They were silent for a time until Serafina changed the subject. “What did you think of Carlo? His drinking disturbs me.”
“I saw him once when I took the train back from La Vucciria,” Renata said, in between bathroom bouts. “He didn’t see me but he was with two of his friends.”
“Women?”
She shook her head. “I know I’ve seen them before. I don’t like them. One has slicked black hair, the other has hair like you and Carmela. They’re brothers.”
Serafina’s heart dropped. “Are you certain?”
Renata nodded and was silent for a moment, fingering the chain of her reticule. “I miss Badali.”
“Did you give him our address in Paris?”
“Of course.” She knotted her fingers and twisted.
“We’ll be back soon. Who knows, your aristocratic clients in Bagheria will clamor for your pastry and you’ll need to make a special trip home this summer.” She hadn’t thought enough of her daughter’s feelings. She was too concerned for herself and for leaving without the don’s noticing. Would Rosa’s guards be adequate to watch over their home while they were away?
On the deck their last day, they huddled together enjoying the sun and salt air. Teo sat near Maria, who hitched herself as far away from him as she could and still remain next to him. She buried her face in the score she carried at all times, running a finger below the notes and humming, from time to time turning her face toward him but only by a fraction.
“Studying?” he asked.
“Scarlatti.”
“How’s your French repertoire?”
She shrugged.
“Because you know about the Paris Conservatory, of course, and you have a chance for admission, but I think you’d have a better one if you learned some pieces by Saint-Saens or Franck.”
“He’s Belgian.”
“But he teaches at the Conservatory. And you’ll have to learn French.”
She looked at him and narrowed her eyes, but she was listening. “Music is the universal language.”
“Do we have to stay in Paris?” Maria asked. “Yes,” Loffredo said.
“My career may take a dive.”
That night Maria woke up screaming. She knocked on Serafina’s door.
Serafina held her daughter. “Tell me the dream, my sweet.”
Maria shook her head. “Too horrible.” She held her up hands, examining them.
Serafina rocked Maria until her tears died.
“I should have stayed in Palermo with Aunt Giuseppina.”
Chapter 39: Le Livre de Patisserie
The afternoon of their arrival Serafina was haunted by what seemed a rash decision to leave home. She longed for Oltramari and its dusty streets. But even before she’d unpacked and sorted out the bedrooms, Carmela and Giulia paid a visit, laughing, bringing food and wine and speaking a guttural form of French. Serafina brightened. Most of her family was together again.
In a week they were settled. They’d applied to the Minister of Justice, Keeper of the Seal, for complete domicile and naturalization. It would take three years. Loffredo and Serafina announced their intention to marry properly in the civil courts according to French law, and Serafina’s yearning for Oltramari was swallowed up by the excitement of Paris in full bloom.
Teo, Tessa and Arcangelo bought maps for the newcomers and showed them everything they knew of the city. They were out most days, returning for supper, tired and happy, adapting quickly as children do, and beginning to pick up the language. Even Maria forgot about her piano. In six months they’d be shouting to one another in French.
At first the bedrooms were a bit of a squeeze, but they’d have to make do with them. They found three small chambers on one side of the conservatory, perfect for the nurse and toddlers. The rest of the rooms were on the first floor, two in the east wing and two in the west. For now Teo, Arcangelo, and Toto would have to share a room.
They had an easy time of moving, Loffredo assured her. At the table one evening, he passed around an article in Le Figaro about the squalid conditions immigrants faced in New York. They stared at the photographs of the newly arrived, crowding into Castle Garden, of families huddled together in one room, immigrants relegated to the poor neighborhoods of lower Manhattan. “But we’ve landed in Paris like a cat in a bowl of liver.”
The space eased considerably soon after Rosa became friends with the concierge. More than friends, Loffredo thought.
“She’s part snake charmer,” Serafina told him.
When an apartment opened on the first floor, Rosa was the first to learn of it and snapped it up. There was a studio for Tessa, she told Serafina, and best of all, they had exclusive use of the garden. “Tessa can paint en pleine air. Now I must find a cook.” And Francoise introduced her to a second cousin who had a friend who had a sister who knew a cook who was looking for work. Her references were strong and Rosa hired her for a week with the possibility of full-time employment. After two dinners, Rosa was delighted and the woman was hired.
Renata, it appeared, tucked Badali into a far corner of her mind when she saw the kitchen. Larger than Serafina remembered, it containing every utensil, every size of pot and pan and platter a cook would want. Still, there was something not quite right with Renata, Loffredo felt.
“I know,” Serafina said. “She’s like that. If I could take her pain away, I would.”
Loffredo went to Librairie Hachette on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and bought Renata a copy of Le Livre de Patisserie by Jules Gouffe.
“But it’s in French.”
“ Certainement,” an unfamiliar voice said.
Serafina looked up at the figure in black bombazine. “You must be the tutor.”
“The femme savante, Madame.”
Rosa bustled in. “We found her talking to the concierge,” she explained, “and I brought her up here. She’ll teach us everything we need to know, I expect.”
The tall woman introduced herself. Busacca had arranged it, she said, “For six months or as you wish, Madame.” There was a stiffness about her that reminded Serafina of a French housekeeper she’d met a few years ago when she and Rosa worked a case in Bagheria.
Chapter 40: Hiding from the Truth
Serafina sat in a far corner of the ladies’ parlor and her mind drifted again to the case. Loffredo’s injury meant they’d departed before she’d finished tying up loose ends, and there were two areas of the investigation that bothered her-Elena’s admission that she’d killed the woman in the Rue Cassette and the unrecovered photos taken at the scene of the crime.
A few things disturbed her about Elena’s confession. First, she wondered how and when Elena stole Gaston’s pistols-how and when she learned to shoot, albeit not very well; how she would have known of their existence; and how close was she standing to the woman when she shot her? Elena was short and the victim seemed, even in death, to be much taller. Reading the autopsy and talking to the inspector, she hoped, would help.
She stared at the wall and decided she must talk with Valois about her concerns as soon as possible, so she hired a cab and paid a visit to his office. He wasn’t in at the moment but was expected “later.” The receptionist apologized, but she couldn’t be more precise, so Serafina left her card saying she’d return. She told the driver to take her to Busacca’s store on the Rue du Mont-Parnasse where she asked to speak with Ricci de Masson.
The smiling redhead came out to greet her. A gracious host, Ricci bowed. “I remember you. You’re from Oltramari.”
“I came here to see the photos.”
Judging from his reaction, she’d caught him off guard. She could see him weighing how to reply. She liked this man with his freckles and unruly hair, a boy, really, his emotions transparent.
“Carmela likes the innovation of your displays, you know.” She glanced around at all the hats, some antique, others military. Looked like they’d seen battle, some of them. There was a sense of humor about the store and she had no doubt where it originated.