Death of a Serpent (25 page)

“In the piazza. He wore a brown coat and he smelled.” She held her nose with thumb and forefinger and made a face.

Totò laughed.

“Gusti hates the monk. Carmela, too. Once I heard them arguing with Nelli and Gemma. He talked to Bella, too, I saw them together near the Duomo.”

“Yes, you told me that on the train. I remember.”

“Bella told me he was a special monk, but I didn’t believe her. He smells like a shepherd. One night I heard Bella tell Gusti that the monk, he has marvels. I heard them shouting about him. Bella wanted Gusti to go with her to get the marvels, but Gusti wouldn’t go. She just laughed. She said he was a snake and not a monk and no one can do marvels anymore. Not since the olden days. Now they’re all tricksters. But Bella said she was going to meet him anyway. I saw her going out.”

“What did Bella say about him when she returned?”

“Bella died.”

“I’m thirsty, can I have something to drink?” Totò asked.

“That’s a marvelous idea. Tessa, what about you, would you like something?” Serafina straightened the ribbon on the top of Tessa’s head.

Tessa folded her hands, wiggling one row of fingers, then switching movement to the fingers on the other side. She looked at Totò. He watched her fingers, looked into her eyes, laughed. The ghost of a smile crossed the girl’s lips.

“It’s a snake,” Totò said.

“It’s not a snake. It’s a spider.”

“No. It’s a snake, like in your story about the smelly monk,” Totò said.

Serafina’s head spun. “How about some hot cocoa?”

“Good!”

“And you, Tessa?”

She shrugged, nodded.

“Renata,” she called, “make us some nice hot milk, the kind that makes mustaches. And a few cookies, too.”

“But dinner will be ready in a few—”

Serafina put a finger to her lips.

“Cookies, too,” Totò said. “Lots. I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Tessa said and followed.

Renata rolled her eyes. She said something about spoiling.

• • •

Swinging her legs below the chair, Tessa hunched over the table and blew on the hot liquid. Serafina stood over her, ready to sprinkle more sugar and chocolate flecks into the froth. Totò blew on his foam. It spilled onto the table cloth. Giggles from both children.

“You are five now, or six?” Serafina asked.

Without looking up, Tessa took another sip of milk and spread the fingers and thumb of one hand in the air. Renata brought a plate of cookies, set it on the table in front of Totò.

Totò took a handful, shoved them into his face and gulped his drink. He looked over at Tessa. They laughed. Crumbs flew out of his mouth. Tessa reached out tentatively and took a cookie.

“Soon you’ll go to school.” Serafina smoothed the child’s collar.

Tessa shrugged. She set the cup down, wiped her mouth with the back of one hand.

Renata sprinkled more chocolate flakes and powdered sugar into each cup.

“More story,” Totò said, cookie crumbs now sticking to the drying foam around his mouth.

Tessa skated her eyes around the room and took another sip. “I saw him today near the birds.”

Serafina bit her lip.

Pointing to Assunta, she said, “She brought bread for us and gave it to Totò, and, when Totò went up to the water and bent down to feed the birds, I was alone. The birds flew away when Totò tried to feed them.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Not. When I tried to feed them, they stayed, but when you ran over to me, you scared the birds and they flew away. I whispered, shhh, stay there, but you ran to me, anyway.”

“Because of the monk, that’s why. He came too close. His hand, it reached for me.” She hung her head.

“Big wings, Mama. Big wings those birds have.” Totò made flapping wings with his arms.

Tessa laughed at him and licked her milk mustache.

Serafina’s breath was shallow. She knew she must calm down.

Totò said, “Tessa has to play with me now. I want to show her how to feed Octavia.”

“Who’s she?”

“Our goat, silly.”

Tessa laughed.

“Be careful,” Serafina said to their disappearing backs. “I don’t want Octavia to get sick like the last time, Totò.”

Cinque Minuti

A
soft knock. The door opened a crack, and Carlo’s foot wedged itself into the space between floor and jamb. “Should we go away?” he asked.

“Of course not. Come in. Sit down on the chaise, both of you.” Serafina wore her good watered silk, the dress Giulia made for her last month. She kissed them, went back to her dressing table where she sat and struggled with her hair. “Can never get it right, but Assunta is needed downstairs.”

“Let Assunta help with the hair.” Renata pulled the cord. “We’ve got to leave soon. Vicenzu and Giulia can watch the children while you finish. And Arcangelo stays here with Beppe, too. All fine.”

Serafina told them about Tessa and the monk in the public gardens this morning. “We must keep a close watch.” Adjusting the lace around her collar, she said, “Tell me about Carmela, now—I’m anxious to hear.” She pinned on Maddalena’s brooch.

“This is a week for crying,” Carlo said. “First Carmela for her father and grandmother, next, Rosa for Gusti, and then Carmela for Gusti and for…many things.” He sat on the edge of the chaise, looking at Renata.

“Carmela cries for many things?” She turned to them. “So much emotion in one so young. Of course, it is because she is with child. And because she does not know her own mind. Oh, Carmela, my poor lost Carmela.” Serafina rose, plowed around the room, whirling. She sat back down at her dressing table. She willed the tears to disappear.

Carlo said, “She asked about you.”

“The plain truth, no sugar. Last week she would not speak or look at me.”

“Too complex for my understanding. When I told her I had harsh news, she said ‘Oh, no, not Mama!’ The first words out of her mouth. I swear to you. I was amazed.”

Serafina twisted her hands. “And how is she, Carlo? Inside, I mean. Her heart?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know what to say.”

“Would you say Carmela’s confused, angry, hurt, frightened?” Renata asked.

Carlo said, “All of that. Plus, she’s, well, slow, wobbly.”

“Wobbly?” Renata and Serafina asked in unison.

“You mean weepy?” Renata asked.

He nodded. “Must be miserable in that dump.”

“We begged her to come home. Twice. Does that mean she wants to come home now?”

Carlo shrugged. “Like Renata said, she’s confused. Doesn’t know what she wants. After all, her man left her to fight with Garibaldi.”

“Left her with child, you mean. You call that a man?” Serafina began taking the pins out of her hair and throwing them on the table, brushing her curls. Tears rolled down the cheeks. The faster she brushed, the harder she cried. She ripped out some of her scalp along with springy bits of frizz. Finally she threw the brush on the floor, buried her head, and sobbed.

She felt her children’s confusion as brother and sister stood by. From somewhere in her mind, she remembered Giorgio on a similar occasion, twisting his fingers in the air and taking out his watch. ‘We must give La Donna
Cinque Minuti
.’ Giorgio, always the jester.

But the memory did not lessen her emotion. She pounded her fist on the top of the dressing table. “Why, why, why, Carmela? And you, why did you have to die? Why?”

Renata restrained Carlo from going to Serafina. She whispered something to him. The two, brother and sister, stood there unheeding Serafina’s words.

Nothing for it but to lift her head. Her crying subsided. Carlo looked up from his watch and nodded to his sister. Renata tiptoed over to the dressing table and handed Serafina a linen.

She looked at her daughter and smiled.

A knock.

Carlo sprang to open the door.

“Just in time, my sweet Assunta,” Serafina said, her voice thick. “Do something please with this tangled mane of mine.”

Ride to Villa Subiaco

S
erafina wished she had not arranged to visit Elisabetta today, but when she discussed the possibility of canceling the trip with her older children, they told her that the drive would do them all good, even in this afternoon’s wet weather. Carlo seemed almost glad to be going, saying, “Good for us to get out, see the country, even in this foul weather. Help our heads.” Strange, even Vicenzu looked forward to the ride. “We’ll stay, Carlo and I, in the stables. I want to see their system of tending to the beasts.”

And Serafina? Except for the day of Giorgio’s sudden death, she couldn’t remember a time when life has been so full of misery. A devastation it was, seeing Gusti’s body, the violated form so unlike the woman bursting with life just a few days ago. So far she, Serafina, had failed Rosa, her oldest, dearest friend, now faced with losing her business, one prostitute at a time.

As the coach made its way to Don Tigro’s estate, a rolling fog crept over the land, shrouding the hills as if they were ghosts. Serafina and Maria sat on one side, facing Renata and Giulia. Vicenzu and Carlo rode outside—Carlo holding the reins, Vicenzu, a shotgun. Enough protection; after all they were on the road to visit the don’s wife. What could happen to them?

Serafina tapped on her bag containing herbs and special drinks for Elisabetta. Her toes were frozen. She felt each rut in the road as the mules strained upward pulling their load. She compared their carriage—old and patched in places—with Rosa’s, and the brisk, cushiony ride they’d had to Palermo last month.

She smeared fog off the window, stared at the dripping almond branches, and tried to imagine how they would look in spring, heavy with blossoms against a backdrop of lush fields. But today, most of the crimson and gold leaves that gave the landscape such mighty color a few weeks ago lay in soaking heaps upon the rocky ground, or hung in ones and twos from twigs, dripping and desolate. Did the soul of Gusti hover over them as she made her solitary way to eternity?

Renata clutched the basket of dolci she’d packed for Elisabetta. “Horrible, the weather,” she said, her face as bleak as the day.

Serafina patted her knee. “You miss your routine, I know you, my sweetest girl. You like to stay at home, cooking our meals. Your kitchen keeps us healthy and together.”

“Not all of us,” Renata said.

“Carmela may be home soon. I feel it. Carlo saw her today. And I begin my plan, but it’s too early to talk about it. Shhh, not a word to—” She pointed upward.

Renata and Giulia shared wide-eyed looks.

Maria pushed up her glasses and, rolling with the movement of the coach, studied a score. “Carmela? She wouldn’t even look at you the other day, Mama. What makes you think she’ll come home?”

“Study your score, precious. Complicated, the ways of the heart.”

They stopped for sheep blocking the way. As they started up again, Serafina said, “Giulia, the day dress Elisabetta wore on Friday when I saw her—the fabric was stunning, but the stitching, not so well finished as ours. Two more years to wear this black.”

Maria said, “Some women wear it all their lives. Others, for six months.”

“How would you know? You’re only eight,” Giulia said. “Some of the widows in Rome don’t wear black at all, not even the first year. The baroness told me.”

“First time we’re wearing colors in public. Doesn’t feel right with Papa not even six months in his grave,” Renata said.

“Nothing feels right to you today, sweetness. But your father would want you to wear colors. You look splendid.”

Serafina took Giulia to Palermo last month to buy the silk for the outfits they wore today. She created dresses for each of them with skirts not too full, trimmed in lace and thin satin ribbon; Renata’s in French blue, Giulia’s in muted green, both gathered slightly at the waist and pulled to the back, giving them a touch of padding. In addition to a loose-fitting dress with long sleeves in midnight blue for Maria, she made a smock for her to wear over it. And when they were buying shoes for the season, the cobbler found a piece of cordovan that Maria fancied, the leather fine and light, large enough to make a pair of boots in her size, but at a cost well over Serafina’s budget.

Giulia noticed the costumes of aristocratic women, especially the wardrobe of Baroness Lanza, a friend ever since Serafina delivered her children. The baroness told Giulia about Worth & Bobergh in Paris. ‘Last time I was there, I saw the Empress Eugénie disappear into a fitting room, and now everyone—I mean just everyone—goes to Worth’s.’

Baroness Lanza talked too much, Serafina had told Rosa, filling Giulia’s head with ideas of Paris, telling her about Sarah Bernhardt, ‘that expensive tart who calls herself an actress. The French idolize her. Well, they would.’ All this bother of Bernhardt and Paris and poor Giulia would be doomed. But it wouldn’t hurt for her to see Elisabetta’s French gowns today. She could copy them, perhaps make a dress for Carmela, something remarkable with an indefinite waist.

“Glad I wore my cape today,” Giulia said.

“Me too,” said Renata.

Serafina held out the front of her cape, looking at her gold braids. Just like Maria Sophie’s. Her gloved hand brushed off a piece of lint.

Maria said nothing.

Renata elbowed Giulia. They giggled.

Maria looked at them, frowned, reached up, and knocked on the ceiling. “Carlo, stop this carriage,” she yelled.

Of all her children, Maria surprised Serafina the most. She played Aunt Giuseppina’s piano at two, the marvel of it vivid in Serafina’s memory. The child asked unpredictable questions, had adult responses, and all her life, all she wanted was her piano. So serious, not at all like the rest of the family. For instance, Maria asked Giulia to embroider the bodice of her new dress. “Make gold and silver stars in the night sky: it will help my audience remember me,” she had said. Serafina pictured her youngest daughter at the keyboard, alone, without her or the rest of the family, in a strange part of the world, wearing her midnight blue dress, reaching for the pedals with feet clad in soft cordovan.

The carriage stopped and Carlo opened the door.