tall and heavy, with wide shoulders and a thick black beard widespread on his cheeks. Those who knew him joked that he looked as if he had fallen head-first into a pail of coal. At the rustling sound of taffeta he pushed the soapy rags aside. He said, “Morning, Miss Berilli.”
She spoke as she continued down. “Ottavio, do you know who died?”
“No, Miss Berilli. Would you like for me to find out?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be taking a walk, and the cathedral is only steps away.”
“It’s a beautiful day for a walk,” Ottavio said, “sunny and …” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, because Eugenia was already downstairs, in the lobby, and out of his sight.
In front of the building, on the sidewalk, Eugenia ran into Grazia Mordiglia, wife of Demetrio Mordiglia, the chairman of the Banca Commerciale. The Mordiglias had owned the first-floor apartment for the past ten years.
“Good morning, Eugenia,” Grazia said. “How’s your brother? That horse must have given him some scare.”
“He’s better,” Eugenia replied. “Still hurting, though, I hear.”
“He lost the Marquise Carla d’Onofrio’s case against her tenants the other day,” Grazia went on. “I was amazed.”
Eugenia stiffened up. “Tell me about it,” she said between her teeth. “I woke up hours ago wondering what such a blunder will do to our family’s reputation.”
Grazia shook her head. “He used to be such a good lawyer …”
Eugenia’s eyes turned to fire. “He is a good lawyer! The best there is in this town!” She continued in a calmer voice. “The truth is, instead of handling the case himself he gave it to his son, Raimondo. A moron, if you ask me. And a scoundrel. All he does is drink and chase women. Changes girls more often than his socks. With legal matters, he’s as good as a dead trout.”
Grazia cocked her head and lowered her voice. “There’s a rotten apple in every good family, they say.”
“Perhaps,” Eugenia conceded through pursed lips. “By the way, Grazia, the cathedral bells rang half-an-hour ago. You wouldn’t happen to know who died.”
“I, too, heard the bells. I suppose it’s no one we know,” Grazia said. “I read the obituaries in the paper every morning and didn’t recognize any names recently.”
Eugenia shrugged. “Me neither. Well, good day, dear.”
“Good day, Eugenia. And God bless us.”
“God,” Eugenia mumbled, mingling with the crowd in motion. “He must be busy these days, too busy to look down.”
Her mood improved in moderation as she strolled up Via San Lorenzo. The cafes’ smells, the colors in the store windows, and the crowd’s energy never failed to cast a spell on her, no matter how many years she had lived downtown. The best approach to unveiling the mystery of the morning bells, she reasoned as she cut through pedestrians, peddlers, and street performers, would likely be to engage Pietro Queirolo, the sacristan. He knew everything that went on in his church. And he liked her for some reason, which would make it easy for him to share all he knew about the bell-ringing.
So pondering, Eugenia arrived in front of the cathedral, a majestic construction of black and white marble with gothic portals guarded by colossal stone lions. On the church steps she stopped in her tracks, having suddenly remembered the note she had received three weeks earlier from a Father Camillo, soliciting a monetary donation for the hospice. Whoever this Father Camillo was, she reasoned, the note had come from the cathedral, and she had no intention of giving the priest a chance to remind her of that financial obligation by walking right into his church. On that thought, she turned on her heel, crossed Via San Lorenzo, and took a side street to the markets of Via Canneto Il Lungo.
In the narrow caruggio buyers and sellers crowded the way, slowing Eugenia down to a snail walk. The sweet smells of fruit and spices floated in the air, dancing and changing every step of the way. Her impatience grew as she jostled her way to a u-shaped counter set on brick pedestals and covered with vegetables and fruit. She stretched her neck and waved to a plump woman with a checked apron who was busy helping a customer. The moment the woman saw Eugenia, she abandoned her customer and said, “Good morning, Miss Berilli. How can I help you?”
Eugenia spoke to the point. “Do you know who died, Berta? The cathedral bells were ringing this morning.”
Berta nodded. “It’s Palmira Bevilacqua, Miss Berilli. Doctor Sciaccaluga’s nurse. God bless her