by Lina Simoni
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?”