won’t allow it.” She pointed a finger at Matilda. “And you shouldn’t either.”
“Perhaps he needs space for a day or two,” Matilda said unconvincingly. She continued, “Something is worrying him, I’m sure. He spent all of last night in the reading room. He didn’t even go to bed.” She paused a moment then said, “I don’t know what to make of all this. But I don’t want to keep you, Eugenia. Goodbye.”
Of course she doesn’t want to keep me, Eugenia grumbled to herself. She can’t wait for me to leave. If it were her choice, I wouldn’t be able to set foot in this house. “Very well, Matilda,” she said, stepping outside, “I’ll go.” Through the open door she handed Matilda a biting smile. “For the time being.”
2
IN THE READING ROOM, the private retreat he wouldn’t allow anyone else to use, Giuseppe was sitting limply on the armchair, relieved that Eugenia had finally decided to leave. The relief, however, lasted only a short moment. With a long, deep sigh, he set his elbows on his knees and his head in his cupped hands. He felt shrunken, as if he had aged prematurely twenty years. Five days earlier a sorrel cart horse had reared up in the middle of the busy Piazza San Matteo. Ignoring the cries of its driver and the pulls on the reins, it had overturned everything in a three-meter radius with the fury of its hooves: a newspaper kiosk, the stand where the Pedevilla sisters sold illegal lottery numbers, and Giuseppe himself, who was unknowingly passing by. For an instant he was suspended in air. Then he landed ungracefully, buttocks in moist excrements and back on the cobblestones, and was transfixed by an acute pain where the hoof had hit his shoulder. He lay on the pavement clutching himself and moaning, while a small crowd surrounded him, calling his name and voicing his ill-luck.
“Don’t you dare!” Giuseppe screamed the moment he spotted a tripod topped by photographic gear. There was a popping sound then the photographer grabbed tripod and camera and vanished amidst the crowd. It took the strength of three men to tame the horse and that of two to return the lawyer to his feet.
Matilda got word of the mishap one hour later, but was told not to go to Piazza San Matteo as Giuseppe was no longer there, and she shouldn’t go to the hospital either, the informant specified, as, according to Giuseppe, her presence there would do more harm than good, giving only more visibility to the disgrace. All Mister Berilli was asking for was a set of fresh clothes. Matilda picked out the clothes, handed them to a chambermaid, and told her to go.
Later, when he arrived at the palazzina, Giuseppe stated in a curt, raucous voice that he had no broken bones, only a contusion to be treated with poultices of comfrey and arnica montana, and would not be discussing the accident with anybody—not that day, not ever. Matilda, who knew better than to question her husband when he was in a foul mood, sighed and went to the garden to pick flowers.
The next morning Il Secolo XIX, Genoa’s newspaper, paraded two pictures of the accident on its front page. The first picture showed Giuseppe lying on the cobblestones; the second was a close-up of the mad horse. The entire town laughed at the sight of the fallen lawyer. Days later, colleagues, acquaintances, and family members were still digging for details and inquiring about the extent of Giuseppe’s injuries and pain.
He leaned back, letting his body sink into the leather. His head ached, pounding like a hammer on a sheet of iron, and his mouth was dry, as if he were drowning in sand. “Why me?” he whined as he laid a hand on his hurt shoulder and massaged it in slow circular motions. He recalled how his mother used to say that bad things always happen in three, and she was right. After the horse accident he had received two frightening letters. Would there be more? Wearily, he reached for a carafe of solid silver set on a round end table. He poured water into a stem glass, filling it to the brim. As he drank, gulp after gulp, without pausing to breathe, he rejoiced in the freshness that filled his throat. His appeasement, however, was short-lived: no sooner had he swallowed the last drop than his mouth turned dustier than before. Baffled, he set the glass back on the