Death of a Serpent (14 page)

The trap canted to one side, as if suspended, creaking on two wheels for ever so long, it seemed. Beppe slid into her. Serafina hung onto the iron railing, biting her lip and trying with all her might to push Beppe back, but it was seconds before the trap righted itself.

The Stranger

L
argo halted. Serafina heard a mandolin, the melody faint. In the dark, something moved. The shimmering of an ancient shade?

A form appeared in the glow of the trap’s lantern, a shadow running toward them, growing more distinct. Weathered hat. Matted hair. Beard. Long legs. Tattered shirt and pantaloons. Bare feet. Knife in belt. Lips formed words, indistinct. An accent? Funny, he held the pistol with both hands. Unsteady. Too much wine, perhaps. He fired, hitting the lamp. Blackness.

Serafina heard another shot, more shouting, metal clattering on stone.

Afterward, she recalled the set of the stranger’s mouth, a taut red band, remembered flaming shards exploding around them like fireworks at the end of a
festa
.

“Stop or I shoot!” Arcangelo yelled, framed in the light from his torch. He dismounted. His revolver pointed at the attacker who sunk to his knees and begged for his life.

Beppe jumped down to join Arcangelo. As they stared at the man, probably a deserter living rough, he wrested the gun from Arcangelo’s hands, swiped it across Beppe’s jaw, and ran.

“Quick,” she heard Beppe shout, “let’s get him!”

“Let him go!” Serafina said. She handed Beppe a cloth to dab the blood from his lip.

“But my revolver,” Arcangelo said.

“Do as I say. You were both going to run after him and leave me alone in the dark with no gun, a scared mule, and God knows how many of the bandit’s comrades lurking in the shadows.”

Arcangelo and Beppe looked at the ground.

“And as for revolvers, you can choose one of ours. We have too many as it is. But bravo to both of you for your bravery. A sure shot, Arcangelo. That unfortunate would have taken our coins had you not been here to help.”

A Quick, Sure Stab

“W
hy do you weep?” asked the monk, gesturing freely. “Look around. The air, sweet for November. This spot is a pleasant respite from the strife of daily toil. Birds sing in their ancient abode. Flowers bloom. Dry your eyes and take joy in the simple beauty of nature.” He stretched his arm to indicate the public gardens surrounding them.

Through a stuffy nose, she said, “Better leave. I’ve no money for the likes of you.”

“I’m not begging for coins, my child.” The monk made the sign of the cross over the young woman. “May your heart flood with the peace of the brazen serpent.” He sat back and began reading his holy book.

They were silent.

Then she asked, “What kind of a monk are you?”

He smiled. “From the north. We practice an ancient rite, one that bequeaths peace beyond understanding.”

“Not for the likes of me.” Her smile was lopsided.

“I know what you do. Forgiveness is yours if you ask. And perpetual absolution if you so desire. It is for a select few.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I must continue with my work or my family starves. Yesterday my brother took the money I gave him, but said it wasn’t enough. It’ll be my fault, he said, if my family can’t stay together. I need to earn more, but La Signura won’t raise my fee.”

The monk was silent. “Tell me about your brother.”

She shrugged. “What is there to say?” She told the monk that she sent money home with one of her siblings who came to call each month. She cannot earn more.

“And your family, where are they?”

“Enna.” She began to relax.

“My work needs many hands,” the monk said. “I could use yours, and they would fill with gold.”

“Not interested,” she said, rising.

“Easy work. Information, that’s all I need,” the monk said. “For you, enough prayers to last a lifetime. I need recruits for my life’s work, the work of the brazen serpent.”

• • •

When the voices told me to begin, I left, like you. Careful, now, so careful I am. The last one, smooth, the blade like the serpent’s razor, the flesh like jelly. I sharpened it beforehand, you see. A quick, sure stab. She stilled. The carving, perfect. This time there were no screams. The voices do not drown them out. They howl when the moon is black. I cannot abide their ringing. You’d be proud of me, I follow the will of the serpent, my work has begun. Early days yet, but I will triumph. I will go back soon to rescue my helpless one. He has sticks instead of arms. In the grave they told me he is, but they are wrong. He is alive. He comes to me in dreams. I know he lives. Perhaps he is with you. In dreams, too, lurks the wizard. So near to me she was, I saw the fear in her face. I could have triumphed: one quick pull of the trigger, but the time was inauspicious. Righteous and sacred, they say, the voices, when I wait for a day of totality, in the fullness of the earth and of the heavens, when I wait for the perfect number. Next time, there will be a next time, now that I have help. So precious to herself she is, the wizard, but she will be no more. Soon, it will be soon, and the harlot’s house will collapse. The work of the serpent will kiss the land. The voices demand it. Blood washes blood, they sing in my ears, a honeyed melody, a cloak for dreaming. And they heal me, they tell me I cannot fail.

Part Two
October 23 - November 4, 1866

The Train Station

Tuesday, October 23, 1866

S
erafina thought there would be a few passengers at the station, but when she and Renata arrived, a long line of carts waited at the front door to discharge passengers. Inside, wiry men stood together smoking cigarettes and talking fast. They wore collarless shirts and carried knapsacks. They’d take the train to the harbor, board a steamer bound for one of the Americas and work, return in six months or a year.

But Serafina also saw whole families, large clumps of them. It looked like they had all their belongings with them. Each person carried a cloth bundle. Peasants, Serafina knew from their dress and inflection, or as Loffredo would say, “people of the soil,” thin, with leathery faces and bright eyes.

A voice cut through the crowd. “Feeeeena! Where aaaarrre you?”

“Here, Rosa!” Serafina watched the swarm of peasants part for her. Her face purpled and she scurried toward Serafina, rearranging her load of packages from one hand to the other, and clutching her hat. Tessa clung to Rosa’s skirts, skipping to keep up.

“Finally!” Serafina pecked Rosa on both cheeks, bent to kiss Tessa whose hair was in ringlets. She wore a silk dress of red and green plaid reaching to mid-calf, the bodice cut deep to reveal a linen blouse with ruffled collar and tiny pearl buttons. Her petticoat had rows of lace near the tops of cordovan boots.

“What a pretty dress!” Serafina said.

“Bella made it before she died,” Rosa said.

“Let me take some of these packages. Oh, this one smells delicious. What did you bring?”

“Gifts for Bella’s father and for that Grinaldi woman. And cook fixed a box of food for the train. It’s heavy, can you manage?” She looked down at Tessa. “Sorry I said those words to you, my girl. Pity, we couldn’t find your bracelet. Searched all over, didn’t we?” The madam fanned herself, whispered something into Tessa’s ear. Tessa gazed at the crowded station while she listened. She gave her a swift peck on the cheek.

In front of them, two boys began a tug of war over a toy wooden cart. The older boy yanked it from the younger one’s grip. He fell, cracking his knee on the stone floor, and bawled. Motes of dust erupted into the light streaming down from high windows. Seeing blood, the mother wailed. People closed around the scene, waved arms.

Serafina said, “Who knew there’d be so many people at this early hour? Let’s find Renata. She’s buying the tickets. See her over there?”

Rosa shook her head. “How can you find anyone in this crowd?”

“You’re blind,” Serafina said, gesturing to the front of the line where her daughter was handing money through the bars of the window. Holding hands, the three of them walked over and greeted Renata who managed to collect the tickets, peck Rosa’s cheeks, and introduce herself to Tessa.

Tessa and the three women made their way to an empty space next to a large window. They saw hundreds on the platform, talking, bustling, calling to one another. Most of the women wore homespun skirts and Garibaldi blouses, shawls wrapped around their shoulders.

“We’ll never get on the train. We’d better go home, have Carlo or Vicenzu drive us to La Vucciria,” she said.

“Better yet, we’ll drive ourselves,” Renata said.

“Not on your life,” Rosa said. “I’m brave, but not foolhardy, and I’ve given my driver the day off because we planned to take the train.” She shot Serafina a look. “We’ll take a later one.”

“Maybe there’s a conductor outside who knows when the crowd will thin. Hold hands. We’ll have to force our way to the door,” Serafina said.

The three women arranged themselves around Tessa. They pushed their way forward, making progress toward the platform until a man with an infant in his arms blocked their way.

Serafina smelled dirty diaper. The baby began to cry. The man tried to calm him, but the infant’s yowls became more strident.

Rosa held a linen to her nose. “My eyes, they water so!”

The man looked up at Serafina and Renata. “Please, dearest ladies, can you help?”

“Let me have a look.” Rosa elbowed her, but Serafina continued to reach out for the infant.

The man, dressed in clean but threadbare clothes, handed him to Serafina.

“There, there.” Serafina rocked him. Renata bent close to see the child’s face, then pulled away.

“Fina, what are you doing? Why did you get me out of my bed at such an ungodly hour—to watch you hold this crying baby? Give the child back to his father.”

“About a month old, I’d say. Didn’t deliver, or I’d recognize him.” She smoothed the infant’s brows with two fingers, stroked his ears, felt his silky hair. The baby made sucking noises and slept. “Hungry for his mother’s milk. Where is she?”

The man’s brow furrowed. “My wife, she comes soon. Now she makes a final look over our house, because today we take the boat. Leave for good.” He strained upward, trying to see beyond the crowd. “One moment. I think I see her. Maybe getting off the cart now?” Smiling, he said, “Yes, I see her.” He waved and turned back to them. “Be right back.”

“You see, Rosa. No harm done. The mother’s here.”

“And all of Palermo will walk on the other side of the street when they smell you coming. It’s after seven thirty. Where’s the train? We need to be on the platform. Oh, Fina,” she said, stomping her foot, “you’ll be the death of me! How do you stand this mother of yours?”

Renata shrugged. “Whatever she wants, we do.”

“Not all of you,” Rosa said. “Some of you leave.”

Renata’s eyes widened and she put a finger to her lips.

By this time the waiting room was dangerously overcrowded. The man, barely visible, continued yelling for his wife. They watched him slip out the door. Serafina, Rosa and Renata stood motionless, hemmed in by the press of people. The baby slept in Serafina’s arms. The man disappeared.

Renata stood on tiptoes. “There he is! Let’s follow him.”

They made their way to the door. Warm for a November morning, the sun lemony, the air weighted with the smell of lavender, as if it were early spring. The man was nowhere in sight. The crowd outside the waiting room swelled.

“The mother must be frantic by now. Any moment she’ll appear, flailing her arms and shrieking. Let’s see if we can get through these people,” Renata said.

Rosa muttered, “Oldest trick in the book and the great wizard falls for it.”

“Excuse us,” Serafina said as they wedged through a small opening. She tripped on a bag. As the contents spilled out, the owner blocked their way, yelled in dialect.

“Someone’s life strewn before you, and what do you do?—step on it!” Rosa said.

“You fat cow, you pushed me.” Serafina felt her jaw tighten. Her movements were sharp, she knew.

“Enough, both of you.” Tears pooled in Renata’s eyes. She and Tessa bent down to help the woman. Renata murmured something to her. She looked up at Renata and smiled. “Si!” She closed up the bag and scurried off.

Renata stood. “You two: act your age!”

Serafina and Rosa looked at each other. Rosa made a face at the infant. Serafina laughed. Rosa waved the air away. Tessa laughed.

“This way, everyone.” Renata led them around the side to the platform.

Serafina told them to look around for a short man wearing a cap. Rosa said something about all men being short and wearing caps. Serafina was about to correct the madam when a high-pitched whistle pierced her ears. Steam and smoke engulfed them as the train pulled into the station and stopped.

People jostled their way to the front. Tessa and the three women were no match for the peasants.

“Help me find the father of this baby,” Serafina said to a porter. “I held the baby while he went to looked for—”

“—his wife and sister who returned home for one last look?” the porter asked.

“Oh, thank the Madonna, he told you to look out for us!”

His smile was lopsided. “You won’t find him here.”

Serafina said, “No, you don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand. He’s not here.”

Conductors helped the last of the passengers squeeze onto the train. One signed to the engineer, and the doors closed.

People hung out of open windows, waved handkerchiefs, cried, blessed the air. A porter near the engine yanked two young boys off the cowcatcher, handed one to a conductor, and lifted the other up by the seat of his pants. They ran back to a third-class car and shoved the boys through an open window. Serafina saw passengers standing in aisles, wedging themselves between cars, sitting on the roofs.

Confusion on the platform. A fight started. A whistle, a blast of steam, the world stilled for an instant. Slowly the wheels began to turn. People cheered, cried, blew kisses, waved handkerchiefs.