“Interesting,” a voice said. “Your hair and such, I mean.”
“I didn’t hear you enter,” Serafina said to the woman who was clothed in an ultramarine day dress, low cut of course. Petticoats crinkled when she sat beside Serafina. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. Serafina remembered her, the redhead from the wake.
“Gioconda’s my name,” she said.
“Don’t tell me your parents named you after a painting.”
“Oh no, it’s the name I took when I arrived. And I never knew my parents.”
Serafina was about to ask her how she knew Falco when the prostitute continued. “Don’t use our real names, mostly. Well, some of the girls do. Take Carmela, for instance. Said her father gave it to her. That was good enough for her.”
Serafina’s feet went cold. Perhaps she misheard the woman. She needed to focus. “Carmela?”
“Bit of a thing,” the redhead said. “Here about three, four years ago. Hair like yours. Ginger, I’d call it. I saw your hair from the path, the color, tight curls and such. That’s what made me come in. I said to myself, Carmela’s back.”
Rosa would have told her if Carmela had knocked on her door. Must be another Carmela, such a common name.
“This girl with hair like mine, when was she here?”
“Three, four years ago. Didn’t last long, mind. Took up with a soldier or guard or one of those soon after she arrived.”
“Did you know her well?”
The woman shook her head. “Kept to herself. Don’t get me wrong, she was friendly, not snooty like some round here I could name, I’ll tell you. But particular, you might say, as to how she spent her time. Smart. When she wasn’t working, well, she, I don’t know, walked on the shore a lot, tended to flowers. Loved the blooms.”
“Do you know where she was born?”
“Well, why would I know that? But let me think.” The woman wrapped a curl around her finger. “Not far from here.”
“Yes?”
“Right. I remember once, early spring it was, gorgeous day, and Scarpo and Turi-this was a long time ago, mind you, before the madness started-they used to take us on drives. And we’d all pile in the carriage, some of us on the rumbler, all fixed up, waving and shouting and sticking our arms out the window, none too delicate, mind, and Turi, he’d drive fast round the statue, the one with the sunken eyes. Well, this one time, Carmela, she asked that Turi stop and she started to cry because she said it was close by her home and she had half a mind to get out, just get out and walk. Said she could walk home from the sunken-eyed statue.”
“What town?”
“Oltramari, of course.”
Serafina felt her stomach churn. Her daughter worked at Rosa’s, and the madam-whom she thought was a friend, who knew Giorgio and Serafina were wretched about Carmela’s flight-that same madam, that strega, that sometime friend, never bothered to tell Serafina.
She swallowed. “Anything else you can tell me about Carmela?”
“That’s about it. Said she had a twin brother. Thinking of writing to him, but said if her mother found out, she wouldn’t like it. But she was smart to leave, Carmela. Money’s good and Rosa, she’s fair, always jolly and such. Pay’s more than double what it is in Palermo, I tell you. But now, no good.” Gioconda stopped. “Is something wrong? You look like you’ve seen a specter!”
Serafina closed her eyes. “The damp air unsettles my stomach. What did you mean by ‘now, no good’?”
“Well, you never know who’s going to creep round the corner, do you, stab you in the heart. Some of the girls, the careless ones, getting knifed, I can tell you.”
“Any of Carmela’s friends still here?”
“Gusti. Want me to get her?”
• • •
Serafina was about to leave when she heard another voice.
“Gusti said she’d be down in a minute.” Tall and blonde, the prostitute. She spoke with an accent. “She’s dressing, you know, but perhaps I can help? I’m Lola. Oh yes, I see. Gioconda was right; you do look just like Carmela. But you’re much taller and, you know, older. If Carmela wants to know how she’s going to look as an older woman, she should look at you.”
“Carmela doesn’t want to see me, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”
The prostitute’s smile was warm. Serafina saw why the madam liked her.
“You knew Carmela?” Serafina asked.
“Not very well. We didn’t talk that much. Liked one another, we did. Bit of a thing, Carmela, but she had her opinions. Not friendly to me.” The prostitute brushed a curl from her face. “Probably jealous. Most of the girls are when they first meet me. And Carmela wasn’t here all that long. A year, maybe more.”
“But she worked here? Like you? I mean, she wasn’t a maid or a laundress?”
“She worked like me. Not good with the work at first, but those of us with experience, we helped her.”
She retrieved a cigarette holder wedged down her front. From her pocket she drew out paper and tobacco and began rolling a weed. “I suppose you want to know about the murders?”
“Not interested in the madam or her murders. I’m a midwife, not a sleuth. But I’d like to know for certain if the person who looks so much like me, according to Gioconda, is my daughter.”
“Well, her name is Carmela, and she was here for a year, maybe more, and she looks exactly like you. Same eyes, a light jade, I’d say. Doesn’t have your wrinkles or crooked nose.”
Serafina felt her cheeks crimson. “Rosa’s told me a little about you. Said you were from Enna. How long have you been here?”
Lola laughed. “From Enna? Rosa invents new histories for us. Been here five or six years. I’m sure she’s told you all about me. You’re good friends. You must discuss everything.”
“Only what Rosa wants me to hear, and that’s precious little. And you’re right, she molds the truth into a pleasant fantasy. But she speaks highly of you. I’m curious. Your accent is not Sicilian.”
“Born in Lombardy, in the hills. Poor my family. My father was a shepherd.”
“How was it you traveled all the way to Sicily?” Serafina asked.
She looked out the window, not at the rocks or sea, but at something half-formed, like the shard of a memory. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Perhaps not. Hard for me to understand why a woman would want your profession. The work is hard, no?”
“Tell me, dear lady, have you ever delivered a child and then removed that child from his mother?”
“Several times. Women die giving birth.”
She frowned. “Not that.”
“Taken the child from its mother you mean?” Serafina asked.
She nodded.
“Never. I would never do such a thing, no, despite what the state says are the laws now. They say if the mother is a criminal or dying, the child should become a ward of the state. That’s talk from Turin. Some women, one or two, maybe, unmarried, don’t want their children, but even in those cases, I would not take the child from the mother, unless the mother was a wild one. And thank the Madonna, I’ve not run into that mother, not yet. Not Sicilian to take a child from its mother. Against our blood.”
Lola rubbed an eyelash. “I wish you’d been my midwife.”
Serafina stretched an arm around Lola’s shoulders. “And the father?”
“A man of learning. He wanted the child raised by the monks, so they took him from me.”
“How did you happen to meet this man?”
“After my mother died, my father brought us to the orphanage. All right for a while, until the mother superior died. Not so good then, so I left. Found work at the university.”
“Teaching?”
She shook her head. “I cleaned the lecture halls, the library. Good, honest labor. No pay. Worked for my keep. Backbreaking. Not like this profession, mind, but hard. One day I opened the door to a professor’s office. He was in the room reading some papers. I excused myself, but he said, ‘No, wait.’ He began to talk to me. Talked to me as if I were a man, you know, someone worthy of his words. Fascinating talk it was, about the oceans, the rivers of the world, the ebb and flow of tides, of ideas, of religious fervor and upheaval. The next week I came back. He was there. We talked again. It began that way. Nine months later, I gave birth to his son.”