Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

“Leave it. A job for Scarpo.”

Serafina held her lower lip. “This room tells me nothing. Difficult to understand how a person can inhabit a space and not leave it impressed with her presence.”

“Which presence? Many people, our Lola. Sometimes a strega , sometimes a lost soul, a snake, a clown, a friend, a killer. My enemy.”

• • •

Serafina sat in the office, watching Rosa count her coins when there was a knock.

“We’ve found Rosalia,” Scarpo said. “You’d better come. Easiest way is by mule.”

The sea wind blew up sand in swirls. It stung her face as Serafina, her skirt tucked beneath her, swayed on the back of a mule, led by a guard. The group moved slowly, picking their way down the face of steep rocks.

Ahead Scarpo led the madam, astride another beast. Three guards followed them carrying torches, pulling a mule and cart.

Outside, waves crashed the shore, their cadenced sound unceasing. The wind continued its howl.

By the light of the torch Serafina saw Rosa, a linen to her nose, shaking her head.

Rosalia lay on the ground near a heap of clothes. The dead prostitute was fully clothed for the evening, a knife stuck in her heart, her face cold to the touch, the mark of the serpent on her forehead.

Thursday, November 8, 1866

Serafina wound down the stairwell leading to the dungeon’s lower level, her toes like yellow pods stuck into cold earth. The flame on her torch fouled the air. Moisture tightened her curls, seeped into her armpits. A dark form scurried past, perhaps the shade of some dead innocent, here to exact its revenge.

As she entered the visitors’ room, Lola, shackled, stared ahead. Her lips were cracked, her nails bleeding, her clothes rent. Serafina smelled a strong, ferrous stench. She handed her torch to a guard and sat.

“There,” one of the keepers barked to the inmate, indicating the stool opposite Serafina. Lola seemed not to comprehend, but stood motionless, until he pawed the prisoner’s shoulders, forcing her to sit. Then, as if waking from a dream, Lola’s eyes began to focus. “Good of you to visit,” she said.

“Brought cigarettes.” Serafina set them on the table in front of Lola.

“Here, none of that,” a guard said, reaching for the box.

“It’s all right. The inspector gave permission.”

The guard opened the box and examined the cigarettes. He looked at his companion who shrugged and flipped them back on the table.

Without removing her gaze from Serafina, Lola grabbed a cigarette, struck a match, and breathed in the weed. When she exhaled, yellow smoke encircled her, catching the light from the wall torches.

Serafina waited for Lola to finish the cigarette. She looks like a violated Madonna, chipped, spent.

Lola greedily sucked in and puffed out. Crushing the ember, she reached for another. Several more minutes passed in silence while the room filled with smoke. One guard shuffled his feet.

“How did you come to know of the brazen serpent?” Serafina asked.

“I told you about the child. I left. Taken in by a family. I went to school with the daughter. The nuns taught us, but it didn’t work out.”

“How so?”

She bit a nail, concentrated on chewing, as a dog would a bone. “I left. You would have, too.”

Serafina nodded, remembering Rosa telling her about the whip marks on Lola’s back.

Lola wiped her wet nails on her skirt. “Ran away. Came to a church. The nuns took me in. Hard life, cold.”

“In the north, you told me.”

Lola stared at the wall. Her speech became clipped, her voice, almost a whisper. “Lombardy. People hard to understand. Work. Prayers. Mass every morning. But good food, a soft bed. I met the man I told you about.”

“And he told you about the brazen serpent?”

She nodded. “Yes, it was there that the voices had pity on me. They came to me after they took my child away. They said the brazen serpent had chosen me.”

“The inspector said you confessed to the murders of five women.”

Lola’s eyes had an inward look. “I was given the work of the brazen serpent at the appointed time to rid the world of sinners. The harlots chose to leave this life for a better one. I sent them to that life. I’m proud of it.”

“But it’s six, isn’t it?”

Lola said nothing. She chewed on her lip.

“You had help.”

Lola shook her head again and again. “No help. No help! None. Only these.” With sudden fury, her hands, like claws, clutched for Serafina, but she was restrained by her manacles before the guards could pull her back.

“You, I could not rid the earth of you. I tried, oh, the brazen serpent gave me the strength and the grace, gave me the means-a perfect night, a perfect number, a perfect feast. Yes, the voices helped me, save me even now. And I could have succeeded, if it hadn’t been for Scarpo’s child. In Satan’s grip.”

Serafina felt cold.

No longer smiling, Lola rubbed her hands together and, for the first time, her eyes searched the room. She began pulling her hair, hanging now in thick, knotted strands. “No help, no help,” she said. “Except for the voices. They wait for the turning. When I take over the reins, the world will suffer no more.” She flung the empty cigarette box on the floor.

A guard called time.

Lola lifted her head and stared.

“May I visit again?” Serafina asked.

“I promise them a soft sleep, the voices. Their work is almost over.”

Monday, November 12, 1866

The sea was a wrinkled blanket underneath a sodden sky.

Like a mystic mumbling prayers, the madam whispered numbers and entered them into a book. Serafina sat in the chair facing her. Flexing her frozen toes, she heard the whir of the abacus, the hiss of the fire, the ping of rain hitting the window.

Rubbing her hands together, Rosa said, “I tell you, counting coins is endless work. Wouldn’t be so bad if I could go to my bed at a decent hour, but I was up until three this morning.”

“Cut down on your hours.”

“You have no mind for business. Not the same without me in the parlor, joking, offering drinks, praising the customers for their handsome manliness. And business is brisk, I tell you. In the morning I count the money, make sure the house is clean, the sheets laundered, direct the cooking. Now Colonna tells me my girls must pass a health test once a month.” She shook her head. “More papers to fill out, more money under the table.”

“I brought you these.” Serafina handed her a tray covered with linen. “They are a bribe. I have a favor to ask.”

“It is I who owe you. Ask away.” She scooped up the coins, the notes and the ledger, shoved them all into the middle drawer, and looked at the tray.

“Hear me out before you say no. I need to borrow Tessa if she-”

“Never. Tessa stays with me.”

“Why are you afraid?” Serafina didn’t wait for an answer. “Totò has been moping ever since our neighbors left. One day they’re here and the next moment, the whole family vanishes-parents, both grandmothers, the children. Here for generations, gone in a heartbeat. They left after sunset. No goodbyes. We learned last week that they took the night train, boarded a steamer in Palermo for South America. Now my Totò stares out the window looking at the emptiness next door. I can’t stand it. Assunta takes him out for sweets and ices, but it doesn’t lift his spirits. We read to him, talk to him, and the other children try to comfort him. But he has lost his playmates and he misses Tessa. I can’t bear to see him suffer. He’s my youngest, you know.”

Rosa threw her an inscrutable look. She snuggled her nose up to the sweets and breathed in. “Oh Madonna, exquisite!” She lifted her head toward the ceiling and steepled her hands in prayer. Uncovering the tray, she offered one to Serafina who shook her head.