The House of Serenades

by Lina Simoni

  He drove slowly along Via San Vincenzo—a downtown street bustling with people during the daytime but deserted at that time of night–and parked in front of number eighty-three. A dusty black door led him into a humid foyer, where he climbed three stories up a poorly-lit stairwell to apartment fourteen. There he knocked and waited, telling himself he could hardly imagine Roberto Passalacqua as the author of the threatening letters and the gory mise-en-scène on the palazzina door. Twenty years of dedicated service had however taught him to mistrust appearances, so he prepared for an interrogation. Soon, he heard steps behind the closed door.

  “Who is it?” a voice asked.

  “Police. Open the door.”

  A bolt was turned, and the door opened one fourth of the way.

  “Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police,” Antonio said, squinting at the pale face that showed through the opening. “I believe we’ve met before. May I come in?”

  The door opened completely, and Antonio examined his first suspect. Roberto Passalacqua was an average-height, average-weight, thirtyish man, with a yellow complexion and an expression of sadness painted on his face. He was wearing a knee-length dark gown, brown slippers, and, underneath the gown, white pajamas. The man’s hair was short and spiky, like the bristles of a horse brush. Antonio looked into Roberto’s eyes and saw no fear. He spoke.

  “Good evening, Mister Passalacqua. I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to ask you a personal question.”

  Roberto waved for Antonio to sit down. “Sure. Go ahead,” he said.

  “Where were you tonight between eight and eight-thirty?”

  Stupefaction took hold of Roberto’s face. “Why?”

  “Please answer my question, Mister Passalacqua,” Antonio insisted. “Then I’ll tell you what I can about this matter.”

  “I was in my office, at City Hall. I was doing some,” he paused, “administrative work.”

  “So late?” Antonio marveled.

  “I work late almost every day,” Roberto explained. He paused. “I don’t have much of a life.”

  “Did someone see you in your office at that time?” Antonio inquired.

  “Yes,” Roberto nodded. “The Mayor was with me.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No. All the employees leave at five. May I know what this is about?”

  “The life of a premier citizen of this town,” Antonio explained, “was threatened several times during the past days. Tonight, between eight-fifteen and eight-twenty-five, a criminal act was perpetrated against him in his own home. As a result, he fainted. His heart is weak. Should he die, the man who carried out the act could be charged with manslaughter.”

  “My god,” Roberto exclaimed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “How would I be involved?”

  “The citizen in question,” Antonio explained, “named you a suspect because he feels you have reasons for disliking him to the point of wanting him dead.”

  “Me?” Roberto marveled. “Who is this citizen who thinks I want him dead?”

  Antonio spoke slowly, his eyes stuck to Roberto’s, ready to catch a glimpse of a reaction. “Giuseppe Berilli, the lawyer.”

  Roberto gasped. “Giuseppe Berilli?”

  Antonio nodded.

  “It’s ridiculous!” Roberto exclaimed. “True, he fired me for the wrong reasons, and I did wish him dead more than once during the weeks that followed my dismissal, but I never carried out any criminal act. I’d never do such a thing. And now … I have a job at City Hall and I like it. I couldn’t care less about that old goat.”

  “Tell me, Mister Passalacqua, are you religious?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How often do you go to church?”

  “Never. I am a Socialist,” Roberto said proudly. “I’m against churches. Why?”

  “The threatening letters talk about God and Hell.”

  Roberto laughed. “No, that wouldn’t be me, Mister Sobrero.”

  Antonio pondered. He hadn’t seen on Roberto’s face or in his voice the hesitation and discomfort that were typical of criminals forced to defend themselves with lies. He continued, nevertheless, to play the part of the zealous police officer.

  “I’ll have to crosscheck your story with the Mayor, but we can wait until tomorrow. I see no point in disturbing Mister Cortimiglia at such late hour. Now, would you mind showing me a sample of your handwriting? I’d like to compare it to the handwriting in the letters.”

  Roberto smiled. “Not a problem,” he said. Calmly, he opened a drawer and pulled out several sheets of paper. “These are two letters I wrote today,” he said, handing Antonio the sheets. “And the rest are job-related notes. I was thinking … Perhaps there is a point in talking to the Mayor tonight. He has a meeting with Theodore Roosevelt scheduled for tomorrow morning and will be leaving town immediately afterwards. He and his wife will be driving to Verona to attend a wedding. They won’t be back for several days. If you allow me to say so, I’d like to see this regrettable matter taken care of before the Mayor leaves. I don’t like the idea of having to wait days before being discharged.”

  Antonio looked carefully at the samples of Roberto Passalacqua’s handwriting. The characters were long, narrow, and crowded together, with a strong slant to the right, nothing like the handwriting in the threatening letters, whose characters were round, fat, and slanted slightly backwards. He decided, nonetheless, that he needed the testimony of a witness before discharging Roberto completely.

  He said, “I can understand your concern, Mister Passalacqua. Why don’t you get dressed and follow me to the Mayor’s residence? He might be still awake. We’ll hear what he has to say and, if all is well, you’ll be able to go home and sleep tight.”

  “Perhaps,” Roberto suggested as uneasiness blurred his speech, “we could use the telephone? Across the street—”

  “I like to look at people’s faces when I ask questions,” Antonio said firmly.

  Roberto rose from the sofa. “It’ll be a minute,” he said, rushing to his bedroom to change into street clothes.

  While Antonio drove up Via San Vincenzo, Roberto said, “The Mayor is not at home tonight.”

  “Where is he?” Antonio asked.

  Roberto hesitated. “He went to a party. Sort of.”

  “Would you mind telling me where this party is so we can go there and end this matter?” Antonio asked, beginning to show his irritation.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” Roberto babbled.

  “Say it, damn it!” Antonio shouted. “It’s eleven-thirty at night!”

  “He’s at the Luna,” Roberto murmured.

  “The brothel?” Antonio exclaimed.

  Roberto nodded. “There’s a birthday party there, and he’s the guest of honor.”

  Antonio couldn’t hold back a smile. He was well aware of Cesare Cortmiglia’s famous brothel life, but he thought he had given it up when he had become Mayor.

  “It’s not what you think,” Roberto said, noticing the sarcasm on the policeman’s face. “He’s only there for the birthday party. He’s not using the brothel.”

  “Fine,” Antonio said, stifling a laugh. “Let’s go to the Luna and find out how the party is playing out.”

  Two hundred meters from the corner of Vico del Pepe, Antonio parked the car—the caruggi were far too narrow to continue driving. Hastily, the two men followed the silent streets, shortly stopping in front of the Luna door. Their knocks were answered by Madam C, the brothel owner, who grimaced at the sight of a high police functionary standing at her door. Then she recognized Roberto.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked, surprised, as odors of food, liquor, and cigarette smoke made their way out into the street.

  “Sorry to bother you, Madam,” Roberto babbled. “I need to talk to the Mayor for a moment.”

  Cesare Cortimiglia arrived at the door with his pipe in his mouth and a look of confusion on his face. “It’d better be good, Roberto,” he said, “for interrupting m
e like this.” Then he noticed Antonio. “What’s going on?”

  Antonio stepped forward. “Good evening, Mayor. Would you mind telling me where your secretary was between eight and eight-thirty tonight?”

  Cesare thought a moment. “He was at City Hall, with me. I left the office at eight-thirty and came directly here. Why?”

  “Never mind, Mayor,” Antonio said humorously. “Enjoy your party.”

  Cesare shook his head, turned around, and closed the Luna door behind him.

  Back at the car, Antonio said to Roberto, “You can go home now. Do you need a ride?”

  “I’ll walk,” Roberto said, heading on foot down the road.

  Antonio nodded, started the car, and drove west, toward Piazza della Nunziata.

  He spotted the bakery from across the street. Its window was dark, and its door tightly shut. “To be expected,” he muttered as he glanced once more at the sheet with the suspects’ addresses written on it. After a cautious look about, he walked two short blocks to Via Lomellini, stopping in front of a somber apartment building with a portal decorated with the relief of a sun and a moon. He took his watch out his pocket: it was past midnight. He placed the tips of his fingers on the portal and pushed twice: the portal didn’t budge. So he lifted the knocker, a baton in the shape of a ship anchor, and let it drop. A loud bang echoed inside and outside the building. Antonio waited a moment then dropped the knocker one more time. Soon, he heard the muffled sounds of a human voice and the shuffle of steps approaching the portal from inside.

  “Who is it?” the voice said. “Open the door. Police.”

  There was a clanking of chains and a jangling of keys then the door opened with a long squeak. Antonio saw an old man with flaming hawk eyes. His hair was long and white, and he was wearing a threadbare night gown cut at the calves. His feet were tucked into black shoes torn open at the toes, and his hands were long and scrawny, like talons. One of them was holding a lamp.

  “What do you want?” the man asked in a hoarse voice.

  Antonio noticed that the man’s breath stank of alcohol. “Are you the janitor?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Who are you?”

  “I’m looking for Ivano Bo, the baker’s son. He lives in apartment 6C.”

  The janitor glared at Antonio. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police. Is Ivano Bo here?”

  The man gave Antonio a look of mistrust. Then he pointed a finger towards the stairs. “He sure lives here. Apartment 6C, like you said, but you won’t find him.”

  Antonio asked, “What does he do instead of sleeping?”

  “Women. Bars. La bella vita.”

  So Ivano is a libertine, Antonio mused. He felt sympathy for Giuseppe. No father would want his daughter to befriend a man of such habits. “Where does Mister Bo meet his women?” he asked.

  The janitor opened the palm of his hand. “I don’t remember.”

  Antonio understood the gesture. He reached for his wallet and slipped out two banknotes. “Does this refresh your memory?”

  The man hid the banknotes in the sleeve of his night gown. “Maybe,” he said. “Ivano goes to one of two places. Caffe’ del Gambero is one.”

  “Caffe’ del Gambero?” Antonio repeated, intrigued. He was acquainted with the owner of that bar, a ruthless woman named Francesca Barone, suspected of running an under-age prostitution ring out of her establishment. The police had never been able to find a shred of proof against her, so her place was still open. The fact that Ivano was a regular at Caffe’ del Gambero didn’t speak in the man’s favor. Antonio cleared his throat. “What about the second place?”

  The janitor shook his head. “My memory isn’t doing well tonight.”

  Antonio slipped another banknote out of his wallet.

  The man snatched it with the greed of a magpie. “Taverna del Marinaio,” he said.

  “Where is that?” Antonio asked.

  “Go to Piazza Banchi then walk towards the port. The place will be fifty meters down the first caruggio on your right.” He stifled a laugh. “You won’t miss it.”

  “Would you happen to know in which of the two places Mister Bo could be right now?”

  “No.”

  Antonio looked straight at the man. “I was told that his father, Corrado Bo, also lives in this building. Is that true?”

  The man nodded. “Same apartment, 6C.”

  “Is he in now?”

  “Maybe.”

  Antonio stepped in. “Thank you,” he said then headed towards one of three stairwells, the one labeled with a large C.

  Upstairs, he knocked on the door of apartment six. The door opened immediately.

  “Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police,” Antonio told the small man who was looking at him through the open doorway.

  The man had curly gray hair. The tip of his nose was turned up, and his thick dry lips were marked in places by deep cracks. His face was a web of wrinkles.

  “I’m sorry about the late hour,” Antonio said kindly. “I’d like to ask you a simple question.”

  “What question?” Corrado inquired. Then he added, “I thought you were my son.”

  “This is about your son, Mister Bo.”

  Corrado flinched. His voice was faint when he asked, “Something happened to him?”

  “Not necessarily, but I need to know where he was tonight between eight and eight-thirty. Do you have any idea?”

  Corrado gave Antonio a lost look. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m trying to establish that, Mister Bo. Please answer my question. Do you know where your son was between eight and eight-thirty?”

  Corrado took a moment to think. Then he said, “He was at the bakery with me, preparing the dough for the morning loaves.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Corrado said decisively. “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know, Mister Bo. I was hoping he’d be here.” He started down the stairs. “Thanks for your help. Sorry for waking you up.”

  “You didn’t wake me up,” Corrado murmured, closing the door. “I only sleep one hour per night.”

  Out in the street, Antonio reviewed his encounter with Corrado Bo. Perhaps the baker had lied to protect his son. Or perhaps he had told the truth. No question, he had reacted strongly when he had heard that the police visit concerned his son. His face had blanched and his eyes had become fearful, as if he had been expecting bad news that night. Fear of the inevitable, that’s what Antonio had read in the man’s eyes, and he was determined to find out why. Time to meet young Ivano, he said to himself as he walked back to Piazza della Nunziata. He decided to leave his car parked in the piazza and hire a carriage: where he was headed the streets were much too narrow for an automobile, and he was better off unnoticed. He waved to a coachman. “Caffe’ del Gambero,” he said, jumping aboard.

  The coachman gave him a clever look. “Looking for fun, sir?”

  “It’s a police matter,” Antonio said coldly.

  “Ah, police,” the coachman chanted. “I suppose policemen are entitled to some fun too, right?”

  Antonio sighed, “Just drive.”

  “As you say, sir,” the coachman chuckled with amusement. Soon the horse began to walk.

  The carriage crossed Piazza della Nunziata and clopped its way through the tight passageways of the caruggi. The silence was heavy, and the light of the moon made the cobblestones shine. The horse suddenly neighed, and the coachman quieted it with an aaah. He turned to face his passenger. “You after some bum?”

  Antonio Sobrero squinted his eyes. He said, “I’m not sure.”

  As the horse continued its solitary nightly walk, Antonio wondered what kind of person Ivano Bo was to frequent such objectionable locales. Caffe’ del Gambero was not a place for everyone, and although he didn’t know Taverna del Marinaio, he was ready to bet it wasn’t the kind of establishment a respectable man would bring his wife to for espresso and brioche on Sunday
. Perhaps Giuseppe had been correct in assuming Ivano might be the perpetrator. There was, however, Corrado Bo’s testimony that his son was at the bakery at the time the cat was being placed on the Berillis’ door. Antonio shook his head in puzzlement. He yawned. He was starting to feel tired.

  “If Ivano Bo is not at Caffe’ del Gambero,” he grumbled, “I’ll go straight to sleep. There’s a limit to what a man can do in one night.”

  When the coachman stopped the horse, Antonio exited the vehicle and said, “Wait here. Don’t leave without me.”

  “I won’t, Mister Policeman. I need my dough. I don’t work for free. No, sir.”

  Antonio gave the coachman a stare. On foot, he followed a narrow, dark road, seemingly quiet to the untrained eye. From experience, Antonio knew there was bound to be action behind its closed doors. He was glad to be in his street clothes rather than in his uniform, as the police were not welcome in that part of town. It wasn’t long before he stopped in front of a doorway guarded by a man with large shoulders and an unshaven red beard.

  “May I?” Antonio said, pointing at the door.

  The man stepped aside. “Welcome to Caffe’ del Gambero,” he said in a deep voice.

  Nodding, Antonio stepped in.

  He entered a dimly lit, large room with a dozen round tables spread about the floor. Half the tables were occupied by male customers of various ages, drinking and talking or playing cards. The free tables were covered with empty bottles and used glasses. The only women on the floor were the waitresses, who were busy serving and cleaning. On the right side of the room was the bar counter, lined up with stools and more men drinking and talking. The smoke was thick, the air heavy with the smell of tobacco and wine. Behind the counter were two waitresses and a mature woman—thin, short, and draped in a tight and revealing green dress. Her features were not clearly visible in the soft light and through the curtain of smoke, but Antonio knew she was Francesca Barone. He walked up to her and said, “Good evening. Are you the owner of this establishment?”