The House of Serenades (22 page)
“I can’t spend the rest of my life like this,” he whined. “It’s like having a hammer hanging over my head, ready to fall. Except I don’t know when it’ll fall. Today, tomorrow, next month …”
Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he had visions of himself being publicly arrested and taken to the city jail. He saw the crowd talking and shaking their heads at the newspapers headlines:
“RENOWNED DOCTOR ARRESTED FOR BABY TRAFFICKING”
“DAMIANO SCIACCALUGA FOUND GUILTY AND SENT TO JAIL”
“DOCTOR SCIACCALUGA WILL NEVER SEE ANOTHER PATIENT”
He felt sick to his bones. He had worked hard to maintain and enlarge his practice and become the doctor of many wealthy households, and wasn’t ready to give all that up. He wanted his villa in the hills. He was so close to having enough money to move up. He couldn’t let a nurse ruin his plans. “It’s not right,” he said aloud, then told himself once more that Palmira’s death was the only option he had to preserve his license, his image, his clientele, and all his dreams. In silence, he began to plot the murder.
It took him only a few moments to decide he should kill Palmira with belladonna, a potent poisonous herb he kept in his office to cure patients with asthma and colic. Medicinal belladonna existed in many forms, including a thin powder made from the herb’s roots, berries, and dried leaves. Unless properly diluted, that powder was lethal, Doctor Sciaccaluga knew, even in small doses. It was sugary to the taste, because the belladonna berries were sweet. When he remembered having seen Palmira drink tea regularly in the morning, he concluded that tea was the perfect vehicle for the poison to reach its destination.
The following morning, as the bells of the nearby church struck eleven, Doctor Sciaccaluga asked Palmira if she would care for a cup of tea.
She said, “Yes, Doctor, I’d like that very much. I’ll make the tea in ten minutes, as soon as I’m finished with this report.”
“Never mind,” Damiano said. “I’ll make the tea. You finish your report.”
He placed a water-filled pot on the wood stove that warmed the reception room. While the water warmed, he casually examined a medical record, turning its pages back and forth, glancing from time to time at Palmira for signs of her suspicion. He was pleased to see no indication that the nurse was aware of his intention: she was peacefully seated at her desk, scribbling on a sheet of paper.
Soon the water came to a boil. Gingerly, Doctor Sciaccaluga removed the pot from the stove and dropped in it the tea leaves, waiting for the liquid to take on color. Two minutes later, he poured the tea into two cups, adding sugar to one cup, belladonna powder to the other. “Here,” he said, handing Palmira the cup with the poison. “Your tea is ready.”
She thanked him for his kindness and drank all the tea in small sips, taking time to taste its flavor and inhale its pleasurable aroma.
Around one o’clock, Palmira said, “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I’d like to go home early today. I don’t feel well. My head is heavy, and I have a sensation of tiredness all over my body.”
“Sure,” Damiano said. “Go home and rest. Call me if you need anything.”
Through his office open door, he watched his nurse remove her white coat and leave, knowing that was the last he was seeing of Palmira Bevilacqua on her feet.
At three o’clock a man came running into the office and introduced himself as Marco Santagata, Palmira’s neighbor.
“Palmira is very sick, Doctor,” Marco said. “Sick like I’ve never seen anyone before. I was at home this afternoon, with my wife, when we heard knocks on the door, and when my wife went to see who it was, she saw Palmira in a very bad state. She could barely stand, and she babbled that she had blurred vision and her mouth was dry and she wanted to vomit but couldn’t. Then I went to the door myself and saw that Palmira was as pale as the whitewash on my walls. And her eyes … They were big. Open wide, as if she had seen a ghost. She’s the one who asked me to come here. She needs you, Doctor. Come. I’ll show you the way.”
Congratulating himself that the afternoon was unfolding according to plans, Doctor Sciaccaluga followed Marco Santagata to the building where both he and Palmira and the Santagatas lived. He found Palmira in bed, unconscious and moaning in pain, changing positions at every other breath, occasionally falling prey to convulsions. Her pulse was rapid, her pupils dilated.
“Stay away from her,” he told Marco and his wife, “for she could have contracted influenza.”
The Santagatas left the bedroom in a hurry, signing themselves and asking God and the Virgin Mary to protect them from the horrors of that illness. They rushed to their own apartment to fetch from a chest an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe while Doctor Sciaccaluga remained in Palmira’s bedroom, waiting patiently for the poison to follow its course.
Twenty minutes later, Palmira was in a coma. Doctor Sciaccaluga went knocking on the Santagatas’ door. “We should prepare for the worst,” he said. “Palmira has a very strong and unusual form of influenza, and there’s nothing I can do to help her. She’s fighting it, but she may not be strong enough to win the fight.”
The Santagatas signed themselves again and asked, “Are we in danger? Are we going to die too?”
Doctor Sciaccaluga explained he had no way of knowing if they had contracted the illness. “Only time will tell,” he murmured. Then he asked, “Are you aware of anyone who should be informed of Palmira’s condition?”
The Santagatas shook their head. “She has a big family,” Marco said, “but no one in town. All her relatives are in America, near Chicago. We have their addresses, if you want them. In Genoa, the only persons Palmira is close to are us and Father Camillo, the new priest assigned to the cathedral.” He paused then lowered his voice. “Should we ask him to give Palmira the last rites?”
Doctor Sciaccaluga nodded. “Can you take care of that, Mister Santagata?”
Marco said, “Certainly, doctor.”
At five, Doctor Sciaccaluga pronounced Palmira dead. Ten minutes later, Marco rushed in with Father Camillo to find his wife in tears and Doctor Sciaccaluga scribbling on a piece of paper. It was a death certificate, and on it Doctor Sciaccaluga had listed influenza as the cause of death. Father Camillo approached the bed where Palmira lay still, face covered by a light white sheet. Gently, he lifted the sheet and traced the sign of the cross on the dead woman’s forehead. He recited a Requiem Aeternam. Finished, he turned to Doctor Sciaccaluga. “She’s with God,” he said, “and God will take good care of her, for she was a good, generous woman.”
“She was,” Damiano said. “Her death is a loss.”
“I’ll take care of the funeral,” Father Camillo continued. “The ceremony will be in the cathedral, as Palmira wanted. I’ll ring the bells for her tomorrow morning.” He noticed the surprised faces. “I don’t care what the snobbish people of this town think.” He raised his voice. “To me, the cathedral is everyone’s church.”
Damiano coughed. The last thing he wanted was drawing unnecessary attention to Palmira’s death. He said, “I’m sure there’s a parish church she belongs to …”
“Perhaps so,” Father Camillo said. “But the cathedral was a second home to Palmira. And that’s where we’ll say goodbye to her.”
Damiano thought prudent to drop the subject. “And so we will,” he said. “Thank you, Father, for all your help. I’ll contact her relatives in Chicago to inform them of her death. And you,” he added, turning to the Santagatas, “should watch your health for one full week and call me immediately should you experience any unusual symptoms, such as fever, headache, and nausea.” Wide-eyed, the Santagatas nodded many times, hands shaking from fear.
That night, before going to bed, Damiano drank two glasses of red wine and after that concoction of chamomile and valerian roots. His body relaxed, and he fell slowly into the conscious abandonment that precedes sleep. He felt good. No one had reason to suspect that Palmira’s death had not been caused by influenza. No one would question his diagnosis. His nurse would soon be buried, and he was safe.
UP ON THE HILL Antonio stepped out of the
palazzina
and leaned against his brand new Fiat. The cool night air was a welcome change from the stuffiness of Giuseppe Berilli’s bedroom. Some story he had just heard. It had taken the lawyer almost a heart attack to tell it. He wondered about Ivano Bo and his impossible love for Caterina. Would they have managed to overcome the class difference had Caterina not fallen sick and then died? Unlikely, he concluded, in that town. He reached for a sheet of paper lying on the passenger seat. Squinting his eyes, he began to read under the yellow hue of a street light. On the paper were notes he had jotted down at the police station earlier that afternoon, including the home addresses of Roberto Passalacqua and Ivano Bo. The address of the third suspect, Guido Orengo, had no need to be recorded, as it was the city jail. He stared at the handwritten page for a moment then yawned. He was tired and dying to go to sleep. He decided, nevertheless, to proceed with the investigation and pay Roberto and Ivano a visit right away, before the two suspects had a chance to shape their alibis. Furthermore, he wanted to have something to tell Giuseppe in the morning, so the lawyer and his family wouldn’t press him with their requests for action. He turned the crank, sat at the wheel, and headed downhill at a moderate speed. On his way to Roberto Passalacqua’s residence, he wondered whether he should have called on some of his men. All things considered, he was glad he hadn’t. Roberto Passalacqua and Ivano Bo were not known criminals, and Giuseppe had asked that discretion be maintained, a request he thought wise to honor for the time being.
He drove slowly along Via San Vincenzo—a downtown street bustling with people during the daytime but deserted at that time of night–and parked in front of number eighty-three. A dusty black door led him into a humid foyer, where he climbed three stories up a poorly-lit stairwell to apartment fourteen. There he knocked and waited, telling himself he could hardly imagine Roberto Passalacqua as the author of the threatening letters and the gory mise-en-scène on the
palazzina
door. Twenty years of dedicated service had however taught him to mistrust appearances, so he prepared for an interrogation. Soon, he heard steps behind the closed door.
“Who is it?” a voice asked.
“Police. Open the door.”
A bolt was turned, and the door opened one fourth of the way.
“Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police,” Antonio said, squinting at the pale face that showed through the opening. “I believe we’ve met before. May I come in?”
The door opened completely, and Antonio examined his first suspect. Roberto Passalacqua was an average-height, average-weight, thirtyish man, with a yellow complexion and an expression of sadness painted on his face. He was wearing a knee-length dark gown, brown slippers, and, underneath the gown, white pajamas. The man’s hair was short and spiky, like the bristles of a horse brush. Antonio looked into Roberto’s eyes and saw no fear. He spoke.
“Good evening, Mister Passalacqua. I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to ask you a personal question.”
Roberto waved for Antonio to sit down. “Sure. Go ahead,” he said.
“Where were you tonight between eight and eight-thirty?”
Stupefaction took hold of Roberto’s face. “Why?”
“Please answer my question, Mister Passalacqua,” Antonio insisted. “Then I’ll tell you what I can about this matter.”
“I was in my office, at City Hall. I was doing some,” he paused, “administrative work.”
“So late?” Antonio marveled.
“I work late almost every day,” Roberto explained. He paused. “I don’t have much of a life.”
“Did someone see you in your office at that time?” Antonio inquired.
“Yes,” Roberto nodded. “The Mayor was with me.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. All the employees leave at five. May I know what this is about?”
“The life of a premier citizen of this town,” Antonio explained, “was threatened several times during the past days. Tonight, between eight-fifteen and eight-twenty-five, a criminal act was perpetrated against him in his own home. As a result, he fainted. His heart is weak. Should he die, the man who carried out the act could be charged with manslaughter.”
“My god,” Roberto exclaimed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “How would I be involved?”
“The citizen in question,” Antonio explained, “named you a suspect because he feels you have reasons for disliking him to the point of wanting him dead.”
“Me?” Roberto marveled. “Who is this citizen who thinks I want him dead?”
Antonio spoke slowly, his eyes stuck to Roberto’s, ready to catch a glimpse of a reaction. “Giuseppe Berilli, the lawyer.”
Roberto gasped. “Giuseppe Berilli?”
Antonio nodded.
“It’s ridiculous!” Roberto exclaimed. “True, he fired me for the wrong reasons, and I did wish him dead more than once during the weeks that followed my dismissal, but I never carried out any criminal act. I’d never do such a thing. And now … I have a job at City Hall and I like it. I couldn’t care less about that old goat.”
“Tell me, Mister Passalacqua, are you religious?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How often do you go to church?”
“Never. I am a Socialist,” Roberto said proudly. “I’m against churches. Why?”
“The threatening letters talk about God and Hell.”
Roberto laughed. “No, that wouldn’t be me, Mister Sobrero.”
Antonio pondered. He hadn’t seen on Roberto’s face or in his voice the hesitation and discomfort that were typical of criminals forced to defend themselves with lies. He continued, nevertheless, to play the part of the zealous police officer.
“I’ll have to crosscheck your story with the Mayor, but we can wait until tomorrow. I see no point in disturbing Mister Cortimiglia at such late hour. Now, would you mind showing me a sample of your handwriting? I’d like to compare it to the handwriting in the letters.”
Roberto smiled. “Not a problem,” he said. Calmly, he opened a drawer and pulled out several sheets of paper. “These are two letters I wrote today,” he said, handing Antonio the sheets. “And the rest are job-related notes. I was thinking … Perhaps there is a point in talking to the Mayor tonight. He has a meeting with Theodore Roosevelt scheduled for tomorrow morning and will be leaving town immediately afterwards. He and his wife will be driving to Verona to attend a wedding. They won’t be back for several days. If you allow me to say so, I’d like to see this regrettable matter taken care of before the Mayor leaves. I don’t like the idea of having to wait days before being discharged.”