“What you think about my health is not the point. How
I
feel is the point, and
I
don’t feel well today. I’m sure that what you have to say can wait until tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid not. Tomorrow may be too late.”
Giuseppe stood up and approached a mahogany desk. “Guglielmo will accompany you to the door.” He opened his hand and hit a table bell.
“Just a minute, brother. You should be listening to me when I want to talk. You owe me, remember?”
“Let’s not do this again, Eugenia. Not today, please. My shoulder hurts. My head hurts. Guglielmo!”
Eugenia stomped her right foot. “Let’s not forget that the only reason I live in the apartment on Via San Lorenzo instead of living in this house, half of which I rightfully owned before you saw fit to kick me out, is to please you and your regal consort, Matilda. Five minutes of your time won’t kill you.”
Quietly, Guglielmo had come in and stood now in a corner of the room.
“Miss Berilli is leaving.” Giuseppe said. “See her to the door.”
“Not before I’ve said what I came to say,” Eugenia stated.
Giuseppe cupped his hands on his ears.
Guglielmo approached Eugenia. “This way, Miss,” he said, bowing.
Eugenia took one step sideways. “Have you heard about that nurse, Giuseppe, what’s her name …?”
“What nurse?” Giuseppe whined.
“Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse.”
Giuseppe showed a hint of interest. “What about Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse?”
“She’s dead.”
“What’s her name again?” Giuseppe asked.
“Palmira Bevilacqua.”
“Palmira Bevilacqua,” he repeated. “I must have met her if she worked for Doctor Sciaccaluga. I can’t remember her face though.”
“Her face is not important,” Eugenia said. “The important thing is that she’s dead and—
“Was she sick?” he asked, slumping back into the armchair.
“Not for long,” Eugenia explained. “Her death was quite sudden, I understand. Now, what do you think of this: a certain Father Camillo is going to hold Palmira’s funeral in the cathedral. Do you understand? In the cathedral!”
“Unusual,” Giuseppe admitted.
“Unusual? I say it’s scandalous,” Eugenia said. “I was thinking of having a conversation with the Archbishop on the subject. Perhaps you should do the same. Privileges are privileges. What is the world coming to these days?”
“All right,” Giuseppe conceded. “I’ll talk to the Archbishop. Will you please leave now? Guglielmo!”
“You should also talk to Doctor Sciaccaluga,” Eugenia went on, “and find out if he’s the one who arranged the funeral.” She grimaced, “You are
friends
with him, are you not?”
“I’ll ask him as soon as I see him,” Giuseppe replied, ignoring the mockery in his sister’s voice. “Happy? Now go!”
“I see,” Eugenia mumbled. “You think I’m a nuisance. Fine. I’ll go.” She took the parasol from Guglielmo’s hand and marched to the house door, which she opened without waiting for the butler to do the honors.
“Are you leaving?” a quivering voice asked as Eugenia was about to set foot outside.
Out of the corner of her eye, Eugenia caught a glimpse of Matilda Pellettieri, Giuseppe’s wife, standing in the left corner of the foyer. She was wearing a blue silk dress with white lace along the hem and the neckline. Both the dress style and color enhanced her gracious tall figure and the intensity of her blue-green eyes. Her silvery hair was gathered in a bun fastened with three ivory pins carved in delicate filigree.
“Yes,” Eugenia said brusquely, “I’m leaving. I came to see your husband, but he’s in a bad mood, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Matilda approached her at the door. “I did notice,” she said. “He has been in that mood for several days. He doesn’t talk to anyone and barely eats. All he does is spread poultices on his shoulder, ten times a day. I’m sure it’s still sore from the horse accident, but ten times a day … Doctor Sciaccaluga said three times a day. Giuseppe isn’t listening to anyone. Did he say anything to you?”
Eugenia shook her head. “Only that he wants to be alone. He doesn’t look sick, if you want my opinion, but he didn’t go to the office today, so something isn’t right.”
“He didn’t go yesterday either,” said a disconsolate Matilda.
“He looked … scared,” Eugenia said. “Perhaps that horse frightened him more than we think.” She paused then lowered her voice. “Or the anniversary of Caterina’s death is tearing him apart.”
“Perhaps,” Matilda murmured. “I must say, I’ve never seen Giuseppe skip work two days in a row. He even went to the office the day after Caterina’s funeral. Now he acts like he doesn’t care about his profession anymore.”
Eugenia’s expression hardened. “We
must
find out what’s eating him. People are talking about the D’Onofrio’s case. My neighbor asked me about it this morning. She said that Giuseppe
used to be
such a good lawyer. Used to be, can you believe it?”
“He has been neglecting everything recently,” Matilda said sadly, “I don’t know why.”
“If you ask me,” Eugenia quipped, “Doctor Sciaccaluga has a bad influence on Giuseppe. I still don’t see the reason for their friendship to continue.”
“Me neither,” Matilda sighed.
Eugenia’s voice betrayed her anger. “If Giuseppe keeps acting this way, he will ruin his reputation as a lawyer and that of the family along with it. I won’t allow it.” She pointed a finger at Matilda. “And you shouldn’t either.”
“Perhaps he needs space for a day or two,” Matilda said unconvincingly. She continued, “Something is worrying him, I’m sure. He spent all of last night in the reading room. He didn’t even go to bed.” She paused a moment then said, “I don’t know what to make of all this. But I don’t want to keep you, Eugenia. Goodbye.”
Of course she doesn’t want to keep me, Eugenia grumbled to herself. She can’t wait for me to leave. If it were her choice, I wouldn’t be able to set foot in this house. “Very well, Matilda,” she said, stepping outside, “I’ll go.” Through the open door she handed Matilda a biting smile. “For the time being.”
IN THE READING ROOM, the private retreat he wouldn’t allow anyone else to use, Giuseppe was sitting limply on the armchair, relieved that Eugenia had finally decided to leave. The relief, however, lasted only a short moment. With a long, deep sigh, he set his elbows on his knees and his head in his cupped hands. He felt shrunken, as if he had aged prematurely twenty years. Five days earlier a sorrel cart horse had reared up in the middle of the busy Piazza San Matteo. Ignoring the cries of its driver and the pulls on the reins, it had overturned everything in a three-meter radius with the fury of its hooves: a newspaper kiosk, the stand where the Pedevilla sisters sold illegal lottery numbers, and Giuseppe himself, who was unknowingly passing by. For an instant he was suspended in air. Then he landed ungracefully, buttocks in moist excrements and back on the cobblestones, and was transfixed by an acute pain where the hoof had hit his shoulder. He lay on the pavement clutching himself and moaning, while a small crowd surrounded him, calling his name and voicing his ill-luck.
“Don’t you dare!” Giuseppe screamed the moment he spotted a tripod topped by photographic gear. There was a popping sound then the photographer grabbed tripod and camera and vanished amidst the crowd. It took the strength of three men to tame the horse and that of two to return the lawyer to his feet.
Matilda got word of the mishap one hour later, but was told not to go to Piazza San Matteo as Giuseppe was no longer there, and she shouldn’t go to the hospital either, the informant specified, as, according to Giuseppe, her presence there would do more harm than good, giving only more visibility to the disgrace. All Mister Berilli was asking for was a set of fresh clothes. Matilda picked out the clothes, handed them to a chambermaid, and told her to go.
Later, when he arrived at the
palazzina
, Giuseppe stated in a curt, raucous voice that he had no broken bones, only a contusion to be treated with poultices of comfrey and arnica montana, and would not be discussing the accident with anybody—not that day, not ever. Matilda, who knew better than to question her husband when he was in a foul mood, sighed and went to the garden to pick flowers.
The next morning
Il Secolo XIX
, Genoa’s newspaper, paraded two pictures of the accident on its front page. The first picture showed Giuseppe lying on the cobblestones; the second was a close-up of the mad horse. The entire town laughed at the sight of the fallen lawyer. Days later, colleagues, acquaintances, and family members were still digging for details and inquiring about the extent of Giuseppe’s injuries and pain.
He leaned back, letting his body sink into the leather. His head ached, pounding like a hammer on a sheet of iron, and his mouth was dry, as if he were drowning in sand. “Why me?” he whined as he laid a hand on his hurt shoulder and massaged it in slow circular motions. He recalled how his mother used to say that bad things always happen in three, and she was right. After the horse accident he had received two frightening letters. Would there be more? Wearily, he reached for a carafe of solid silver set on a round end table. He poured water into a stem glass, filling it to the brim. As he drank, gulp after gulp, without pausing to breathe, he rejoiced in the freshness that filled his throat. His appeasement, however, was short-lived: no sooner had he swallowed the last drop than his mouth turned dustier than before. Baffled, he set the glass back on the table. There was no point refilling it, he realized, for his was not the kind of thirst water could quench. It was an inner thirst—fueled by fear.
It was unheard of that Giuseppe Berilli could be overtaken by fear. He had been the epitome of self-confidence and determination since prevailing, barely out of law school, over a team of experienced prosecutors in a legal battle that had rocked the town. The case concerned allegations of fraud against a conservative political leader, Massimiliano Zappa, accused by the opposition of having used tax funds to purchase a home on the
Riviera
. He was acquitted, thanks to Giuseppe and his father, though he resigned his post immediately and moved to Switzerland, his name having been tarnished forever. It was the young Giuseppe who found the legal loophole that saved Massimiliano Zappa, and he again who wrote and delivered the closing arguments, impressing judges and lawyers with the eloquence of his statements and the power of his words. The courtrooms during his trials had been filled with spectators ever since. There were colleagues, law students, and magistrates, as well as common people in awe of his pugnacity and speeches. His victories became topics of conversation inside the courthouse and outside, throughout the city’s social circles and at balls, theater intermissions, and dinner parties. When the sudden death of his father placed him at the head of
Berilli e Figli
, Giuseppe took charge of the firm with the charisma of a seasoned leader. Not even the unsightliness of his physique had hindered his ascent to power—he was short, with a round, protruding belly that kept growing steadily year after year, making Francesco Roccatagliata, his tailor, the happiest man alive when every January he had to redo the lawyer’s wardrobe from A to Z.
The sense of vulnerability and the confusion that had dawned upon him in the past days had thus caught Giuseppe by surprise. He wondered what his father would do were he still alive. He’d be in that same room, for sure, and, in all likelihood, seated on that same armchair. To Giuseppe, no other room in the house had the solemn yet tranquil and inspiring atmosphere of the reading room. It had been his father’s private sanctuary before becoming his, and he had faithfully preserved its layout and decor: the hand-carved marble fireplace still towered in the center of the north wall; the bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes covered, floor-to-ceiling, the west wall; and the four-pane Palladian window opened to the east, onto the rose garden. Even the leather armchairs and the antique mahogany desk had been his father’s, and he had taken great care not to alter their original placement in the room: the armchairs were still facing each other on the two sides of the fireplace, and the desk was still slightly off-center, close to the bookcases. The only two additions Giuseppe had made to the decor were a photograph of Italy’s current king, Vittorio Emanuele III, and a brand-new electric table lamp with a translucent ivory shade—a luxury unique in town.
He crossed his stocky legs and stared at the pink veins of the marble floor, wondering why he felt the urge to look at the letters one more time. By now, he knew every word by heart. Was he hoping he had given those words the wrong meaning? A thin hope, he admitted, but worth a try. So he rose from the armchair and waddled to the mahogany desk, belly shaking as he walked. As he sat, back to the bookcases, the sheets glared at him from the open drawer. For a moment, he was still. When he reached, his arm felt disconnected from his body, moving on its own. A shiver ran through him while he placed the letters on the desktop. In whispers, beneath the warm light shed by the ivory shade, he read the text of letter number one.
Shame on you, Giuseppe Berilli
,
and on your household of sin
.
The time has come for you to stand
in front of the Supreme Judge
.
“No mistake here,” Giuseppe grunted. That was definitely a threat, a subtle one, which made the message all the more daunting. To make matters more abstruse, below the fourth line, in black ink, the writer had drawn a horse galloping with its mane in the wind. What the drawing meant, Giuseppe had no idea, but he shuddered at the thought that perhaps his horse accident had not been an accident after all but part of the writer’s scheme. As for the second letter, there was no subtlety in its text at all:
Before you know it, Giuseppe Berilli
,