so unfair,” Eugenia murmured without losing count. Five, six …
“Someone important must have died,” she stated on the seventh toll, “or the bells wouldn’t be ringing in such solemn way.”
Eight, nine, ten, eleven. As the echo of the twelfth and last toll faded, Eugenia set needles and wool on the marble floor. Hands on the armrests, she pushed her lank body out of the armchair and walked to her grand living room, where she opened a tall double window overlooking Via San Lorenzo. Warm air brushed her face. It was a clear sunny morning, and a delicate breeze was blowing from the sea, spreading through the downtown streets the pungent odors of salt and fish. Coyly, Eugenia smoothed her hair, which was white as a summer cloud and gathered at the base of her head in a round chignon. She set her elbows solidly on the sill. The traffic below her window was heavy, and its sounds rose towards her in thick waves: voices calling and greeting, cartwheels squeaking their way up the road, clops of hooves on the stone, and, on occasion, the rumble of an engine and the honk of a horn. Soon, she singled a familiar face out of the crowd. “Costante!” she called.
Costante was a thin-built, wrinkled fishmonger who sold the fishermen’s catch off his pushcart along Via San Lorenzo and the surrounding streets. He knew everyone who lived or worked downtown. At the sound of Eugenia’s voice, he placed two wooden blocks as brakes behind the pushcart’s rear wheels and looked up.
“Good morning, Miss Berilli,” he chanted, bringing his right hand to his temple. “How can I help you today?”
Eugenia asked, “Who died, Costante? The cathedral bells rang twelve tolls.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, Miss Berilli, but I’ll find out for you.”
“Never mind.” She pointed a finger to her own chest. “I can find out myself.”
“Would you be needing fish today?” He lifted a silvery one by the tail. “This mullet is magnificent, fresh out of the sea.”
“Not today, Costante. I have yet to finish the octopus I steamed the day before yesterday. I should eat it before it goes bad.”
“As you wish, Miss Berilli,” Costante mumbled, wondering why such a wealthy lady would choose to eat leftovers of forty-eight hours rather than the catch of the day. On second thought, he realized he had little reason to be surprised: everyone knew that the seventy-three-year-old maid was a scrooge, as were a good many members of the upper class of that town. He shook his head and waved. “See you tomorrow, Miss Berilli.”
“Tomorrow I’ll need perhaps a few anchovies.”
Anchovies, Costante grumbled to himself. Cheapest fish on the market. He stretched his lips in a fake smile. “I’ll make sure to stop by.”
In the penumbra of her dressing room Eugenia removed gown and slippers.
“Strange,” she murmured, placing the gown on a day bed, “that I should have no idea who the dead person is.”
In her undergarments, she opened one of three double-door closets carved in the thickness of the house walls. She took her time scrutinizing the items neatly arranged on wooden hangers by length and color. She should choose her outfit carefully. It should be elegant and refined, understated yet unforgettable, and projecting an aura of amiability and trust, so as to encourage the neighborhood merchants to speak. They kept current on everything that happened in that part of town, and she was ready to bet that they knew the identity of the deceased. In the end, she settled for a straight brown skirt of taffeta and a coordinated chemise with buttons of mother-of-pearl. From the top shelf she took one of her favorite hats, the beige one with the pink bow of on the side that Beniamino Amar, the owner of one of the most sophisticated clothing stores in town, had bought especially for her in Paris. She should take her parasol as well, for it was one of those deceiving spring days that felt like summer. The blush-rose one with the white leather handle, she decided, would go well with her hat and add a touch of color to the outfit. Moments later, pleased with her looks, she was descending the two flights of stairs that separated her elegant apartment from the street, rosy parasol in one hand, skirt hem in the other.
Ottavio Carbone, the doorman, a taciturn, middle-aged man who lived alone on the ground floor in a two-room apartment next to the wine cellars, was busy washing the stairs. He was