So pondering, Eugenia arrived in front of the cathedral, a majestic construction of black and white marble with gothic portals guarded by colossal stone lions. On the church steps she stopped in her tracks, having suddenly remembered the note she had received three weeks earlier from a Father Camillo, soliciting a monetary donation for the hospice. Whoever this Father Camillo was, she reasoned, the note had come from the cathedral, and she had no intention of giving the priest a chance to remind her of that financial obligation by walking right into his church. On that thought, she turned on her heel, crossed Via San Lorenzo, and took a side street to the markets of Via Canneto Il Lungo.
In the narrow
caruggio
buyers and sellers crowded the way, slowing Eugenia down to a snail walk. The sweet smells of fruit and spices floated in the air, dancing and changing every step of the way. Her impatience grew as she jostled her way to a u-shaped counter set on brick pedestals and covered with vegetables and fruit. She stretched her neck and waved to a plump woman with a checked apron who was busy helping a customer. The moment the woman saw Eugenia, she abandoned her customer and said, “Good morning, Miss Berilli. How can I help you?”
Eugenia spoke to the point. “Do you know who died, Berta? The cathedral bells were ringing this morning.”
Berta nodded. “It’s Palmira Bevilacqua, Miss Berilli. Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse. God bless her soul.”
“I see,” Eugenia said, perplexed by the news. She happened to know Palmira Bevilacqua because Doctor Sciaccaluga was the Berillis’ physician and his nurse often accompanied him during house visits. “Why would the bells of the cathedral ring for a nurse?” she asked, lifting her chin and shaking her head from side to side.
“Palmira helped the poor,” Berta explained, “and Father Camillo with the church chores. She was a good woman. Last month she asked Father Camillo if he would please ring the bells of the cathedral for her when she died, as that would make her a very happy soul. Twelve tolls she asked for. Father Camillo promised he would see to it personally that Palmira’s wish came true.” Berta leaned over the counter. She cleared her throat. “They also say,” she whispered in Eugenia’s ear, “that Father Camillo is making arrangements for Palmira’s
funeral
to be held in the cathedral.” Smiling, she pulled back and watched the effect of her words.
Eugenia frowned. “Dear me,” she exclaimed. “What a peculiar idea.” Wasn’t it common knowledge that only important people, such as the city’s dignitaries and the aristocrats, were reserved the honor of a funeral ceremony in the cathedral? There were parish churches for the working class, were there not? She asked, “Is Father Camillo new to our town?”
“Yes and no,” Berta said. “He was transferred to the cathedral three months ago from a small church on the east side.”
Eugenia twisted her face into a wry smile. That explained why Father Camillo would engage in such a foolish act. She was certain the Archbishop would disapprove. She was ready to bet the Archbishop wasn’t even aware of Father Camillo’s charitable plan. She should remember to pay the Archbishop a visit and let him know what she thought about that matter. What would the world be coming to if any Christian could have her funeral held in the city’s primary religious building? She asked, “What did she die of, anyway?”
“Influenza. A bad case. The poor woman hadn’t been sick twenty-four hours when she stopped breathing.”
“My, my,” Eugenia exclaimed. “Well, thank you, Berta.”
“Need anything today, Miss Berilli?” Berta asked in a hopeless tone of voice.
Eugenia pondered a moment then purchased two apples and an orange.
“Cheap spinster,” Berta grunted when Eugenia could no longer hear her. “Of course she looks like a broom. She doesn’t eat! She has money coming out of her ears, and the food she buys couldn’t feed a sick shrimp. Where does she find all that energy, I’d like to know?”
“It runs in the family,” scoffed one of the customers. “All the Berillis would rather croak than kiss an extra lira goodbye.”
The audience approved with nods and giggles, and Berta turned her back to the street to arrange a pyramid of zucchini that had fallen out of place.
By that time, a sea of pedestrians was streaming through the
caruggi
, and the street noise was overbearing. On the way out of the marketplace, Eugenia stopped three times to catch her breath. Her head spun as she waded through the crowd, and beneath the hat’s brim her forehead was damp with sweat, even in the shade of her parasol. A few neighbors waved at her along the way, and she acknowledged them with sharp dips of her chin. Despite the unseasonal heat, returning home was not an option, not after hearing about Palmira Bevilacqua’s untimely death and outrageous funeral arrangement. Someone had to do something, and that someone might as well be her. Heels clicking on the cobblestones, she headed west, determined to set matters straight regarding who should or shouldn’t be granted a funeral in the cathedral. A nurse. What next? A sailor? A maid? She had nothing against the working class, of course, but there were boundaries, and when the boundaries were ignored and crossed for no reason, it maddened her and made her sweat even more. Fuming, she adjusted the tilt of her hat and picked up her pace, walking as fast as her spindly legs allowed her. Not even the subdued ambience of Via di Scurreria and the coziness of Piazza San Matteo, two places praised by both locals and tourists alike for their exquisite architectural splendor, were able to master her distress.
On Piazza San Matteo her wrathful walk came to a halt in front of a six-story building designed in the seventeenth century by one of her ancestors. She entered it through a grand foyer with dark slate floors, climbed two stories, and dashed into the offices of
Berilli e Figli
(Berilli and Sons)—the family legal firm.
“My brother, please,” she barked at the pale clerk in suit and tie who was seated at the reception desk.
“Mister Berilli is not in today,” the clerk said with all the kindness he could gather.
Eugenia knitted her brow. “Why?”
“His butler informed us this morning that Mister Berilli is indisposed. He’s at home, I believe. Resting.”
She gave the clerk a bleak look, wondering if she should believe his words. Her brother had avoided her in the past days. It was nothing new. Over the years, Giuseppe had pushed her steadily aside, treating her more and more like a stranger. She had felt like a discarded doll at times. Her hurt pride stung her in the stomach. On the other hand, Giuseppe could truly be indisposed, considering his recent accident and how disconsolate he had looked on the anniversary of Caterina’s death. She asked, “Do you know what’s wrong? Is he ill from his horse accident? Was a doctor called?”
“I wouldn’t know, Miss Berilli,” the clerk said softly. “Mister Raimondo is here. Would you like to see to him instead?”
“God no,” Eugenia exclaimed, leaving the office at once. “An incompetent gigolo,” she commented on the way down the stairs, “is not the kind of person I want to discuss my problems with today.”
Back in the street, she wandered aimlessly alongside shoppers and passersby, stopping at some point in front of the crowded windows of a clothing store. She glanced distractedly at the merchandise on display while she debated whether she should go back home and forget all about the nurse’s funeral and her brother’s illness—possibly a fake one—or continue to investigate. The answer came to her loud and clear. She knew exactly where the investigation would take her, so she made a sharp right turn and headed up Salita San Matteo, a steep
caruggio
that opened at the top onto the round Piazza De Ferrari, the pumping heart of the city. At the edge of the
piazza
, short of breath, she stood still a while, closing the parasol and setting its tip on the ground for balance. She was on the west sidewalk, from where she had a long view of the concentric circles of tram rails that girdled the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the national hero who had united the North and South of Italy into one country. A large number of electric trams were crowding the road, either in motion along the inner circles or standing along the outer rails, waiting for their turn to leave. She pointed her parasol at the closest tram. “I’m not getting on one of those monsters,” she stated, then walked to the carriage area located on the south side of the
piazza
, in a corner where the stench of manure and horse breath made her feel at ease and in touch with the way of life she had known in her younger years. Several horses stood harnessed to carriages. She waved twice, and an older man who was leaning against a pole tossed his cigarette and dragged his feet towards her.
“Take your time,” Eugenia muttered without meaning it.
“It’s a beautiful day,” the man said, holding her hand to help her climb.
“If you say so,” she grunted as she settled in her seat. Once firmly aboard, she ordered, “To the west end of Corso Solferino. The Berillis’ residence.”
Unhurriedly, the coachman took his place. “Haaa!” he shouted, and the horse began to walk.
Shortly, the carriage left downtown, tackling the slopes leading to the upper city. The traffic subsided and the sounds faded. In that peace, Eugenia’s breathing deepened. As the horse clopped its way uphill, her tense muscles eased, and she slumped ever so slightly in her seat.
The coachman noticed his passenger’s change of mood. He said, “Isn’t this a wonderful ride?”
Eugenia answered that yes, the ride was wonderful. She closed her eyes and angled her face toward the sun. “We’re so lucky,” she murmured, referring to the fact that winters in Genoa hardly felt like winters at all with the hills damming the freezing air blowing from the Swiss and French Alps.
She was still musing over Genoa’s unique, blessed climate when the carriage reached Corso Solferino, a tract of a large, winding road that ran east to west along the flank of the hill. “Stop here,” Eugenia said as the horse came to a bend in the road.
The coachman pulled in the reins and the carriage slowed to a halt in front of a stately three-story home with thick stone walls sprinkled with the lavender and red shades of wisteria and bougainvillea. It was the Berillis’ residence, a mansion the family members had long ago nicknamed
palazzina
, little palace. Swiftly, Eugenia stepped through an iron gate. A walkway surrounded by well-groomed gardens spanned the space between the gate and the house. Halfway through it, she stopped and stared at a flowerbed where three pink hydrangeas were in bloom. Her heart sank as she remembered that those hydrangeas were the last flowers Caterina had cut.
A little over two years earlier Eugenia had come to the
palazzina
on a Saturday morning and as she had crossed the garden she had heard a gentle, mellow voice saying, “Good morning, Aunt Eugenia. I had no idea you were coming.”
It was Caterina’s voice. She was standing next to the hydrangeas, gardening scissors in hand, her long, blonde hair shimmering in the morning light.
“Good morning, dear,” Eugenia said, taking a step towards her niece. “You still have a passion for gardening, I see.”
“I’m making a bouquet for the lunch table,” Caterina explained.
What a darling, Eugenia thought to herself. It was hard to believe Caterina would soon be eighteen. To Eugenia, the days she had held Caterina in her arms and sung her lullabies felt like yesterday. Clearly, Caterina was no longer a child, but she looked and acted like one, with her innocence, her luminous smiles and contagious laughter, her oblivion to the ugliness around her.
Eugenia said, “I’m sure your bouquet will be beautiful.” She paused. “You look particularly beautiful today. Radiant, I should say. Your eyes are greener than usual. Is there something I should know?”
“Not really,” Caterina replied.
Eugenia took some time admiring her niece’s glittering beauty. Then she asked, “Is your mother badmouthing me these days?”
“Nobody badmouths you, Aunt Eugenia,” Caterina giggled.
She’s so innocent, Eugenia thought, so sweet. “Watch your fingers, dear. Those big scissors look scary.”
How could anyone have foreseen on that calm, ordinary day that a deadly illness would soon take Caterina away? And that two years had already gone by? A pang of loss clenched Eugenia’s stomach. Sighing, she climbed the four steps that led to the front door and knocked.
The door opened shortly, and Guglielmo, the Berillis’ butler, let Eugenia in the foyer with a bow. He was a tall man in his sixties, with dark hair turning gray at the temple, a Greek nose, and a stony expression painted on his thin, oblong face.
“I’m here to see Mister Berilli,” Eugenia said once Guglielmo had closed the door behind her.
“Mister Berilli is not well today,” Guglielmo explained in a poised, deferential voice.
She gave Guglielmo her parasol. “So I hear. Is he ill? Is he still sore from the horse accident?”
“I am not sure, Miss Berilli,” Guglielmo said. “He hasn’t spoken to any member of the staff since this morning, when he informed us he wouldn’t be going to work today.”
“Is he in bed?” she asked.
“Mister Berilli is in the reading room,” Guglielmo specified, “and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Nonsense,” Eugenia said. Briskly, she crossed the foyer and followed the main hallway to the end. She opened the reading-room door without knocking. “Giuseppe,” she exclaimed, “what is this illness of yours all about? Is it your throat? Your lungs? Or is it that silly horse accident of yours?”
Giuseppe Berilli jolted in his seat. Sunlight fell on him from the four-pane window, making his egg-bald head shine. He was short and stocky, a striking contrast to his sister’s lanky build. His outfit, a dark brown suit with matching cravat, couldn’t hide his bulging midsection.
“Come in,” he quipped.
Eugenia missed the sarcasm. “I’m already in,” she said, “can’t you see?”
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Didn’t Guglielmo tell you that I want to be alone?”
“Yes, but I have something important to tell you,” Eugenia insisted. She examined him closely. “You don’t look sick at all.”