The House of Serenades

by Lina Simoni

  At dawn, in a mist of fog and drizzle, she boarded a coach and gave the coachman directions. The trip across the countryside lasted close to half an hour, during which Matilda relived every detail of the previous trip, its tragic outcome, its absurdity. There was fog over the fields, which were deserted and soaked by the morning dew. She could hear the horse’s hooves and the wheels slush along the dirt road. In front of the convent gate she looked for the bell Giuseppe had rung two years earlier. The bell, however, wasn’t there. Puzzled, Matilda searched for the bell in the nearby bushes, pulling branches and shoving leaves aside. There was no bell anywhere. Tears flowed down her cheeks. How was she supposed to get in? How was she supposed to let the nuns know that she was there? In a panic, she took hold of two gate posts and thrust her face forward, cheeks against the iron. She shouted, “Hello? Hello?”

  Ten minutes later, when Matilda’s strained vocal chords could emit only scratchy, faint sounds, three silhouettes emerged from the tree grove and walked in small, tentative steps towards the gate. They were nuns, and like on the day of Caterina’s arrival, they were dressed in black and veiled.

  “Finally,” Matilda exclaimed with the little voice she had left. “I have been calling for a long time. No bell?”

  Through the veils, the nuns stared at Matilda without moving.

  “I am Matilda Pellettieri, Caterina Berilli’s mother,” Matilda explained. “I’m here to see my daughter. Please take me to her.”

  The nuns turned to each other and then back to Matilda. One of them lifted an arm and opened the palm of her hand. Matilda interpreted the gesture as a request that she wait while the nuns fetched Caterina. Indeed two nuns left and one remained, standing still in front of Matilda, on the other side of the gate. Shortly a forth nun arrived. Unlike the others, she wore a white uniform and was not veiled.

  “I’m Sister Anna,” the unveiled nun told Matilda. “I’m not part of this congregation. I’m only visiting, which is why I can speak. Your daughter is not here. She fled yesterday with a man who appeared all of a sudden in our chapel. I was present when it happened, and I can assure you we were all very scared.”

  Matilda felt the ground shift beneath her feet. “A man?” she murmured. “Who?”

  Sister Anna said, “We have no idea.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Matilda exclaimed.

  “But we did,” Sister Anna replied calmly. “The Mother Superior sent a telegram to your home only a few hours after your daughter fled. Are you all right?” the nun asked, noticing Matilda’s ghastly face.

  13

  ‘LOCKING A YOUNG WOMAN in the convent of the Sorelle Addolorate for the rest of her life serves no purpose,’ Matilda had said to Giuseppe during their heated discussion in his bedroom. Viola, who was passing in the hallway with brooms and brushes, overheard. That was the first time since Caterina’s funeral Matilda had mentioned the convent’s full name. The consequences of that slip of the tongue would be unimaginable. That very same night Viola, who from her conversations with Lavinia knew about the relationship between Ivano and Caterina, left the palazzina in secrecy and rushed to Ivano’s home. They had never met, and when Ivano opened the door he couldn’t fathom who the woman in front of him was. When she told him she was a maid in the Berillis’ household, Ivano’s heart skipped a beat.

  “I know where she is,” she told him. “You and Lavinia were right.”

  ‘I knew it,” Ivano shouted. He grabbed Viola by the shoulders. “Where is she? Where?”

  “Calm down. She is in a convent,” Viola said, showing Ivano a piece of paper. “This is the address and how to get there. I have a niece who is a nun. She gave me the information.”

  Ivano hugged Viola. “Thank you,” he said with an energized tone of voice no one had heard in months. “I don’t know how, but I will repay you.”

  “The only thing you can do to repay me is bring Caterina home,” Viola said. “I’m only a maid, and my opinion counts less than an anchovy’s tail,” she added, “but I like that girl.” She paused. “I like her way more than I like her father.”

  An hour later, having reasoned it’d be pointless to involve the police as he had no proof other than an overheard conversation, Ivano found his father.

  “I’m going on a trip,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but there’s no reason for you to worry. I’ll return soon.”

  Sadly, Corrado looked at his son, the small bag he was carrying in one hand, the mandolin he held in the other.

  Ivano handed him the mandolin. “Take care of this for me.”

  Corrado took the instrument and caressed Ivano’s cheek.

  As Matilda would do two days later, Ivano traveled to Milan by train and then to the village of Mirabello by coach. He did not spend the night at the inn, as he didn’t want to leave a trail. Across from the inn was an abandoned building, part of which was being rebuilt. Inside, amidst tools and boards, Ivano found a pile of rags, which he arranged into a bed on the cold ground—it wasn’t a foreign experience for him to sleep in improvised quarters. The night was cold, and the humidity rapidly sank into his bones. Shivering, he lay on the rags and curled into a ball, hugging himself and warming his hands with his breath. The night went by slowly, so slowly Ivano thought time had stopped and would never resume its course. He dozed off occasionally, never long enough to fall completely asleep. Then he was awake again, counting his breaths as proof that life still existed and time was moving forward. Finally, the light of dawn filtered in. He stood up and left the building. At an ever-running fountain in the middle of the only piazza he splashed cold water on his face. The map Viola had given him was in his pocket, and he read it over and over before heading on foot through fields moist with dew drops. The morning fog and drizzle confused him more than once, but he was still able to move in the right direction, despite the poor visibility and the cold.

  He arrived at the convent one and a half hours later, shoes and feet soaked from the moist soil. The compound was surrounded by deserted countryside. The silence was heavy, oppressive. Through the posts of the locked convent gate, Ivano observed the gravel path leading to the oak-and-pine grove. Whether the path continued past the grove, he couldn’t tell, because the grove was too thick to see through. The gate itself was set into tall walls of stone that surrounded the property and hid everything from sight. Puzzled, he slowly followed the perimeter, stopping occasionally to touch the wall as if in search of a secret passage that would lead him inside. He found no passage, saw no one. Back at the gate, he grazed the lock several times, analyzing its shape and mechanism. He didn’t like the idea of picking that lock, because he had left those tricks behind when he had abandoned the underworld, but he saw no other way to enter the compound. A closer examination, however, revealed a sad truth: it was a double lock, with cylinders so thick and long it would take at least three turns of a sturdy key to slide them all the way. In addition, there was a small protrusion inside the keyhole that needed to be pushed for the cylinders to be able to turn. Only the proper key would be able to push the protrusion and turn the cylinders at the same time. Despite his long practice, he realized he wouldn’t be able to pick that lock, even if he had a host of tools. The nuns had gone to great trouble to make sure the uninvited would be kept outside. He stepped away, sat on a small rock, and spent several hours in silent observation, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement or hear a sound. He saw no one entering or leaving the convent, no one walking along the gravel path. The place seemed deserted and impregnable. It would be no simple matter, he realized, to be admitted beyond the convent walls.

  The sun had broken the fog barrier and the grass had dried when he walked back to the village for a brief lunch, after which he returned to the convent right away. As his observation post, he picked a secluded area under a tree some fifty yards from the gate. He stayed there most of the afternoon, puzzled by the total lack of activity and asking himself what could possibly gain him admittance to that impenetrable place.
Suddenly, as discouragement started to prevail, a man emerged from the grove. Ivano’s first thought was that his mind was playing tricks on him, showing him ghosts. But as the man kept walking on the gravel path towards the gate, Ivano understood that he was real. At the gate, the man, an elderly fellow with a curly gray beard, extracted a large skeleton key from his jacket’s pocket and let himself out. Then he locked the gate behind him, replaced the key in the pocket, and walked away. Swiftly, Ivano left his observation post with only one thought in his mind: the man with the key, whoever he was, would be his Trojan horse.

  He followed the man down the country path, until the path merged into a larger graveled road. At the intersection the man stopped and lit a cigarette. Looking for an opportunity to start a conversation, Ivano caught up with him and said, “Hello.”

  The man returned his greeting. After introducing himself, Ivano waited to see in which direction the man was headed then pretended to be going the same way, entertaining a casual conversation about the weather, the crops, the new car models, and the soccer games. As they walked, Ivano found out that the man’s name was Silvio Motta, that he was the nuns’ gardener, and that he had been born only a few kilometers away. At some point, Silvio asked Ivano what he did for a living.

  “I’m field hand in a farm one kilometer down the road,” Ivano lied. “It’s hard work, but I don’t mind.”

  Silvio nodded, and the two men continued to walk and make conversation until the road came to a group of buildings built in the style of farmhouses. Noticing a sign that read Osteria del Gallo Nero (Black Rooster Tavern), Ivano invited Silvio to have a glass of wine. Silvio accepted.

  The tavern was small, with only three dusty tables and a counter. Glasses in hand, four men were chitchatting and smoking. A fifth man, the owner, stood behind the counter uncorking bottles of wine. Silvio waved at him, and he waved back. Ivano and Silvio sat at a free table, and Silvio hung his jacket over the back of his chair. They spent an hour drinking and talking about their lives. The gardener spoke about his youth spent farming in his father’s fields and his gardening job at the convent, and Ivano told Silvio he had been born in Genoa to a family of bakers and had moved north, to Mirabello, after his parents’ death to be with an old aunt who needed assistance with an illness that had left her bedridden for years. The aunt had recently died, he said, and he was now living on his own and in the process of reorganizing his life. Silvio was impressed with the young man’s altruism and dedication.

  After the fourth round of red wine, Ivano asked Silvio about the nuns, in particular how they spent their time in that isolated, solitary place.

  Silvio shrugged. “I’ve been the nuns’ gardener for fifteen years,” he said, “and never caught a glimpse of any of them. I never even set foot inside the building where they live. As for how they spend their time, only God knows, because, to the best of my knowledge, no layman, or laywoman for that matter, has ever been admitted into their home.”

  Ivano refilled Silvio’s glass for the fifth time. “What else do you know?” he asked. “The life of confinement of these nuns intrigues me.”

  “All I know is that the nuns leave their quarters early in the morning, at six, to gather in a chapel at the very back of their garden where they sing and pray. On Sundays a priest comes to officiate Mass.” He chuckled. “He must be their treat.”

  Ivano chuckled along.

  Silvio brought a finger to his temple. “You could go batty in that place, all alone without talking. That’s what happened to my predecessor. He was brought to the asylum because he talked to himself incessantly, day and night.”

  Ivano noticed Silvio’s speech becoming slurred. He said, “We should go home. I’m starting to feel tired.”

  The two men stood up, and Silvio made an attempt to put on his jacket. He swayed a couple of times; his hands couldn’t find the right holes.

  “Let me help you,” Ivano said, taking the jacket and holding it in position.

  As Silvio eased his arms into the sleeves, Ivano let go of the jacket and dipped a hand into the left pocket, grabbing the key. He winced as his fingers made contact the cold iron. He extracted the key in slow motion, careful not to touch the pocket lining, all the while telling Silvio how good the local wine was. In his dizziness, Silvio never noticed. He thanked Ivano for his help, and the two men walked out of the tavern.

  “It was very nice meeting you,” Silvio said, his words more and more slurred by the alcohol and the weariness that comes at the end of a working day.

  “Are you sure you can get home safe?” Ivano inquired, slightly worried about Silvio’s state.

  “No problem,” Silvio reassured him. “My home is only one minute away.”

  Back in Mirabello, Ivano returned to his raggedy bed inside the construction site and immediately took out of his pocket the stolen convent key. “Thank you, Silvio,” he said aloud, resolving to return the loot before leaving Mirabello. Staring at the rusty, iron instrument, Ivano realized the magnitude of what lay ahead of him. He had a way into the convent now, but once inside what should he do to find Caterina? And what if Caterina wasn’t there? What if Viola had overheard the wrong information? He felt exhausted—from the trip, the months with no sleep, and the emotion of being close to Caterina. He fidgeted with the key, pacing the building back and forth for hours. At three in the morning, after much thinking and brooding, he finally came up with a plan.

  At four AM he gathered a few tools—two screwdrivers, a pick, and a foot-long piece of wire—and, undaunted by the darkness and the hostile weather, took on the country paths. The way to the convent was by then engraved in his mind. He could hardly see his feet the visibility was so poor, but made no mistakes. He took all the right turns at the right time, arriving at the convent shortly before five. The fog was thick, and the usual drizzle was falling on him without respite. In the darkness, he slid the skeleton key in the keyhole and turned it three times. He smiled as the gate opened with a squeak. Like a ghost, he tiptoed on the gravel towards the oak and pine grove, crossing it and continuing along the path until he was in the clear again and the path curved to the right. In the twilight, Ivano finally saw buildings: the main house with the golden inscription, a couple of sheds next to a manicured garden, and at the back of the garden a small structure topped by a dome. Based on Silvio’s description, it had to be the chapel. He approached it, furtively looking about, hoping the nuns would be and remain fast asleep.

  The chapel door was made of thick wood decorated with worn incisions representing plants and flowers, the work of an artist from a time gone by. A chain ran across it, with a rusty padlock in the middle. That was a lock Ivano knew how to pick. Calmly, he took the wire from his pocket, bent its tip, and pushed it in. He turned and shifted the wire until, a few seconds later, he heard a click and the padlock opened, letting the chain slide to the ground. Chain-free, the door opened docilely under the pressure of his fingers. Thick odors of incense and burnt candles welcomed him inside. He stood still a moment, overwhelmed by the deep silence. The chapel was small but tastefully decorated with tall stained-glass windows and paintings of saints and angels. It had one nave in the center, bordered by rows of wooden benches. Four gas lamps burned on the side walls, two on each side. Calmly, Ivano walked along the nave, the sound of his steps echoing around him. There was an altar at the end of the nave, and he climbed four steps to reach it. It was smaller than the altars he had seen in the churches of Genoa and covered from top to bottom with a white, thick, gold-embroidered drape. To the side of the altar was a door. Past it, Ivano found a wood-paneled room, where religious vestments hung in an open closet. Next to the closet, Ivano noticed a door. It was lower than regular doors and wider. An iron bar was set across it, and when Ivano lifted it, the door opened to the outside. He bent forward to pass. Outside, he followed the chapel’s external walls all the way to the front door. The walk revealed nothing of interest to Ivano, other than for the fact that he now had way to lock the front door with
chain and padlock and reenter the chapel from the low door. No one would suspect someone was inside. Moments later, he was back in the wood-paneled room and by the altar. He remembered what Silvio had told him: a priest came to celebrate Mass on Sundays, whereas during the week the nuns prayed in the chapel on their own. He figured the altar wouldn’t be used that day, a Tuesday, and when he noticed a crawl space beneath said altar concealed by the drape, he thought it a good place to hide. So he lifted the drape, squatted, and sat in the crawl space. He took a moment to examine his improvised shelter. The drape had a seam running vertically down the middle. He pulled on its edges with both hands until the stitching came loose. As he pulled harder, the stitching broke, forming a hole the size of a coin. When he put his eye to the hole, he saw a clear view of the nave, the benches, and the entrance door. Pleased, he pulled back and waited, hoping his conjecture that Caterina would be coming to the chapel with the nuns would prove right.