Death of a Serpent (27 page)

“In F-minor.”

He nodded. “Written one year before this Steinway was made. I want to hear more from you very soon. One day you’ll play your piano all over the world. And to think we have a prodigy in Oltramari.” He lifted his head, closed his eyes. “Tea, my Betta?”

Elisabetta poured and two maids passed out cups of tea, offering platters of sweets, orange, and almond sauces.

“Delicious pastries. My compliments to cook.”

“Renata made them,” Elisabetta said. “She was
Monzù
Alonzo’s pastry chef last summer at Prince Zazzo’s.”

“Hit of the party. The marzipan centerpiece, memorable. I salute you, Signurina.” He turned to Serafina. “Your children are healthy and talented. You’re lucky. After you’ve finished, I’ll see you in my office. Agata will show the way.” He walked over to his wife, said something in her ear, straightened his vest, and walked out.

Serafina took a bite of pastry, sipped her tea, considered. Her melancholy had vanished. In its place, fire.

Serafina and the Don

T
wo men dressed in ill-fitting suits stood outside Don Tigro’s office. They carried rifles pointed at the ceiling. Agata knocked and Nello opened the door. They entered.

Heavy with furniture, his office, not at all like Elisabetta’s favorite room. Three of the walls held books bound in tooled leather. Serafina ran a finger along one shelf. Felt for dust and found none. A footman began lighting gas lamps in wall sconces, oil lamps on desk and tables.

In a far corner, two young men slouched in velvet chairs around a table. They were expensively suited, reading the newspaper, drinking caffè from china cups.

She walked over to them. “You must be Elisabetta’s children.”

They stood.

“Nineteen years ago, I delivered you, my first set of twins.”

They smiled, shifted from side to side, looked bored.

Nello, who caught up with her, introduced them. “Yes, these are the sons of Don Tigro. Franco, with black hair, Vito, red like his father.”

The two young men bowed. Vito stared at her hair. Franco gave her a lopsided smile.

“Your mother has told me about your studies.
Bravi
.” She turned and walked toward the desk, not waiting for their reply.

Windows lined the outside wall. Through them Serafina glimpsed laborers packing up their tools for the day, wheeling carts out of sight. Afternoon light splashed orange onto violet hills, a winter sunset. In the sky, hawks circled high above the land. Serafina thought of the fox arcing through the fields, swift and sure, breathtaking, deadly. One day he might be carrion.

Not short, not tall, Don Tigro sat at his desk in frock coat, grey vest, and a silk cravat held in place by a diamond stud. He breathed in, doubtless just enough air, his chest almost immobile, the rest of his body still. With a slight movement of his eyes, he beckoned to Nello who placed a wing chair in front of the desk and helped Serafina to sit. He and Agata quit the room, along with Don Tigro’s sons.

The don raised his head and regarded her through half-closed lids, waved a hand back and forth, ever so slightly, to shadowy figures standing in dark corners. “Leave us now, Bruto, Iago.”

The door closed after them.

He was still, not looking at her or at anything, it seemed. “Congratulations on the hard-won reputation you’ve earned as midwife. The people revere you. And now you embark on yet another adventure.” His desk was empty, save for a single paper, an oil lamp, and a bowl of cut flowers: red geraniums.

“For the sake of my friend, Rosa, I sleuth,” she said.

“Ah, yes. Friends since childhood, I believe. Like the three of us—you, me and Betta.”

“I wouldn’t call ours a friendship.”

He ignored her remark. “Your mother, a wonderful woman. Knew her quite well, quite well.” He stared at his desk. “But you know that.” His eyes met hers.

“Everyone who knew her loved her,” Serafina said, unflinching.

He nodded slowly.

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked.

He brought the corners of his mouth up a fraction. “Haven’t changed, have you, Serafina? Born with a quick retort, the sting of a viper.” He paused, waiting, perhaps, for her to speak, but she wouldn’t dream of it. Not now: bad timing.

“The killing of young women, that’s what I want to talk about. You know these murders have nothing to do with our cause. Unthinkable. An indelible stain upon our honor to kill a woman, even a fallen one. Some are too quick to point the finger at us, the ones who look but do not see.”

“Personally, I don’t think you are responsible. The killings don’t bear your gruesome mark. But people are saying that, whether responsible or not, you profit by their deaths. They say the murders weaken Rosa, force her to ask for your aid. Such a request would hand over control and profit to you. And Rosa’s is a profitable business, make no mistake—but I tell you nothing you don’t know.”

“My business to know everything, often before it happens.” He cocked his head and she could see in that movement, the family resemblance, saw her mother in the angle of his head, in the way shadows crossed his face.

He added, “Would I soil my hands for such little gain? Please. Rosa’s business doesn’t interest me.”

“But you have—”

“Other houses. True. But they don’t pay, not well. Their acquisition?—the misadventure of a fledgling businessman.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger back and forth. “When I was a young man, two or three asked for my help. Gave it to them in return for a larger cut. But the take?—a pinch of profit, not worth my effort. And I have simpler methods of watching men in high places.”

He forced air through tight lips. “What interests me? The new world. Not this silly
centesimo
here, fifty lire there. Winning in my business is attainable only through expansion to other lands—the Americas, South Africa, where this gem comes from.” He touched the diamond stick in his cravat. “Export, import. Doing business in a primitive land, raw with need, where desolate immigrants yearn for someone with power who speaks their language. My people.”

Gazing at some inner vision, he said, “The times, bad for the peasants. They’ll get worse for all of us. Europe’s banks are about to fail. Whole villages will disappear overnight. Rosa’s house? Not worth my trouble. In ten years, what is now the envy of every madam in Italy will be a deserted hulk. Lend me your support, declare your friendship—”

“Not interested.”

“A pity. Then I cannot help you overcome the financial ruin which awaits you and your family. Soon you won’t be able to support your children. You’ll lose them. What about Maria? It takes money to build the career of a prodigy. And, no, I cannot help you find the killer. Three murders—too much for Rosa’s reputation to absorb in three months, unless of course you want me—”

“Never.” She leaned forward. “I’d be a fool to tackle your organization. Factions in the government, despite what they say, support you and your so-called honor. But perhaps you could clarify for me what your interests are. And don’t tell me ‘diamonds in South Africa’ or ‘immigrants to the Americas.’ You think me a fool? Your interests are here and now. Just to make sure we understand each other.”

His eyes were shadowed. “You know what my organization does.”

She rose from her chair and stood in front of his desk, her voice strong. “Oh yes, I know what you say it does: it protects. Protects whom from what? Rosa pays you each month, and what protection has she received? We come to an understanding for now. I don’t believe you’re involved in the killings at Rosa’s house, but if I discover otherwise…” She stopped, not for emphasis, but because she realized he didn’t know yet about Gusti’s murder. She swallowed to hide her surprise. She continued. “… I won’t hesitate to lend my voice to those who whisper your guilt. But my voice won’t have the meekness of a lamb, the decorum of a woman of my class. No, my voice will proclaim your guilt for the deaths of these violated women in the accents of a
strega
—shrill and unafraid. Do we understand each other?”

He looked up at her and flashed his extraordinary teeth.

She sat on the edge of her chair and leaned toward him. “Betta needs your help. Her skin coloring’s not good. She’s got circles under her eyes. Her heart seems strong, so I’m not alarmed, but she’s doing too much. If she needs to make social appearances, she’ll have to leave early. Your guests will understand.”

He nodded and something in his face shifted. “You have my word.”

“I return to see her in three weeks. If her health hasn’t improved, I’ll recommend that she move closer to town.”

He frowned. “We have an important dinner to attend in Prizzi on the…” He hesitated, looked at his desk calendar. “This coming Saturday, on the 10th. After dinner, she and Agata will be excused.”

“You stay overnight?”

“Of course.”

“In that case, I don’t see a problem.”

“How are you preparing for Maria’s career?” he asked.

She was surprised by the question. “Only eight. She needs her family, her school, her music, and that’s all. Far too young to play in public now. My aunt—”

“—is first harpist of the Palermo Symphony,” he said.

“On her advice, Maria has two teachers in Oltramari, both respected by the musicians in Palermo, Giuseppina tells me.”

“She’s right,” he said.

“One teaches Maria theory and composition, the other listens to her piano. When she’s older, I’ll reassess my plans for her musical instruction, but for now I want her to have a normal childhood. Too many prodigies don’t. Too many children don’t. That’s all I wish to say about Maria.”

Don Tigro was still. “Such plans you mothers have. My mother?—she never talked to me about what I should or shouldn’t do. She understood my work, but she loved me. Never judged, never planned. Of course, I met her late in life.”

Hard to breathe, as if the powerful forces whirling around Scylla and Charybdis engulfed her, and she must navigate treacherous straits. She looked at the bowl of geraniums and knew for certain that she and Tigro shared the same mother. Had he told Betta? No, of course not, Tigro held the secret close to his chest, waiting for the right time to strike. Her children must never know.

She rubbed her forehead. “Being a mother is impossible at times. We act, knowing even as we do so that we’re wrong.”

“You speak in riddles. In the realm of motherhood, I would think there is no right or wrong—only love.”

Serafina rose. “And now we’ve finished.”

A Near Miss

T
he hills burned with light. Hoping for another glimpse of the red fox, Serafina held up a gloved hand, shielding her eyes from the strength of the setting sun.

“I think they liked my performance,” Maria said.

“Who wouldn’t love it, my precious? Keep up your Brahms.”

“What?”

“Brahms, good for the fingers, Papa would say.”

Renata and Giulia exchanged smirks.

“How does Don Tigro know Brahms?” Maria asked.

“Betta told me he spent some time at the Naples Conservatory and got to know many musicians. And musicians talk.”

“What instrument does he play?”

Serafina laughed. “He doesn’t play, my precious. I don’t think he studied at the conservatory at all. Who knows what he did in Naples?”

“Papa told me that Don Tigro is a bad man.”

“Your papa was right.” She crossed herself. “Don Tigro does bad things to good people in order to make money, and he takes money from everyone, even from our store. If you don’t pay him monthly, bad things happen to you or to your family or your store.”

“Pay him monthly? You mean, he’s like a bank?” Maria asked.

“Even worse,” she said.

“Then why do you talk to him? Why did we go to his home today?”

Serafina opened her eyes. “First of all, Elisabetta is my friend. I’ve known her since I was your age. She asked me to deliver her baby and wanted to see me today to make sure she was on the right regimen. I gave her
Nanna’s
recipe for a healthy pregnancy. Second, Don Tigro, who happens to be her husband, asked to see me after the Brahms. And the way to deal with bad people is to meet them head on, not to pretend they don’t exist.”

“Like you do with Carmela?”

Silence except for the mules blowing air through their nostrils and Renata’s elbow hitting Giulia’s side.

“Honey lamb, that is a deep question, very deep.” Her eyes moistened. She thought a moment. “We all need to find our specialness. That’s my difference with Carmela.”

“Because she never found it?”

“No. Because she never looked for it,” Serafina said.

“Don’t cry, not again. Where’s your linen, Mama? When we get home, I’ll play Scarlatti. You’ll feel better.”

“Play whatever you want. All beautiful from your fingers.”

Another rustle of silk from Giulia or Renata, one of them.

“But today, as your brother Carlo said earlier, is a day for tears.” She kissed Maria. “Now, Giulia, tell me about the dresses. Any ideas?”

They hit a bump. Maria laughed. “I like it better when we go downhill.” She tapped the ceiling. “Faster!” she yelled.

An answering tap from above, and the scenery blurred. Swaying, Serafina hung onto her seat.

Renata said, “Elisabetta took us to see her wardrobe while you were talking to Don Tigro, and—”

“You should see it—a huge room on the top floor, windows on one side, mirrors on the other. Two closets in the room,” Giulia said.

“And the closets are rooms, too,” Maria said. “Full of gowns and day dresses, suits, capes, furs.”

“The colors and the fabrics, her style, all so different,” said Renata.

“From Paris, the House of Worth & Bobergh,” said Giulia. “All that gathering in the back. Too much, I don’t like it. How do they sit?”

“Elisabetta does for most of the day, my darlings. You saw her servants running.”

Giulia said, “The stitching, the finishing, even the lining is magnificent. But my designs are more interesting.”

“Good for you, my darling seamstress. Finally you see your own talent.”

“Only the fabric is so fine, so beautiful, the colors so alive, the wools, plaids, silks, such texture. We don’t have that selection in Oltramari.”