by Lina Simoni
The following afternoon she went to the bakery and in the penumbra of the oven room told Ivano what he had wanted to hear all along.
“I’m done thinking about my family,” she said. “All I want to think about from now on is you.” They embraced, and an ecstatic Ivano caressed her and kissed her with a sensuous tenderness that skillfully masked his long-suppressed lust for her.
Over the following weeks, Caterina and Ivano saw each other every day. They went for long walks, talking at length about their future. With him at her side, Caterina felt confident and more and more indifferent to the scandal that was still rocking her family and especially her father. Her intimacy with Ivano was growing. One day Ivano took her in his arms with such vehemence that her body shook with the memories of Raimondo’s games, played night after night until she had turned thirteen and threatened her brother to reveal their secret. She excused herself and went home, leaving Ivano puzzled and fearful of having lost Caterina once more. It took her several more encounters to overcome her fears, to feel less torn between past and future. She never explained to Ivano why she had retreated, and he never asked for a reason. Slowly, she became accustomed to Ivano’s touches and smell, the soft texture of his skin, his tender kisses, increasingly distancing herself from the memories of Raimondo’s games until the connection between the acts of her brother and those of her lover became weak and then altogether disappeared, as if the two men existed in worlds that couldn’t touch each other.
Umberto was horrified by his sister’s public display of affection for the baker, but said nothing, hoping it’d be a temporary matter while Caterina adjusted to her new life. Bigger issues worried him, concerning his relationship with his mother. Ever since his sister’s sudden return, Umberto had looked upon Matilda with mistrust. While he understood her difficult position—everyone was familiar with Giuseppe’s bad temper and capricious disposition—down deep he declared her guilty of having concealed the truth about Caterina. Had she spoken, he argued, the family would have been able to talk reason to Giuseppe and perhaps persuade him to deal with Caterina’s infatuation in a more rational way. He had always loved his mother dearly, and now he felt betrayed. He felt that all his life he had loved a different woman, a woman who only after Caterina’s return had appeared to him in all her ineptitude and cowardice. His visits to Corso Solferino became rare and short, until they eventually stopped altogether.
Out of his catatonic condition, Raimondo found all sort of excuses to stay away from the palazzina, for he couldn’t bear to look into his sister’s eyes. He drowned into his dissolute life more deeply than ever and avoided all visits and encounters with his family for fear that eventually Caterina would start talking about the past and share the secrets of her youth.
As for Eugenia, who was recovering at the hospital at the end of the second week, she didn’t miss a single occasion to make mincemeat of her sister-in-law. “I always said it, wives and oxen from your land. She buried her daughter alive, that Torinese, and told us nothing. That girl is my niece. How dare that Matilda keep such a momentous secret to herself? How?”
When the Countess Marina Passaggi during one her hospital visits pointed out to Eugenia that it had been Giuseppe’s idea, not Matilda’s, to declare his daughter dead, Eugenia heard no reason. “It’s a mother’s duty to take care of her children,” she said. “I don’t want to see that Torinese again for as long as I live.”
As it turned out, Eugenia saw Matilda shortly afterwards, because the first thing she did upon her discharge from the hospital was rush to the palazzina. She entered the blue parlor like a storm, catching Matilda by surprise.
“Time to set a few matters straight,” she barked. “From now on I’ll live here. And I’m taking charge of this household.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Matilda shouted. “This is my home!”
“I don’t think so,” Eugenia said calmly. “I’ll hire a lawyer to prove that this house is mine. Until then you can stay, as long as you don’t interfere with what I do or say.”
Mouth agape, Matilda remained in her seat, unable to gather enough strength to stand up and fight Eugenia and her newly-found air of superiority.
Promptly, Eugenia dispensed new instructions to the staff, making sure the new house rules would be as different as possible from the ones Matilda had enforced for thirty-one years. She paid special attention to picking schedules and routines that would give Matilda the most aggravation, such as cleaning the floors of the blue parlor with alcohol twice a day. On her first evening as the lady of the house, Eugenia walked into the reading room, lit the fireplace, and poured herself a large glass of Sambuca. She raised her glass. “Damn you, Giuseppe,” she said, “and your whore mother.”
More turmoil was in the works for the Genoese. The day after Eugenia’s return to the palazzina, Father Camillo showed up at the police station with an envelope in hand.
“Mister Sobrero,” he said, “I have been wondering about this envelope for several days. Palmira Bevilacqua, Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse, gave it to me asking that I keep it and open it only after her and the doctor’s deaths. I have no idea why she made such a request. All I know is that she died shortly afterwards and in a sudden way. Doctor Sciaccaluga is now in jail, and the newspapers published disturbing stories about his father having sold the Berillis a child. Perhaps we should open this envelope and see what’s inside.”
“I agree,” Antonio said. “Let’s open it.”
Father Camillo hesitated a moment. “I hope I’m not betraying Palmira’s faith in me,” he said as he broke the wax seal and took out of the envelope a rim of papers. The very first sheet was the letter Palmira Bevilacqua had written only days before dying. Father Camillo read it aloud.
Dear Father Camillo,
if you read this letter, both Doctor Sciaccaluga and I are dead. Don’t misjudge Doctor Sciaccaluga based on the contents of this envelope. He’s a good man and a good doctor. He did what he did to follow in the footsteps of his father and along the way was tempted by greed. I copied these papers from the originals Doctor Sciaccaluga kept in his office. Those originals no longer exist: I saw Doctor Sciaccaluga burn them and dispose of the ashes. I made a copy of the documents because I believe that what Doctor Sciaccaluga and his father did is wrong and the children should be rejoined with their legitimate parents or, at least, be acquainted with their origins. I know you’ll agree with me that only then justice will be served. I’m confident you will use this information in the best interest of humankind.
Your devoted,
Palmira Bevilacqua
Finished, Father Camillo handed Antonio the papers. It took Antonio several minutes to understand that those notes described the sales, carried out by Damiano and Federico Sciaccaluga, of twenty-five babies. One of the papers was a perfect copy of Giuseppe’s birth record, the one Damiano Sciaccaluga had pulled out of his pocket at the palazzina. The only part missing in the copy was Federico’s signature. “This is unbelievable,” Antonio murmured. “I thought Giuseppe Berilli’s case was unique. Instead, it’s one of many. Twenty-five children grew up with the wrong parents!”
“I wouldn’t say that, Mister Sobrero,” Father Camillo said. “Perhaps these children grew up with people who loved them rather than with parents who didn’t want them.”
“Nevertheless, from what I see, the doctors who acted as intermediaries gained money from the sales,” Antonio pointed out. “Furthermore, they falsified the birth certificates. These men broke the law many times. More charges will be pressed against Damiano Sciaccaluga. I’ll make sure of that.”
“What will you do with these documents, Mister Sobrero?” Father Camillo asked.
“Right now,” Antonio admitted, “I have no idea.” He stood up. “You can go, Father. You’ll hear from me if I need you.”
Alone, Antonio examined the documents thoroughly, jotting down names and dates and rearranging the sheets in chronological order. Then he called upon three of his most reliable men an
d informed them of the documents and their meaning.
“We have hard work ahead of us,” he said at the end of his briefing. “First of all, we must prove that these documents are real. You understand, gentlemen, that these aren’t the originals. They were copied and handwritten by Palmira Bevilacqua, and anyone could argue that she invented everything. I don’t believe she did, but we need some solid evidence. We have the names of the people Damiano Sciaccaluga sold three babies to. They may be willing to talk. Federico Sciaccaluga is dead, but some of the parents who bought children from him may still be alive, and if we’re lucky, they’ll be willing to help us. This, by the way, is only half the job. If we succeed in proving that these documents tell the truth, we’ll have twenty-five birth records to update.”
16
IT TOOK THE POLICE TIME and patience to build a complete case against Doctor Sciaccaluga. In the end all the loose ends came together. First, Antonio had a notice published in Il Secolo XIX asking anyone with information on the whereabouts of three women named Teresa Percato, Wanda Martelli, and Marcella Benassi to come forward. Those, according to Palmira’s documents, were the names of the biological mothers of the three babies Damiano Sciaccaluga had sold. A young woman named Clarissa came forward right away.
“Teresa was my friend,” she said. “We worked together at Caffe’ del Gambero. I entertained customers, she cleaned. Then she became pregnant and, all of a sudden, very sick. She could no longer work. So she went to Doctor Sciaccaluga to get rid of the baby, but Doctor Sciaccaluga told her, ‘Why don’t you deliver the baby instead? I’ll pay you well.’ Teresa said yes. With the money the doctor gave her she left her cleaning job at Caffe’ del Gambero and moved to Benevento, the town where she was born. She started a business there, selling notions. Teresa is Francesca Barone’s daughter, sir, but Miss Barone treated her like a servant. No special consideration.”
Asked about her daughter, Francesca Barone shrugged. “She’s a troublemaker. She’s been trouble since the day she was born. I’m glad she left town.”
“We were told your daughter was born in Benevento,” Antonio insisted. “That’s way south. Can you explain?”
“I chose that city at random,” Francesca explained. “I traveled to Benevento alone when I could no longer disguise the pregnancy with clothes. I didn’t want anyone to know. And I wanted to give birth in a place where no one knew me. And I made up a last name.”
Antonio frowned. “Why?”
“Mister Sobrero, I have no idea who the father is. I wanted no witnesses to the birth and a last name for my daughter that was as different as possible from mine.” She paused and shook her head. “I guess now the whole town will know.”
Antonio nodded. “Your daughter is part of an ongoing investigation. There’s little I can keep secret.”
That same afternoon Antonio telegraphed the Benevento police, asking them to interrogate Teresa Percato about her baby. Teresa confirmed every word Clarissa had said, so providing the first firm piece of evidence of Damiano Sciaccaluga’s direct involvement in the child sales. In addition, two adoptive parents came forward to tell their stories, and soon Antonio had collected enough evidence to prove that the sales described in Palmira’s copies were real. As the story of Teresa’s sold child found its way to the newspaper’s pages together with the information that Francesca Barone was her mother, the Genoese began to murmur that perhaps Teresa was none other than Giuseppe Berilli’s illegitimate daughter.
“It’s possible,” Francesca Barone admitted in front of a crowd that included Antonio and two reporters, “but I don’t know for sure. At the time I became pregnant I was sleeping with several men besides Giuseppe. It was only later that we became … exclusive.” She paused a moment, gazing blankly at the ceiling. “She looks like Giuseppe, I must say. She’s thin, but her facial features, the shape of her nose, the round eyes, the thin lips … I saw Giuseppe every time I looked at her.”
As Francesca pointed out, there was no way of knowing, but the mere possibility was good enough for those who wanted more gossip about the Berillis and their secrets. Soon Giuseppe’s fourth offspring became the new talk of the town.
On his way to the city jail to inform Damiano that a number of new charges would be filed against him, Antonio wondered if the doctor was by any chance hiding more secrets. The more he thought about that sinister little man, the more he believed that might be the case. The sudden death of his nurse, for example, only days after she had discovered and copied the child-sale documents, was a puzzling coincidence. Of course, he didn’t have a shred of proof that the nurse hadn’t died of natural causes. Perhaps he could bluff, he thought as he walked through the thick door of the jail. He checked in with the warden and was promptly escorted along a dark corridor to the area where the perpetrators of minor crimes served their time. At that point, Doctor Sciaccaluga, accused only of falsifying a death certificate, was not yet considered a dangerous inmate. Concentrating on the questions he was going to ask, Antonio entered a private visiting room. Doctor Sciaccaluga arrived shortly, wearing shackles.
“Untie him,” Antonio ordered, and the guard let the doctor loose. “Good afternoon, Doctor,” Antonio said, pointing at a chair across from his. A worn-out, dusty table stood between them.
Slowly, Damiano sat down.
“How are you liking your new home?” Antonio asked, smiling.
Damiano snorted, “You can’t keep me here. I just spoke to my lawyer. I’ll be out before you know it, Mister Chief.”
“I don’t think so,” Antonio quipped. “We found more evidence against you.”
Damiano squinted his ferret eyes. “You are making this up. Are you trying to trick me?”
Antonio shook his head. “Tricking people is not my favorite pastime.” He spread Palmira’s copies on the table. “Take a look at these.”
Damiano’s face turned the color of alabaster. “What …”
“What are they? Copies made by your nurse. And we have proof that they tell the truth. We know everything about your and your father’s scheme.”
Damiano said nothing, his face frozen in a quiet stupor.
Patiently, Antonio let a half minute go by. “You wouldn’t have,” he paused, “murdered your nurse by any chance?”
Without looking at Antonio, he said, “No.”
“You should rethink your answer, doctor,” Antonio said, judging that the time for his bluff had come. By some stroke of inspiration, he added, “We exhumed her body this morning.” He leaned forward, his face only a breath away from Damiano’s. He whispered, “We know.”
Damiano grabbed the edge of the table with both hands.
Antonio knew he had hit the jackpot. He leaned back. “Was it hard? Was it easy?”
Damiano began to sweat. His lower lip quivered.
Antonio didn’t let up. “Did you plan the murder? Or did you do it on the spur of the moment? Did she know she was going to die?” He raised his voice. “Was she in pain? How much did she hurt? Were you sneaky? Were you fast?” He shouted. “How fast were you, doctor? How fast?”
Damiano sprung from his seat, knocking over the chair. “Very, very fast!” he screamed. “Faster than you can imagine, Mister Sobrero. So fast she had no idea! And then she was dead. Dead as a stone!”
When the guards took Damiano back to his cell, he was in a panic. He shouted and kicked the air, and after the guards closed the door on him he slammed his head against the bars till he bled from his nose and forehead. Antonio didn’t hesitate to take advantage. He posed question after question, giving the prisoner no respite. Crying and shivering, Damiano gave Antonio all the details of Palmira Bevilacqua’s poisoning, including the fact that he had used a concentrated dose of belladonna.
He said, “She knew, you understand? I had to kill her. I couldn’t trust her.” He broke into hysterical laughter. “She always went to church. Women who go to church can’t be trusted.” He spoke louder. “Did you know that? They can’t be trusted!”
&
nbsp; Three weeks after his confession, a special tribunal sentenced Damiano to life in prison. He sat through the trial in silence, with droopy shoulders and eyes staring blankly at the floor. At the end, after listening to the sentence, he lifted his eyes and looked at the judge.
“Do you know who I am?” he said.
The judge remained silent.
“I’m the doctor of dreams,” Damiano said in a whisper, and those were his last words to the world, for he was taken back to jail where he spent the remainder of his days in isolation.
The reporters were quick to get hold of the stories of the twenty-five children and Palmira Bevilacqua’s cruel murder by belladonna. Eugenia, who after her return to Corso Solferino had resumed full swing her social life and hadn’t paid the hospitalized Giuseppe a single visit, went to Klainguti’s every afternoon to chat with her friends about the unbelievable racket run by Doctor Sciaccaluga and his father. The poor nurse’s untimely death was also a favorite topic of discussion, as were the effects of various poisons commonly found in medical offices and clinics.
“The next time we go for a checkup,” Eugenia said over and over to her friends, “we should keep an eye on our doctors. Who knows what they’ll slip in our syrups while we look the other way.”
On a rainy Sunday, seated in the reading room in front of the fireplace, Eugenia decided it was time for her to open the doors of the palazzina to Genoa’s society. After carefully consulting the newspaper to figure out on which days there would be no benefits or theater performances or balls, she concluded that the perfect day for her opening gala would be ten days later, on a Friday. Seated at Giuseppe’s favorite desk, she wrote by hand thirty dinner invitations. When the ink was dry, she placed the invitations in envelopes and consulted her personal book for the addresses. Her heart raced in excitement as she handwrote the envelopes. She was in charge again. She was the lady of the house, and she would see to it that no one would again make the mistake of assuming Matilda was the one who ran the palazzina. Never mind the arthritis that made the fingers of her right hand swell at the joints and hurt when she held the pen. Perhaps, she brooded, staring at her inflamed knuckles, she should hire a personal assistant for future events. She’d need one, because she would host dinner parties at least once a month. She’d assign the parties themes, such as Venetian Masks or Witchcraft. It’d be Christmas soon, then New Year. And Carnival in February would demand a special celebration. She couldn’t do without a social secretary. Her good friend, the Countess Marina Passaggi, would gladly help her with the selection process. It was difficult to find trustworthy help nowadays.
