by Lina Simoni
“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?”
Eugeni
a 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.
5
IN HIS MODEST APARTMENT at the outskirt of downtown, Damiano Sciaccaluga was seated on his bed, legs dangling off the side, holding in hand a stack of banknotes. He was a short man in his fifties with an aquiline nose and the eyes of a ferret. Despite his thin constitution, he had a double chin and a fat neck that always kept his shirt collar tight. He winced when the doorbell rang. He hated being called after hours, especially while he was busy with personal matters, so he decided to ignore the bell and continue what he had set about: counting money. He concentrated, for he didn’t want to lose count. When the bell rang again, he sighed, “What now?” He hid the banknotes under the pillow, walked to the door, and whispered, “Who’s there?”
“Umberto Berilli,” a voice answered. “Open up.”
The moment he heard the name Berilli, Damiano opened the door wide. He knew right away something must be the matter: Umberto’s face was pale, his eyes fearful.
“Hurry up, doctor!” Umberto exclaimed. “My father fainted in the foyer. With a hand pressed against his heart!”
At that, Damiano knew he should prepare for the worst. Hat in one hand, bag in the other, he rushed out of the apartment, following Umberto across the street, where the Berillis’ roofless automobile was parked with the engine running. Umberto sat at the wheel, Damiano on the passenger’s side. The doctor grabbed the edge of his seat. “Quickly, my boy,” he said, “before it’s too late.”
Soon the two men were heading up steep roads. Umberto kept silent as he drove, concentrating on the streets’ twists and turns, for which Doctor Sciaccaluga was most grateful as he was in no mood for conversation and in great need of calming his nerves and regain his composure. The last thing he had needed that night was an emergency call, but the call had come from the Berillis, and how could he have said no? He cared for the Berillis more than for the rest of his patients. Giuseppe, in particular, was a very special client.
In April of 1908, one short week after Caterina’s death, Giuseppe, who had never had a personal friend in his life, had surprised everyone by inviting Damiano Sciaccaluga, his doctor, a middle-class man without wealth, to dine at the palazzina. In attendance were the Mayor and his wife, the owner of a shipping company with his elderly mother, and a Parisian Countess vacationing on Genoa’s Riviera. They had all looked upon Damiano’s presence at the table as a curiosity, an extravagance very much at odd with the conventional life their hosts were known for leading. Damiano played along as gracefully as his social extraction allowed him, smiling right and left but in reality feeling like a fish out of water. The conversation topics before, during, and after dinner—the Countess’s horses, the Mayor’s wife’s Tuscan estate, the shipowner’s latest trip to a spa in Baden Baden, and the difficulty getting good house help—were far out of his league. His fear of being inadequate was sculpted in the clumsiness of his movements and the awkwardness of his colloquial exchanges. All along, he said very little of his own, limiting his contribution to nodding or murmuring ahs and ohs. No one but Giuseppe ever addressed him directly in any way. After such a miserable performance, Matilda and the guests thought for sure the doctor would never be invited to the palazzina again. Instead, to everyone’s dismay, from that day forward Damiano graced every single social function in the Berillis’ home and accompanied Giuseppe to a number of events reserved for the high society.
Giuseppe’s relatives and many of his peers had disapproved of that friendship from the very start, yet no one dared say more than a few words to Giuseppe, surmising that his daughter’s sudden death was blinding him with pain; that such pain was to blame for Giuseppe’s unprecedented need for a personal friend; and that in his confusion Giuseppe had not realized that by befriending Damiano Sciaccaluga of all people he had cracked open the class boundaries and undermined the power of the upper class in its entirety.
Matilda couldn’t get herself to look at Doctor Sciaccaluga, let alone socialize with him. Over the years he had been at the palazzina many times in his function of family doctor, and a
s such he had only been admitted to the foyer, the patients’ bedrooms, and occasionally the reading room when the call was about Giuseppe’s heart condition. Never in all that time had he been admitted to the social areas, such as the living and dining rooms, and he had always addressed the lady of the house as Madame and Giuseppe as Mister Berilli or Sir—as was expected of a man of an inferior class. But on the day following his very first dinner invitation Damiano returned to the palazzina with a newly-forged look of superiority on his face. Matilda ran into him in the foyer, and her first thought was that he had come for the weekly check on Giuseppe. He approached her with a beaming smile.
“Matilda,” he said cheerfully, taking her hand and bowing to kiss it, “it’s so wonderful to see you again. You look radiant.”
Matilda stiffened and retracted her hand. “I don’t recall having given you permission to address me by my first name,” she said with a stinging voice. Her eyes had turned glacial.
“Matilda, dear, I don’t understand,” Doctor Sciaccaluga said. “We should be friends.”
“I think not,” Matilda said, giving him a look half of pity, half of disdain.
Doctor Sciaccaluga directed his astute ferret eyes at her. “Perhaps I should see Giuseppe about this. Is he at home?”
“In the reading room,” Matilda said sharply. “I assume you know your way.”
The comradeship between Giuseppe and Damiano was no temporary whim, Matilda and her social acquaintances soon found out. The two became inseparable, like brothers. They met often for lunch on workdays, they played bocce together on Sundays after church, and when Matilda and Giuseppe went to dinner parties or to the theater or to any public function Damiano relentlessly tagged along, driving Matilda crazy. Her insistence that Giuseppe get rid of him had no effect whatsoever.
In the car, a few turns from the palazzina, Umberto broke the silence. “I fear for my father’s life, doctor. I’ve never seen him faint like this before.”
“There are many reasons for fainting, dear Umberto,” Damiano pointed out in a shaky voice. “We’ll know soon enough what the causes are.” He cleared his throat twice, hoping Umberto would stop talking. He had no intention of sharing with him what was going through his mind: should Giuseppe die, the secret he, and only he, knew would lose its power. Everything he had worked so hard for would be destroyed. His friendship with Giuseppe had turned his life around, and he had no intention of letting anything or anyone, not even death, interfere with it.