Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

Silence, except for the wind outside.

“You’ve asked the women she knew? Gusti? Gioconda? Lola?”

“Of course.”

Serafina looked beyond Rosa to the windows. All she could see were dark shapes. “There’s only so much I can do.” Maddalena’s words rang in her head. What would Giorgio say? She felt like pushing all thoughts of children back into a dim room in her mind, but she said, “Tell me when Carmela was here. No fantasy. The dates.”

“Came to me she did in July 1862. Left in August 1863. No word since.”

“She could be anywhere, or not,” and having said those words, Serafina felt a flash of something hot. Her cheeks burned. Her armpits moistened. Better not to think of Carmela. Better to let the thoughts fly away like birds. She rose, opened a window, waited for her lungs to fill themselves. She breathed in large draughts of air before she fastened the sash.

“Tell me about the murdered women.” Serafina reached into her reticule for notebook and pencil. “I want to hear where they were born, their talents outside the bedroom, their families, their friends, their enemies, troublesome customers, where they went on their free evenings. I want to interview everyone who was in the house or who should have been here at the time of the murders. Details I want, anything that comes to mind no matter how small-a new shadow on the wall, a different scent in the air, an unsettled light in someone’s eyes.”

“First it was Gemma, my poor darling Gemma. A country girl. Seldom laughed, my Gemma.”

“A country girl from where?”

“How should I know where Gemma was born, or any of my girls? A girl comes to the door. She wants to work. While she talks, my eyes move up, my eyes move down. Most of them I turn away. I seek hunger and stamina and a certain something in the eyes. Do I care if she’s from Palermo or Naples or Rome? Or beyond? No. Would she tell me if I asked? No.”

Serafina waited.

“She may have been from Enna. Sperlinga, I think. Why are you smiling?”

“At you. Pulling the truth out of your mouth is harder than hoisting a net of tuna from the sea.”

Rosa’s black curls shimmered. “Now, no more interruptions.” Her mouth twitched. “Seldom laughed, Gemma, but born turning tricks, that one, with a silky bottom and a wink that made customers beg for more. Earned more than any of the others, my Gemma, given a five lire gold piece by one of Garibaldi’s generals. Dead these three months, my darling girl.”

Serafina ran two fingers up and down her pencil waiting for the madam to continue.

“Next it was Nelli, Nelli with a doll’s face. A natural in the kitchen, our Nelli. Helped cook make the caponata , but slow to learn the trade, so clever Lola became a sister to her, showed her artistic twists.” Rosa twirled ringed fingers to illustrate ‘artistic twists.’

Serafina scribbled. “Lola. Tell me about her.”

“You met her the other day.”

“But I want to hear what you have to say about her. And this time, I don’t want a fantasy. The more I learn about the dead women and those who kept their company, the more pieces of the puzzle I can fit together, the greater our chance of finding-”

“Enough! Lola appeared in the doorway one day, did our Lola, homeless and in rags, with whip marks on her back. My blessed day. From the moment she started, one of my best. She has style, has Lola. Oh, our Lola can do anything with her hands when she wants to. And droll? She is ever so gay. Trusses up our hair, doesn’t she, carved the sign hanging on the gates, even draws pictures. Makes us laugh, an actress, our little Lola.” She chuckled, and her corset creaked. “Where was I with Nelli?”

Serafina read from her notes. “’So clever Lola became a sister to her.’”

Rosa nodded. “Under Lola’s care, Nelli changed. Got repeats. Became popular with the priests. Now I’ve lost her.”

Rosa’s voice grew wispy. “Last month it was…but you know all about Bella.”

Serafina said, “Tell me about her, what she did, her friends, her customers.”

“You know not to ask about customers. Respectable, my customers.”

Serafina pictured Falco surrounded by a group of Rosa’s prostitutes at Bella’s wake, his arms around one while he flirted with another, but decided to save him for later. She didn’t know if what the madam told her would help. She invents a fantasy, our Rosa. Ever so droll.

Rosa continued. “Bella could embroider the bodice of a dress with her eyes closed. Beads and tassels, oh, all over and where they belong, too. Dreams our Bella had. Saving to buy her own dress shop.”

Rosa paused, cocking her head to the side. “Close to thirty and getting sour, Bella, but customers, they asked for her, and she couldn’t refuse. Now she lies stiff in her grave. Oh my sweet, sweet girls, how they suffered.”

Rosa dabbed her eyes. She waited until Serafina’s pencil finished scratching. “Don Tigro’s men are useless. They lurk in the shadows with their filthy clothes and flat eyes. I won’t let them near my house.”

“Describe finding Gemma’s body.”

“Came down here, didn’t I, to count the money. Early, about midday. The angelus had just rung.” The madam flapped her fingers to illustrate the campanile bell.

“What day?”

“Been through this before.”

“Day of the week, I meant.”

Rosa canted her eyes. “Let’s see, too warm outside it was, bad for business. A Tuesday, I know because Bella asked me if I had anything to mend, and Tuesday was the day she did the mending. Monday was her night off, and I had something for her, my crinoline with the iron hoops.”

“Go on.”

“I came in here to count the money and got a feeling.”

“Feeling?”

“Like a spider crawling up my neck. I looked around. Nothing. I opened the door to the back, and there lay Gemma with her face all stiff, wearing the mask of death, my dear beautiful girl, the insects already buzzing above her open mouth.”

“What did you do?”

“Sent for the inspector,” Rosa said.

“And Nelli?”

Rosa’s jeweled fingers caught the candlelight. She pounded her chest and said, “I found her body. In the same place as Bella’s, it was, by the door leading to the sea.”

The two women were silent.

Serafina heard the rasp of the wind. “Do your women go out at night after work?”

Rosa shrugged. “I’ve told you. I don’t ask them questions. I trust them. They take pride in their work. Every morning I give them their share of the take. If they receive tips, they share them with me, unless they’re trinkets-those they keep. They want to know who earned the most. The best girls clamor for a spot here, or at least they did. Now, who knows what will happen, although I still have a steady stream of knocks at the door. Unrivaled, my house.”

“No doubt. The grounds, beautiful.”

“And the girls are free to graze. They go down and bathe in the sea, walk on the shore, some of them. Carmela, for instance. Good exercise, climbing up and down the rocks.” Rosa winked.

Serafina rubbed her forehead. “Scarpo and his men watch the doors?”

“Yes, but they saw no one except for the customers.”

“A list, do you keep one?”

“Of what?” Rosa poured herself another Marsala, offered the bottle.

“You know what I mean. A list of customers.”

“List? Never. It would ruin me if word got out that I keep a list. This is a respectable house. Why do you keep asking that same question? Stop trying to trick.” She quaffed her drink, tapped the side of her nose and whispered, “But I know most of the men and if I don’t, Scarpo does. Some of them come to the door in costume-priests and council officials, mostly. We pretend not to recognize them. The police commissioner, for instance, he wears a wig.” She paused. “Don’t write that down, Fina. Are you mad?”