Free Death in the Palazzo by Edward Sklepowich

was suffering from her sister’s sharp tongue. I had the sense that Renata was about to say more when she reeled slightly, let go of Gemma’s hand, and seemed about to fall. Lydgate was next to her in a moment and led her to a chair. Luigi went over. She was given water and a few minutes later Lydgate and Luigi carried her up to the Caravaggio Room.
    Gemma began to cry. She said that it was her fault her mother was sick and that she wanted to take care of her as she always did. Bambina took Gemma from the salon.
    Quite understandably, our group then broke up and we retired. My mother, trying to put the best face on things, said that she was sure Renata would be fine after a good night’s rest. Tomorrow we all had an outing to Torcello to look forward to, not to mention the ball in the evening, which was to be the highlight of the weekend.
    But there was no outing to Torcello and no ball, for by morning Renata was dead.
    Signora Zeno found her body lying at the foot of the bed. She immediately summoned Luigi. I followed him to the Caravaggio Room.
    Renata’s beautiful face was contorted. There was blood on her mouth, and her hands were like two claws. The scent of perfume hung in the air and, with my seminary training, what came into my mind was: the odor of sanctity. The pleasant scent that we have been told surrounds those blessed in the service of our Lord.
    I looked up at the Caravaggio. It was tilted slightly to one side, and for a few moments the boy seemed to smile at me again with living malevolence as he had when I discovered Flora’s body.
    Renata’s death was said to have been from a cerebral hemorrhage. With the help of Luigi’s connections and a large sum of money from Andrew Lydgate, Signora Zeno prevented an autopsy. She claimed she didn’t want her daughter’s body violated.
    Little remains to be told. Gemma was raised by her father’s parents in Perugia. Rumors reached us that Signora Zeno believed Renata would never have died if she hadn’t been “forced” to sleep in the Caravaggio Room. Our two families gradually drifted apart. There was a brief rapprochement when Bambina took it into her head that I might be interested in marrying her. When it became apparent that I wasn’t, Signora Zeno and Bambina cut off all relations.
    A week after Renata’s death my father decided to remove the Caravaggio painting from the room, put it back in the lumber room, and find a buyer as soon as possible. He no longer cared what this said about his faith in God. Three family members dead in the Caravaggio Room, all of them women and all on his side of the family, was too much to blame on coincidence. The room was cursed.
    But as my father was reaching for the painting, a sharp pain stabbed him in his chest, and he stopped. He didn’t need another warning. He immediately left the room. He gave instructions for the panes of the doors to the loggia to be painted black. All the doors were to be locked. Then he gave orders that no blood relatives of the Da Capo-Zendrini family were ever to enter it.
    During the rest of his lifetime, and up until now in mine, none ever has. I promised my father that I would respect his wishes and not “tamper with fate,” as he came to express it to himself.
    I no longer know what I myself believe or suspect. All I do know is that the Caravaggio Room has been directly associated with three deaths—Nonna Teresa, Flora, and Renata—and indirectly with that of my brother, Amerigo. I would be lying and deceiving myself if I didn’t admit that the painting has a power over me, as does my promise to my father.
    And so the room has remained, hidden away, locked, with its sad and dark history. Someday I hope I will do what my father tried to do. Remove the painting. Make the room over into one like all the others at the Ca’ da Capo.
    When and if that day comes, then this letter to my future child will no longer be