“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.”
A Fitting Reward
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.
Rosa helped herself. “Mmmm, Renata made these? Divine.” Helped herself to another. “Best cannoli I’ve ever eaten. The shell is paper thin, crackles like Christmas candy, melts in the mouth. The taste of the filling: heaven.”
She ate another, closed her eyes, rolled her hands back and forth. “Even the nuns in Palermo do no better.” She bit into a fourth. “You know,” she said, with a full mouth, “we need to celebrate. I could borrow Renata just to show Formusa the recipe and-”
“No one borrows Renata. Better to be married to that dunce of an inspector than to lend out Renata.”
Rosa wiped her face with her handkerchief. At the edge of vision Serafina saw an oblong with a mustache standing in the doorway, fedora in hand. He carried a large envelope.
Colonna nodded to Serafina. “Your domestic said I’d find you here. Good day to you both, dear ladies.”
“Cannolo, Inspector?” Rosa asked.
He shook his head. “Thanks, but my wife, you know, she watches my stomach.”
“Something to drink then? Please, sit down.” Rosa pulled the cord.
When Gesuzza arrived, Rosa said, “Caffè.”
Colonna began, “Some distressing news first. They found Lola’s body this morning hanging from the rafters of her cell. How she obtained the rope she used, who knows?” He played with one end of his mustache. His eyes were without glimmer.
Rosa bowed her head, drummed her fist on her chest.
Serafina’s eyes swam. “How did she tie the rope to the rafters?” she asked. “The ceiling in her cell is what, almost five meters from the floor! Couldn’t have reached the rafters.”
It was Colonna’s turn to be surprised. Surprised, because a woman had knowledge enough to ask such a question. Surprised because a woman had the nerve to ask such a question. And surprised because Serafina knew the structure of their keep. In reply, he held up both palms to the ceiling and shrugged.
Rosa’s eyes darted between Serafina and Colonna.
Serafina asked, “Did she leave a note?”
Colonna shook his head. “We told her family.”
“What family?” Rosa asked.
Silence while Gesuzza entered, carrying a tray with glasses of espresso.
Colonna drank his espresso in one gulp and eyed Rosa’s bottle of grappa. “From her identity card and the ministry’s records, we located an uncle or some such living in the province of Enna. They said one day Lola vanished. Never contacted them again. Didn’t know what had happened to her until my men showed up. We sent her remains to Sperlinga this morning.”
Serafina wondered how Colonna had unlimited help from police all of a sudden. “The other day I visited her. What a horrible dungeon you have. Even the visitor’s room is dank-lizards crawling up the walls, spiders creeping on the ground-you must be ashamed of it, no? My clothes were soaked. I had to change them when I came home.”
She continued. “Quite mad, Lola. A lost soul. Wearing the same dress she wore underneath her monk’s costume. Hadn’t been washed or given a comb for her hair. Not even prisoner’s garb.”