Free The Case of Lisandra P. by Hélène Grémillon Page A

you of: unpremeditated murder. Nothing more, nothing less. An argument that turned ugly. Why didn’t you tell me you’d had an argument with your wife that evening?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œUnless your neighbor’s deposition was a pack of lies? This is the last time I’ll ask you: why didn’t you tell me you’d had an argument with your wife that night?”
    â€œI didn’t think it was important.”
    â€œYou didn’t think it was important? That you had an argument with your wife the night she died? You have two options: either you tell me what really happened that evening between you and your wife, or else I’ll tell you the way I see it—you’ll have to get a new lawyer, you’d be better off. Personally, I don’t like wasting my time.”
    â€œCan’t you imagine the way I feel? My life with Lisandraended in an argument. My guilt at having walked out like that. It’s unbearable, so yes, the less I think about the argument, the better I feel.”
    â€œExcept that now you are going to have to think about it. You don’t choose your next-door neighbors.”
    â€œThat bitch . . . It’s no surprise, coming from her. It must have been her hour of glory, with real policemen, and a real dead body, what a nice change from ordinary little crimes, like who let their garbage cans leak in the stairway, or whose stroller is always in the way in the hall on the third floor, so this time, a dead body, she must have put all her energy into it; she’s a nasty piece of work, with spiteful anger to spare, a witness who can only be for the prosecution—all she knows is how to stir up shit, and she invents that shit so it will correspond to her own twisted view of life. So what did she say? What could she have heard, that harpy, with her ear glued to the wall?”
    â€œDon’t turn the question around; it’s your version of the facts I want: one more time, Vittorio, why did you argue with your wife?”
    â€œOver some trifle.”
    â€œIf you want my opinion, the investigators will not be satisfied with that answer.”
    â€œI hadn’t noticed that she was wearing a new dress, I didn’t notice anything anymore, I didn’t look at her anymore, I didn’t love her anymore—that’s why we argued, will that do you?”
    â€œIs it true?”
    â€œThat I hadn’t noticed she was wearing a new dress, yes, but the rest, no, of course not.”
    â€œAnd is that why you went to the movies? To get away from the argument?”
    â€œNo, I was already about to leave when Lisandra began criticizing me.”
    â€œThe neighbor said you argued a lot.”
    â€œBut my neighbor does nothing all day but look for signs that other people’s lives are as miserable as her own. What do you want me to say? That woman is poison. I always used to laugh at her malicious gossip. I would never have imagined that one day it would be turned against me. She’s hysterical, and there are millions of gossips like her on the planet. Every time Lisandra and I made love, that crazy bitch would start banging on the wall; it was as if she were following us around the apartment, moving around her place according to how we moved around ours; she would bang and bang again; it was as if she wanted to kill us for loving each other, but she didn’t tell them that, of course she didn’t, because it would have proven that we loved each other—although the investigators would have rushed to point out that plenty of people make love even when they don’t love each other.”
    â€œActually, you’re wrong there; she did talk about it, but that was not exactly her version of the facts.”
    â€œOh, no?”
    â€œNo. She said that at least your constant arguing spared her from—and I’m quoting here—‘your inappropriate cries of love,’ your