The House of Serenades

by Lina Simoni

  She looked at Antonio with suspicious eyes. “Have we met?” She adjusted her curly black hair, which hung loose on her shoulders. Her makeup was heavy, failing nonetheless to hide the signs of aging: deep wrinkles framed her mouth, and two vertical lines engraved a frown.

  “Maybe,” Antonio replied. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Aren’t we all,” she said, placing an empty glass in front of Antonio. “Wine?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what this man looks like,” Antonio went on, “but I was told he’s a regular here.”

  “Why would I want to give you information?”

  “Because I’m the Chief of Police,” Antonio whispered. “I tend to remember who helps me and who doesn’t.”

  She paled and said nothing as she poured herself whiskey.

  “Who’s he?” she murmured when her glass was full.

  He spoke slowly, in a deep voice. “Ivano Bo.”

  “The baker?”

  He nodded. “Is he here tonight?”

  She pointed a finger at a table in the far corner. “There. Curly black hair. What did he do? I don’t like customers who make trouble.”

  “I only need to ask him a couple of questions. At what time did he arrive?”

  She pondered a moment. “Half an hour ago, more or less.”

  “Thank you,” Antonio said. He started towards Ivano Bo’s table, but then turned around. “Miss Barone, you wouldn’t happen to have a sample of his handwriting by any chance? Card scores, checks …”

  “It will cost you …” Francesca teased.

  “You have no idea how much it will cost you if you don’t cooperate. I hear you hire very young girls. And exploit them.”

  Francesca’s facial expression turned glacial. “Fine,” she grumbled, rummaging under the counter. “I have a payment note from his bank. He wrote the amount and signed it. That’s how he pays his tab.” She handed Antonio a document.

  Antonio looked at the payment note intently. The characters were straight, with long t’s and l’s that towered over the other letters like trees above grass, and the a’s and o’s were tiny. Ivano’s handwriting was in no way close to the one in the threatening letters. He gave the note back. “You can put it away. It’s not telling me anything.”

  “Would you accept a drink now?” Francesca asked. “It’s on the house.”

  “I’m on duty,” Antonio said.

  “You are so serious, Chief,” Francesca said. “You should come back when you are off duty.” She leaned over the counter till her breasts brushed the front of Antonio’s coat. She grazed his cheek with the back of her hand. “I’ll be glad to show you I’m not as bad as you think.”

  Antonio didn’t budge. He said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Francesca retracted her hand in a hurry. A murderous look lingered in her eyes.

  Ignoring it, Antonio walked towards the table where Ivano was playing cards with three older men.

  “Mister Bo?” he asked.

  “Yes?” Ivano said without lifting his eyes from the cards.

  He was dressed in casual clothes, wrinkled slacks and a shirt with the collar open. At once Antonio noticed that he was Corrado’s portrait, thirty years younger. Same curly hair, black instead of gray, same pointed nose. At some point Ivano looked up, and Antonio caught a glimpse of two intense dark eyes, sparkling at once with gentleness and strength. The man, Antonio thought, exuded passion. He could see how a young girl could fall into his arms at a snap of his fingers.

  “I am Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police. I need to ask you some questions.”

  Ivano didn’t stand up. “What did I do? Playing cards is not a crime as far as I know.”

  Antonio turned to the three men. “Would you mind leaving us alone?”

  Without a word, the men left the table. Antonio sat down.

  “I’m not here to scrutinize how you spend your time, Mister Bo. You were, however, singled out as a suspect in some threatening actions that were recently carried out against Giuseppe Berilli, the lawyer. As a consequence of these acts, Mister Berilli’s health is suffering. I’m personally conducting the investigation. Could you tell me where you were this evening between eight and eight-thirty?”

  Hearing the Berillis’ name mentioned, Ivano had startled and opened his eyes wide. By the end of Antonio’s sentence, he had recomposed himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. At the time you said, I was at the bakery with my father. The bakery closes at seven for the public, but we always stay late, until nine-thirty at least. Every night.”

  Antonio looked into Ivano’s seemingly innocent eyes. The young man had looked surprised when he had heard Giuseppe Berilli being named. He hadn’t however asked why he had been included in the list of suspects or what the threatening actions had been, and that was a sign that perhaps he knew more about that matter than he cared to tell. On the other hand, his version of the facts coincided exactly with his father’s, and his handwriting didn’t match the handwriting in the letters. Perplexing, Antonio thought, to say the least.

  Ivano broke the silence. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Yes,” Antonio replied. “I understand you were acquainted with Mister Berilli’s daughter, Caterina. Am I correct?”

  Ivano gave Antonio an anguishing look. He spoke softly, faltering. “I love her. And I know that she’s alive.”

  Antonio’s straightened his spine. He squinted his eyes. “What?”

  “You heard me,” Ivano said calmly. “Caterina is not dead. Her family made her,” he snapped his fingers, “disappear.”

  “I hope you understand the gravity of your accusation,” Antonio said, struggling to control his anger. “I attended Caterina’s funeral, as did the whole town.” He continued in a softer voice. “Are you … feeling well, Mister Bo?”

  “I’m not crazy,” Ivano replied, “if that’s what you’re thinking. Although everyone, even my father, seems to believe I am. I’m telling you, something is very wrong with that family. They are the ones you should be investigating.”

  Antonio took a moment to organize his thoughts. “Is this why you are sending Mister Berilli threatening letters?”

  “Don’t you find it strange,” Ivano said, “that a few days after Caterina’s father discovers our love she falls ill and then dies? She was in perfect health the last time I saw her!”

  “Did you send the threatening letters, Mister Bo?”

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort,” Ivano stated.

  “Are you religious?” Antonio asked.

  “What exactly do you mean?”

  “How often do you go to church?”

  “Once a week. To accompany my father. If my father weren’t alive, I wouldn’t go.”

  Antonio stood up. “Please remain available for further questioning,” he said. “I may need to talk to you again soon. As soon as tomorrow, perhaps.”

  Ivano grabbed Antonio’s arm. “Are you going to do something about Caterina? Will you be investigating her death?”

  Antonio withdrew the arm. “Good night, Mister Bo.”

  At the door, Francesca Barone stepped in front of Antonio. “Did you find out what you were looking for?”

  Antonio circumvented her and kept walking.

  She stepped in front of him again. “What happened to Giuseppe Berilli?” she asked.

  He stopped in his tracks. “Have you been listening?”

  “I have ears all over this place.”

  Without knowing exactly why, Antonio asked, “Do you know Giuseppe Berilli?”

  “Not personally. I’ve heard of him many times. Clients talk.”

  At that, Antonio wondered if Francesca Barone, with all her ears and clients, could be a useful source of information. He said, “Someone’s trying to scare him to death.”

  Francesca kept her cool. “How would Mister Bo be involved?” she asked.

  “Good night, Miss Barone,” Antonio said, stepping outside. “Let m
e know if you hear anything unusual.”

  There was movement in the caruggio: four drunken men staggered along, singing, and laughing. It would take them a while to reach their destination, Antonio thought, as they were taking most of their steps sideways. He decided not to get involved.

  “I thought you had run away without paying your tab,” the coachman teased when Antonio reached the carriage. “I was about to call the police.”

  “Very funny,” Antonio mumbled. “We’re going back to Piazza della Nunziata. Last trip for tonight.”

  Comfortable in his seat, he closed his eyes as the horse’s rhythmic steps lulled him into meditation. What kind of person would wound and kill a cat and hang it on someone’s door, he wondered. It had to be someone with a sick mind. Someone with a taste for the macabre. Roberto Passalacqua hadn’t given him that impression. Ivano Bo, with his passion for Caterina, was more likely to be the one. Yet, Antonio found it difficult to imagine a young man in love writing anonymous letters and killing a cat. There was, of course, his story about Caterina being alive. Was that the indication of an unstable mind? Was instead Guido Orengo the one responsible for staging the macabre scene on the Berillis’ door? He decided he’d interrogate him first thing in the morning, although he suspected it’d be a waste of time because even if Guido Orengo was the brain behind the threats, he had the best alibi a criminal would want: he was in jail.

  “Piazza della Nunziata, sir,” the coachman said, “as you requested.”

  Antonio paid what he owed, started his car, and drove home, where he dropped on his bed and fell immediately into a sound sleep.

  12

  FROM HIS CORNER TABLE Ivano had kept watch on Antonio as he exchanged words with Francesca Barone and walked out of Caffe’ del Gambero. He wondered what their conversation had been about and why Francesca had tried twice to prevent Antonio from leaving. Where they in cohort? What did they know? And why was the Chief of Police roaming the town asking questions about Giuseppe Berilli at such late hour? It was the job of a rookie. How had he known to find him at Caffe’ del Gambero in the first place? He ordered a glass of red wine and sipped it slowly. He should wait a while before leaving, or he would raise suspicion. Acting naturally, he joined a card game, losing all his money out of his inability to concentrate. That’s when he stood up, waved to Francesca Barone, and left. Outside, inhaling the cold night air, he found once more his determination. It was two in the morning when he headed surefooted to Piazza della Nunziata.

  The alley behind the bakery was dark and silent when he got there, and the oven-room door was wet with dew drops. He entered with caution. Groping about the familiar territory, he lit two candles, placing them at one end of the table. With poise, he approached the shelves and reached up for a cloth bag kept closed by a gauze twine. His fingers rustled against the cloth as he untied the twine unhurriedly and with care. From the bag, he extracted a sheet of parchment paper, an inkwell, and a pen, and placed them next to each other on the candle-lit table. As he took a seat, he smiled. At first Antonio Sobrero’s interrogation had unsettled him, but then he had rejoiced that one aspect of his plan had finally succeeded: the police were getting involved in the Berillis’ life. It was important, at that point, to keep Mister Sobrero’s curiosity aroused. With that goal clear in mind he set out to write threatening letter number three.

  The first thoughts about writing Giuseppe menacing letters had taken shape one week earlier, after another one of Ivano’s endless attempts to reach the Berillis had miserably failed. He had spent a tormented night, waking at six in the morning with a feeling of exhaustion cloaking him. His certainty about Caterina being alive rather than dead, which vacillated occasionally depending on his mood, seemed particularly shaky that day. He loathed indecision and the inertia that overcame him whenever his investigation stalled. To avoid lingering in negative thoughts, he resolved to try a new venue. On the way to work, he stopped at a police station, a small one, not the central station where Antonio Sobrero was headquartered. There, blaming himself for not having considered that option before, he told a young policeman on duty he had a story to tell the authorities would find intriguing.

  “It’s about Caterina Berilli,” he explained, “Giuseppe Berilli’s daughter, whom everyone thinks dead. She’s not dead,” he added, “I know it.”

  The young policeman asked Ivano to wait and returned shortly with his superior, a gray-haired man with grades on his uniform and a look of incredulity on his face. “Did you actually see this non-dead woman?” he asked.

  “No,” Ivano said, “but I know for a fact that she’s alive. Her family is hiding her. Where, nobody knows.”

  Immediately the senior officer thought the young man had to be mad to come up with that kind of story—a story that discredited one of the most respectable families in town. He personally accompanied Ivano to Piazza della Nunziata, where he asked Corrado if his son had his mind in the right place. Corrado confirmed that his son had indeed lost his reason and had been acting crazy since the day Caterina had died. He told the policeman about the days his son had spent seated on the bakery floor, about his disappearance, and about the mandolin and the love songs.

  “You’d better keep an eye on your offspring,” the officer told Corrado, “because we’re busy down at the police station. We’ve no time to look after the delirium of some enamored bum. The next time your son bothers us with his fantasies, I will inform the Berillis. They’ll press defamation charges against him. He will end up jailed.”

  In vain Ivano begged his father and the policeman to believe him. The policeman left, and Corrado gave his son a sad look. “It’s all right, son. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry.”

  At his father look of pity, Ivano’s anger exploded. He let out a long, loud shout, sustaining it until his lungs screamed for air. While he was still shouting, Corrado rushed out the bakery, fearing for his life.

  After that episode Ivano’s thoughts began to follow unchartered paths. Giuseppe Berilli was the key to Caterina’s false death, he reasoned, the one hiding the truth from everybody, and if the lawyer refused to see him and tell him what he had done to Caterina then he’d have no choice but to scare him into talking. He figured that if he managed to bring Giuseppe to a high state of fear, the lawyer could lose his composure and talk. Anonymous threatening letters would be a good way to start his scare tactics: they would protect his own identity, and Giuseppe, with his dirty conscience, would hardly dismiss them as a prank. Not only the letters would frighten the lawyer, but they might also prompt the police to intervene. In order to avoid being identified as the writer, he’d write the letters with his left hand, which he could use for several tasks and produced a handwriting completely different from his right-handed one. In his bottled-up fury, Ivano didn’t stop a single moment to consider the consequences of his plan. Before he had time to reconsider, he had sent Giuseppe threatening letter number one. He had written its text joyously, his frustration fading with every pen stroke. The final touch had been the drawing of the horse with its mane in the wind, a symbol of the freedom he wanted for Caterina. As it turned out, Ivano had nothing to do with Giuseppe’s horse accident on Piazza San Matteo. When he read about the mishap in the newspaper, however, he thought some saint up in heaven must finally be on his side.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, staring the sky, “for making my letter so much scarier.”

  Two days went by. Then he wrote the second letter, gloating at the frightening power of its words. The following evening, while he was returning home late from Taverna del Marinaio, he spotted a cat lying still by a street corner. It had died recently, Ivano concluded after examining the animal, because there was fresh blood around a wound on its abdomen. Life was tough for stray cats in the caruggi, he brooded, and this cat was likely the victim of the animals’ fights for survival. Suddenly, as he stared at the dead animal, he remembered a practice he had become acquainted with during his time with the underworld. One day a Caribbean woman named
Clotilde Pereira had arrived in Genoa from South America on a cargo ship. She was a black-magic expert and, upon her arrival in town, had given free public demonstrations of her art and sold her special services to those who wanted to hurt their enemies or punish their unfaithful spouses. During one of her public demonstrations, Clotilde had explained that hanging a dead cat to a door would cause evil winds to blow into the house, bringing along ill luck and great affliction lasting three years. In order to aim the evil winds at one specific member of the household, Clotilde had added, one had to pronounce that person’s name three times while dipping a finger into the cat’s blood and then use the wet finger to write the word morte—death—on the door. Whether Clotilde was right or wrong, Ivano had no idea, but he thought the gruesome ritual would be a good one to stage on top of the anonymous letters in order to bring Giuseppe to a high state of fear. So he did exactly as Clotilde Pereira had said, asking for forgiveness up in Heaven for disrespecting an animal after its death.

  “It’s for the sake of my lost love,” he said aloud as he gently picked up the stray cat. “She’s a victim too,” he whispered in the cat’s ear, “just as you are.”

  The staging of Clotilde’s black ritual on the palazzina’s door took him only a few moments. He hung the cat to the knocker, dipped his finger in the cat’s blood, and wrote morte above the cat’s head while whispering Giuseppe’s name. Finished, he knocked on the door and rushed across the street, where he hid in the shadows. From his post, through the tree leaves, he watched the turmoil as the Berillis came to the door.