Eugenia stopped and turned to face her brother. With a shrill voice he had never heard before, she told him he could go straight to hell, he and his resolution, and he should take that aristocratic wife of his along, and that was her own resolution, and what did he think of that.
It took Eugenia two weeks to let the idea sink in. If she begrudgingly accepted the offer in the end, it was only because she concurred that her relationship with Matilda was doomed. So she sold her brother her half of the house, cashed the bonus, and agreed to move out of the palazzina on the condition that she would never, ever have to ask Matilda permission to visit. Matilda promised to honor her sister-in-law’s demand, and Eugenia set out to look for a new home. It was the spring of 1879.
When Eugenia bought the apartment on Via San Lorenzo, Giuseppe was surprised. “You could have done better, sister. There are many residences in this town that are more appropriate for a woman of your class than an apartment three blocks from the port.”
Eugenia explained calmly that the apartment she had chosen was centrally located and close to everything she needed: the cathedral, the stores, and the cafés where she could meet her friends in the afternoon. Giuseppe shrugged, and the question of who should or shouldn’t rule the palazzina would not be discussed again for thirty-one years.
3
IN THE BLUE PARLOR, the cozy retreat where she embroidered and received visitors, Matilda was ensconced on a loveseat, fidgeting with her needlework. Worry was visible in her keen movements and eyes. Her husband’s behavior was a mystery, and she felt at a loss as to what she should do to extract from him a reasonable explanation. Should she continue to question him? Should she wait for him to speak? A knock on the door startled her. She dropped the needlework before saying, “Yes?”
The door opened in slow motion. “Lunch is served, Madame,” Guglielmo said.
Matilda acknowledged the butler with a nod. She waited for him to leave before standing up and drawing the azure velvet curtains that gave the parlor its nickname. Slowly, she gazed about the room, eyes lingering on the gray-toned loveseat, the matching armchairs, and the small fireplace with its white marble mantel. So many encounters, conversations, gossips had taken place there. With her mind’s eye she saw her lady friends in their visiting dresses and hats, their powdered faces. She heard them talking, describing the latest balls, the newest restaurants, the theatrical performances. And then she had a feeling, a discomfort that set deep inside her stomach, a premonition that the parlor was bound to remain silent in the future: no more visitors, no more sounds. “I’m losing my mind,” she said. She shook her head and walked out.
The spacious rectangular dining room was full of light at that time of day. Centered in it was a four-meter-long ebony table set for two. The off-white embroidered tablecloth, the British gold-rimmed china, the Venetian hand-blown stemmed glasses, and three golden candlesticks gave the table an air of pretentious opulence. No one was there when Matilda arrived. A quick look was all she needed to realize that the candlesticks weren’t equidistant and the glasses were asymmetric with respect to the plates. Servants in Genoa were badly trained. In her paternal home in Turin that would have never happened. As she replaced candlesticks and glasses, Giuseppe came in from the hallway. “I’m starved,” he grunted.
“I’m glad you decided to have lunch with me today,” Matilda said in a sweet voice.
Without looking at his wife, he took a seat at one end of the table. Matilda sat to his right. She stretched her arm and grazed Giuseppe’s hand with the tip of her fingers.
“What’s going on, darling? Why did you sleep in the reading room last night? And why do you do so many poultices? Your skin will rot under those stinking leaves.”
“My shoulder still hurts, if you need to know,” Giuseppe said crossly. “And how many poultices I do is none of your business.”
Matilda didn’t react, having noticed that Viola, the table maid, had come in with an open bottle of Rossese, Giuseppe’s favorite red wine. With a deliberate motion, the maid placed the bottle under Giuseppe’s eyes, label up. He nodded, and she poured a small amount in his glass—a lunch and dinner ritual. Giuseppe, a wine connoisseur and under normal circumstances a subtle