Formusa
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.”
For a while Formusa sat still. Then she bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, it’s true. Believe it?”
“Of course.”
“Again, the night before La Signura found Nelli’s body, Nelli came here. In a hurry, face red. No counting this time. She empties the tin, dumps her coins into her pocket, kisses me goodbye, and runs out the back.” She brushed her palms together. “The end. No more coins. No more Nelli.”
“Did you tell Rosa?”
She shook her head. “A secret, Nelli said.”
“You said Nelli ran out the back. Where?” Serafina asked.
Formusa pointed to darkness.
“Show me.”
She took a candle, gave one to Serafina, and waddled to the other end of the kitchen.
Serafina followed. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the back stairs.”
The candle in Serafina’s hand shuddered from the wind seeping through the door. She heard the howling, held her candle higher. Even in the dark she could see steps leading to a landing and, branching off from this platform, two separate sets of stairs. She turned to Formusa. “This way goes to the back and the sea.”
Formusa nodded.
Serafina pointed to a closed door on the other side of the landing. “Beyond that door, the back stairs to the bedrooms?”
“Just so.”
Another blast of wind almost extinguished Serafina’s flame. They walked back to the kitchen.
Stooping, Serafina kissed Formusa on both cheeks. She held her close. Her first piece of news relating directly to the murders. More tears, more ‘poor Donna Maddalena, poor husband.’
Gusti
“My name is Gusti, short for Julia Augusta. Named myself after an ancient Roman queen, or goddess-one of those.”
Underneath that stained robe of hers, she had breasts like mountain peaks. Must be wearing all the jewelry she owned, ropes of pearl and gold, jingly bracelets, a silver rosary, rings on all her fingers.
Serafina began by asking the usual questions.
The remnants of sweetened figs whiskered her lips. Gusti swept them off with the back of her hand, settled in the chair. “I didn’t know any of the dead women, poor dears, not well, at least. I don’t know what I can tell you. Don’t know who’d want to kill them. Of course, I was busy on the days they died, I’m always busy.”
“When was the last time you saw Bella?”
“Oh my, they’ve all been dead for such a long time. But when was it that I last saw Bella?” She looked up at the ceiling, drummed her fingers on one knee. “I remember now-it was in the station here in Oltramari. Yes, that was it.” She slapped her knee. “I was going to Palermo, she was returning, it must have been, oh, two or three months ago, in the spring. She was getting off the train and I was waiting on the next platform. All of a sudden Bella came out of the car, packages and all in her hand. No suitcase. I yelled and waved, ‘Bella!’ We waved addiu and she disappeared into the crowd. That’s the last time I saw her alive. I love to ride the train, don’t you? The clack of the wheels, the rhythm of the car, it lulls me to sleep. The conductors, so nice to me they are, and the passengers you meet, oh, la, some of the men, gorgeous. I love the ride, I tell you.”
Serafina laughed. “And that was the last time?”
“Alive? Oh, you mean, you mean, oh yes, I went to Bella’s wake and all. Sad. She was the one I felt closest to. I mean, of the ones who died. Not like a sister, mind you, like Carmela and I, we were almost like sisters, but close enough, Bella and I. Even though we both kept to ourselves and all.”
The air was heavy with cheap perfume. Serafina felt queasy. “And what about Gemma and Nelli? Do you remember the last time you saw either of them?”
Gusti shook her head. “We lead our own lives. We come and go here at Rosa’s. Rosa wants us to be more like a family, ‘my girls’ and all, you know how she talks.” The prostitute adjusted herself in the chair. “You and Rosa are friends, yes?”
Serafina nodded.
“But we are none of us friends here, not like you and Rosa. Oh wait, maybe a few girls were friends with the dead ones, but not me, I wasn’t one of them. I avoid most of the girls. Hard to trust. Well, except for Carmela.”
“They told me you were friends with…her.”