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

‘shouting like rutting animals,’ and that all things considered she actually preferred your arguments—they weren’t as obscene. She said that over the last few months your shouting had been nothing less than cries of hatred, and that there were no other cries of any kind that might have pointed to some sort of reconciliation, but of course she could never have imagined it might all lead to a crime. She thought you were just the umpteenth couple who, having exhausted the pleasure they could find in each other’s bodies, had ended up hating each other, and were tearing each other apart with their mutual lack of desire. ‘After the cries of the body, the cries of the weary soul,’ that isexactly what she said, and I can tell you that her deposition had an impact on the investigators.”
    â€œVicious tongues can be quite poetic.”
    â€œThe problem arises when they are convincing.”
    â€œBut just because you have an argument with your wife doesn’t mean you go and kill her. It’s true that we had been arguing quite a lot lately; she was irritable and I was preoccupied, or the other way around; you never know who’s at fault at times like that, you just hope that this argument will be the last one and that the happy days will return—but you must know about all that; I hear about arguments like this every day in my office, and even nastier ones; believe me, every couple goes through them.”
    â€œI know. But when one member of the couple is found dead, the argument no longer belongs to the basic nature of a love story. It becomes incriminating evidence.”
    â€œExcept that I did not kill Lisandra, the way those maniacs are insinuating—but what else did my dear neighbor hear that night? I hope that they asked her, at least?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œNothing. Her deposition is categorical. She says she didn’t hear a thing after your argument, other than the loud music. She says that’s all she heard, loud music.”
    â€œI don’t believe it.”

Eva Maria looks at Vittorio. Vittorio takes his head between his hands.
    â€œThat’s the bad news for the day. You can see why I’m a nervous wreck. Don’t look at me like that, Eva Maria.”
    â€œAnd what if it was your neighbor who killed Lisandra? That would explain why she wasn’t raped; one woman can’t rape another.”
    A sad smile crosses Vittorio’s face.
    â€œYou, at least, are on my side. Unfortunately, we can’t go jumping on everyone as if they were all potential murderers, and the investigators did do their job: she had an alibi, she was with her daughter. And, no, don’t tell me it could be her and her daughter. You have to face facts; my lawyer was right, everything is conspiring against me, one thing after another, irrefutably: the circumstances, the timing, and now the results of the autopsy, and the testimonies. At night I wake up in a sweat, I feel as if I’m caught in a storm forever raging; everything is in disarray . . . And the worst thing of all is Lisandra’s funeral . . .”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Lisandra’s funeral?”
    â€œIt’s tomorrow. And they don’t want me to attend. ‘Legally, you do not have the right to be present.’ Do you realize how far they’re prepared to go? How can this be, not allowed to attend my ownwife’s funeral? She didn’t make a will. She will be given the ‘ordinary treatment’ applied in these cases, a ‘standard’ mass, and I have no say in the matter, no right to ask for anything, not a song, not a text, not a prayer; there’s nothing I can do—they are treating me like a dangerous criminal who will use Lisandra’s funeral as an opportunity to escape. And the only thing they’ll allow is a bouquet of flowers. They have agreed to leave a bouquet of lilies for me; those