“Don’t be so judgmental,” Matilda gently scolded him. “We do what we can. He’s weaker than you are. He has always been.”
“The only reason I’m tolerating his behavior,” Umberto said, “is that I attribute it to his despair over Caterina’s death.”
Matilda said nothing.
“I’m surprised at how well you are handling it, mother,” Umberto continued in a kinder tone. “You are so strong.” His voice broke down. “Stronger than all of us put together.” He paused then caressed her hand. “I know I would fall apart if I hadn’t you to look up to.”
Matilda sighed. “Go now, darling. I’ll see you at dinnertime.”
While Umberto was leaving the
palazzina
, in her downtown apartment, Eugenia awoke from her afternoon nap, which she had taken in the drawing room, on a velvet settee. She stretched and glanced at the clock. It was four-thirty, later than she expected. Still, she could be at the café on time. Her gray silk dress and black shoes were ready for her in the dressing room. For that outfit, the brimless black hat with the transparent half veil on the front would be just right. Changed, she sat at her dressing table, a rococo piece topped by a mirror set in a solid golden frame. Keeping the veil lifted, she set the hat on her head at an angle then looked at her horsy face and smiled. A touch of color and she’d be set to go. From a round box of pink porcelain she extracted a sponge and brushed it gently on her cheeks. A warm red hue brought out the stern lines of her cheekbones. Pleased, she stood up, lowered the veil on her face, and headed for the street.
It was a pleasant, sunny afternoon, and Eugenia strolled the
caruggi
from Via San Lorenzo all the way down to Piazza Soziglia through the narrow Via di Scurreria and Piazza Campetto, passing ancient dwellings and fashionable stores. On Piazza Soziglia, she walked through the open doors of Klainguti, her favorite café. A chorus of greetings rose from the tables:
“Good afternoon, Eugenia.”
“Eugenia, how are you?”
“Miss Berilli, here’s a chair for you.”
Eugenia took a cunning look about. Activities were at their peak. All the tables were taken, mostly by ladies in their hats and elegant afternoon dresses, and the waiters hurried back and forth carrying trays of espressos, teas, and colorful pastry amidst the buzz of the customers’ conversations. The atmosphere was one of elegance and opulence, with large gilded mirrors and fine tapestry hanging on the walls and Oriental rugs spread casually on the marble floor. Nodding and smiling, Eugenia joined her good friends the Countess Marina Passaggi, Carlotta Defilla, and Francesca Dodero at one of the large tables in the back of the room.
“How are things, Eugenia?” the Countess Marina Passaggi asked as soon as Eugenia had taken her seat.
“Not bad,” Eugenia said, “other than for my brother, who claims to be ill but doesn’t seem to be. He’s acting odd, and no one seems to be able to figure out why.”
“What do you mean, odd?” Francesca Dodero inquired, adding sugar to her espresso with a minuscule silver spoon.
Eugenia threw her hands in the air. “Doesn’t go to work, doesn’t sleep in his room. Acts like a madman. I went to see him this morning. He almost kicked me out.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” Carlotta Defilla wondered.
“The horse accident perhaps?” the Countess Marina Passaggi proposed.
Eugenia shrugged. “Who knows. He didn’t look sick to me, but something must be wrong because, Matilda told me, he spent all of last night locked in the reading room, without going to bed. He was still there when I saw him. He hasn’t come out of that room of his in almost twenty hours. And he won’t speak to Matilda either.”
“That’s peculiar,” Carlotta Defilla said.
The Countess Marina Passaggi, who lived on Corso Solferino down the street from the
palazzina
, delivered a shrewd smile. “I think I may know something,” she said. “When I left the house an hour ago my chambermaid told me that Carlo, my butler, had seen the Chief of Police arrive at the Berilli’s residence shortly after lunch. Now, isn’t that peculiar?”
“The Chief of Police!” Eugenia exclaimed. “What would he be doing in my brother’s house in the middle of the day?”
“Perhaps your brother is worried about a dishonest servant and called upon the Chief of Police to investigate,” said the Countess Marina Passaggi. She reached out and took a
canolo
from the pewter tray.
Carlotta Defilla disagreed. “No, no,” she said. “Servants are for the lady of the house to handle. Matilda would be taking care of such a problem, not Mister Berilli. Plus, a dishonest servant is no reason for Mister Berilli to lock himself in the reading room through the night.”
“Good point,” Eugenia said.
“Perhaps the horse accident was not an accident after all,” the Countess Marina Passaggi said casually.
“What else could it be?” Francesca Dodero wondered.
“I don’t know,” Eugenia said, “but if there’s a problem in my brother’s household, I’m going to find out. And have you heard about Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse? Palmira Bevilacqua.”
“The one who died of influenza?” Francesca Dodero asked.
Eugenia nodded. “Her funeral is going to be in the cathedral.”
“In the cathedral!” Carlotta Defilla, the Countess Marina Passaggi, and Francesca Dodero exclaimed in unison.
“Yes,” Eugenia said. “Father Camillo’s idea.”
The Countess brought a hand to her forehead. “There’s no end to what the working class dare these days.”
IN THE READING ROOM, Giuseppe spoke between his teeth.
“Lots of people have reasons to dislike me.”
I wonder why, Antonio thought to himself, careful not to show sarcasm on his face. He said, “Could you be more precise? Think of someone who deems himself a victim of your injustice. Someone who hates you. Someone who wants,” he paused, “revenge.”
Giuseppe jerked in his seat. “Antonio! Don’t be so crude. My heart is weak.”
“My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please, tell me who comes to mind when you think injustice.”
“There’s that lawyer I fired,” Giuseppe said after a moment. “Roberto Passalacqua.”
Antonio showed his surprise. “The Mayor’s secretary?”
Giuseppe nodded.
“How long ago did you fire him?” Antonio inquired.
“A little over a year. Fifteen months perhaps.”
“Why did you fire him?”
“It was because of certain,” Giuseppe coughed, “changes in his family’s composition.”
Antonio gave Giuseppe a perplexed look. “Would you care to explain?”
Giuseppe nodded and in the minutes that followed told Antonio a story that was well known to those who practiced law in Genoa.
The events dated back to the spring of 1908, when Umberto had defended a doctor accused of malpractice. The prosecutor that day was a young man named Roberto Passalacqua. Umberto won the case, but was so impressed with his opponent’s ability that back at the office he mentioned Roberto to his father.
“If this young man is as good as you say, we’d better hire him,” Giuseppe said. “Recruit him at twice his current pay. But do some background research first,” he added. “Let’s find out all we can about his family.”
Promptly, Umberto contacted his informers—colleagues, wives of colleagues, his aunt Eugenia, and more—and discovered that no one in the Berilli’s entourage had ever heard of Roberto Passalacqua or his family. Then he sent one of the firm’s clerks to the vital statistics office. From an employee of that office and with the help of his own wife, the clerk found out that Roberto was the son of a steelworker and a seamstress. Meanwhile Umberto had learned from the Head Prosecutor that Roberto had graduated with honors from the University of Genoa law school six months earlier, was an apprentice, and had been sent to court that day to fill in for a more experienced colleague who had fallen sick.
When Umberto reported the results of the investigation to his father, Giuseppe shook his head. “We can’t hire him, Umberto. All our lawyers come from wealthy families with long-standing traditions and names. You know better than I that none of our clients would ever confide in someone who is not their peer.”
Umberto pointed out that Roberto’s family was honest and there was a growing need in the firm for someone who could handle the cases of middle-class, perhaps even working-class, clients. “Times are changing, father. Our economy is still feeling the aftermath of the recession. The political situation is unstable. The Socialists are stronger than ever, and we’re in the industrial era. The working class has power now, and it’d be a mistake to ignore it. The world is moving in a different direction. It’s time for us to take a more open and modern view of the firm’s mission and consider acquiring new clients who aren’t necessarily as wealthy as our current ones. Roberto is the man we need to initiate our expansion.”
Compelled by his son’s argument, Giuseppe agreed, though reluctantly, to hire Roberto on a trial basis. “We’ll evaluate Mister Passalacqua in six months,” he said. “If all is well, we’ll ask him to stay. If not, he’ll have to find another job.”
So it was that in May of 1908 Roberto was granted an office at
Berilli e Figli
, an event that left Roberto’s mother and father incredulous and celebrating the event for days.
The six months of Roberto’s trial period went by smoothly. At the November meeting, Umberto, Raimondo, and Giuseppe unanimously conceded that Roberto’s performance had been more than satisfactory and the firm should retain him. They also agreed that he should continue to represent the two lower-income clients the firm had recently acquired and perhaps add a few more to his portfolio.
Meanwhile, Alessandro Passalacqua, Roberto’s younger brother, had become engaged to Concetta Lo Cascio, a dark Sicilian beauty with long lustrous hair and a down on her upper lip. Since her arrival in Genoa from her native Palermo three years earlier Concetta had earned her living as a maid in several of Genoa’s wealthy households. Shortly after Roberto’s confirmation with
Berilli e Figli
, Concetta was hired as a kitchen maid in the household of Michelangelo Tassani, the owner of a fleet of cargo ships. On her first day on the job, Concetta made a point of letting the rest of the Tassani’s kitchen staff know that she was about to marry, and marry well, and she’d no longer be working after the wedding, not as a maid or anything else, because she’d be marrying Alessandro Passalacqua, the brother of a famous lawyer with a prestigious position at
Berilli e Figli
. The news of Concetta’s wedding plans didn’t take long to find its way out of the kitchen quarters. The first cook told the chambermaid, the chambermaid told the dining maid, and the dining maid told the butler. Then the butler told the neighbors’ butler, who told his sister, who told her cousin, who was married to Arcangelo Rossi, barman at the courthouse. In the morning, Arcangelo told Concetta’s story to Marco Costello, the clerk in charge of filing at
Berilli e Figli
, when Marco went to see him around ten o’clock for his cappuccino. By noon, the news of Concetta’s wedding plans had filtered through the walls of
Berilli e Figli
, traveling from room to room at the speed of a frightened hare until it reached Giuseppe’s ears early that very same afternoon. He darted into Umberto’s office.
“Did you hear?” he screamed. “I told you we shouldn’t hire him! I knew it that hiring against our traditions would be a mistake! You insisted. You and your democratic ideas. I can’t believe I listened! What do we do now? How do we deal with this embarrassment?”
Umberto stood from his chair. He spoke calmly, with the soothing voice he always used when he attempted to calm his father’s fury. “I can see that this matter could cause us some embarrassment—”
“Some embarrassment?” Giuseppe shouted. “One of our lawyers becoming the brother-in-law of a Sicilian maid? The maid of one of our most prominent, long-standing clients? I say it’s one of the biggest embarrassments we have had to endure since the day your grandfather started this legal institution! What do you think the story of this maid will do for the firm’s name? Everyone’s talking about it! This gossip is never going to stop!”
Umberto was forced to admit his mistake. “You’re right, father. What can we do to contain the damage?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll tell that Passalacqua of yours that he’s finished here. That’s what I’ll do.”
At the end of the working day, Roberto was summoned to Giuseppe’s large, dark, intimidating office, where Giuseppe fired him using a few standard words of dismissal. He told Roberto that business was slow, but Roberto and everyone else knew that the real and only reason for his dismissal was the maid.
Roberto walked home that evening in a state of confusion that turned into uncontrollable rage once he told his parents that he had been fired on account of Alessandro’s engagement to Concetta.
“Those damn snobs!” he screamed in the family kitchen. “Who do they think they are, those Berillis? Nothing but a bunch of arrogant, pompous bigots!”
Roberto’s mother, a short tiny woman with a hairy mole on her chin, sat in tears at the kitchen table. “How could they do this to us?”
Roberto’s father slammed his fist on the table. “Damn it! I always say it that someone from the working class should take over this city and sweep away all the dirt in it, once and for all. It won’t end here, you can be sure. We’ll show the Berillis who the Passalacquas are and what they can do!”
The matter of Roberto’s dismissal from
Berilli e Figli
ended instead there and then. It took Roberto all his strength of character and willpower to get over it, but after a few days went by, he managed to convince himself and his bellicose father that nothing they did would change the status quo.
“Even if Alessandro were to call off his engagement,” he told his family, “the Berillis would never give me my job back. We have no way of fighting them. We’d better let go.”
It wasn’t easy for Roberto’s parents to accept that proposition, but in the end they resigned to it, and within weeks the matter of Roberto’s unjust treatment became a bad memory they all tried to forget as fast as their hurt pride allowed. Soon, Roberto began looking for another job outside the legal field, which had become for him
terra proibita
as all the law firms in Genoa were aware that he had been fired. That the reasons for his firing may have been wrong was of no interest to the legal elite, which was a very tightly knit circle.