Death of a Serpent (11 page)

“Are you finished?”

Serafina stood with her arms folded, one leg extended, foot tapping, cheeks burning.

Rosa wagged her finger back and forth. “Tart I may be. Proud of it. But old? Never! What’s more, the king doesn’t come here.”

When the madam opened the door to leave, Serafina saw a straight line of silent women waiting to be interviewed.

Lola

L
ola glided into the room. Sapphires sparkled on her fingers. And pearls, she dripped pearls. They wound around her neck in long ropes, dangled from her ears, reflected opalescent light from tiered bracelets. Her gown of watered silk was cut low in the front with a lace surround, pleated in the French manner. Over her bodice she wore a fitted mauve jacket of boiled wool, a feathered boa draped around her shoulders. Her golden hair was trussed with tortoise combs, around which curls were carefully coiled. Wedged into her cleavage was an ivory cigarette holder.

Was this the same woman she met last week?

She sat. “Rosa told me you wanted to see me.” Her voice was expensive. She reached for her cigarettes, stuck one into the holder, and swung a leg over the arm of the chair, revealing a taffeta underskirt, lace petticoats, and black crocheted stockings. On her feet were satin shoes.

“My first customer is in the parlor now. Impatient.” Lola blew smoke from rouged lips. “A dignitary.” Inhaled. Exhaled. “Can’t spare much time, but I want to help.” The propped-up leg arced back and forth.

“I don’t care if he’s the king of Savoy. He’ll have to wait.”

She slid her leg off the arm and crossed it at the knee. As she rearranged herself, Lola’s eyes roamed over Serafina’s shape.

Serafina had a set of questions she asked each prostitute: did you know Gemma? Nelli? Bella? If yes, for how long? Who were her friends? Did she confide in you? When was the last time you saw her? Did you notice anything strange or new, a change shortly before she died? A new customer?

While the prostitute answered, she made notes of her facial expression, choice of words, accent, gestures, what she said, what she didn’t say, how she walked, the cut of her gown, the color and style of her hair, her scent, her jewels.

Lola was no exception. She answered with a shrug of one shoulder or a slight shake of her head. Amused by the spectacle, Serafina kept up her battery of questions long enough to study this new side of Lola. When she’d taken her measure, Serafina asked, “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

Lola’s mask dropped. “Forgive me. I’m about to work, you see. It’s a pose I use. If you’d ever done what we do, you’d understand. I want to help you find this killer. I doubt you’ll catch him. He’s clever. But I owe it to them, to my friends, to the women who died, especially to Bella. She taught me, and I am indebted to her, and to La Signura.”

“Taught you what? Rosa told me you were the teacher here.”

“Bella taught me costume and artifice—the skills necessary in my line of… “ She stopped.

Serafina waited for her to continue.

“The skills each prostitute must have in order to be…captivating.”

Serafina nodded.

“But I’m here to answer all of your questions, and I think I may have information of interest.”

“That would be?” Serafina arched one brow, her pencil poised.

The prostitute considered her cigarette. Then she leaned over the desk and crushed it with a ferocity that surprised Serafina. Small bits of paper and tobacco lay in and out of the ashtray.

“The evening before she died, Nelli said she was going to meet a man outside of town who would change her life.”

“Did she name this mysterious man or say where she would meet him?”

Lola shook her head. She nestled the cigarette holder back into its place, crossed her legs again, and said, “I assumed that if she’d go with this mysterious stranger, we’d never see her again.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“No. We used to be friends, Nelli and I, until she stopped confiding in me. She’d grown secretive before she died. I guess I wasn’t good enough for her.” She looked down.

“When did you first notice the change?”

“I think some of it was good,” she said, waving her boa and licking her lips.

“Answer the question.”

“Can’t remember.”

“Some of
what
was good?” Serafina asked.

Lola shrugged. “You know, the…”

“The what? Don’t waste my time.”

She faced Serafina. “The separation was good, especially for her. She used to follow me everywhere, except of course when I was with a client. It became too much for me. Rosa asked me to look after her when she came to the house, and truth to tell, at first she needed me. I taught her everything. She became adept at our profession.”

“Adept?”

Lola stopped talking. She reached into her fringed bag, pulled out a pot of rouge and applied color to her lips, pressing them together before she continued. It seemed to Serafina that this version of Lola, the working Lola, did not expend more energy than was necessary. Ever. Serafina guessed that trains ran or not, according to Lola’s schedule; customers were satisfied or not, according to Lola’s mood. But no matter what, they paid for the privilege of being with her for what, fifteen minutes? And considered themselves lucky.

The prostitute continued, “You may not believe it, but our profession demands great skill: how to please a taxing customer, how to control a difficult one, how to move in interesting ways, even with the final customer of the evening, even with the lethargic, the fat, the toothless.” She played with a lock of hair, winding and unwinding it around a finger.

“You taught all this to Nelli?”

“She was a child, inexperienced when she first arrived. Rosa asked me to look after her, so I did. I can never refuse La Signura. I show the new ones how to dress, how to make up the face. I even take them to Palermo, show them where to buy rouge, how to make undergarments more interesting, how to curl locks, set hair, brush it to make it shine. I sense when the mood in the house is heavy or there has been a fight between two or three, and I become a clown to make us all happy again. If you’d had my childhood, you’d understand. I learned, growing up in a cruel world, that you make your own happiness by making others happy. La Signura confides in me, asks me for special favors. She values my talents. So, yes, I try to teach the new ones all the tricks, the shortcuts.” Lola primped the back of her cascading locks. “Most of the girls here are from the country. Peasants. They don’t understand.”

“And you? You told me you’re from the north?”

“Yes.”

“You must miss it.”

She looked long at Serafina before answering. When she spoke, she almost spat the words. “Like I told you, they took my child. They took my life. I left.”

Serafina was silent. For an instant she could see the other Lola, the sweet woman she met the other day. That Lola flickered again in the prostitute’s eyes. But on command, she had disappeared, replaced by the mask of Lola. And truth to tell, wouldn’t she, Serafina, be the same as Lola, had she been forced into or chosen to work in this profession? What would she be like had she, as a child, been forced to give a grown man his pleasure? If her child had been taken from her arms? Had these interviews produced anything, other than confusion and doubt? Did she know the truth about any of the prostitutes she’d interviewed? Could she trust that any of them—Gioconda, Lola, Rosalia—were telling her the truth, showing her their real selves, how they felt, what they thought, what they knew? And what about the madam? Was she living a fantasy? She, Serafina, was no closer to solving these murders than she’d been when she looked into the face of the dead Bella over two weeks ago. Was she wasting her time? Doing a disservice to her children?

Serafina cleared her throat. “So why this sudden change in Nelli’s attitude, her coldness toward you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Jealousy? But suddenly, Nelli turned. When she’d see me coming toward her, she’d walk the other way. And she began keeping to herself, going out alone. Saturday afternoons mostly. I think she went out the day before she died.”

“She must have done. Did you see her leave?”

The prostitute hesitated before shaking her head. “No. I feel useless, as though I haven’t given you much help so far, but I can only tell you what I know.”

Serafina came back to her earlier question. “Rosa found Nelli’s body in September. Can you tell me when you first noticed a change in her?”

“Like I said before, I can’t remember, really.” Lola rubbed an eyelash. “But, well, I think it might have been, yes, it was late in March, close to Easter. Yes. I asked if she’d like to go with me to Palermo the Saturday before the procession of palms. ‘Other plans,’ she said and didn’t explain. Explain? She barely looked at me. Yes, that was the first I noticed her coolness.”

A tap at the door.

“Ah, time to go.”

“I may have more questions. Tomorrow or the next day, I might have to call you back.”

“Of course. Whatever you wish.” She ambled toward the door, her boa trailing behind, and with a backward glance, sent Serafina a dazzling smile.

Formusa

S
he hadn’t seen the cook in what, twenty-five years, so after the kisses, after the tears for poor dead Donna Maddalena, the two sat facing each other at the long chestnut table.

Formusa poured the coffee.

“My husband, too, we lost him. His death, hard on the children.”

The cook rose, cupped Serafina’s cheeks in the palm of her hands. Serafina felt flour on her face, smelled sweet cocoa, almonds, the zest of Formusa’s sauce—a benediction. She sipped the coffee. “I’ve missed this room.”

“Caffè? Biscotti?” The cook stared at her with octopus eyes.

Serafina rolled her hand from side to side. “Your pastry, always so tempting, but no, thank you. Do you have some time for me tonight?”

“La Signura, she says you have questions. Bad, the times, for the house.”

“That’s why I’ve come to you, Formusa. Tell me what you know, what you’ve seen, anything that comes to mind about Gemma, Nelli, Bella, or any of the other women in Rosa’s house. Anything at all, even if you think it’s not important.”

The cook rubbed her hands on her apron. Her eyes slid from side to side.

Cook knows something. See how still she keeps her body?

A burnt piece of log dropped from the grate. It sent a puff of ashes into the flames. Serafina waited.

Presently, Formusa said, “Nelli told me not to tell.”

Serafina said, “A secret?”

The cook nodded.

“Nelli’s secret?”

Nodded again.

“Formusa, do you think it would help us to know it?”

The cook lifted her hands. “Maybe.”

Serafina ran a finger back and forth on the smooth tabletop. “If it—the secret, that is—if it happened shortly before she died, and if we knew this secret, our knowledge might save all of us.”

The cook drew in her lower lip. She looked down at the table.

“Nelli’s dead now. You know what Donna Maddalena used to say about the dead?”

Formusa smiled. “The dead, they have a lot to tell us.”

“And so do you. What you know may help us survive.”

Silence.

Serafina waited while Formusa’s cheeks worked up and down. Nothing came out of the mouth, not for a while. More than a while.

“So, I begin,” cook said.

This was followed by more silence.

“Rosa told me you taught Nelli how to make your sauce.”

“Nelli, good with the soup. No good with the pastry.”

Serafina waited for more words.

“Always wanting to cook, that one.”

“It’s all right. Nelli’s gone now. You can tell.”

“Nelli, she had coins, a lot of them. One day she told me, ‘You hide the coins for me. Not safe in my room.’ I don’t ask why. She brought them here. I’ll show you.” Formusa got up, rolled from side to side over to some bins on a shelf by the large black stove. She opened one, lumbered back to the table and showed it to Serafina. Empty.

Formusa sat back down and continued. “Every night she comes in here, Nelli, and I sit by the fire. She opens the tin, puts in the coins. Ca-chink, ca-chink, I hear them drop.” Cook stopped, smiled at Serafina.

“When did she start keeping her coins with you?”

“Two, three years ago.”

“Just put them in the tin?”

Formusa nodded.

“Where are they now?”

“One day, maybe two weeks before she died, she says to me, I cannot cook for you today, Formusa.” The cook made fat floury gestures. “Don’t care if she doesn’t cook. I showed her how to cook because she wants to learn, that’s all. And Nelli takes the tin, dumps it here.” Formusa pressed the red pad of her forefinger on the table. “She lines up the coins, lot of coins. Counts them.” Formusa whispered, “Into her pocket they go. Ca-chink. She leaves.”

For a while Formusa sat still. Then she bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, it’s true. Believe it?”

“Of course.”

“Again, the night before La Signura found Nelli’s body, Nelli came here. In a hurry, face red. No counting this time. She empties the tin, dumps her coins into her pocket, kisses me goodbye, and runs out the back.” She brushed her palms together. “The end. No more coins. No more Nelli.”

“Did you tell Rosa?”

She shook her head. “A secret, Nelli said.”

“You said Nelli ran out the back. Where?” Serafina asked.

Formusa pointed to darkness.

“Show me.”

She took a candle, gave one to Serafina, and waddled to the other end of the kitchen.

Serafina followed. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the back stairs.”

The candle in Serafina’s hand shuddered from the wind seeping through the door. She heard the howling, held her candle higher. Even in the dark she could see steps leading to a landing and, branching off from this platform, two separate sets of stairs. She turned to Formusa. “This way goes to the back and the sea.”

Formusa nodded.

Serafina pointed to a closed door on the other side of the landing. “Beyond that door, the back stairs to the bedrooms?”