“We’re here to talk about Elena and to extend our condolences,” Serafina began.
“No need. Good riddance, I say.” Sophie raised her head.
And that was that. This family had a penchant for graceless surprise-the son, charming yet overly familiar; his mother, blunt and unkind. Serafina reached for her tea clutching her chest, taking deliberate breaths. She took a gulp of the steaming liquid and glanced at Rosa whose face was red.
“If I may, I’d like to see the body.”
“Buried, I’m afraid, in a family plot on my estate in Versailles. In ground blessed by the rabbi.”
“But Elena was Christian.”
“In name only.” She sipped her tisane through rouged lips. “Everything she did was for herself, despite the family’s wishes. Her ancestors suffered for centuries. They were compliant when Frederick II of Aragon made them wear the red wheel. They were banished from their homes, made to live in ghettoes, finally expelled from the island, refusing to convert. Slowly we crept back, but still we have to hide. My brother’s a fool for remaining in Palermo, and you ask me why I buried his daughter according to the law? Her forebears never renounced their faith, and just because Elena wanted a title, she converted-that wretched father-in-law of hers insisted on it. No dignity, I’m afraid. Her husband’s religion meant nothing to her. She trifled with God, and now see what her cleverness has done for her. No, the least I could do for the sake of our ancestors was to bury her according to our tradition.”
Serafina was silent.
Rosa stirred in her seat, a rustle of taffeta, a whiff of rose water. “I would think that religion, whether Catholic or Jewish, meant nothing to her. But she wasn’t a bad person, not really. She wished no one harm.”
Serafina slid her friend a grateful look.
As if she didn’t hear Rosa’s remark, Sophie said, “Here I can follow our rules for burial, so I did. I don’t expect you to understand or condone. I could care less what you think. I was following the wishes of the family, not of the living, but of the generations.”
The silence carried on.
Serafina set down her tea cup and spoke. “But I’m here to investigate her death. You must know your brother who grieves for the loss of his daughter, his only child, commissioned me to bring her killer to justice.”
“She was murdered? News to me. Suicide or murder, hard to tell which, but I will say this, that whichever, it was a just end.”
Rosa looked at Serafina.
“Then I have misunderstood,” Serafina said. “Your brother talked of murder only. My impression is that the police think it was murder. We meet with the prefect this afternoon. And what about you? You identified the body, no?”
Sophie looked at her hands, not at her guests. “Yes, hard to tell at first that it was my niece. One side of her face no longer existed.”
“Do you think her death was murder or suicide?”
Sophie closed her eyes and shook her head. “I haven’t a clue, nor do I care.”
“Which side of her face was destroyed?” Rosa asked.
“Pardon?”
“When you viewed the body, which side of the face did you see?” Rosa asked again, her voice louder, her speech slower.
“What difference does it make?”
“My friend asks an important question,” Serafina said. She felt no need to explain.
Sophie stopped and considered. Her eyes flicked to the side. “I saw… the right side of the face. The head was placed so that the left side of her face was hidden. Dreadful experience, I’d love to forget it, but I cannot do so now, since you remind me.” She removed a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “The inspector wouldn’t let me send a servant. No, I had to go myself.”
“No one went with you?”
She didn’t answer the question but was silent for a time, keeping company with her thoughts. “The stench. Paris morgue, you know. Public gawping at dead bodies. Disgusting. I’d heard about it, but believe me, the place is worse than I’d imagined. I had to get Elena’s body out of there.”
“How did the police know to call you?”
Sophie de Masson eyed Serafina as if she were a dullard. “She had identification in her reticule.”
“And you’re positive it was the body of your niece?”
Again she shot her a look. “Of course. Even in death she managed to look like a trollop. Such a horror that a member of our family could do so much to tarnish our name. It was one thing not to want to assume her role in our business. She had brains, but no time for them. Like my oldest, I’m afraid. We could have made inroads into ready wear. For all his laziness, Beniamino has some interesting ideas on that score. He tells me we need to play a greater role in the middle classes, must have a presence in the grand department stores. Ever since that man and his peasant wife opened Le Bon Marche, it is the thing to do, and I fear for the name of Busacca in fifty years. Yet I am hesitant, but he begs me to be a part of it. He says we should sell in Le Bon Marche, La Samaritaine, show in les grands magazins du Louvre. But you see I’m old; I have neither the time nor the energy to become involved. And I worry. Such a decision to make by myself.”
“But there’s your brother.”
“What does he know of French taste? If we were to sell in these large stores, perhaps it would cheapen the name. I have such fears for the way Beniamino wants to give up our stores, but at least he is interested enough to pose the question. Now, as to Elena. I was delighted to receive her when she arrived. I had expectations, you know, and such plans. You must admit she attracts a crowd. But right away she made friends with the artists, the poets. Beyond the falling out over business, her life, such as it was, left me no choice but to have nothing to do with her. She was a horror. Spoiled, as a child. Had everything given to her. So you see, we never had much in common. When she arrived, I didn’t quite know what to say to her, and she’d disappear for months at a time. Her life was an abomination. She disgraced the family. And her death is not much better, such a brutal affair. But she deserved it.”
Serafina felt the blood in her veins turn to ice, and she stole a glance at Rosa. The madam was pale.
“But I need to find out exactly what happened to her,” Serafina said.
Sophie straightened in her chair.
“Have you been in contact with her husband?” Serafina asked.
“Never. I have nothing to do with him.”
They were silent, the three of them, for a moment.
“If you will excuse me,” Sophie rang the bell.
“I think we’ve heard enough for now, except for one more question. What convinced you that the body you saw was indeed that of your niece?”
“Her purse of course with various papers of identity. There was a card with her husband’s photo and one of my brother. Not a good likeness, but, well, unmistakable. I knew, therefore, that the body I stared at could only be Elena’s. The shape of her body was roughly the same, although the dead do have such a foreignness about them.”
“No other marks that would identify her? Rings? Necklaces? Family jewels?”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t recall seeing any. Now if you will excuse me…” She rang again for the butler.
They walked to the carriage in silence, Serafina breathing in the fresh air, glad to be done with Sophie. Paris was serene, this neighborhood leafy and silent, spared from Baron Haussmann’s harsh restorations, haunted in a way that only old neighborhoods can be. They watched a family in black walking on the other side of the street, a father and sons with curls and fur hats and prayer shawls, the mother and girls following behind. A grocer in his apron stood in the doorway of his shop, his arms crossed, his face pleasant. He nodded to them as they passed.