by Lina Simoni
“Oh, don’t worry,” Eugenia said. “He’s the Chief of Police.” She sighed. “It’s not such a bad thing that he’s here. He’s already involved in our family affairs.” She turned to Ivano. “Now will you go home?”
“Yes,” Ivano said. He kissed Caterina on the cheek. “See you tonight, dear.”
In the minutes that followed, Antonio asked Eugenia and Caterina questions until he was certain he had understood completely the situation. All along, he did his best to maintain his professional demeanor. Once he grasped the entire story and its meaning, Antonio said, “You two ladies should be thankful to Mister Bo for leading me here. Faking someone’s death is a serious matter. You couldn’t have dealt with this situation alone.” He looked at Caterina. “Do you feel well enough to go to Corso Solferino?”
Caterina nodded.
He stood up. “Let’s go then. The sooner we’ll get this over the better.”
Meanwhile, ignoring Eugenia’s order not to speak, Grazia had rushed to Klainguti’s and bolted into the main room screaming like a banshee: “Caterina Berilli is alive! Caterina Berilli is alive!”
As for Ottavio, he went straight to Taverna del Marinaio. “I’m not drunk,” he told the barman, “and I’m telling you I just saw Caterina Berilli in the flesh, talking like you and I.”
Immediately, the news followed the double grapevine, and before an hour went by everyone in the caruggi knew that something was very wrong in the Berilli household.
While the gossip was being disseminated, Antonio was driving uphill, with Eugenia in the passenger’s seat and Caterina in the back. He squeezed his hands around the wheel. He couldn’t believe Giuseppe had told him over and over such an enormous number of lies and that he had fallen for those lies like a novice. Not only that, but he had spent a pointless night investigating. The lawyer had sent him on a wild-goose chase, and he’d never forgive that hypocrite for the waste of his energy and the lost sleep. As he braked and parked the car in front of the palazzina, he slammed his fist on the dashboard feeling no pain. He swore that if Giuseppe ever recovered he’d arrest him and have him spend the rest of his life in jail. Should he die, instead, he’d look for the bald head of the lawyer in every corner of Hell after his own death and use it for an infernal soccer game. He took a deep breath then prepared himself to face the loathsome family and their lies.
While Caterina, following his suggestion, remained temporarily in the car, he and Eugenia approached the front door and knocked. Gugliemo met them and escorted them upstairs, to Giuseppe’s room, where a family reunion was in progress. Doctor Sciaccaluga had called Matilda, Umberto, and Raimondo to Giuseppe’s bedside. As Giuseppe had asked him, the doctor had left the palazzina earlier with the nuns’ telegram in his pocket and rushed to the bakery with the intent of finding Caterina and preventing her from showing her face all over town. He had missed her and Ivano by a hair, for by the time he had arrived, Ivano and Caterina had left Piazza della Nunziata minutes earlier, headed to Eugenia’s home. After a couple of hours spent stalking the bakery inside and out to no avail, Damiano had returned to the palazzina and told Giuseppe he had no idea where Caterina was. At that, Giuseppe had coughed and brought a hand to his heart, moaning. Damiano saw immediately the signs of a worsening health in his ally. “We must take him to the hospital,” he was saying to Matilda and the brothers the moment Antonio walked in with Eugenia by his side.
“Good afternoon,” Antonio said. “I’m glad to find you all here.” He turned to Giuseppe. “Would you care to tell us, Mister Berilli, what exactly you did to your daughter?”
Matilda’s face blanched as she lowered her head. Giuseppe wheezed and his lips turned blue. With clumsy motions, Damiano lifted his chest to help him breathe.
Umberto said, “What are you talking about?”
Antonio felt no compassion for any of the people in the room. “Ask your father,” he said. “Or, given that he may not be able to speak, you should perhaps ask your mother. I’m sure she’ll be glad to explain how it happens that Caterina is alive and well, and, at this moment, seated in my car.”
Umberto and Raimondo, with their bewildered faces, were so clearly at a loss that Antonio knew immediately that the two brothers were unaware of the plot.
“Mother?” Umberto murmured. “What is he talking about?”
Matilda spoke gravely. “Antonio is right,” she said, keeping her head down. “Your father and I did something unspeakable to Caterina.”
Giuseppe gasped, “Shut up.”
Matilda ignored Giuseppe’s order. She said, “Antonio, can I see Caterina?”
Giuseppe grabbed Damiano’s arm. “Make her shut up,” he squawked.
Damiano kept looking back and forth at Giuseppe and Antonio, his head swirling, incapable of making decisions.
Eugenia, who had kept silent up until that moment, took a step forward. “You weasel,” she sneered at Giuseppe with all the contempt she was capable of. “And you,” she shouted, pointing a finger at Matilda, “how dare you lock my only niece in a convent?”
Umberto babbled, “Convent? What convent?”
“The convent of the Sorelle Addolorate, I understand,” Antonio said calmly. He gave Giuseppe a look that was more piercing than a needle. “Would you care to explain to your sons what you did, Mister Berilli?”
Giuseppe opened and closed his mouth without speaking.
Meanwhile, following Antonio’s instructions, Caterina was knocking on the house door.
“May I help you?” Guglielmo asked. He froze and stared at the young woman standing outside.
Caterina smiled. “Good evening, Guglielmo,” she said, stepping into the foyer.
He obstructed her way with his body. “This is not a good time for tasteless jokes, Miss.”
“Don’t you recognize me? I am Caterina!”
“It can’t be,” Guglielmo stuttered, gazing up and down the woman’s face. The resemblance was stunning, but the woman’s eyes were not Miss Caterina’s sparkling, childish ones, and her hair was opaque, not shiny.
“Am I that different, Guglielmo?” Caterina said, realizing that the butler was in shock and couldn’t think straight. “I’m tired, but it’s me. Let me in.”
Guglielmo shook his head as his face, for the first time in his long career as a butler, showed one emotion: fear.
“Do you want proof?” Caterina said. “I was born in this house. I know every corner of it by heart. Ask, if you don’t believe me. Ask me about the passage from the kitchen to the laundry room. Or about the double mirror in my mother’s bedroom. Or about the color of the canopy over my bed. It’s violet. Anything else you’d like to know?”
Guglielmo’s hands shook as he stepped aside.
“Thank you,” Caterina said. “Please show me to my father.”
Hesitantly, Guglielmo preceded Caterina up the stairs. On the threshold of Giuseppe’s bedroom, he cleared his throat.
“I’m awfully sorry to disturb you,” he said in his deferential voice, “but there’s a lady here who seems to be,” he paused, “Miss Caterina.”
He stepped aside and Caterina entered the bedroom, stopping half way between the bed and the door.
There was a long moment of silence then Umberto screamed and stared at his sister with eyes full of fright. After several futile attempts at talking, Raimondo fell into a catatonic state from which he awoke only days later. He had been clutched by guilt ever since learning of Caterina’s illness, wondering if he could have in any way caused it, and his guilt had grown unbearable when he had been told that Caterina had died. His drinking and partying habits had been his way not to think of what he had done to his baby sister and of fighting off the nightmares of her that hunted him whenever he closed his eyes.
At the sight of her daughter, Matilda joined her hands in prayer.
“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered, “for keeping my daughter safe and for returning her to her home.”
Giuseppe’s face turned red and blue, and his br
eathing became so difficult Damiano thought his precious friend had come to the end of his life. In his befuddled mind, he thought that perhaps Giuseppe’s death was the best course of events for him at that point. The secret of their friendship would die with him and he would be safe. He stepped away from the bed, hoping the lawyer’s weak heart would stop beating.
“Would you care to tell me, Mister Berilli” Antonio asked, “how you managed to get a death certificate for your daughter?”
Giuseppe coughed repeatedly then pointed a finger at Damiano. “He did it,” he said with a thread of voice.
Antonio turned to Doctor Sciaccaluga. “You? Well well,” he said. “This is a day full of surprises.”
Damiano stuttered, “No, no … I don’t know what he’s talking about …” He swallowed repeatedly as he felt his shirt collar tightening around his neck like a hanging rope.
“Yes,” Giuseppe wheezed. “It was all his idea.”
Suddenly, Damiano felt lost. “Liar,” he hissed, yanking the nuns’ telegram out of his pocket and waving it under the lawyer’s nose. “This telegram is addressed to you, not to me! How do you explain it?” He handed the telegram to Antonio. “There,” he said. “Now we can all know for sure who concocted this plan.”
Giuseppe lifted a limp hand. “He wrote the death certificate,” he stated.
“I’m sure the handwriting will tell us who is responsible for filing Miss Caterina’s death certificate,” Antonio said confidently.
At that Damiano lost the little that was left of his composure. Squeezing his ferret eyes, he grabbed Giuseppe by the collar of his pajamas. “You think you’re smart?” he screamed. “I’ll show you smart, you traitor!” He let go of Giuseppe and took a second sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Do you know what this is?” he shouted, parading the document under everyone’s eyes. “It’s your birth record, Giuseppe, written by my father! Everyone look! Read this paper! He was born to a prostitute! And a drunken sailor!”
The moments that followed were even more confused than when Caterina had arrived. Antonio snatched the sheet out of the doctor’s hands and read it aloud.
Date: January 28, 1841
Biological parents: Mercalia Parenti, prostitute; Cristiano Zolezzi, sailor.
Child: Sex, male. Weight at birth: three and a half kilos. Length at birth: forty centimeters
Sold to: Filiberto and Giulia Berilli
Amount charged: 500 liras
Amount given to Mercalia: 450 liras
Note: I helped Giulia Berilli through a difficult pregnancy, which ended in a stillbirth. Mercalia’s boy was born on the day of Giulia’s stillbirth, and when Mercalia decided she didn’t want the child, I offered him to the Berillis. They accepted him with joy and named him Giuseppe.
Doctor Federico Sciaccaluga, aka the Doctor of Dreams
When Antonio had read the last word, everyone’s eyes were fixed on Giuseppe. In his fading consciousness, he had heard everything Antonio had said. His face was painted with an expression of incredulity beyond repair. Matilda was frozen by the bed, as were Caterina, Eugenia, and Umberto. Raimondo, in his catatonic state showed no reaction at all. Suddenly, Giuseppe opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but emitted instead a long wheezing sound. His leg muscles twitched, his back arched. Then his body fell flat on the sheets, and his neck bent softly to one side.
“Do something!” Eugenia shouted, pushing Damiano towards the bed.
Damiano, however, couldn’t hear her. He had begun to hum a song and was looking about the room with an expression of stupidity in his eyes. Matilda was the one to take charge.
“We need to transport him to the hospital,” she said. Then she turned to Eugenia. “And don’t you dare argue!”
She left the room without rushing, looking for Guglielmo. When she found him, she gave him the order to prepare the automobile for Mister Berilli, as his health had unexpectedly worsened. Shortly, Guglielmo transported Giuseppe to the Pammatone Hospital where they were met by a swarm of solicitous nurses and doctors. Giuseppe was assigned an austere private room furnished with a bed, a small table, and a rusty lavatory. No member of his family had followed him there. Later, the Head of Medicine, a friend of the Berillis, examined Giuseppe’s limp body and at the end of the visit sent a messenger to the palazzina asking that Matilda come to the hospital right away.
“It seems that Giuseppe suffered extensive brain damage,” he told a disoriented Matilda. “Most of his body functions are impaired. He can’t move. He can’t talk. He can emit sounds, but nothing that resembles words. He can swallow liquids, and that can keep him alive for some time. It’s impossible to predict how his illness will evolve. The likely course of it, I’m sorry to say, is that he will die. It could happen in a few hours or in a few days. It may even take months if the doctors can continue to feed him. Even if he should regain consciousness, he may never be able to function like a normal person again.” He sighed. “He’s not dead at this moment, but you should consider him as such. It’s best for everyone.” He took Matilda’s hand. “I’m awfully sorry, Matilda. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Matilda said coldly. “I’ll make the rest of my family aware.”
The stupefied doctor watched her leave the ward, wondering what in the world Giuseppe had done to her to make her act in such a detached way.
Matilda took her time returning home, where in the meantime Antonio had lined up the family and all the servants in the social living room and was subjecting everyone to a thorough interrogation. Weary from the events of the past two days, Caterina had retired to her old bedroom, where she had immediately fallen asleep. The moment Matilda stepped into the living room, Umberto looked at her with eyes of fire.
“You knew! You knew all along! How could you? How could you have lied to us for over two years? You put us through a mock funeral! A mock funeral, do you understand?”
Matilda said nothing.
“What was in that coffin, mother?” Umberto screamed. “I lifted it to set it in the mausoleum, and so did Raimondo. What was in it? Tell me!”
Matilda lowered her eyes to the floor. “Stones.”
Umberto stepped back. “Stones? We buried a coffin full of stones?”
Eugenia lifted her chin and turned her face to the back wall.
15
IT WAS PAST NINE O’CLOCK at night when Ivano returned to Via San Lorenzo, looking for Caterina. He had felt comfortable leaving Caterina in Antonio Sobrero’s hands, but his comfort vanished at once when he found no one in at Eugenia’s home. Enough time had passed, in his opinion, for Antonio to have set things straight at the palazzina and for Caterina and her aunt to have returned to Via San Lorenzo as agreed. He waited in front of the building for over an hour, fencing off Ottavio and Grazia, who kept asking him questions about where and how he had managed to rescue Caterina. Time passed, the darkness deepened, the street emptied, and Ivano realized that Caterina and her aunt would not be coming back that night. That’s when he began to fear for Caterina’s life.
“I’m going up there,” he told Grazia, who every so often glanced out of her living-room window, not out of pity for Ivano but out of discomfort for the prolonged presence of a musician-baker in close proximity of her home. “If you see Caterina,” he continued, “tell her to wait here. I’ll check back in a couple of hours.”
When he arrived on Corso Solferino, a feeling of deja-vu overcame him. He remembered the time he had spent knocking and plucking his mandolin; Giuseppe having him arrested; and the long night in jail. Rage took hold of him as he crossed the garden and banged his fists on the door. This time, when Guglielmo opened, Ivano saw a different man. The butler’s impassible face was rumpled and his once stern lips were stretched into a tentative smile. His voice, when he spoke, had a high pitch, so different from the business-like timbre Ivano had heard so many times before.
“Yes, Mister Bo,” Gugliemo said. “Miss Caterina is here.”
“Is she al
l right?” Ivano asked. He sniffed the air, wondering if the odor of alcohol he was smelling could possibly be emanating from the butler’s mouth.
“Yes,” Guglielmo said. “She’s asleep. I’ll tell her you came when she wakes up.”
With that, Guglielmo closed the door. His body swayed as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. Rigidly, he sat on his bed. A half-full bottle of whiskey stood on his night table. He had seized it full from Giuseppe’s reading room after returning from the hospital. With a jerky move, he brought the bottle to his lips with every intention of emptying it before day dawned.
As for the rest of the servants, they were all wildly agitated. They told about Caterina’s arrival to their colleagues in the nearby houses, and each and every one of them told other servants, adding a third source, besides Grazia and Ottavio, to the news that were spreading from building to building without respite. In truth, there was also a fourth source of gossip at work downtown, because Corrado Bo had taken care of telling Caterina’s story to everyone on Piazza della Nunziata. By morning, most of the city knew, and Antonio found himself answering questions and making public statements in front of the numerous reporters crowding the entrance to the police station.
The previous night, before leaving the palazzina, he had made three decisions and taken steps to begin making sense of that bizarre situation. First, he had placed Matilda under house arrest, a precaution that would give him time to understand completely the extent of her involvement in Caterina’s reclusion. Second, he had sent a policeman to the hospital to monitor Giuseppe’s state. The policeman was to inform him at once should Giuseppe regain consciousness. He had meanwhile charged Giuseppe with a number of crimes, including conspiracy and kidnapping. Third, he had arrested Doctor Sciaccaluga for filing a fraudulent death certificate. By the middle of the night, Damiano was in the city jail, awaiting arraignment.