“I see,” Eugenia said, perplexed by the news. She happened to know Palmira Bevilacqua because Doctor Sciaccaluga was the Berillis’ physician and his nurse often accompanied him during house visits. “Why would the bells of the cathedral ring for a nurse?” she asked, lifting her chin and shaking her head from side to side.
“Palmira helped the poor,” Berta explained, “and Father Camillo with the church chores. She was a good woman. Last month she asked Father Camillo if he would please ring the bells of the cathedral for her when she died, as that would make her a very happy soul. Twelve tolls she asked for. Father Camillo promised he would see to it personally that Palmira’s wish came true.” Berta leaned over the counter. She cleared her throat. “They also say,” she whispered in Eugenia’s ear, “that Father Camillo is making arrangements for Palmira’s funeral to be held in the cathedral.” Smiling, she pulled back and watched the effect of her words.
Eugenia frowned. “Dear me,” she exclaimed. “What a peculiar idea.” Wasn’t it common knowledge that only important people, such as the city’s dignitaries and the aristocrats, were reserved the honor of a funeral ceremony in the cathedral? There were parish churches for the working class, were there not? She asked, “Is Father Camillo new to our town?”
“Yes and no,” Berta said. “He was transferred to the cathedral three months ago from a small church on the east side.”
Eugenia twisted her face into a wry smile. That explained why Father Camillo would engage in such a foolish act. She was certain the Archbishop would disapprove. She was ready to bet the Archbishop wasn’t even aware of Father Camillo’s charitable plan. She should remember to pay the Archbishop a visit and let him know what she thought about that matter. What would the world be coming to if any Christian could have her funeral held in the city’s primary religious building? She asked, “What did she die of, anyway?”
“Influenza. A bad case. The poor woman hadn’t been sick twenty-four hours when she stopped breathing.”
“Need anything today, Miss Berilli?” Berta asked in a hopeless tone of voice.
Eugenia pondered a moment then purchased two apples and an orange.
“Cheap spinster,” Berta grunted when Eugenia could no longer hear her. “Of course she looks like a broom. She doesn’t eat! She has money coming out of her ears, and the food she buys couldn’t feed a sick shrimp. Where does she find all that energy, I’d like to know?”
“It runs in the family,” scoffed one of the customers. “All the Berillis would rather croak than kiss an extra lira goodbye.”
The audience approved with nods and giggles, and Berta turned her back to the street to arrange a pyramid of zucchini that had fallen out of place.
By that time, a sea of pedestrians was streaming through the caruggi, and the street noise was overbearing. On the way out of the marketplace, Eugenia stopped three times to catch her breath. Her head spun as she waded through the crowd, and beneath the hat’s brim her forehead was damp with sweat, even in the shade of her parasol. A few neighbors waved at her along the way, and she acknowledged them with sharp dips of her chin. Despite the unseasonal heat, returning home was not an option, not after hearing about Palmira Bevilacqua’s untimely death and outrageous funeral arrangement. Someone had to do something, and that someone might as well be her. Heels clicking on the cobblestones, she headed west, determined to set matters straight regarding who should or shouldn’t be granted a funeral in the cathedral. A nurse. What next? A sailor? A maid? She had nothing against the working class, of course, but there were boundaries, and when the boundaries were ignored and crossed for no reason, it maddened her and made her sweat even more. Fuming, she adjusted the tilt of her hat and picked up her pace, walking as fast as her spindly legs allowed her. Not even the subdued ambience of Via di Scurreria and the coziness of Piazza San Matteo, two places praised by both locals and tourists alike for their exquisite architectural splendor, were able to master her distress.
On Piazza San Matteo her wrathful walk came to a halt in front of a six-story building designed in the seventeenth century by one of her ancestors. She entered it through a grand foyer with dark slate floors, climbed two stories, and dashed into the