Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

The prostitute continued, “You may not believe it, but our profession demands great skill: how to please a taxing customer, how to control a difficult one, how to move in interesting ways, even with the final customer of the evening, even with the lethargic, the fat, the toothless.” She played with a lock of hair, winding and unwinding it around a finger.

“You taught all this to Nelli?”

“She was a child, inexperienced when she first arrived. Rosa asked me to look after her, so I did. I can never refuse La Signura. I show the new ones how to dress, how to make up the face. I even take them to Palermo, show them where to buy rouge, how to make undergarments more interesting, how to curl locks, set hair, brush it to make it shine. I sense when the mood in the house is heavy or there has been a fight between two or three, and I become a clown to make us all happy again. If you’d had my childhood, you’d understand. I learned, growing up in a cruel world, that you make your own happiness by making others happy. La Signura confides in me, asks me for special favors. She values my talents. So, yes, I try to teach the new ones all the tricks, the shortcuts.” Lola primped the back of her cascading locks. “Most of the girls here are from the country. Peasants. They don’t understand.”

“And you? You told me you’re from the north?”

“Yes.”

“You must miss it.”

She looked long at Serafina before answering. When she spoke, she almost spat the words. “Like I told you, they took my child. They took my life. I left.”

Serafina was silent. For an instant she could see the other Lola, the sweet woman she met the other day. That Lola flickered again in the prostitute’s eyes. But on command, she had disappeared, replaced by the mask of Lola. And truth to tell, wouldn’t she, Serafina, be the same as Lola, had she been forced into or chosen to work in this profession? What would she be like had she, as a child, been forced to give a grown man his pleasure? If her child had been taken from her arms? Had these interviews produced anything, other than confusion and doubt? Did she know the truth about any of the prostitutes she’d interviewed? Could she trust that any of them-Gioconda, Lola, Rosalia-were telling her the truth, showing her their real selves, how they felt, what they thought, what they knew? And what about the madam? Was she living a fantasy? She, Serafina, was no closer to solving these murders than she’d been when she looked into the face of the dead Bella over two weeks ago. Was she wasting her time? Doing a disservice to her children?

Serafina cleared her throat. “So why this sudden change in Nelli’s attitude, her coldness toward you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Jealousy? But suddenly, Nelli turned. When she’d see me coming toward her, she’d walk the other way. And she began keeping to herself, going out alone. Saturday afternoons mostly. I think she went out the day before she died.”

“She must have done. Did you see her leave?”

The prostitute hesitated before shaking her head. “No. I feel useless, as though I haven’t given you much help so far, but I can only tell you what I know.”

Serafina came back to her earlier question. “Rosa found Nelli’s body in September. Can you tell me when you first noticed a change in her?”

“Like I said before, I can’t remember, really.” Lola rubbed an eyelash. “But, well, I think it might have been, yes, it was late in March, close to Easter. Yes. I asked if she’d like to go with me to Palermo the Saturday before the procession of palms. ‘Other plans,’ she said and didn’t explain. Explain? She barely looked at me. Yes, that was the first I noticed her coolness.”

A tap at the door.

“Ah, time to go.”

“I may have more questions. Tomorrow or the next day, I might have to call you back.”

“Of course. Whatever you wish.” She ambled toward the door, her boa trailing behind, and with a backward glance, sent Serafina a dazzling smile.

She hadn’t seen the cook in what, twenty-five years, so after the kisses, after the tears for poor dead Donna Maddalena, the two sat facing each other at the long chestnut table.

Formusa poured the coffee.

“My husband, too, we lost him. His death, hard on the children.”

The cook rose, cupped Serafina’s cheeks in the palm of her hands. Serafina felt flour on her face, smelled sweet cocoa, almonds, the zest of Formusa’s sauce-a benediction. She sipped the coffee. “I’ve missed this room.”

“Caffè? Biscotti?” The cook stared at her with octopus eyes.

Serafina rolled her hand from side to side. “Your pastry, always so tempting, but no, thank you. Do you have some time for me tonight?”

“La Signura, she says you have questions. Bad, the times, for the house.”

“That’s why I’ve come to you, Formusa. Tell me what you know, what you’ve seen, anything that comes to mind about Gemma, Nelli, Bella, or any of the other women in Rosa’s house. Anything at all, even if you think it’s not important.”

The cook rubbed her hands on her apron. Her eyes slid from side to side.

Cook knows something. See how still she keeps her body?

A burnt piece of log dropped from the grate. It sent a puff of ashes into the flames. Serafina waited.

Presently, Formusa said, “Nelli told me not to tell.”

Serafina said, “A secret?”

The cook nodded.

“Nelli’s secret?”

Nodded again.

“Formusa, do you think it would help us to know it?”

The cook lifted her hands. “Maybe.”

Serafina ran a finger back and forth on the smooth tabletop. “If it-the secret, that is-if it happened shortly before she died, and if we knew this secret, our knowledge might save all of us.”

The cook drew in her lower lip. She looked down at the table.

“Nelli’s dead now. You know what Donna Maddalena used to say about the dead?”

Formusa smiled. “The dead, they have a lot to tell us.”

“And so do you. What you know may help us survive.”

Silence.

Serafina waited while Formusa’s cheeks worked up and down. Nothing came out of the mouth, not for a while. More than a while.

“So, I begin,” cook said.

This was followed by more silence.

“Rosa told me you taught Nelli how to make your sauce.”

“Nelli, good with the soup. No good with the pastry.”

Serafina waited for more words.

“Always wanting to cook, that one.”

“It’s all right. Nelli’s gone now. You can tell.”

“Nelli, she had coins, a lot of them. One day she told me, ‘You hide the coins for me. Not safe in my room.’ I don’t ask why. She brought them here. I’ll show you.” Formusa got up, rolled from side to side over to some bins on a shelf by the large black stove. She opened one, lumbered back to the table and showed it to Serafina. Empty.

Formusa sat back down and continued. “Every night she comes in here, Nelli, and I sit by the fire. She opens the tin, puts in the coins. Ca-chink, ca-chink, I hear them drop.” Cook stopped, smiled at Serafina.

“When did she start keeping her coins with you?”

“Two, three years ago.”

“Just put them in the tin?”

Formusa nodded.

“Where are they now?”

“One day, maybe two weeks before she died, she says to me, I cannot cook for you today, Formusa.” The cook made fat floury gestures. “Don’t care if she doesn’t cook. I showed her how to cook because she wants to learn, that’s all. And Nelli takes the tin, dumps it here.” Formusa pressed the red pad of her forefinger on the table. “She lines up the coins, lot of coins. Counts them.” Formusa whispered, “Into her pocket they go. Ca-chink. She leaves.”