Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

Something inside her snapped. “Enough!” she yelled, slamming a platter to the floor. Shards of porcelain flew all over the kitchen. She saw fear in her children’s faces. It must never happen again, never.

The following morning she traipsed around the Duomo and piazza, climbed up to the promenade, wound down to the sea. The sun bounced off waves. Gulls cried. Sitting on the edge of the arena between the remains of two Greek pillars, she breathed in the salt air, glimpsed shards of porcelain in her mind, watched fishermen leaving with the tide. In the distance a steamer plowed the waves.

She decided to walk on. Where she was headed, she did not know, maybe as far away as Cefalù, maybe farther. She wanted to be on that steamer unfurling her sails and kissing the waves. The stones bit into her boots. The wind tore at her clothes, but she continued walking, past a platoon of boats heading out to claim their catch, past the cove on the edge of town, past citrus groves now picked clean of fruit.

She walked on as if walking would kill the lump in her throat, sinking into the soft soil, on and on until her legs hurt and her vision blurred. Soon she came to steep rocks jutting out almost to the water’s edge. Straight above her and some thirty meters from the edge stood a decrepit building, its lawns replaced by sand and clumps of grass, its gate rusted, its shutters askew. Guardian Angel Orphanage read the sign, Mother Concetta’s domain. As Serafina stood there staring up, she heard laughter, carefree, guileless. She smiled.

Something glinting near the rocks broke the moment. She walked over to the offender, lost or discarded in sea grass and picked it up. A reticule, brown velvet, with a gold chain and clasp. Inside she found Bella’s identity card, a fifty lire gold piece, a pair of yellow gloves, a rosary. She kissed the cross, dumped the articles back in the bag, and headed for home.

Shutting the gate behind her she saw the caretaker perched on a ladder pruning the bougainvillea. His shoulders bladed in and out as he cut. When Serafina waved to him, her skirt snagged on a prickly pear, and, yanking to free the silk, she pulled another thread. Her hem, wet from the sea, now puckered. She’d blame it on the goat.

Near the cactus bloomed the geranium her great-grandmother had planted, one of her mother’s favorites because of its acrid stench, its stem now the size of a man’s thigh. Serafina smelled its sourness, the bitter-sweetness of the soil.

The stone angel over the lintel smiled down at her. She glared back. Her stomach growled.

“Too early in the morning for you, Mama. Where were you?” Renata asked.

“Took a walk.”

“And what’s happened to your skirt?”

Before Serafina could reply, Giulia said, “The goat again.”

Maria played her scales or one of those Brahms pieces, Serafina couldn’t tell which.

“Vicenzu?”

“Left early for the shop.”

Renata said, “While you were gone, Rosa came in her shiny carriage. Surrounds herself with an army these days. First time she’s come to the house since Papa died.”

Serafina shrugged. She listened as Maria transitioned to Scarlatti.

“She brought us these,” Renata said, holding up a silver tray piled with dolci.

Serafina said nothing. She kissed her daughters.

“Beppe!” she yelled.

When he appeared she handed him the reticule and said, “Take this to Inspector Colonna. Tell him I found it on the shore. It belongs to one of Rosa’s deceased.”

Sunday, October 21, 1866

From her room, Serafina saw the madam’s carriage pull into the drive. She grabbed a book from Giorgio’s shelves, ran up the steps to the third floor, and curled up in her mother’s favorite chair.

“Donna Fina! La Signura to see you,” Assunta rasped.

Serafina imagined the domestic’s lips on the keyhole. “Put her in the parlor. Tell her I’ll be down in a while. There’s something I must finish. If she wants to wait, fine.”

Serafina shivered. She flipped the pages of Moby Dick , attempting to get beyond the first sentence. But she found the story boring, the English words, difficult. She turned up the wick, ranged over the floor, sat down with the book again at the sound of a knock.

Her daughter entered. “Rosa’s downstairs in the parlor.”

“So?”

“She’s your oldest friend,” Renata said. “What happened between you two?”

“I’ll be down after I finish this book.”

“She doesn’t look well. Lost weight. Her face is drawn.”

“Tell her I need to finish something. Perhaps she doesn’t need to know I’m reading. Tell her I’m straightening Giorgio’s papers. If she wants to wait, I’ll be down. I don’t know when.”

“I can’t imagine what words were exchanged, but-”

“She crossed the boundaries of friendship.” Serafina continued to read, but the words ran together.

Renata sat on the corner of the bed. “It’s going to take you a year to finish that book, especially with Giulia not here to translate every other word.”

“Nonsense. I do quite well in English.”

Silence.

“Rosa helped us during the war. Saved the apothecary shop, Papa said.”

“Since that time she’s hurt us, I can tell you that much. The disturbance between us, it has to do with your older sister. I’ll say no more.”

“She doesn’t look well. Her gait is slow, her color, pallid.”

“A fantasy she creates.” Serafina gazed at her daughter, saw the frown.

“She’s your friend, Mama, no matter what she’s done. Besides, it looks like she’s aged fifteen years.”

Serafina rose. She should have chosen a more interesting book.

• • •

Rosa stood when Serafina entered the parlor.

Renata served them caffè and brought Rosa a special tray of dolci, but the madam declined.

Serafina heard soft notes coming from the parlor. “Maria’s piano,” she said.

Rosa nodded. “Lovely.”

They listened to the music, a slow movement, melodic, hopeful. Their eyes did not meet.

Rosa said, “Sorry I am that I didn’t call you when Carmela knocked on my door. I was wrong. Scarpo hired two more guards. On his orders, they begin the search for her.”

Serafina pressed her lips together. She looked down at her hands. “Nothing more you can say or do. No more about Carmela.”

The music stopped.

A moment of silence.

Scales again, oh Madonna, but at least it’s not Brahms .

“The commissioner, that prancing hippo, accused me of not wetting the don’s beak.”

“He said that?” Serafina asked.

“Not with words. Simpered around the room, he did.” Rosa moved her torso from side to side, crooking her elbows and swaying in imitation.

Serafina smiled. She had missed the madam’s view of the world.

Rosa continued. “Spread thin, he said. Talked about the uprisings, the loss of men. Said they are doing everything they can against such a force.”

“What force? And the uprisings have diminished, not like last month when the prisons were unlocked and we couldn’t leave the house,” Serafina said.

“A day after I met with the commissioner, who chances to visit but the inspector. Waddled in, he did, with Bella’s purse. Found on the shore, he told me. Contains fifty lire and a pair of yellow gloves.”

“Along with a rosary and Bella’s identity card,” Serafina said. “I was the one who found it near some rocks past the cove. I had Beppe bring it to him.”

“That fat inspector!” Rosa twisted her handkerchief. “What will I do? Whatever we know about the killings, we know because of you.” She looked at Serafina. Her eyes were hungry.

Serafina looked at the floor and shook her head.