen, leaking blood. A finger dipped in that blood had written a wobbly five-letter word above the cat’s head: morte—death. As he heard his heart racing, Giuseppe let out a raspy sigh. Then his body folded like an accordion and hit the floor.