offices of Berilli e Figli (Berilli and Sons)—the family legal firm.
“My brother, please,” she barked at the pale clerk in suit and tie who was seated at the reception desk.
“Mister Berilli is not in today,” the clerk said with all the kindness he could gather.
Eugenia knitted her brow. “Why?”
“His butler informed us this morning that Mister Berilli is indisposed. He’s at home, I believe. Resting.”
She gave the clerk a bleak look, wondering if she should believe his words. Her brother had avoided her in the past days. It was nothing new. Over the years, Giuseppe had pushed her steadily aside, treating her more and more like a stranger. She had felt like a discarded doll at times. Her hurt pride stung her in the stomach. On the other hand, Giuseppe could truly be indisposed, considering his recent accident and how disconsolate he had looked on the anniversary of Caterina’s death. She asked, “Do you know what’s wrong? Is he ill from his horse accident? Was a doctor called?”
“I wouldn’t know, Miss Berilli,” the clerk said softly. “Mister Raimondo is here. Would you like to see to him instead?”
“God no,” Eugenia exclaimed, leaving the office at once. “An incompetent gigolo,” she commented on the way down the stairs, “is not the kind of person I want to discuss my problems with today.”
Back in the street, she wandered aimlessly alongside shoppers and passersby, stopping at some point in front of the crowded windows of a clothing store. She glanced distractedly at the merchandise on display while she debated whether she should go back home and forget all about the nurse’s funeral and her brother’s illness—possibly a fake one—or continue to investigate. The answer came to her loud and clear. She knew exactly where the investigation would take her, so she made a sharp right turn and headed up Salita San Matteo, a steep caruggio that opened at the top onto the round Piazza De Ferrari, the pumping heart of the city. At the edge of the piazza, short of breath, she stood still a while, closing the parasol and setting its tip on the ground for balance. She was on the west sidewalk, from where she had a long view of the concentric circles of tram rails that girdled the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the national hero who had united the North and South of Italy into one country. A large number of electric trams were crowding the road, either in motion along the inner circles or standing along the outer rails, waiting for their turn to leave. She pointed her parasol at the closest tram. “I’m not getting on one of those monsters,” she stated, then walked to the carriage area located on the south side of the piazza, in a corner where the stench of manure and horse breath made her feel at ease and in touch with the way of life she had known in her younger years. Several horses stood harnessed to carriages. She waved twice, and an older man who was leaning against a pole tossed his cigarette and dragged his feet towards her.
“Take your time,” Eugenia muttered without meaning it.
“It’s a beautiful day,” the man said, holding her hand to help her climb.
“If you say so,” she grunted as she settled in her seat. Once firmly aboard, she ordered, “To the west end of Corso Solferino. The Berillis’ residence.”
Unhurriedly, the coachman took his place. “Haaa!” he shouted, and the horse began to walk.
Shortly, the carriage left downtown, tackling the slopes leading to the upper city. The traffic subsided and the sounds faded. In that peace, Eugenia’s breathing deepened. As the horse clopped its way uphill, her tense muscles eased, and she slumped ever so slightly in her seat.
The coachman noticed his passenger’s change of mood. He said, “Isn’t this a wonderful ride?”
Eugenia answered that yes, the ride was wonderful. She closed her eyes and angled her face toward the sun. “We’re so lucky,” she murmured, referring to the fact that winters in Genoa hardly felt like winters at all with the hills damming the freezing air blowing from the Swiss and French Alps.
She was still musing over Genoa’s unique, blessed climate when the carriage reached Corso Solferino, a tract of a large, winding road that ran east to west along the flank of the hill. “Stop here,” Eugenia said as the horse came to a bend in the road.
The coachman pulled in the reins and the carriage slowed to a halt in front of a stately