The House of Serenades (11 page)

Giuseppe gazed at his surroundings, slowly turning his head right and left. “On the day I forbade Caterina to see Ivano, he came to our house and told our butler he wanted to see me, as he intended to ask for Caterina’s hand. I told Guglielmo to send him away, but Mister Bo didn’t desist. He kept knocking, all day long and for several days afterwards. Of course I never spoke to him. And at some point I ordered Guglielmo not to open the door, period. Then, when the news spread that Caterina had become ill, Mister Bo assaulted me in in front of my office. I almost had a heart attack, I was so scared.” He brought a hand to his heart and gasped. “The mere thought of that incident still frightens me.”

“What happened then?” Antonio asked.

Giuseppe pointed a shaky hand at the nightstand. “I need water, Antonio. My throat is dry.”

Antonio stood up. He poured water in a glass from a pitcher and handed the glass to the lawyer.

Giuseppe drank slowly. “Thank you,” he said, then cleared his throat. “When it became known that Caterina had passed away,” he resumed, “Ivano Bo came to our house again and stood under these windows screaming that Caterina had died because I had taken her from him, that I was to blame for Caterina’s death, and that he’d kill me before he died. I had him arrested, but he was freed the following day, which didn’t make me feel safe at all. So I hired a man—Terenzio Gallo—to watch him. A few weeks later, Terenzio told me that Mister Bo had become a bum and, in his opinion, I shouldn’t worry about him anymore. I called off the watch and didn’t hear about Ivano Bo for some time. I met Terenzio again recently, by chance, in court. He said that Ivano had gone back to work at his father’s bakery. ‘I’m sure that by now he has forgotten all about you and your daughter,’ he told me, and for some time I thought he must have been right, for I haven’t heard another word from Ivano Bo since. I stopped thinking about him altogether. Until the letters came.”

“It’s a good thing you decided to confide in me, Mister Berilli,” Antonio said, frowning. “What you told me will certainly help my investigation. Is there anything else I should know?”

“No, Antonio. This is all.”

“And it’s all true, I assume,” Antonio said.

“Yes. What I told you is the complete truth, I swear.”

Antonio remained silent a moment. Then he asked, “Where can I find Terenzio Gallo?”

“At the cemetery. He died a month ago.”

“Who else knows about the relationship between your daughter and Mister Bo?” Antonio asked.

Giuseppe swallowed. He opened his eyes wide. “Only Matilda and I know the truth. No one else knows the complete story, not even my sons and my sister. Not even Damiano, who diagnosed Caterina’s tuberculosis. I want things to remain this way. I don’t want a shadow cast on my daughter’s memory. Please, Antonio, don’t tell anybody.”

“I won’t, Mister Berilli. You can count on me. Before tonight’s accident, I had decided to begin investigating the suspects tomorrow, but I’ll start right away instead, while traces are fresh. It’s possible that Ivano Bo may be the one, although I wonder why he would have waited more than two years to take his revenge.”

“He hates me, Antonio. That I know.”

“I understand. Tell me, how old is he?”

“Late twenties?” Giuseppe ventured. “It’s only a guess.”

“Very well. I’ll have a conversation with Mister Bo tonight. You should rest now,” he smiled, “or Doctor Sciaccaluga will scold me.”

“I’ll try, Antonio,” Giuseppe whispered, “but I’m afraid I won’t be able to sleep. Please, come back tomorrow and tell me everything you found out. And tell Matilda to make sure all doors and windows are securely locked. I know that Ivano Bo wouldn’t hesitate to break into my home to kill me.”

“I’ll see your wife on my way out,” Antonio promised. “Good night.”

From his bed, Giuseppe watched the policeman as he silently walked out of the room. Streams of sweat trickled down his cheeks. His eyesight was misty from the realization that his life as he knew it may soon be over. He breathed deeply and concentrated on relaxing his muscles, which had become tense from his effort to remain in control and sound truthful while he had handed Antonio a story shamelessly studded with lies. Would that story be enough to keep the family secrets safe? He tossed and turned, wondering where Antonio’s investigation would lead. He cursed himself for having mentioned Ivano Bo. He had succumbed to fear. “God help me,” he murmured, “should Caterina’s true story transpire.”

The events surrounding Caterina’s disappearance had begun to unfold on January 4
^th
, 1908, when Caterina awoke on the second floor of the
palazzina
to the persistent cooing of the turtle-doves nesting in the garden trees. In the blissful interlacement of sleep and wakefulness, she gladly remembered it was the day of Santa Benedetta, and consequently her school, run by the Benedettine nuns, would be closed. With a smile on her face, she reached for the tapestry rope hanging over her nightstand and pulled it. One minute later, Lavinia, a plump, middle-aged chambermaid who acted also as Caterina’s chaperone, entered the bedroom with a spirited gait. “Good morning, Miss,” she chirped.

“Morning,” Caterina yawned back. Suddenly she sat up. “I want to go out today. Downtown.”

“It’s a good day for an outing,” Lavinia nodded, pushing the shutters open. “Look.”

“Sunshine!” Caterina exclaimed as a bright light filled the room.

“And a perfectly blue sky,” Lavinia added. “Let’s get ready.”

By the time they left the house, the sun was still shining as a few strands of gray clouds peeked over the top of the hills. In a light-beige outfit topped by a brown cape, her sparkling, blonde hair flowing down her back, Caterina stepped out of the garden onto the sidewalk and sauntered along Corso Solferino under the attentive eyes of her chaperone. Shortly, Caterina and Lavinia left the main road and took a winding downhill street paved with rugged stone tiles. Ten minutes later they were in the old town, swarming with people, stores, markets, and peddlers in perpetual motion along the
caruggi
. Here the architecture never ceased to surprise the eye. Portals of marble and slate, religious symbols carved in thick walls, reliefs of noble figures, and Latin inscriptions graced even the darkest corner.

Unhampered by the noise and the confusion, Caterina and Lavinia headed to one of the main shopping walkways, Via Luccoli, stopping every now and then in front of the store windows, then later at Klainguti’s for a cappuccino, and then at Romanengo’s—a sweet-smelling pastry shop that had been a favorite of the Genoese ever since its opening.

“Happy?” Lavinia asked, noticing the glimmer of contentment in Caterina’s eyes after indulging in two mille feuilles and one éclair.

Caterina nodded a yes.

“Very well,” Lavinia continued. “Time to go to church.”

“To church?” Caterina exclaimed. “Why?”

“When I informed your father this morning that we would go downtown, he specifically asked that we stop by the cathedral for your prayers given that you’re not in school today.”

“I pray every day, twice,” Caterina moaned, “as soon as I step into the school and before I leave it. Nothing is going to happen if I skip a day. Besides, I don’t like the cathedral. It’s too big and intimidating.”

“Fine,” Lavinia conceded, “we’ll go to a different church. My church.”

“Your church?” Caterina asked, her curiosity tickled. “What is it called?”

“The church of the Nunziata. It’s only a short walk from here.”

Caterina grimaced. “Couldn’t you just tell my father that we went to church?” she begged.

Lavinia shook her head. “Sorry, Miss. I don’t lie to my employer.”

“What if I refuse to go?” Caterina said, taking one step back and planting her feet on the ground. An air of defiance had materialized on her face.

Lavinia’s eyes fired up. “You will do what I say, Miss. Or I’ll drag you back home. And then your father will take care of you.”

Caterina shrugged and mumbled, “Fine. Why does no one ever let me do what I want?”

“Are you serious?” Lavinia commented, sweetening her expression.

She was referring to the fact that Caterina had an uncanny ability to bend people’s will her way. At the
palazzina
, she was known for her stubbornness and hot temper. She could become infuriated on a dime if things weren’t going her way. One day, when she was eight years old, she had thrown her shoes out the window when Lavinia had insisted she should get ready to go to Sunday school. And another time she had rolled over a muddy flower bed in her new tailor-made organzine outfit because she didn’t want to partake in her piano lesson.

“You scare me sometimes,” Lavinia had commented after Caterina’s mud roll was over.

“Scare you?” Caterina said, covered in mud from head to toe.

“Yes,” Lavinia explained. “I can see your father in you.”

“What are you talking about?” Caterina scoffed. She twirled, mindless of the mud that dripped from her dress onto her patent-leather shoes. “I look like my mother. Everyone says that.”

“On the outside, yes. You have your mother’s features, her body type. On the inside, you take from your father. You are a Berilli, my dear, not a Pellettieri.”

“Is that a compliment?” Caterina asked coyly.

Lavinia took her hand. “You need a bath and a change of clothes.”

Growing up, Caterina’s disposition had softened. While her reactions were no longer extreme, she remained nonetheless a stubborn and unpredictable human being. She was famous for the food she refused to eat, the games she demanded to play, and the questions she posed over and over until someone came up with an answer that satisfied her. Her father ignored her temper tantrums, as if Caterina were a ghost, a creature from another world, while Madame always tried to entice her with loving words. In the end, she always gave in to Caterina’s whims. Madame hadn’t been this soft with her two sons, Lavinia recalled. She had been much more firm and in charge back then. But the age difference between Caterina and her brothers was so large it was as if Caterina belonged to a generation of its own. Clearly, Madame had no longer the stamina to discipline her as strictly as she had disciplined her sons in their young years. Perhaps it was her aging, perhaps there were other reasons Lavinia wasn’t aware of. It wasn’t lack of interest—for sure. Madame loved her only daughter. So did Lavinia. Despite her temperamental shortcomings, Caterina was a sweet child. There was something about her smile, which lighted her face like the sunshine, and something about her eyes, constantly sparkling like polished jewels, that captivated everyone’s heart. Her tantrums were always forgiven, forgotten, or told by Madame at social gatherings as entertaining anecdotes.

That Caterina should now claim that no one ever let her do what she wanted, Lavinia thought as the girl was still begging for more pastry and no church, was preposterous, a joke. Caterina always did what she wanted, no matter how inappropriate her wishes might be.

“Let’s go,” Lavinia said, sliding an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

The church of the Nunziata stood west of downtown, in the corner of a busy
piazza
by the same name. At the time Lavinia and Caterina entered the silent nave, outside the clouds had multiplied and amassed to cover large chunks of sky. They sat on a bench and took their time reciting one section of the rosary and three Requiem Aeternam for the dead. On their way out, they lit candles at the foot of a statue of the Virgin Mary. When they stepped outside, the blue of the sky was fully hidden by a menacing layer of gray.

“We should head home,” Lavinia said. “It looks as though it may rain.”

“It’s not going to rain,” Caterina scoffed, “not on my day out of school. Let’s go look at more stores. It’s still early. I don’t want to go home.”

Without waiting for an approval, Caterina rushed across the
piazza
, avoiding an electric tram, a horse-drawn carriage, and a honking roofless automobile.

“Come back!” Lavinia shouted, scampering after her. “Foolish girl,” she muttered as she zigzagged to avoid the oncoming traffic. “Foolish and more stubborn than an old mule.”

The two had hardly stepped on the opposite sidewalk when a sharp lightning bolt lit the sky. At the thundering rumble that followed, a downpour of rain crashed onto the dry roads, flooding them in a matter of seconds and sending everyone scrambling for shelter. Lavinia and Caterina rushed through the closest open door, which happened to be the entrance to a bakery owned by Corrado Bo and his twenty-five-year-old son Ivano.

Ivano was a tall, lean yet muscular young man, with a head of thick black curls and two large, engaging, brown eyes. At the time Caterina and Lavinia entered the bakery, he was standing behind the counter, handing bread to a corpulent woman and taking the next order from a boy. Next to Ivano stood a second young man, Tony, the shop helper. While Ivano selected from the shelves the bread ordered by the customers, Tony took payment and handed back change. The room was more crowded than usual: besides the customers, a number of passersby, like Lavinia and Caterina, had sought shelter from the rain.

At some point, with no more customers requiring his attention, Ivano looked about the bakery, noticing at once the shine of Caterina’s blonde hair. He assessed her with a long look up and down her figure, quickly realizing from her outfit and demeanor that she was unlikely to live in that neighborhood and likely instead to belong to some wealthy hillside household. His instinctive adversity for the rich made him turn the other way. He had dated only working-class women up till then, insistently pushed to do so by his father.

“Rich women are empty-headed, son,” Corrado had advised Ivano almost daily ever since the boy’s first puberty symptoms had made their appearance, “and vain, capricious, and unreliable. You should marry a girl of your own class, a girl with her head on her shoulders, who will take good care of you and make you a happy man.”

In the Genoa of 1908 it wasn’t common for young people to cross the class boundaries in their choice of spouse. Nonetheless, Corrado was determined to ensure it wouldn’t happen to Ivano, despite the minuscule probability of it. And Ivano, drummed by his father’s marital advice, had grown over the years an ingrained dislike for the upper class even he, at times, was unable to explain. On that rainy afternoon, however, after his first instinctive withdrawal, he found himself staring at the young girl and hungering inside in an inexplicable way.