The House of Serenades - By Lina Simoni Page 0,124

matter of life and death.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Guglielmo said. He lowered his voice. “Nothing at all.” He pointed at the door. “You should go now. Goodnight.”

Corrado gazed about the foyer with tired eyes. Suddenly he took a deep breath, pulled his head high, and spoke with a determination that caught even him by surprise.

“No,” he stated. He pointed a finger to his own chest. “My son is dying for Caterina, and I need to talk to her, right now.”

He took a step towards the hallway, and Guglielmo obstructed his way.

Corrado fought back. “Take me to Caterina or I’ll spend the night here.” He raised his voice. “Do you understand? Take me to her!”

“It’s all right, Guglielmo,” said a faint but firm voice. “Good evening, Mister Bo,” Caterina said, approaching.

Guglielmo stepped aside.

Corrado opened his mouth wide. That was Caterina? What happened to the blond, lustrous hair, he wondered, to the sparkling green eyes, the tingling voice, and the contagious smile? Her eyes were dull and framed by deep wrinkles, her face smileless. Her hair was cut below her chin and of a color he couldn’t define. So much sadness emanated from the figure that stood in front of him that for a moment he thought he was going to cry. When he finally spoke, he did so with a shaky voice. “Good evening, Caterina.”

“Please, come this way,” she whispered, leading him to the blue parlor. There, she sat on the loveseat with slow, composed movements that only emphasized to Corrado the anguish that lived inside her. She pointed to an armchair, but Corrado remained standing, partly nervous, partly intimidated by the opulent, elegant surroundings. He looked at the thin figure sunk in the velvet cushions. This, he thought, is someone who has suffered beyond reason. On that note, he changed his mind about what he was going to say.

“Caterina,” he began, “as you are aware, Ivano is out there playing and singing for you every night. I’m unable to persuade him to stop. I’m worried about him. He’s getting sick, you know. His hair has become gray, his body gaunt, like at the time he thought you were dead and played his mandolin all day long on Piazza della Nunziata. I bet you don’t even know about that. Am I right?”

She shook her head.

“Ah, if you had seen him back then,” Corrado continued. “He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat. All he did was play and sing his love for you. He spent days and nights seated on the bakery floor, holding his mandolin in his arms and humming through his nose. Everyone, including me, thought he had gone mad. At some point I thought he was going to die. Now he’s doing it all over again. He survived back then, I don’t know how. This time, I know, he will die.” He paused, looked at her sad eyes.

She returned his look without answering.

“I understand that you don’t want him,” he continued, “and I can see why. So I’m not here to persuade you to forgive him or to return to him. I’m here to ask that you talk to him, that you tell him yourself that he should stop playing because you won’t forgive him for what he did. See, there’s no point in me telling him these things. I have. God knows how many times. But he’s so certain that sooner or later his music will win your heart again … Imagine, he keeps talking of a special song he wrote months ago for your return to him, and he won’t sing it for any other reason. No one ever heard it. The musicians out there begged him many times to play it for them so they can add it to the collection. ‘Only when I will be with Caterina,’ is his reply. I am certain, dear child, that the only one who can make him realize the truth is you. Please, come out there with me, only for a few moments, and tell him to go home.”

The moments Caterina took to make her decision seemed to Corrado an eternity. “I can’t help you, Mister Bo,” she finally told him. “You’ll have to find another way.” She stood up and headed towards the parlor door.

“Fine,” Corrado said in a louder tone of voice. “Go ahead, continue to ignore what’s happening around you. You make so much of your own suffering, and yet you ignore the suffering of others. You are no better than the people who caused all