The House of Serenades

by Lina Simoni

  “I’ve gone through worse moments in my quest for Caterina,” he said aloud as he walked downhill towards his home, exhausted from the many hours spent standing and singing. “It’s only a matter of time before she forgives me. My music will melt the cold in her heart, I know.”

  From that day on, Ivano spent his days at the bakery and his evenings serenading the woman he loved. He arrived at the belvedere in the fading light of dusk and stood on a bench facing the palazzina. Mandolin held by a neck strap, he played and sang until the church bells rang midnight. Then he went home and slept till dawn, when he awoke and joined his father at the bakery. He worked diligently all day long, alternating between serving customers and baking in the oven room. Finished, he cleaned up, wore his best suit, and returned to the belvedere for another night of playing and singing. Not once did Caterina open her windows. Not once did she acknowledge Ivano’s presence or the beauty of his madrigals. Her days passed in repetitive, joyless occupations: she entertained charity officials, read books in the blue parlor, ate, bathed, undressed, and went to sleep, as if the sounds of Ivano’s mandolin were the fruit of her imagination.

  For his part, Ivano wasn’t in the least discouraged by the indifference Caterina showed towards his music. His father’s words continued to echo in his mind: She has no one to love but you … Women can’t live without love …

  “She’ll forgive me for what I did, someday,” he told the curious who stopped by the bench to listen to his music. “On that day she’ll open her windows and fly out into the night, dressed like a bride.”

  “What did you do that made her so angry?” a passerby asked.

  Ivano sighed. “I acted badly in the name of our love.”

  Night after night Ivano sang under the windows of the palazzina. By the time a month had passed, his serenades on Corso Solferino had become famous throughout the town and beyond. Their fame climbed the mountains and spread across the plains, reaching as far as Milan, Turin, and even Bologna when the newspapers began reporting on the stubborn man who sang every night for his lost love. The Genoese walked nightly up the hills to the belvedere and sat around him in awe of his warm, passionate voice. Mothers brought their children to be lulled by the notes of the mandolin and turned Ivano’s music into nursery songs and lullabies. Music lovers came to listen to his compositions and learn the art that made his serenades so moving. When the spectators became too numerous to find space on the benches, they brought their own chairs, filling the belvedere with rows of seats, like the floor of an open-air theater. Sometimes rain fell, and with all the umbrellas open, the belvedere resembled a crowded mushroom field. Soon, the Genoese began referring to Ivano as l’uomo innamorato, the enamored man, and the Berillis’ home was given a second nickname: Villa Serenata, the House of Serenades.

  One evening a group of professional musicians joined the spectators and had long discussions with each other over the serenades’ style. Some saw in Ivano’s music the influence of Debussy whereas others saw in his melodies the romance of the Notturni by Chopin. In any case, they all marveled at the fact that a young man with no formal musical training could sing with such perfect pitch and have such enticing warmth in his voice. They were so struck by the beauty of the melodies and the lyrics’ poetic structure that they came to consider Ivano’s serenades a musical phenomenon worthy of being transmitted to posterity. They sat at the belvedere night after night, transcribing the music in pages and pages of scores and the lyrics in carefully catalogued libretti, which they would later archive at the Civico Istituto di Musica Nicolo’ Paganini in three thick leather-bound volumes titled Suoni D’Amore, Sounds of Love.

  While the musicians scribbled and the children hummed along, Ivano continued to bring nightly his homage to his beloved, rain or shine, careless of the crowd that surrounded him, undisturbed by the fame his performances had achieved. He continued to play his mandolin and sing of love and sorrow with the angelic voice some people remembered from the time of his madness on Piazza della Nunziata.

  “She’ll forgive me sooner or later,” he kept telling his listeners, “if she truly loves me.”

  Two months had passed since Ivano had started singing, and Corrado was more dumbfounded than ever. His heart shattered from seeing his son’s dream destroyed, he did what he could to help him through his struggle. When the two were at the bakery together, Corrado would talk to his son at length, as he had done in the old days, in the hope that his words would soothe Ivano’s pain and help him move on.

  “Let’s go away,” he told him one day. “Let’s sell the bakery and go to America. Everyone says it’s a great country, where it’s easy as counting beans to become rich and famous.”

  Ivano shook his head. “You go, father. I must wait for Caterina.”

  When night approached and Ivano prepared to leave Piazza della Nunziata to go to the belvedere, Corrado would try to dissuade him, with sweet words at the beginning, with shouts of anger later on. All was pointless.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, father,” was all Ivano had to say. Then he’d leave, mandolin under his arm, and walk up the hill, ready for another night of serenades.

  As Corrado watched his son leave, he’d shake his head at that display of stubbornness, realizing that nothing he could do or say would make his son use reason. He remembered the past, Ivano’s long disappearance, the mandolin days on Piazza della Nunziata, and recalled that every single one of those manifestations of unbalance and loss of control had been passing phases and Ivano had, in the end, acted normal again.

  “This, too, shall pass,” he’d often say, “as his other follies have.”

  Some nights, unable to resist his curiosity, Corrado went to Corso Solferino to listen to his son singing. He had to admit, Ivano had a magnificent voice. He was flattered by the large crowd that stood around Ivano in reverence and admiration. One night, however, Corrado looked closely at his son and saw opaque eyes, wrinkled skin. He examined Ivano’s dark hair, glittering under the moonlight, and noticed for the first time that it was streaked with gray near the temples and in the back of the head, like the hair of an old sailor. At that sight, Corrado was overtaken by worry.

  “Enough is enough,” he said. “I’m going into that house. And I’m going to talk to that spoiled rich girl myself. I’m going to tell her to stop acting like a fool and driving my son crazy. And if she doesn’t want to listen, I’m going to scold her until she does, as my father used to do with me when I behaved like a fool.”

  Hastily, he crossed the street and the garden and climbed the four steps that led to the Berilli’s front door. He knocked.

  As always, it was Guglielmo who opened the door. “How may I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Caterina,” Corrado said.

  “Who am I talking to, sir?”

  “Corrado Bo. I’m the musician’s father.” He pointed to the other side of the street. “The mandolin player.”

  “One moment,” Guglielmo said, letting Corrado in the foyer and signaling he should wait there. Then he headed down the hallway in his customary dignified steps.

  Standing at the edge the foyer, Corrado looked timidly about. He had heard many tales about that house, seen the stately stone structure from the street, but he had never seen its interior before. He gazed at the majestic staircase with its s-shaped banister that came rolling down towards him like a tossed ribbon; and observed the veins of the marble floor, polished and shiny, reflecting every beam of light. He imagined Giuseppe Berilli lying unconscious on that floor on the night of the dead cat, perhaps there where he was standing or only steps away. With his mind’s eyes, he saw Matilda Pellettieri descending the staircase with the bearing of a queen and meeting guests at the door and leading them through the hallway to dining tables set with the finest china. At a certain point, deep in his dreamy state, he thought he heard voices calling and whispering, and wondered if the palazzina housed the ghosts of its dead inhabitants and didn’t let them go.

  The sound of
steps pulled him from his reverie. “I’m sorry, Mister Bo,” Guglielmo said softly. “Miss Berilli is not receiving visitors today.”

  Corrado looked at the butler in dismay. “No? Why?”

  Guglielmo shook his head. “These days,” he said, “she hardly receives any visitors at all.”

  “I need to talk to her,” Corrado pleaded. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Guglielmo said. He lowered his voice. “Nothing at all.” He pointed at the door. “You should go now. Goodnight.”

  Corrado gazed about the foyer with tired eyes. Suddenly he took a deep breath, pulled his head high, and spoke with a determination that caught even him by surprise.

  “No,” he stated. He pointed a finger to his own chest. “My son is dying for Caterina, and I need to talk to her, right now.”

  He took a step towards the hallway, and Guglielmo obstructed his way.

  Corrado fought back. “Take me to Caterina or I’ll spend the night here.” He raised his voice. “Do you understand? Take me to her!”

  “It’s all right, Guglielmo,” said a faint but firm voice. “Good evening, Mister Bo,” Caterina said, approaching.

  Guglielmo stepped aside.

  Corrado opened his mouth wide. That was Caterina? What happened to the blond, lustrous hair, he wondered, to the sparkling green eyes, the tingling voice, and the contagious smile? Her eyes were dull and framed by deep wrinkles, her face smileless. Her hair was cut below her chin and of a color he couldn’t define. So much sadness emanated from the figure that stood in front of him that for a moment he thought he was going to cry. When he finally spoke, he did so with a shaky voice. “Good evening, Caterina.”

  “Please, come this way,” she whispered, leading him to the blue parlor. There, she sat on the loveseat with slow, composed movements that only emphasized to Corrado the anguish that lived inside her. She pointed to an armchair, but Corrado remained standing, partly nervous, partly intimidated by the opulent, elegant surroundings. He looked at the thin figure sunk in the velvet cushions. This, he thought, is someone who has suffered beyond reason. On that note, he changed his mind about what he was going to say.

  “Caterina,” he began, “as you are aware, Ivano is out there playing and singing for you every night. I’m unable to persuade him to stop. I’m worried about him. He’s getting sick, you know. His hair has become gray, his body gaunt, like at the time he thought you were dead and played his mandolin all day long on Piazza della Nunziata. I bet you don’t even know about that. Am I right?”

  She shook her head.

  “Ah, if you had seen him back then,” Corrado continued. “He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat. All he did was play and sing his love for you. He spent days and nights seated on the bakery floor, holding his mandolin in his arms and humming through his nose. Everyone, including me, thought he had gone mad. At some point I thought he was going to die. Now he’s doing it all over again. He survived back then, I don’t know how. This time, I know, he will die.” He paused, looked at her sad eyes.

  She returned his look without answering.

  “I understand that you don’t want him,” he continued, “and I can see why. So I’m not here to persuade you to forgive him or to return to him. I’m here to ask that you talk to him, that you tell him yourself that he should stop playing because you won’t forgive him for what he did. See, there’s no point in me telling him these things. I have. God knows how many times. But he’s so certain that sooner or later his music will win your heart again … Imagine, he keeps talking of a special song he wrote months ago for your return to him, and he won’t sing it for any other reason. No one ever heard it. The musicians out there begged him many times to play it for them so they can add it to the collection. ‘Only when I will be with Caterina,’ is his reply. I am certain, dear child, that the only one who can make him realize the truth is you. Please, come out there with me, only for a few moments, and tell him to go home.”

  The moments Caterina took to make her decision seemed to Corrado an eternity. “I can’t help you, Mister Bo,” she finally told him. “You’ll have to find another way.” She stood up and headed towards the parlor door.

  “Fine,” Corrado said in a louder tone of voice. “Go ahead, continue to ignore what’s happening around you. You make so much of your own suffering, and yet you ignore the suffering of others. You are no better than the people who caused all this pain to you. No better than Ivano, no better than your father. You are acting selfishly, just like them.”

  She stopped, but said nothing.

  His voice softened. “One day, Miss Caterina, you’ll die, as we all will. This is the time for you to decide what it is that you want to leave behind.”

  She turned around.

  He waited quietly for her to speak.

  “You have no idea, Mister Bo,” Caterina murmured, “how difficult it is for me to do what you are asking. I understand your worries, but, please, try to understand my pain. Ivano is responsible for the destruction of my family: the death of my father, that of my mother. I’ve also lost my aunt, for even though she is still alive, it is as if she were dead. And my brothers are gone. I haven’t heard from Umberto since the day he left town, and,” her voice broke down, “Raimondo, I have no idea where he is. I don’t know what I will do, but one thing I know for sure: I will not see or talk to Ivano for as long as I live, and not only because of what he did to my family. I also learned from reliable sources that he frequented regularly Caffe’ del Gambero and its prostitutes, and that while I was locked in the convent he was a burglar and a counterfeiter. He’s dead in my mind and in my heart, for this is the only scenario that allows me to bear my pain. Go home, Mister Bo.” She moved towards the hallway. “I hope you and your son will find peace someday. I’m trying desperately to find mine.”

  “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

  “No, Mister Bo.” She paused. “When I was a child, my stubbornness was famous. My mother and my chaperone would go crazy trying to reason with me. Once I made a decision, I kept to it. I’m still that way. It takes me time to come to a conclusion, but when I reach it, it’s final. Stop trying, Mister Bo. Many people tried before you, and none of them succeeded.”

  EPILOGUE

  DARKNESS HAD SETTLED when, the following night, Guglielmo walked out of the palazzina. He crossed the street, stopping at the edge of the belvedere. As usual, Ivano stood on the bench, caressing the mandolin strings. A small crowd had gathered around him, and a few children danced at the rhythm of a fast-paced serenade. Amidst those faces, Guglielmo’s eyes searched intently for the one face he wanted to see. The man had peculiar traits—curly white hair, pointed nose—so that Guglielmo was confident he’d be able to find him, if he was there, even in the dimness of the moonlight. Indeed, it took him only a few moments to locate a head of white curls to the very left of the bench, under the thick, narrow leaves of an oleander. He walked up to him. “Good evening, Mister Bo.”

  Corrado started. Caught as he was in his son’s music and his own worries, he hadn’t noticed Guglielmo approaching. His stare was the mirror of his surprise.

  “Miss Berilli asked me to give you this,” Guglielmo said, handing out an envelope.

  Corrado took the envelope between his thumb and forefinger, holding it in midair, unsure of what he should do.

  “Miss Berilli would like you to read this letter tonight,” Guglielmo said with a hint of a smile.

  Corrado took a few steps sideways, bringing the letter beneath the glow of a street lamp. He rummaged in his pockets till he found his glasses. Then he tore the envelope open.

  Dear Mister Bo,

  by the time you’ll read this letter, I will have already left town. I figured I need to stay away from this city to be able to give meaning to what is left of my life. I have no plans to return. Feel free to share this letter with your son, if you think it may help him realize the truth: I won’t forgive him, and he’ll never see m
e again.

  Yours Truly,

  Caterina Berilli

  Slowly, Corrado lifted his head. “She’s gone?”

  Guglielmo nodded.

  “Where? When?”

  “She went back to the convent of the Sorelle Addolorate,” Guglielmo explained. “I drove her this morning to the station.”

  Corrado’s eyes widened.

  “This house,” Guglielmo continued, pointing at the palazzina across the street, “is now for sale. Soon I, too, will go.” He turned his head towards Ivano. “Your son has no reason to keep singing, Mister Bo. She won’t be back.”

  Corrado swallowed twice. “Thank you for bringing this letter,” he said.

  “My duty,” Guglielmo whispered, bowing.

  Letter in hand, Corrado approached the bench where his son was standing, singing the last notes of his most famous piece, a madrigal the director of the Civico Istituto di Musica Nicolo’ Paganini had titled “Aspettar la donna amata.” After the last note of the madrigal had faded, he tugged at his son’s pants.

  “Listen to me, son,” he said. “Stop this singing madness. Let’s go home. Can’t you see you’re getting sick? What’s the point of this? Caterina doesn’t want you. How long is it going to take you to understand? She doesn’t want you! She’s not even here anymore.” He waved the letter in front of him. “See this letter? It’s from her. She’s gone. She went back to the convent early this morning. You are serenading an empty house!”

  Ivano placed his instrument on the bench and squatted to bring his face close to his father’s. He was silent for a short moment before saying the words the musicians of the Istituto would forever associate with his figure and with the meaning of his serenades. “Does it matter?” Then he stood up, picked up the mandolin, and cleared his voice for the next serenade.

  It was deep into the night when Caterina stepped outside. A shining half-moon and a myriad of stars cast their light over the hills, so that from the front steps of the palazzina she could clearly see Ivano still standing on the bench and singing, surrounded by his admirers. She sat on the lowest step, close to a tall clay flowerpot that hosted a beautiful purple hydrangea in full bloom, and breathed the scents brought along by the soft night breeze. She leaned to the right, so as to rest her head against the ornate edge of the vase, and stayed there immobile as the sound of the mandolin filled the air. Only then did she understand completely the futility of her lie. Guglielmo had returned from his outing to the belvedere, Ivano was by then aware that she had returned to the convent, and there he was, still singing, as if the letter she had dispatched to Corrado were a nothing—a magic scroll that had dissolved in the air. He’d never stop, she knew now, for his music and his love for her were one, and he’d never stop loving her no matter where she was. She rejected that love with all her might, shuddering at the thought of Ivano in the arms of the prostitutes and of her dead mother. Stop, she wanted to scream at him, get down from that bench and away from my street! She cupped her hands on her ears, turned her face away from the belvedere. The music ceased, the spectators applauded. Then there was silence, and in that silence the tension that clutched Caterina evaporated. She breathed calmly and deeply, not in the hope that Ivano may have decided to stop singing, which she knew was vain, but on her own resolution that from then on she wouldn’t let anything Ivano did or didn’t do affect her or torment her anymore. She couldn’t let those sounds bother her. He could play all he wanted, and she could listen all night long and be just fine. The mellow notes of yet another serenade made her smile. She closed her eyes and defiantly listened to the lyrics, which were about a sailor who had taken his lady on a boat ride under the moon to pledge to her his eternal love.