Gowned for the evening in deep aubergine, Rosa poured the Marsala, handed a glass to Serafina. Rosa’s eyes, Serafina saw, were like a squid’s.
“No birth tonight. Only death.” Rosa stroked a page in her ledger. She spoke in Sicilian, the language of their youth. It suited her gravelly voice. She shook her head. “I pay the don every month, but I won’t beg for more of his help. It would destroy the high character of this house.”
“But your visit helped?”
Rosa shrugged. “Colonna. He waddles in today, sits his backside down, says, ‘No other news. Have patience.’ As if the murders happened yesterday.”
Her eyes blazed. She slammed the desk. “My beauties are in danger and he does nothing! What can I say? He certifies the house, so I swallow my words and pour him another grappa.” Rosa twisted linen back and forth in her hands. “That’s why I sent for you. No more dawdling. For the sake of our friendship, I need you to find the killer before another girl is murdered.”
Silence, except for the wind outside and the spitting of logs. Rosa dried her eyes.
Serafina turned to the hearth. She remembered the casket of the first victim as it journeyed to the grave in August heat, the procession engulfed in a cloud of dust, the smell of death and the sweat of mourners thick around the jostling bier. After Rosa found the second prostitute’s body, Giornale di Sicilia featured a story about the two murders, listing their ghoulish similarities, lamenting the increase in violence. Increase, what increase? We are so full of dead bodies, they choke us. The slaughter continues, that’s what those inky fingers should have penned.
Two weeks had passed since they found Bella’s body. No words in the papers, no prayers from the priests, but the gossip had begun in the straw market and behind merchants’ shutters. A growing hum in the air, it flew to the far corners of the piazza where wizened crones scattered their words like bits of straw. Even Vicenzu voiced it one evening by the fire, sticking his head above the top of his apothecary catalogue long enough to say, “Rosa forgot to wet Don Tigro’s beak.” But Serafina knew better. Not the don’s style, these killings.
She walked to the window, stared into the dark. Tall and high-breasted, Serafina, proud of her figure, even after having seven children. But she admitted it: a corset laced with care tucked her in at the waist and lifted the start of sagging flesh. Each year the lines on her face multiplied, deepened. Too well she knew that monster, Time, crouched ahead, ready to pounce. She pictured Bella’s face, the remains of those three women lying cold in the ground, their murders unsolved. Are the rest of Rosa’s prostitutes in danger? Rosa, too? Carmela?
She fought to catch her breath and sat down. “You and I will find the killer. We must.”
Rosa’s eyes sparkled.
“Tell me about the dead women,” Serafina said and reached for her notebook.
“Too late, our guests arrive soon.”
“But time runs out.”
“Because you took so long to decide.”
“Do you want me to solve the murders or not?”
“You’re right. Tonight. But first I must discuss the sauce with cook. She needs to know how much to make. Big appetites scheduled for this evening.” She got up from the chair, whisked around the desk, kissed her on both cheeks, and bustled out of the room.
• • •
Serafina rubbed her arms, smelled citrus and lavender. Got up. Sat down. Up again. She swept the room with her gaze until her senses were arrested by a cloud growing more distinct, encompassing the chair in the corner. Once again, she saw her mother, young, gowned in velvet.
“You toy with a riddle. Where’s your daughter?”
“The guards and Scarpo search for her.”
“The guards are dim.”
“Carmela’s the one who left us. You were the one who spoiled her.”
Maddalena’s nose wrinkled. Serafina knew it signaled a storm.
“Stop blaming others. Who’s the mother, you or Rosa? Find your daughter.”
“Look at me: two, three hours of sleep a night. The babies arrive. I must attend, you know that. Giorgio’s death, a devastation. Rosa needs me. Most of all my children need me.”
“Say that last line again.”
Serafina crossed her arms, closed her eyes, shook her head.
“Just like your father. Listen to yourself. ‘My children need me.’ And who is Carmela? — a stranger? A child left, and you, the mother, heap shame on Rosa’s head for taking her in. Yet you, the mother, do nothing to find your child. Shame on our house. Yes, the guards can help, but you must find her first.”
“Too much to do. It’s all a muddle. You make no sense.”
“You must find her first in here,” she said, pointing to her heart.
The vision faded, and Serafina sat, arms wrapped around herself in a cold, dark room.
• • •
The door opened and Rosa entered, her skirts swaying above stiffened hoops. She licked her fingers. “You look like a startled ewe. Scare yourself? Or do you dawdle as usual while I do all the work?”
Serafina turned this way and that. She remembered the look on Maddalena’s face before she vanished. “My daughter?”
“Still searching, the guards. Early, yet. They canvas the brothels in town. Next, they go to Palermo.”
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.’