by Lina Simoni
“Here we are, doctor,” Umberto said, stopping the car in front of the palazzina.
Doctor Sciaccaluga gathered his strength and dashed out of the automobile. He stopped open-mouthed in front of the dead cat that hung from the knocker. He stared at the puddle of blood.
“Please, doctor, please,” Umberto exhorted him from behind.
Damiano straddled the puddle and entered the foyer, where he saw Giuseppe lying, eyes closed, on the floor. Next to him, on her knees, crying softly, was Matilda. Eugenia was rigidly seated on a corner chair, with Viola waving an open bottle of cordiale under her nose. Next to Eugenia, stood a silent Raimondo. As for Costanza, she was in the far corner of the room, an expression of bewilderment painted on her pearly face. Doctor Sciaccaluga leaned over Giuseppe’s body and searched for the pulse at the wrist and base of the neck. He pulled a stethoscope from his bag and brought it to Giuseppe’s heart. Next he took out a modern blood-pressure measuring kit composed of an inflatable cuff and a mechanical manometer. He placed the cuff snugly around Giuseppe’s upper arm and inflated it with a small hand pump.
“His blood pressure is high,” he said after a few moments, “and his heart may be suffering. I believe he should be brought to the hospital.”
Eugenia stood up. “To the hospital? Poor people go to the hospital. We Berillis have always been treated in our own homes—”
“Stop it, you and your superior attitudes!” Matilda snapped at her with a scowl. “Where Giuseppe will sleep tonight is not for you to decide! We’ll do whatever Doctor Sciaccaluga says we should do. If he says that Giuseppe should be brought to the hospital, we’ll bring him to the hospital. And that is that!”
“Look,” Costanza murmured.
Everyone turned their eyes to the floor, where Giuseppe was opening and closing his lips, like a fish searching for water. He let out two rasping sighs.
Matilda spoke in her husband’s ear. “Giuseppe …”
Giuseppe opened his eyes.
“Please step back, Matilda,” Damiano ordered, as he leaned over the patient. “Giuseppe? Can you hear me?”
Giuseppe nodded.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Damiano …” Giuseppe murmured.
Frowning, Damiano took Giuseppe’s pulse again and listened to his heart. Noticing that it was beating steadily and at the correct rate and that the blood pressure was edging lower, he concluded that there was no need to transfer the patient to the hospital after all, as Giuseppe had not suffered a heart attack but simply fainted at the sight of the dead cat.
“Matilda,” he said, “Giuseppe can be moved upstairs, to his room, where he should rest comfortably for several hours.”
Eugenia looked at Matilda and dipped her chin. “Good.”
Cautiously, Umberto and Damiano helped the lawyer to a seated position. “What happened …” Giuseppe moaned.
“Don’t talk,” Damiano said. “You need rest. Can you stand? We want to take you upstairs, to your bed.”
Giuseppe nodded as his son and the doctor slipped their hands under his armpits. Slowly, he stood up. Supported by the two men, he began to walk in small steps in the direction of the staircase.
They were half way up when Antonio Sobrero, who had been fetched by Guglielmo, entered the foyer from the street. He gaped at the cat, the blood, and Giuseppe being carried up the stairs. He exclaimed, “What in the world happened here?”
On the staircase, Damiano froze in his tracks; a wave of sweat dampened his forehead. He took an extra-long breath then slowly continued his ascent.
It was Matilda who rushed to welcome the Chief of Police. “Antonio! Thank you for coming. Please, do come in. We’ll tell you everything.”
“We are cursed,” Raimondo whispered. “I have no doubt.”
Matilda gave Raimondo an angry look. “I love you,” she said, “but please try to help instead of saying things that have no ground.”
Raimondo lowered his head.
In the blue parlor, Antonio sat down with Matilda, Eugenia, and Costanza. In a quivering voice, Matilda gave him a detailed account of the evening events.
At the end of the story, Antonio frowned. “Gruesome,” he said. He looked at Eugenia. “I assume that when Miss Berilli arrived at eight-fifteen nothing was hanging from the knocker,” he said.
“Of course not,” Eugenia replied.
“It’s a fortunate coincidence, Miss Berilli, that you decided to visit tonight,” Antonio said, “because now we know that whoever carried out this sadistic act must have placed the cat on the door between eight-fifteen and eight-twenty-five.” He turned to Matilda. “Did your husband make you aware of the reason for my visit earlier today?”
The three women nodded.
“The missing jewelry,” Eugenia said.
Matilda looked at Antonio, her eyes begging for his complicity. She coughed.
Antonio understood the situation, but didn’t play along. “I’m afraid, Madame,” he said, “that Miss Berilli should be made aware of the real reason I came to see your husband this afternoon. Being the sister of the primary target of these threats, she may be in danger.”
Eugenia gasped. “So you lied to me, all of you! I knew it, I knew it—”
“Please,” Matilda said, rolling her eyes away from her sister-in-law. “Antonio, would you be kind enough to explain Miss Berilli what happened? I’ll go upstairs, to see that my husband rests.”
In small steps, Costanza followed Matilda out of the room. Then, with carefully-chosen words, Antonio told Eugenia the story of the threatening letters, purposefully omitting the names of the individuals Giuseppe had singled out as suspects. Eugenia listened in silence and with her lips tight. At the end of Antonio’s report, she stood up and walked away without a word, blood vessels bulging on the sides of her neck.
Later, when everyone reconvened in the living room, Antonio said he had leads, which he’d investigate at once, without waiting for morning. He told the astonished family members that Giuseppe himself had provided him with such leads during their meeting earlier that day, but it was safer for everyone if he didn’t share that information for the moment in order to avoid endangering the family further and making false accusations. He asked that the cat not be removed from the knocker and the door and the foyer not be washed until his men arrived and performed their routine work in accordance with police procedures. He repeated that thanks to Miss Berilli’s arrival at eight-fifteen, it’d be relatively easy to check the suspects’ alibis for that night, as the time of the crime could be narrowed down to a ten-minute window. Then he suggested that everyone retire. Doctor Sciaccaluga seconded.
“I administered Giuseppe digitalis and other appropriate medications to protect his heart,” the doctor said. “He should rest as long and peacefully as possible.” Then he offered the women sedatives and promised he’d come back in the morning to check on everyone’s condition.
“Costanza and I will sleep at the palazzina,” Umberto said, “to keep mother company. He turned to Eugenia and Doctor Sciaccaluga. “I’ll be happy to drive you both home. Unless you wish to sleep here, Aunt Eugenia.”
“I don’t think so,” Matilda replied before Eugenia could open her mouth. “I’m sure Eugenia wishes to sleep comfortably in her bed tonight.”
Umberto rose from the sofa. “Very well, then. Let’s go.” He stopped in his tracks. “Where’s Raimondo?”
“He left half an hour ago,” Matilda said.
Umberto shook his head. He asked, “Why does he always act like he’s not part of this family?” No one replied.
Suddenly, Costanza, who had remained at Giuseppe’s bedside, called from the top of the staircase. “Mister Sobrero!”
Everyone turned around.
“Mister Berilli wishes to see you now.”
Doctor Sciaccaluga shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Mister Berilli deems it very important that he speaks to the Chief of Police tonight,” Costanza s
aid in a soft but unusually determined voice.
Recalling the afternoon conversation and the lawyer’s reticence to talk about Ivano Bo, Antonio turned to Doctor Sciaccaluga. “It may be crucial that I see Mister Berilli now,” he said. “I’ll keep the conversation to a minimum, I promise.”
“All right then,” Damiano agreed. “I trust your good judgment, Antonio. Remember. Mister Berilli must rest.”
“Understood,” Antonio said, taking the staircase. On the second step, he let out a moan. He was starting to dislike this family. First, that odd call in the middle of the day, while he was tending to important matters at the police headquarters; then a second call when he was about to finish dinner and move on to his smoking room to try a new pipe. And if the untimely calls weren’t enough, he had a feeling that what he had heard so far might not be the whole truth.
Upstairs, he stopped past the bedroom door. “Mister Berilli? You wanted to see me, I understand.”
“Oh, yes, Antonio,” Giuseppe whispered. “Come closer.”
Antonio tiptoed in the somberness of the large room, the sound of his steps deadened by the thick Oriental rug that hid most of the hardwood floor. Only a small lamp was lit, shedding dim light in a far corner. Yet, when he arrived at the canopy bed he saw that the lawyer was pale like the moon at dawn.
Giuseppe spoke faintly. “Will you put another pillow under my head? I can’t talk well lying down like this. Help me lift my chest a bit. Yes, like this. Thank you, Antonio. Thank you.”
“How are you feeling, Mister Berilli? That cat must have been a very unpleasant sight.”
“It was horrible, Antonio. A vision from hell.”
“Doctor Sciaccaluga wants you to rest,” Antonio said. “I’ll stay only a few moments.”
Giuseppe coughed. “Sit down, Antonio. This will take longer than a few moments.”
Antonio pulled up a chair. “I’m listening.”
Giuseppe breathed deeply. He ran his tongue on his lips twice. “Do you remember what I told you this afternoon about Ivano Bo?”
“I remember.”
“I’ll now tell you the rest of the story.” He paused then spoke with vehemence. “I want you to find him and put him in jail. I’m sure this was his idea—”
“Calm down, Mister Berilli,” Antonio urged him, “or we’ll have to postpone this conversation.”
“No, it must be tonight,” Giuseppe wheezed, “because he’ll try again. He’ll keep trying to kill me until he succeeds. He wants to see me in a coffin, Antonio. You must stop him before it’s too late. I want you to know everything about him, so you can put him away for good. He’s a dangerous individual. Dangerous and mad.”
“Mad? How?”
“Very, very mad. See, Antonio, this afternoon I told you about a woman Ivano Bo claimed to love and who died.”
“Yes,” said Antonio.
Giuseppe spoke faltering. “That woman … was my daughter. Caterina.”
“Your daughter?” Antonio marveled. “I don’t understand. Didn’t she die of tuberculosis? You told me this afternoon that Ivano Bo deemed you responsible for the woman’s death. It doesn’t make any sense!”
Giuseppe waited several seconds before uttering his reply. “I’ll tell you what happened,” he said, “but, please, I’m asking you from the bottom of my heart, keep what I’m about to tell you a secret.”
Antonio thought a moment then decided to give Giuseppe the answer he wanted to hear. “All right. I’ll keep it a secret.”
“Good,” Giuseppe murmured. His voice was barely audible when he began his tale. “Yes, my daughter died of tuberculosis. Mister Bo, however, thinks that Caterina became ill because I prevented her from marrying him. See, approximately three months before Caterina’s death, Caterina told me and Matilda that she had fallen in love with some Ivano and that Ivano’s father was a baker. Caterina was only seventeen, and what she said made no sense at all. No reasonable person of her class would fall in love with the son a baker. Matilda and I couldn’t even figure out how those two had met, let alone come to like each other. We thought he must have seduced her and enslaved her to his will. So I did what any concerned father would have done: I forbade my daughter to see her beau again and kept her under tight surveillance. You understand, Antonio. Caterina was a desirable young woman. Young, beautiful, and rich. I had wedding plans for her already laid out in my mind. I couldn’t let her be involved with such a low-class individual. And I couldn’t let the story of their friendship reach the ears of the public. Our name would have been disgraced.”
Antonio held back a wry smile. “I understand, Mister Berilli. Please, go on. What happened then?”
Giuseppe sighed. “Caterina spent days crying and talking nonsense. Imagine, she kept saying that she was deeply in love with this Ivano and wanted to marry him. Matilda and I were horrified and told Caterina she’d better get over her love because she wouldn’t see that scoundrel again.” He paused, caught his breath. “One day, Caterina stopped crying. She became silent. She became pale. She coughed often, and when she started coughing she kept at it for hours. We realized that she was sick and asked Doctor Sciaccaluga to visit her. At the end of his visit, he told us that Caterina had likely contracted pneumonia. Based on her overall condition, however, he couldn’t rule out tuberculosis. He told us it’d be best for Caterina to go to a private clinic specializing in lung diseases. He knew one such place in the eastern Alps where doctors had been successful in curing many cases of respiratory illnesses. ‘There,’ he said, ‘the air is clearer than ice and the scenery magnificent. It’s the perfect place for a young girl to heal.’ After evaluating the pros and cons of Damiano’s suggestion, Matilda and I decided to send our daughter to the clinic. Unfortunately, shortly after her admission, we received news from the clinic director: Caterina had indeed contracted tuberculosis, and a strong form of it, which left little hope for recovery. Two months later she was dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Antonio said softly, remembering the family’s sorrow and the crowd’s sadness during Caterina’s funeral twenty-four months earlier. He could still see the white casket, the flowers, and the long faces of the people who had attended the burial in tears. “It must have been hard on you. And on your wife.”
“Very hard. We were devastated.”
“Mister Berilli, I know all about your daughter’s death. I attended the funeral. How does all this relate to Ivano Bo and the threatening letters?”
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 so
me 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?”
