The House of Serenades

by Lina Simoni

  On Piazza San Matteo her wrathful walk came to a halt in front of a six-story building designed in the seventeenth century by one of her ancestors. She entered it through a grand foyer with dark slate floors, climbed two stories, and dashed into the offices of Berilli e Figli (Berilli and Sons)—the family legal firm.

  “My brother, please,” she barked at the pale clerk in suit and tie who was seated at the reception desk.

  “Mister Berilli is not in today,” the clerk said with all the kindness he could gather.

  Eugenia knitted her brow. “Why?”

  “His butler informed us this morning that Mister Berilli is indisposed. He’s at home, I believe. Resting.”

  She gave the clerk a bleak look, wondering if she should believe his words. Her brother had avoided her in the past days. It was nothing new. Over the years, Giuseppe had pushed her steadily aside, treating her more and more like a stranger. She had felt like a discarded doll at times. Her hurt pride stung her in the stomach. On the other hand, Giuseppe could truly be indisposed, considering his recent accident and how disconsolate he had looked on the anniversary of Caterina’s death. She asked, “Do you know what’s wrong? Is he ill from his horse accident? Was a doctor called?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Miss Berilli,” the clerk said softly. “Mister Raimondo is here. Would you like to see to him instead?”

  “God no,” Eugenia exclaimed, leaving the office at once. “An incompetent gigolo,” she commented on the way down the stairs, “is not the kind of person I want to discuss my problems with today.”

  Back in the street, she wandered aimlessly alongside shoppers and passersby, stopping at some point in front of the crowded windows of a clothing store. She glanced distractedly at the merchandise on display while she debated whether she should go back home and forget all about the nurse’s funeral and her brother’s illness—possibly a fake one—or continue to investigate. The answer came to her loud and clear. She knew exactly where the investigation would take her, so she made a sharp right turn and headed up Salita San Matteo, a steep caruggio that opened at the top onto the round Piazza De Ferrari, the pumping heart of the city. At the edge of the piazza, short of breath, she stood still a while, closing the parasol and setting its tip on the ground for balance. She was on the west sidewalk, from where she had a long view of the concentric circles of tram rails that girdled the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the national hero who had united the North and South of Italy into one country. A large number of electric trams were crowding the road, either in motion along the inner circles or standing along the outer rails, waiting for their turn to leave. She pointed her parasol at the closest tram. “I’m not getting on one of those monsters,” she stated, then walked to the carriage area located on the south side of the piazza, in a corner where the stench of manure and horse breath made her feel at ease and in touch with the way of life she had known in her younger years. Several horses stood harnessed to carriages. She waved twice, and an older man who was leaning against a pole tossed his cigarette and dragged his feet towards her.

  “Take your time,” Eugenia muttered without meaning it.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” the man said, holding her hand to help her climb.

  “If you say so,” she grunted as she settled in her seat. Once firmly aboard, she ordered, “To the west end of Corso Solferino. The Berillis’ residence.”

  Unhurriedly, the coachman took his place. “Haaa!” he shouted, and the horse began to walk.

  Shortly, the carriage left downtown, tackling the slopes leading to the upper city. The traffic subsided and the sounds faded. In that peace, Eugenia’s breathing deepened. As the horse clopped its way uphill, her tense muscles eased, and she slumped ever so slightly in her seat.

  The coachman noticed his passenger’s change of mood. He said, “Isn’t this a wonderful ride?”

  Eugenia answered that yes, the ride was wonderful. She closed her eyes and angled her face toward the sun. “We’re so lucky,” she murmured, referring to the fact that winters in Genoa hardly felt like winters at all with the hills damming the freezing air blowing from the Swiss and French Alps.

  She was still musing over Genoa’s unique, blessed climate when the carriage reached Corso Solferino, a tract of a large, winding road that ran east to west along the flank of the hill. “Stop here,” Eugenia said as the horse came to a bend in the road.

  The coachman pulled in the reins and the carriage slowed to a halt in front of a stately three-story home with thick stone walls sprinkled with the lavender and red shades of wisteria and bougainvillea. It was the Berillis’ residence, a mansion the family members had long ago nicknamed palazzina, little palace. Swiftly, Eugenia stepped through an iron gate. A walkway surrounded by well-groomed gardens spanned the space between the gate and the house. Halfway through it, she stopped and stared at a flowerbed where three pink hydrangeas were in bloom. Her heart sank as she remembered that those hydrangeas were the last flowers Caterina had cut.

  A little over two years earlier Eugenia had come to the palazzina on a Saturday morning and as she had crossed the garden she had heard a gentle, mellow voice saying, “Good morning, Aunt Eugenia. I had no idea you were coming.”

  It was Caterina’s voice. She was standing next to the hydrangeas, gardening scissors in hand, her long, blonde hair shimmering in the morning light.

  “Good morning, dear,” Eugenia said, taking a step towards her niece. “You still have a passion for gardening, I see.”

  “I’m making a bouquet for the lunch table,” Caterina explained.

  What a darling, Eugenia thought to herself. It was hard to believe Caterina would soon be eighteen. To Eugenia, the days she had held Caterina in her arms and sung her lullabies felt like yesterday. Clearly, Caterina was no longer a child, but she looked and acted like one, with her innocence, her luminous smiles and contagious laughter, her oblivion to the ugliness around her.

  Eugenia said, “I’m sure your bouquet will be beautiful.” She paused. “You look particularly beautiful today. Radiant, I should say. Your eyes are greener than usual. Is there something I should know?”

  “Not really,” Caterina replied.

  Eugenia took some time admiring her niece’s glittering beauty. Then she asked, “Is your mother badmouthing me these days?”

  “Nobody badmouths you, Aunt Eugenia,” Caterina giggled.

  She’s so innocent, Eugenia thought, so sweet. “Watch your fingers, dear. Those big scissors look scary.”

  How could anyone have foreseen on that calm, ordinary day that a deadly illness would soon take Caterina away? And that two years had already gone by? A pang of loss clenched Eugenia’s stomach. Sighing, she climbed the four steps that led to the front door and knocked.

  The door opened shortly, and Guglielmo, the Berillis’ butler, let Eugenia in the foyer with a bow. He was a tall man in his sixties, with dark hair turning gray at the temple, a Greek nose, and a stony expression painted on his thin, oblong face.

  “I’m here to see Mister Berilli,” Eugenia said once Guglielmo had closed the door behind her.

  “Mister Berilli is not well today,” Guglielmo explained in a poised, deferential voice.

  She gave Guglielmo her parasol. “So I hear. Is he ill? Is he still sore from the horse accident?”

  “I am not sure, Miss Berilli,” Guglielmo said. “He hasn’t spoken to any member of the staff since this morning, when he informed us he wouldn’t be going to work today.”

  “Is he in bed?” she asked.

  “Mister Berilli is in the reading room,” Guglielmo specified, “and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “Nonsense,” Eugenia said. Briskly, she crossed the foyer and followed the main hallway to the end. She opened the reading-room door without knocking. “Giuseppe,” she exclaimed, “what is this illness of yours all about? Is it your throat? Your lungs? Or is it that silly horse accident of yours?”

  Giuseppe Berilli jolted in his seat. Sunlight fell on him from
the four-pane window, making his egg-bald head shine. He was short and stocky, a striking contrast to his sister’s lanky build. His outfit, a dark brown suit with matching cravat, couldn’t hide his bulging midsection.

  “Come in,” he quipped.

  Eugenia missed the sarcasm. “I’m already in,” she said, “can’t you see?”

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Didn’t Guglielmo tell you that I want to be alone?”

  “Yes, but I have something important to tell you,” Eugenia insisted. She examined him closely. “You don’t look sick at all.”

  “What you think about my health is not the point. How I feel is the point, and I don’t feel well today. I’m sure that what you have to say can wait until tomorrow.”

  “I’m afraid not. Tomorrow may be too late.”

  Giuseppe stood up and approached a mahogany desk. “Guglielmo will accompany you to the door.” He opened his hand and hit a table bell.

  “Just a minute, brother. You should be listening to me when I want to talk. You owe me, remember?”

  “Let’s not do this again, Eugenia. Not today, please. My shoulder hurts. My head hurts. Guglielmo!”

  Eugenia stomped her right foot. “Let’s not forget that the only reason I live in the apartment on Via San Lorenzo instead of living in this house, half of which I rightfully owned before you saw fit to kick me out, is to please you and your regal consort, Matilda. Five minutes of your time won’t kill you.”

  Quietly, Guglielmo had come in and stood now in a corner of the room.

  “Miss Berilli is leaving.” Giuseppe said. “See her to the door.”

  “Not before I’ve said what I came to say,” Eugenia stated.

  Giuseppe cupped his hands on his ears.

  Guglielmo approached Eugenia. “This way, Miss,” he said, bowing.

  Eugenia took one step sideways. “Have you heard about that nurse, Giuseppe, what’s her name …?”

  “What nurse?” Giuseppe whined.

  “Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse.”

  Giuseppe showed a hint of interest. “What about Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “What’s her name again?” Giuseppe asked.

  “Palmira Bevilacqua.”

  “Palmira Bevilacqua,” he repeated. “I must have met her if she worked for Doctor Sciaccaluga. I can’t remember her face though.”

  “Her face is not important,” Eugenia said. “The important thing is that she’s dead and—

  “Was she sick?” he asked, slumping back into the armchair.

  “Not for long,” Eugenia explained. “Her death was quite sudden, I understand. Now, what do you think of this: a certain Father Camillo is going to hold Palmira’s funeral in the cathedral. Do you understand? In the cathedral!”

  “Unusual,” Giuseppe admitted.

  “Unusual? I say it’s scandalous,” Eugenia said. “I was thinking of having a conversation with the Archbishop on the subject. Perhaps you should do the same. Privileges are privileges. What is the world coming to these days?”

  “All right,” Giuseppe conceded. “I’ll talk to the Archbishop. Will you please leave now? Guglielmo!”

  “You should also talk to Doctor Sciaccaluga,” Eugenia went on, “and find out if he’s the one who arranged the funeral.” She grimaced, “You are friends with him, are you not?”

  “I’ll ask him as soon as I see him,” Giuseppe replied, ignoring the mockery in his sister’s voice. “Happy? Now go!”

  “I see,” Eugenia mumbled. “You think I’m a nuisance. Fine. I’ll go.” She took the parasol from Guglielmo’s hand and marched to the house door, which she opened without waiting for the butler to do the honors.

  “Are you leaving?” a quivering voice asked as Eugenia was about to set foot outside.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Eugenia caught a glimpse of Matilda Pellettieri, Giuseppe’s wife, standing in the left corner of the foyer. She was wearing a blue silk dress with white lace along the hem and the neckline. Both the dress style and color enhanced her gracious tall figure and the intensity of her blue-green eyes. Her silvery hair was gathered in a bun fastened with three ivory pins carved in delicate filigree.

  “Yes,” Eugenia said brusquely, “I’m leaving. I came to see your husband, but he’s in a bad mood, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Matilda approached her at the door. “I did notice,” she said. “He has been in that mood for several days. He doesn’t talk to anyone and barely eats. All he does is spread poultices on his shoulder, ten times a day. I’m sure it’s still sore from the horse accident, but ten times a day … Doctor Sciaccaluga said three times a day. Giuseppe isn’t listening to anyone. Did he say anything to you?”

  Eugenia shook her head. “Only that he wants to be alone. He doesn’t look sick, if you want my opinion, but he didn’t go to the office today, so something isn’t right.”

  “He didn’t go yesterday either,” said a disconsolate Matilda.

  “He looked … scared,” Eugenia said. “Perhaps that horse frightened him more than we think.” She paused then lowered her voice. “Or the anniversary of Caterina’s death is tearing him apart.”

  “Perhaps,” Matilda murmured. “I must say, I’ve never seen Giuseppe skip work two days in a row. He even went to the office the day after Caterina’s funeral. Now he acts like he doesn’t care about his profession anymore.”

  Eugenia’s expression hardened. “We must find out what’s eating him. People are talking about the D’Onofrio’s case. My neighbor asked me about it this morning. She said that Giuseppe used to be such a good lawyer. Used to be, can you believe it?”

  “He has been neglecting everything recently,” Matilda said sadly, “I don’t know why.”

  “If you ask me,” Eugenia quipped, “Doctor Sciaccaluga has a bad influence on Giuseppe. I still don’t see the reason for their friendship to continue.”

  “Me neither,” Matilda sighed.

  Eugenia’s voice betrayed her anger. “If Giuseppe keeps acting this way, he will ruin his reputation as a lawyer and that of the family along with it. I won’t allow it.” She pointed a finger at Matilda. “And you shouldn’t either.”

  “Perhaps he needs space for a day or two,” Matilda said unconvincingly. She continued, “Something is worrying him, I’m sure. He spent all of last night in the reading room. He didn’t even go to bed.” She paused a moment then said, “I don’t know what to make of all this. But I don’t want to keep you, Eugenia. Goodbye.”

  Of course she doesn’t want to keep me, Eugenia grumbled to herself. She can’t wait for me to leave. If it were her choice, I wouldn’t be able to set foot in this house. “Very well, Matilda,” she said, stepping outside, “I’ll go.” Through the open door she handed Matilda a biting smile. “For the time being.”

  2

  IN THE READING ROOM, the private retreat he wouldn’t allow anyone else to use, Giuseppe was sitting limply on the armchair, relieved that Eugenia had finally decided to leave. The relief, however, lasted only a short moment. With a long, deep sigh, he set his elbows on his knees and his head in his cupped hands. He felt shrunken, as if he had aged prematurely twenty years. Five days earlier a sorrel cart horse had reared up in the middle of the busy Piazza San Matteo. Ignoring the cries of its driver and the pulls on the reins, it had overturned everything in a three-meter radius with the fury of its hooves: a newspaper kiosk, the stand where the Pedevilla sisters sold illegal lottery numbers, and Giuseppe himself, who was unknowingly passing by. For an instant he was suspended in air. Then he landed ungracefully, buttocks in moist excrements and back on the cobblestones, and was transfixed by an acute pain where the hoof had hit his shoulder. He lay on the pavement clutching himself and moaning, while a small crowd surrounded him, calling his name and voicing his ill-luck.

  “Don’t you dare!” Giuseppe screamed the moment he spotted a tripod topped by photographic gear. There was a popping sound then the photographer grabbed tripo
d and camera and vanished amidst the crowd. It took the strength of three men to tame the horse and that of two to return the lawyer to his feet.

  Matilda got word of the mishap one hour later, but was told not to go to Piazza San Matteo as Giuseppe was no longer there, and she shouldn’t go to the hospital either, the informant specified, as, according to Giuseppe, her presence there would do more harm than good, giving only more visibility to the disgrace. All Mister Berilli was asking for was a set of fresh clothes. Matilda picked out the clothes, handed them to a chambermaid, and told her to go.

  Later, when he arrived at the palazzina, Giuseppe stated in a curt, raucous voice that he had no broken bones, only a contusion to be treated with poultices of comfrey and arnica montana, and would not be discussing the accident with anybody—not that day, not ever. Matilda, who knew better than to question her husband when he was in a foul mood, sighed and went to the garden to pick flowers.

  The next morning Il Secolo XIX, Genoa’s newspaper, paraded two pictures of the accident on its front page. The first picture showed Giuseppe lying on the cobblestones; the second was a close-up of the mad horse. The entire town laughed at the sight of the fallen lawyer. Days later, colleagues, acquaintances, and family members were still digging for details and inquiring about the extent of Giuseppe’s injuries and pain.