by Lina Simoni
The nuns called upon a priest who lived in Mirabello and was also a doctor. After a thorough visit, the priest told the nuns that there was nothing he could do to cure the young woman’s illness. “She’s the only one, not medicine,” he said, “who has the power to heal, but when I look at her, I see no sign of willpower, no sign of fight, no sign that she wants to live. Prepare yourselves, sisters, to see this woman die.”
At those words, the nuns sent Giuseppe a telegram explaining that Caterina’s health was failing and suggesting that he reconsider his decision for the sake of saving his daughter’s life. Two days later, the nuns received the reply: “The Berillis are not interested in the well-being of someone who no longer belongs to their stock. Signed Giuseppe Berilli.”
Giuseppe never told Matilda about the telegram, and it was then that he started toying with the idea of declaring his daughter dead and, later on, of staging her funeral. And the more he toyed with that idea, the more fond of it he became, for he saw in it a way to officially ratify Caterina’s removal from the family and bury her memory forever. Five days after the arrival of the nuns’ telegram, Giuseppe informed his wife he intended to tell the world that Caterina had died. Matilda was living by then in a state of such mental and physical prostration that she barely understood what her husband was saying. From behind the armor of silence she had built around herself at the moment the coach had left the convent of the Sorelle Addolorate and which she would obstinately wear for months, she heard, as if in a dream, her husband talking about death, funeral, coffin, and ceremony. When he had finished detailing his plan, she looked at him with vitreous eyes and said nothing at all. She left the reading room and returned to the blue parlor, where she sat on the loveseat, picked up a square cut of white silk, and began to sew.
At that point Caterina was barely alive. She lay still on her cot, staring at the ceiling, alternating between wakefulness and oblivion, the transitions marked by a state of dreaming in which fantastic creatures and memories of her life in Genoa interlaced in long, frightening nightmares. In one such nightmare, which recurred often and with consistent clarity, she saw her own body floating in the air. The body was set horizontally, face down, arms extended forward, straight and rigid like a wooden board. It flew through a dark space until it turned face up and slid into a hole that was the entrance to a dimly lit tunnel. Projected onto the curved walls of the tunnel Caterina saw images of women: her mother, her aunt Eugenia, the maids who worked at the palazzina, the ladies who sold lace at the market, her schoolmates, Lavinia, and other women who were the products of her imagination. The projections had wailing, gloomy voices that called out her name in the languishing tone of ghosts. The images were two-dimensional, stuck to the tunnel walls, but occasionally the women’s arms stretched away from the walls, reaching towards her, always stopping a few centimeters short of touching her body, which continued to move forward, at times slowly, like a branch floating on the surface of a calm river, at times fast, as if it were a bullet shot from a gun. Whenever the body slowed down, the top of the tunnel became transparent, like clear window glass, and Caterina could see through it and explore the sky. In the dark blue and amidst clouds of bright stars, flocks of large birds flew along the tunnel, following her sliding motion. The birds had long wings, huge talons, big sharp beaks, and menacing red eyes. The biggest one of all, the one who always led the flock, had the face of her father. The others had the faces of her brothers, the coachman who had brought her to the convent, Ivano’s father, the lawyers who worked at her father’s firm, and the priests who officiated Mass in the cathedral. Caterina trembled at their sight and struggled to turn face down so she wouldn’t see them flying. Then the tunnel suddenly ended, and her body emerged from it in slow motion, floating peacefully in an orange light along the second-floor-corridor of the House of Hope. At the end of the corridor she landed on her bed with a thump. As the echo of the thump faded, she understood that she was back at the beginning, that another trip inside the tunnel would start soon, and she held on to the sides of the bed and screamed.
The nuns took turns at her bedside. They watched her body shaking and trembling and saw that shaking as a manifestation of the devil she had inside. They prayed all their prayers at the ugly sounds that emerged from Caterina’s mouth. They grazed her dry lips with wet cotton balls and dried her cold sweat with their softest towels, all along begging God to end her suffering by either giving Caterina the strength to return to life or by welcoming her into the peace of Heaven.
One day, after many identical repetitions, Caterina’s dream changed. As her body emerged from the tunnel, she saw Ivano high above her. He flew down towards her, joining her inside the orange light. They floated side by side along the corridor and landed on the bed together, where they lay still, looking at each other. That’s when Caterina, slowly and gradually, opened her eyes. She turned her head left and right, exploring the room as if she had woken in a place different from where she had fallen asleep. She gazed curiously at the veiled figures standing around her bed and didn’t refuse the drops of warm broth the nuns dripped into her mouth. The following day, awake for increasingly longer periods, she bent her knees in gentle leg-stretching motions and was able to hold a cup and drink on her own. Then she uttered words, disconnected and meaningless at first, more coherent as time went by. When the flow of her words turned into complete, correct sentences, the nuns understood that Caterina had returned to life. A miracle, they thought, and thanked the Lord for many days.
Caterina’s physical recovery progressed fast and well under the care of the nuns and the village doctor. She got up early in the morning, ate her meals, carried out a few chores, strolled the convent grounds, sat in the chapel at the prescribed times. Her mind, however, couldn’t keep pace with her body. She lived in a state of numbness, as if suspended in a floating bubble. Only at night did her mind become alive and filled with the memories of the life she had left behind. Alone in her dark, bare cell, she made imaginary drawings on the walls using the tip of her index finger as charcoal and the whitewash as paper. She moved the finger slowly, in smooth strokes, her arm a conduit between her brain and the wall. Inside the conduit her thoughts were free to flow and at the end of it they took on shapes. She drew Ivano’s face, his full lips and pointed nose, and the façade of the palazzina. She traced her mother’s delicate features, Lavinia’s plump, soft bosom, the sea waves, and big boats and small ones. She often traced the sun and the moon and, at times, the roads of downtown. When the four walls were full, she stared at her ghostly creations, marveling at the richness of color and shape her finger had been able to convey. She often approached the wall, placing her cheek against it and stretching her arms sideways, feeling at the same time the cold of the whitewash and the warmth of the drawings. In that warmth, she became one with her beloved. She experienced the softness of Ivano’s kisses, the tenderness of her mother’s embraces, and the musky odor of Lavinia’s skin. Invariably, after a while, the images faded. She never knew how long they lasted, because she had become incapable of tracking time. When the drawings were no longer visible to her, she lay on the cot with her eyes closed and thought of her brother Raimondo, his nocturnal visits to her bedroom begun on the day she had turned eleven, the sweet words he used to whisper in her ears as he slipped naked under her sheets and told her to be silent, because they were about to play a special game, a game no one else should know about. “It’s our secret,” he’d murmur, “for ever and ever and ever.” She smelled Raimondo’s strong odor, felt the heat of his body next to hers, and sensed the gentle massages he gave her with his large, firm hands. She recalled the games he taught her to play with the skin of that funny organ of his, the one that grew in size as the game moved along. And she remembered the games Raimondo played with her body, kissing her everywhere, penetrating her holes with his fingers, rubbing his organ in a rhythm and letting it grow, till a fountain came out of Raimondo’s body, a warm slick fountain that landed all over her and made her laugh
.
“It’s the fountain of happiness, Caterina,” Raimondo used to say. “I’m happy now. Are you?”
Then Caterina remembered the night Raimondo had told her he had grown tired of the game with the fountain, and it was good to change games when one had had enough, and in the new game he’d put inside her a bigger and harder finger, which was the finger of love. She remembered the weight of Raimondo’s body on hers, his heavy breath on her face, the pressure against her hole, and the unbearable pain and the sensation of being filled by an object that would make her explode. She knew it was the big finger that hurt her inside and wanted to shout at it to go away, but her throat was empty of sound and her lips sealed. Then the big finger danced inside her like a worm gone mad, and Caterina wondered if all that bouncing was what boats felt when shaken by the sea waves. Then the bouncing ceased, and so did the big finger’s dance. Raimondo collapsed on her, and there was silence in the room. It was a strange silence, unlike any silence Caterina had heard before. It was different from the silence of winter, and from the silence of church, and from the silence of sleep. It was a hollow silence, so hollow Caterina couldn’t hear herself breathe. Raimondo broke that silence when he lifted himself to his knees. It was then that Caterina saw the stain. It looked like a carnation freshly picked from the garden, and it was there, on the cloth Raimondo had laid under her so no one would find out they had played the game with the big finger. She was so bewitched by the sight of that red shape that she couldn’t move, as if her legs and arms had been tied to the bed with chains. Lying on her canopy bed, watching Raimondo leave, Caterina asked herself why she and Raimondo couldn’t play games that didn’t hurt, why he liked so much the game with the big finger. She thought she liked playing with the small fingers better, because they didn’t hurt as much and because she could see the fountain at the end, which was the best part of the game.
Some nights, after falling asleep on her cot, Caterina dreamed of Raimondo entering her convent cell and walking up to her. By the time he reached the edge of the cot he was no longer Raimondo. He was a horrendous animal with the face of a pig and the body of a horse, with long legs and heavy large hoofs. The organ of the pig-horse was immense, as long as the pig-horse’s trunk and as wide as the pig-horse’s hips. Suddenly, the pig-horse fell on top of her, his huge organ trapped between their bodies, pressing on her belly and chest with the weight of a mountain, and she could smell the stench of his breath as he laid his mouth on hers and with his hooves held her down flat against the sheets. She always woke up when the stench was so strong she could no longer breathe.
For over a year Caterina’s life alternated between days spent in complete apathy and nights filled with medleys of memories and dreams. After that time, her dreams became less frequent, her memories blurred. She lost the details, the faces, the voices. She forgot the sounds of passion and became cold inside, like the ice that hung in winter along the roof of the House of Hope. Unknowingly, she switched habits, becoming dead during the nights she had once used as her private moments of celebration and alive during the days she had once spent in indifference and stagnation. She became accustomed to the convent life, the company of the nuns, the prayers, the chants, the daily chores, letting the rhythms of the cloistered life lead her through the hours.
10
ALL WAS QUIET AT THE PALAZZINA following the turmoil the dead cat had caused and the departure of Antonio Sobrero. On the second floor, in his bed, out of the corner of his eye, Giuseppe saw Matilda approaching.
“Where’s everybody?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“They all left but Costanza,” Matilda replied. “Umberto drove Eugenia and Doctor Sciaccaluga home. He’ll be back shortly. He and Costanza will spend the night here. How are you feeling?”
“Horribly,” Giuseppe said. “I have no strength. It’s him, you know, I’m sure.”
“Rest,” Matilda said. “Close your eyes and don’t worry about anything. Damiano will be here first thing in the morning. You’ll feel better by then, you’ll see.”
For once, Giuseppe did what Matilda said. He closed his eyes, and to purge his thoughts of Ivano, the horse, the letters, and the dead cat on the door, he reenacted in his head his favorite and most successful legal cases. It was a trick he had learned from his father, who had always been a promoter of the idea that the best way to free the mind from negative thoughts was to concentrate on professional successes.
Eugenia, on the other hand, could think of nothing but the letters and the dead cat on the door. She was at that point in Umberto’s car, ensconced on the passenger’s seat. Umberto was at the wheel, and in the back sat a rigid Damiano. The atmosphere inside the car was strained and nervy, filled with awkward half sentences and uncomfortable silences. Throughout the first half of the trip Eugenia hardly spoke, concentrating more on overcoming her fear of automobiles than on making conversation. Damiano, too, was in no mood for chit chat. The bizarre cat incident had upset him beyond anyone’s imagination. And the unexpected arrival of Antonio Sobrero at the palazzina had only added to his worries. Antonio would investigate—no question. Would he interrogate everyone present? Would he ask him questions? Could the dead cat be bad omen? With jittery hands, he loosened the tie around his neck, as if he needed extra air.
At some point Eugenia turned around and said, “Doctor, I heard about your nurse’s death this morning. I was told that her funeral is going to be held in the cathedral. I find it queer. Don’t you, Umberto?”
Umberto hummed as Damiano held his breath for a moment.
“Yes,” Damiano said edgily, “the funeral is set for day after tomorrow at five.”
“Will you be attending?” Eugenia asked.
Damiano cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said.
Umberto decided it’d be courteous to take part in the conversation. He hadn’t heard about Palmira Bevilacqua’s death, so he asked, “When did your nurse die? How?”
Damiano coughed repeatedly before saying, “Influenza. It’s a terrible illness to catch these days.”
“I heard it was a sudden death,” Eugenia went on. “And if you ask me, it’s not right that she should have her funeral in the cathedral. Not right at all.”
Damiano changed positions on the seat.
Umberto said, “It’s unusual, I agree. Did you make the arrangements, Doctor?”
“No,” Damiano was quick to say. “She was my nurse, not a relative.” There was a long, thorny silence. “You can let me out here,” Damiano said. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“Good night, Doctor Sciaccaluga,” Eugenia said with a pout.
Damiano got off, waved, and rushed across the street.
“What your father sees in that man escapes me,” Eugenia said as Umberto pulled away from the curb.
“I have been wondering about him many times,” Umberto said pensively. “Someday perhaps we’ll figure out what father’s interest in this man is all about.”
By the time Umberto stopped the car on Via San Lorenzo, it was past eleven o’clock. Politely, Eugenia took leave of her nephew and climbed the staircase to the second floor. The first thing she did once inside her apartment was close the door and slide the bolts all the way. Then she went straight to the living room, where she dropped on one of three linen-upholstered sofas. Her face was burning, as if she had coals buried in her cheeks.
“Liars,” she said between her teeth. “I belong to a family of liars.”
Even Giuseppe, her own brother, had lied to her. She had always trusted him and now knew she had been mistaken. He’d have a million excuses ready for her the next time they’d meet. He’d say he had lied to protect her. Nonsense. Certainly Giuseppe had lied about the threatening letters because Matilda had asked him to do so. That Torinese. Always trying to keep her ignorant of the family affairs. It was all her fault, as always. Eugenia felt a sting in her stomach.
“Everybody knew about the letters,” she said, “except me.”
And Umberto, so kin
d and apologetic in the car. Aunt Eugenia here, Aunt Eugenia there. He had a dirty conscience too. To add scorn to scorn, she hadn’t even been able to learn more about Palmira Bevilacqua’s death and funeral because in the car the doctor had given her only evasive replies. And Giuseppe was half dead in his room. “What a night,” she moaned. She stood up, poured herself a shot of Sambuca, and swallowed the liquor in one gulp. She’d never be able to fall asleep, not with the knot she had in her throat.
“Relax, Eugenia,” she said then breathed heavily in and out.
Five blocks over, Doctor Sciaccaluga was undressing for the night. He was still shaking from the conversation he had been forced to entertain in Umberto’s car. “Damn spinster,” he mumbled. That curious, gossipy, old woman almost gave him a heart attack with her questions. Did she suspect? Had she shared her suspicions with other people? No, Damiano concluded, Eugenia knew absolutely nothing: her questions were prompted by her eagerness to learn stories she could turn into fresh gossip. Still, he should keep an eye on her until the funeral was done and over. Once Palmira was under a meter of dirt, for sure Eugenia and her café friends would forget about her and her funeral and turn their attention to newer and juicier matters. He slipped under the covers, where he tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. An hour later, exhausted, he got up. To pass time, he dipped his shaving brush in foam and smeared the white lather on his cheeks. His hand trembled when he brought the razor to his face, cutting himself the moment he attempted to shave. He stared into the mirror and saw the rivulet of blood trickling down his cheek. Fear clutched every bone in his body. He was on the edge, exactly as he had been during the last days of Palmira’s life.
