“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.
Back home, he begged his father to lie for him should anyone ask where he had been that evening between eight and nine. “Tell I was at the bakery with you. Please.”
Corrado’s eyes filled with worry. “What did you do?” he asked. “Are in you in some trouble again with the police?”
“I’m in no trouble whatsoever,” Ivano replied. “Just do as I say. You have nothing to worry about.”
Under Corrado’s perplexed eyes, he walked out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the street. A sensation of power spread through his bones, growing stronger as he walked up and down the
caruggi
for over two hours. He was certain that Giuseppe Berilli must be scared out of his mind by now. He had heard the screams from across the street and seen the silhouettes scrambling about the door. He was sorry he hadn’t been able to catch all the details of the commotion, because the vegetation in the garden had blocked his view. Had Giuseppe felt sick? Had the sight of the cat and the blood sent his black soul into a hell of fear? He hoped so. Shoulder open, chin high, he entered Caffe’ del Gambero half an hour before Antonio Sobrero arrived.
Now, as he penned more menacing words in letter number three, he wondered if Antonio Sobrero would give any consideration to his claim that Caterina was alive. He should write something special in the new letter, something that would steer Mister Sobrero’s investigation along that path. As usual, the words came to him effortlessly. He rejoiced as the last one fell into place.
In the morning Antonio awoke with a pounding headache. He decided, nevertheless, to go to work and pay Giuseppe a visit later in the day. The results of his nocturnal investigation were meager, but he wanted the lawyer to know he was on the case. On his way to the office, he made a detour and stopped by the jail. In the warden’s office he had a fifteen-minute conversation with Guido Orengo, a tall, thin man with eyes of ice, who denied having anything to do, directly or indirectly, with the threatening letters, the dead cat, and Giuseppe Berilli or his entourage. Examining the two sentences Guido Orengo had written on a sheet of paper upon his request, Antonio noticed that the man’s handwriting was disorderly in nature, the rounds of the a’s and o’s hardly round at all. Those a’s and o’s looked like defective wheels, he thought, and the ensemble of the characters like the trajectory an automobile would follow on a bumpy country road. Guido Orengo’s handwriting, he concluded, bore no similarity whatsoever to the handwriting in the threatening letters. He returned to headquarters with a feeling of emptiness inside. Perhaps none of the three suspects had committed the attack, and all his nightly work had been in vain.
It was raining when he left the office headed for Corso Solferino. When he arrived at the
palazzina
around two in the afternoon, he was soaking wet. Guglielmo dried his jacket with a cloth and accompanied him to the blue parlor, where a pale Matilda welcomed him with open arms.
“Antonio! I’m so happy to see you. Look,” she said, handing out an envelope. “Look what we found on our doorstep this morning.”
Antonio opened the envelope and extracted a sheet of parchment paper. He unfolded it and read it twice.
Did you enjoy last night’s show, Mister Berilli?
I hope so, because there’s more coming
.
Unless you talk
.
“Another one,” he mumbled, putting the letter back in the envelope. “I’ll take it to the police station. I want to know if it was written by the same hand as the first two letters. I am sure it’s the case, but I’d like to double-check, because whereas the first two letters were mailed,” he turned the envelope over, “this one was hand-delivered. At what time did it come?”
“Guglielmo opened the door at eight this morning,” Matilda explained. “The letter was there.”
“I assume Mister Berilli wasn’t informed.”
“Of course not,” Matilda said. “I’m the only one who read it. I have been waiting for you all morning.”
“Be brave, Madame,” Antonio said kindly. “I’ve been working on this case all night. This morning, too. We’ll stop this harassment soon. Is your husband in any condition to receive visitors? I need his input in order to keep my investigation going.”
Matilda nodded. “Doctor Sciaccaluga stopped by earlier. He found my husband’s heart in good order, though his morale is still low. Please, be considerate, Antonio.”
Antonio assured Matilda he’d limit the conversation to what was strictly necessary, and she led him upstairs.
Giuseppe opened his eyes at the sound of steps approaching.
Matilda spoke. “Giuseppe? Antonio is here.”
“Ah, Antonio,” Giuseppe whispered.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Matilda said. With a rustle of her gowns she walked away, closing the door behind her.
Antonio placed a chair at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mister Berilli, but I need your help in order to make some sense of this matter.”
“Yes, of course,” Giuseppe said. “What did you find out?”
“Unfortunately, not much. Last night, after I left you, I met with Roberto Passalacqua and Ivano Bo. They both seem to have an alibi for the time the dead cat was placed on your door. Mister Passalacqua was at City Hall with the Mayor, Mister Bo at the bakery with his father. Their handwritings don’t match the handwriting in the letters. Before coming here, I stopped by the jail to question Guido Orengo, who denies any wrongdoing. I asked my men to track down his known associates. Meanwhile, I had some tests run on the envelopes and the parchment paper. We now have a new method to isolate and classify fingerprints, recently perfected by Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, my men were unable to locate even one complete fingerprint. Too many people handled the letters: mailmen, post office employees. As to the letters, in theory, only you, the writer, and I handled them. Still, we couldn’t find a print clear enough to be used as evidence. So I’m back at the beginning. I’m not totally convinced of Mister Bo’s innocence, I must say. His father is the one giving him his alibi, so we can’t be sure.” He paused. “When I questioned him, he said something strange. He said that Caterina is alive and her family is hiding her.” He watched the lawyer closely.
Giuseppe wheezed. “Is this some kind of joke?” Tears flowed down his cheek.
“I’m sorry, Mister Berilli, but I had to ask. Why, in your opinion, would Mister Bo make such an outlandish statement?”
“He’s mad!” Giuseppe exclaimed with all the strength he could gather. “I told you!”
“Calm down,” Antonio said, noticing Giuseppe’s agitated state. “I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise. But besides Mister Bo, can you think of someone else?”
Giuseppe shook his head. “I’m sure it’s him, I can feel it.”
“How can you be so sure?” Antonio asked.
“I just am,” Giuseppe insisted. “Trust me. And arrest the scoundrel.”
“I can’t arrest him unless I have proof of his wrongdoing.”
“You don’t understand …” Giuseppe lamented.
“Then make me understand, Mister Berilli.”
Giuseppe remained silent a moment, the only sound in the room that of his shallow breathing. “I told you all I know,” he said coldly. “Please go now.”
Quietly, Antonio stepped out. Downstairs, before leaving the
palazzina
, he stopped by the blue parlor. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Madame,” he said. “Could I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Certainly,” Matilda said, inviting Antonio to sit down.
“Do you have any idea,” Antonio asked, taking out of his pocket the new letter, “what
‘unless you talk’
may mean?”
Matilda shook her head.
“Does your husband have … secrets?” Antonio insisted.
Matilda sighed. “I’m sure he does,” she murmured. “I would be the last to know.”
After some pondering, Antonio decided against questioning Matilda about Ivano Bo’s conviction that Caterina was alive. It was clear to him that whatever the Berillis were hiding, Giuseppe was to blame, not her. She was a victim of the lawyer’s overbearance. On his way out, Antonio asked himself how Giuseppe could be so sure Ivano was the anonymous writer and the one responsible for hanging the dead cat on the door. In the back of his mind, a voice was telling him that Mister Berilli was hiding something, perhaps a frightening truth. He was in an awkward position though, because Giuseppe’s precarious health prevented him from pressing the lawyer to speak. He shrugged then decided he needed a few hours of sleep.
Behind the blue parlor’s closed door, Matilda sobbed until her eyes swelled and her tears dried out. She had been so close to letting everything out, to telling Antonio all about Caterina and the lies she and Giuseppe had told everybody over and over for two years. The words of confession, so clear and well formed in her mind, had stopped short once more. That morning, after reading the third letter, even before Antonio arrived, she had decided to tell someone about Caterina’s reclusion. First, she had considered telling Umberto, but the fear of his reaction had made her change her mind. He had looked up to her all his life, and she couldn’t find the heart to explain to him what she and Giuseppe and done. She was an accomplice, and who knows what Umberto would do or say to her if he found out. She’d have to talk to him about her reasons, explain the circumstances of her wedding to Giuseppe and the pact of silence Giuseppe had made with the four parents. It was too much. Her own parents had judged her a whore at the time the doctor had confirmed that her hymen wasn’t there. Why would her son react otherwise? There was no one in her family she could confide in, no one who could understand her struggle, no one who would help her without judging her or condemning her behavior. She had felt relieved when Antonio had arrived. As a stranger, not a family member, he would judge her only within the law. She believed she’d find the courage to open herself to him. While she had been waiting for his return from Giuseppe’s room, however, she had almost choked at the thought of what she was going to reveal. Now that Antonio was gone, Matilda realized to her dismay that she’d never find the strength to confess, not to Antonio, not to Umberto, not to anyone—ever. She stood from the loveseat, followed the hallway to the staircase, and climbed it to Giuseppe’s bedroom. As unlikely as it sounded, her only hope to bring Caterina home was to change Giuseppe’s mind.
“Giuseppe?” she called from the threshold. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” he murmured.
“We need to talk about Caterina,” she said, approaching the bed.
Giuseppe wheezed twice, like an asthmatic. “No,” he said.
“Antonio is beginning to suspect,” Matilda said. “We should tell him everything before he finds out.”
“No!” Giuseppe hollered. “Don’t even think of saying a word to anyone about Caterina!”
“You’re sick,” Matilda insisted. “It’s time to undo the unspeakable things we’ve done to our daughter.”
“The only one who did unspeakable things
is
our daughter,” Giuseppe said. “She’ll stay where she is. Now let me rest. Go away.”
Matilda ignored the command. “Locking a young woman in the convent of the Sorelle Addolorate for the rest of her life serves no purpose,” she said angrily. “Do you think she’s repenting? I say she spends her time hating us. Is that what you want?”
“Go away,” Giuseppe repeated, closing his eyes.
A few days passed, during which Giuseppe remained stable but unable to leave the bed or walk. Umberto and Costanza stopped by every evening to visit him and comfort Matilda, who seemed to them more distressed than ever. They assumed it was because of Giuseppe’s illness, when instead Matilda’s distress was due to her inner fight. Guilt about her complicity in Caterina’s reclusion spread inside her like a canker, making her irritable and depriving her of sleep. Raimondo showed up at the
palazzina
once in a while, half-drunk and in wrinkled clothes, whereas, unfailingly, Eugenia visited Giuseppe every morning. Never during her visits did she pass up the opportunity to remind him of his lies, the letters, and his unforgivable betrayal, all along blaming Matilda for everything.
“You are a coward,” she told her brother over and over. “You do everything Matilda tells you to do. When are you going to stand up to her and remember who your real family members are?”
Giuseppe began whining the moment Eugenia entered his bedroom, turning his back to her and hiding his face in the pillows. “I can’t talk, I am sick. Please go away …” His guttural, deep moans were no deterrent for Eugenia’s complaints and accusations.
During those visits, Eugenia and Matilda exchanged only half sentences and bitter words, always ending their encounters on heavily sarcastic notes. As for Antonio, he went out of his way to keep an eye on Ivano but lost track of him after only a day. He wasn’t at home or at the bakery or at any of his favorite hangouts, and his father had no idea where he was. Puzzled, Antonio wondered what Ivano’s sudden disappearance might mean. He informed Giuseppe of Ivano’s absence, which served to further agitate the lawyer. As for Doctor Sciaccaluga, he stopped by the
palazzina
as often as he could and went out of his way to make Giuseppe feel better, for he didn’t want to lose his precious ally—not until his entrance into the upper class was ratified with either a marriage or the establishment of steadfast relationships with other members of the Genoese society.