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A Fair Foreigner

March 20, 2012 By Leave a Comment
Death of a Serpent (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

Sunset in Sicily. Photo credit: gnuckx (Flickr)

Excerpt from Death of a Serpent

Monday October 8, 1866

Serafina decided to drive the long way to Rosa’s, not wanting to navigate the Via Serpentina alone. The neighborhoods through which it snaked teemed with alleyways and crumbling fountains, infants wailing in one-room homes, young boys tossing knucklebones, the smell of garbage in the throat.

She flicked the reins but Largo kept his own pace, skirting the piazza with its fountain and suppliant statue of St. Benedict.

Without warning a begging monk stepped in front of her, his cart blocking her trap. He caught her eye, looked away. Fair-haired and gloved, he wore a frayed cassock. Next to him white-haired women gathered around a street vendor preventing the monk’s rapid movement. Or was it his swaybacked beast, moving with the rapidity of a snail, that delayed him?

“Whoa, Largo. This won’t take long,” she said, hitching the trap to a post. She stepped into the throng. Largo’s ears twitched.

Serafina clanked money into the mendicant’s cup, knowing as she did so that she shouldn’t have. ‘Can’t afford to help others, or we won’t be able to help ourselves,’ she heard Vicenzu’s words.

“We don’t see many begging monks around here, not since the new government shackled us with more taxes,” she said. “Did you have to wait long for your permit?”

He hunched a shoulder.

“You’re from what abbey? Not in Sicily, I take it.” Something familiar about him. He wore crusty boots instead of sandals. She sniffed the air. Unusual odors assaulted her nose—a little seaweed, salt, the dung of foreign animals. Hadn’t washed in a month or two.

“Your centesimi will help many of the poor, dear lady. Grateful thanks to you. May your family prosper. Don Roberto’s my name. Remember me in your prayers.” He brushed dust from his sleeve and turned to go, but was wedged between another cart and a woman carrying a basket of vegetables.

Serafina persisted. “Where’s your monastery?”

His eyes were ancient coins. “In one of God’s neighborhoods far to the north of Naples, lady. But the people are too poor to buy our bread, so a number of us travel to raise funds. And now, good day to you.”

She pursed her lips. Begging from Sicilians?—like squeezing wine from a stone. Took her centesimi, but didn’t answer her questions. And what sort of monk wore boots instead of sandals? Shadows in his face she didn’t trust.

Filed Under: Characters, dislocation, migration Tagged With: , , ,

How the Mind Plays Tricks

March 18, 2012 By Leave a Comment
Death of a Serpent (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

Grazing in the Madonie. Photo credit: Antonio Llardo

Excerpt from the short story, “No More Brothers”

Funny how Serafina’s mind played tricks. They were gathered around the table, Giorgio pouring the wine, his laughter tumbling over them, the table packed with people, the house rich with the smell of roasted pork. Carmela and Carlo must have been what, five or six? Vicenzu and Renata were toddlers; Giulia, Maria and Totò, not yet born. Even at that early age, Renata helped the cook with the cuisine. Those were the days of plenty when her mother lived on the third floor and, with the help of two servants, kept the kitchen whenever they were between cooks. Whatever they wanted, they bought at market, traveling by coach to La Vucciria each week. Cook demanded only the finest cuts of meat or fish so fresh their tails stood on end. The main course was accompanied by two or three succulent side dishes, each course served with a perfect wine. Today they had a watery sauce, overcooked pasta, a heel of stale bread. A knot formed in her stomach, but she hugged Carmela, told her how proud she was of her cooking and showered her grandson with kisses. The baby gurgled.

A loud knock interrupted her reverie. The domestic shuffled down the hall to answer the door.

Vicenzu and Carlo stood when Serafina’s childhood friend, Rosa, entered. She was followed by an entourage, her cook carrying a large platter of steaming bruscialoni smothered in pomodoro marinara, two maids laden with antipasti, warm crusty bread, and two bottles of Nero Mascalese.

“My chief gardener is detained by you?” she asked. Last month, Rosa relinquished the running of her high class house after a serial killer murdered three of her women. Taking her cook, driver, maids, and several guards with her, she moved into the abandoned villa next door to Serafina after its owners had fled to the Americas or some such place in the middle of the night. Serafina was thrilled: it gave Rosa and her daughter a home next to hers and Totò a playmate.

Rosa kissed Carmela on both cheeks. “You’ve made a design, bold and lovely for my gardens in the back, but you should be planning the conservatory, not cooking for this one.” She jerked a thumb in Serafina’s direction.

Carmela said, “But we’ve got to eat and—”

Rosa spun around to face Serafina. “Where’s your mind? We agreed last night: in exchange for Carmela designing my gardens, Formusa will prepare your meals while Renata is away. Here’s your dinner, delicious and steaming. And she’s planning pasta con le sarde for your supper.”

Carmela threw up her hands. “Mama schemes behind our back and doesn’t bother to tell us.”

“Not quite.” Rosa glared at Serafina. “She connives, then forgets to remind herself.”

Filed Under: #sampleSunday, Characters, dislocation, Serafina's Family Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Gone to Treacherous Lands

March 12, 2012 By Leave a Comment
Death of a Serpent (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

Garibaldi‘s Approach. Photo credit: Hunter333 (Flickr)

Excerpt from Death in Bagheria

March 1867

That morning, her eyes still full of sleep, Serafina gazed out her bedroom window and glimpsed in the distance a steamer with its sails unfurled. So small, it seemed a speck of dust upon the glass. Was it bound for Rio de Janeiro or Sao Paulo, New York or New Orleans?

These days, the ship must carry passengers from Oltramari, countrymen and women she knew simply as familiar faces passing in the piazza. “I’ll never see them again!” she whispered to the drapes. “You’ll never realize they’ve gone,” she heard the ghost of Giorgio murmur.

And for a moment she felt a tremor in the earth. Will her children be on such a ship someday? Will they, too, journey to distances with exotic names? Gone to treacherous lands without me? She closed the shutters.

 

About the photo: “Approaching the island of the Trinacria at dawn. In view is the Mondello side of Capo Zafferano and Monte Pellegrino. In the background loom the snowy mountains of the Madonie. Palermo nestles into the valley on the other side of the cape.”—The Photographer, “Hunter333” (Flickr)

Filed Under: dislocation, migration Tagged With: , , , ,

Through Clouds of Dust

March 7, 2012 By Leave a Comment
Death of a Serpent (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

In the Madonie. Photo credit: lorca56 (Flickr)

Excerpt from “Bella’s Body,” the opening chapter, Death of a Serpent

On the ride home Serafina considered Rosa’s request. Giorgio’s death had been a sudden slap, what, less than six months ago. Her children needed her now more than ever. Bad enough leaving them when she was called in the middle of the night to a birthing, but she must continue with midwifery: it was her specialness. Besides, she had a commitment to the town, received a stipend, and they needed the coins. If she were engaged in finding the killer of Rosa’s women, she’d be away from the little ones too much of the time; when home, her mind would be forever wrestling with the mystery.

She looked over at Rosa who was wrapped in grief, frowning out the window. Well, then, Serafina would tell her later: she could not, must not, take up sleuthing.

The carriage slowed.

“What’s that? A pounding, I hear,” Rosa said.

“Nothing. The wind.”

They stopped.

She heard voices, laughter, the crack of a whip, an animal roar. Serafina squinted through clouds of dust to a long line of wagons.

The madam stuck her head out the window. “Turi,” she called, “why have we stopped?”

“Barco’s circus blocks the road.”

“Off the highway!” someone yelled. “Let us pass!”

Serafina asked, “Can’t the guards do something?”

“Thick, the guards,” Rosa said. “A show for bandits.”

“Stay here.” Serafina opened the door and climbed out.

Barco was a ball of a man, short and round, clothed in the only garb she’d ever seen him wear: overalls, a tattered shirt stained with sweat, red tails, a balding top hat. He rolled over to Serafina.

“Eh, Donna Fina, haven’t seen you since you was a tike. Heard you married the apothecary. And you, a midwife, same as your mama, popping out babies like a hocus-pocus lady.”

They hugged. She told him about Giorgio’s death and the killings at Villa Rosa.

“Heard about the trouble at Rosa’s. Word is, the red fox, he’s in the coop.” He leaned over, spat.

“Another woman killed today. We come from Palermo where we broke the news to her poor parents.”

He chewed the butt of his cigar. “Might as well camp here as anywheres,” he said, pointing to the open field.

Barco motioned to his foreman. In minutes, mules towed the wagons onto the side. Performers and animals flooded the field. A group of knife throwers crowded around a tree where they had set up a target. Acrobats tumbled. The cook began building a fire.

As Serafina waved goodbye, a clown in whiteface with a tuft of ginger hair stared at her from the side of the road, the butt of a knife sticking out of his belt. Running splayed fingers through her curls, she looked away, heard her mother ask again, ‘Remember the boy with hair like ours?’

Filed Under: Characters, dislocation, Serafina's Family Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

The Wet Line of Shore

March 5, 2012 By Leave a Comment
January in the Madonie

January in the Madonie. Photo credit: Antonio Llardo

Excerpt from the short story, “No More Brothers”

February 1867

Carlo pointed to Simone’s neck. “Look at that abrasion on his Adam’s apple, probably made by the killer’s right thumb where he pressed it into the throat. What’s more, he used an upward thrust when he stabbed. Hard to do from behind a tall man like Simone unless the killer’s a giant, and giants are rare in Sicily.”

“Smart, Carlo. I knew there was a reason Giorgio and I had you. See anything else?”

“Some leaves and pieces of prickly pear in the folds of his cape.”

She examined one of the leaves, turning it over a few times and pricking her finger on its edges. Her mind played its tricks again. She and Giorgio were frolicking in the Madonie when she threw a handful of leaves his way. They looked like the leaf she held in her hand. The fantasy evaporated. “Go on.”

Sea in Sicily

Photo Credit: Diesus (Flickr)

“Loose bowels, another indication of poisoning. Soiled all over the front and back of his pants. Little wonder the stench.”

“Why go to all this trouble? Why not just poison to kill?” Serafina asked.

“More than one person wanted him dead?”

A left-handed killer with a stiletto and help. But why so many stabs? The killer was inexperienced? Enraged? Probably both.

She watched the thin wet line of shore as morning clouds massed in the distance. Awake, now, the wind. It slid across her vision, churned up bits of seaweed, molding the water into small waves as it had done, she imagined, on the first day of creation. For a moment she listened to the ebb and flow of the sea.

Filed Under: Characters, dislocation, Serafina's Family Tagged With: , ,
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