The House of Serenades (8 page)

During the Christmas holiday Roberto answered an advertisement for the position of personal secretary of Cesare Cortimiglia, the Mayor, who at the time was specifically looking for someone with legal expertise. His application arrived on the Mayor’s desk with perfect timing. The Mayor gladly hired him for the job, and with the new year Roberto began his career at City Hall.

“It all worked out,” he told his father at the end of his first week. “The job is interesting, and I don’t have too many regrets. I’m disappointed I had to abandon the practice of law, but not that I lost my job at
Berilli e Figli
. I dislike that family. I’m glad I’ll have nothing to do with them for the rest of my life.”

It made things easier (and Roberto proud) that Alessandro and Concetta were happy and in love. They would get married in one month and were already discussing the number of children they would have.

“I can see that Mister Passalacqua may have reasons to dislike you,” Antonio said. “I believe I’ve met him on a couple of occasions. He struck me as a reasonable man, I must say. I wasn’t aware he had worked for you in the past. Now that I know, I’ll make sure to investigate him thoroughly. Let’s go on. Can you think of someone else?”

Giuseppe pronounced the name with contempt. “Guido Orengo.”

“Guido Orengo?” Antonio marveled. “He’s in jail.”

“True, but he has a network of criminals at his service, as you know,” Giuseppe insisted. “The threat may have been carried out by one of his men.”

“Were you involved in Guido Orengo’s arrest?” Antonio asked.

“Indirectly.”

“Meaning … what?”

“I helped spread rumors about his illegal operations,” Giuseppe explained. “Those rumors, as you certainly remember, prompted a police investigation that culminated in the confiscation of over a thousand liters of smuggled alcohol stored in a warehouse by the docks.”

“I remember,” Antonio said. “I was there when it happened. How exactly did you
help
spread the rumors, Mister Berilli?”

“One of my clients, whose name is not important and I won’t reveal, sought my assistance in a blackmailing matter,” Giuseppe explained. “He had received anonymous letters threatening to reveal to his wife his steady relationship with a waitress at the Stella Maris establishment and his drinking habit. Given that the woman was acquainted with Guido Orengo and that he was the one who refilled my client’s cellar with tax-free alcohol, my client thought Guido Orengo could be the blackmailer. I suggested to my client that he contact the police, but he refused to do so for fear of a scandal. I then suggested that he write a letter to the police. He did. He mailed a three-page long report in which he described in detail everything he knew about Orengo’s illicit activities. I read the report to make sure it contained nothing that would send the police or Orengo’s gang chasing after my client. He signed the report with a false name.”

Antonio nodded. He said, “I remember that report, and it’s true that we used it as the starting point of our investigation into Orengo’s alcohol contraband. I had no idea that the report had come from one of your clients and that you were behind it. Was Guido Orengo the blackmailer?”

“I never found out,” Giuseppe admitted, “but I know for a fact that after Orengo was arrested, the anonymous letters ceased to arrive at my client’s residence. It may have been a coincidence, but, as a lawyer, I regard coincidences with mistrust.”

“So do I,” Antonio said thoughtfully. “It looks as though I should pay Orengo a visit, although I don’t know how he would have found out that you were involved in his arrest. If we assume, nonetheless, that he was the one blackmailing your client, then we can also assume that he may have gotten into the habit and sent these two letters as well. Not personally, of course, given that he’s in jail. Perhaps at the hand of one of his men. That’s two suspects. Anyone else on your list?”

Giuseppe looked away. Suddenly he stood up and walked to the fireplace. From the nearby rack, he took an iron poker and prodded the unlit logs several times. He replaced the stick in the rack and coughed.

In silence, Antonio observed Giuseppe’s aimless moves: the lawyer was obviously buying himself time. He decided against urging him to talk, for he didn’t want to indispose him and lose his trust. So he waited patiently in his seat.

One full minute went by, during which Giuseppe walked from the fireplace to the window, where he stood still, staring at the glass pane. Outside, the silvery leaves of a tall oleander flickered in the breeze. He took no notice of them, as his stare was absent and glazed. When he turned around, he cleared his throat before saying, “I’ve been wondering about someone, although the events I’m thinking about happened over two years ago.”

“Let’s not dismiss clues only because they’re old,” Antonio said. “Hate, experience tells me, can bottle up a long time and then explode all of a sudden, when one least expects it. Whom are you thinking of, Mister Berilli?”

Giuseppe sat down, lowered his voice. “There’s a man. Ivano Bo. He lost the woman he claimed to love. He blamed me for that and swore he’d take his revenge on me before he died.”

“Who’s Ivano Bo?” Antonio asked. “And who’s the woman he lost?”

“Ivano Bo is a baker,” Giuseppe explained. “At least he was one at the time the events took place. His father owns a bakery on Piazza della Nunziata. As for the woman in question, I’m afraid I can’t tell you who she is.”

Antonio shook his head. “You must tell me the entire story, without holding back, if you want me to investigate.”

“I can’t tell you more than I already have,” Giuseppe said firmly. He became agitated. “You can talk to Ivano Bo, can you not? You could track his moves of the past days. Retrace his steps.”

Antonio shook his head again. “If you want me to investigate and find out if Ivano Bo is the author of the two letters, you must tell me what business you had with him. What did you mean when you said that he lost the woman he claimed to love? Is the woman dead?”

“Yes. The woman is dead.”

“What was your role in her death?” Antonio asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Giuseppe said. “Sorry.”

Antonio stood up. “Then I should probably leave. I see that I can be of no help to you.”

Stone-faced, Giuseppe observed Antonio walking to the door and turning the handle. The moment the policeman took one step out of the reading room, he sprung from the armchair. “Don’t leave!” he shouted. He placed a hand on his heart. “I’m afraid, don’t you see?” he whined. “Please, help me. Please.”

Antonio turned around. He spoke dryly. “I can’t help you, Mister Berilli, unless you tell me everything you know.”

“I told you all I know about Ivano Bo. About the woman, I can’t say any more.”

“I don’t understand,” Antonio said, waving his hands in frustration. “You want my help, but you give me only half the story. How can I do my job?”

“Please, Antonio,” Giuseppe begged. “Do what you can with the information I gave you. Check on Roberto Passalacqua, Guido Orengo, and Ivano Bo. I can assure you that the reason for my disagreement with Mister Bo is not relevant to this investigation.”

Antonio spoke crossly. “That is for me to say.” He paused. “All right, I’ll work with what you told me for the moment. You may have to speak though, sooner or later.”

“Perhaps,” Giuseppe conceded, “but not now.”

Antonio sighed. “Anyone else I should know about?”

“No one comes to mind,” Giuseppe said. “Of course there are all the people who lost lawsuits against me or representatives of my firm, but it’d be difficult to make a list of all the names. My firm is involved in hundreds of cases.”

Antonio pondered a moment. “It may not be necessary to investigate everyone who lost a case against your firm. Let’s keep to these three suspects for now. Call me immediately should more letters arrive.”

“I certainly will, Antonio. I feel better now. Discussing this matter with you makes it seem less dramatic.”

“I’m glad. Still, you should be careful,” Antonio pointed out. “We may have an insane mind out there waiting for the right occasion to hurt you and your family. If I may, I’d like to suggest that you and your wife don’t take the chance of walking the streets unescorted.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll talk to Matilda right away.”

Antonio nodded. “Good. So she, too, can take precautions. I shall now leave. May I keep the letters?”

“Suit yourself, Antonio. They are all yours.”

Alone again in the reading room after Antonio’s departure, Giuseppe returned to his armchair, where he spent a long time sitting still, scrutinizing the ceiling. At exactly five PM, he stood up and headed for the blue parlor. As he turned the corner of the hallway, he saw Matilda through the parlor open door: she was alone, seated on the loveseat, embroidering a silky cloth. She looked radiant in her blue dress, and her silvery hair shone in the orange light of the late afternoon. At the door, he stood still awhile, absorbed in the rhythmic movements of his wife’s thin hands along the edge of the cloth. At some point, Matilda lifted her head. She dropped the cloth on her lap. She said, “Giuseppe! You startled me.”

He spoke with no sentiment. “We must talk.” He sat next to her and in the fifteen minutes that followed summarized the letters’ contents and his conversation with Antonio, leaving out of his narrative the names of the three suspects.

Matilda listened in silence. When Giuseppe stopped talking, she took his hand. “You should have spoken earlier, darling. I didn’t know what to make of your strange mood. Now, at least, I understand. What should we do?”

“Nothing, for the moment,” Giuseppe said. “Let’s wait and see what Antonio finds out. Meanwhile, we should be careful. Don’t go anywhere unless a staff member accompanies you. Understood?”

“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.”