Free Poisonville by Massimo Carlotto

that virtually imperceptible manifestation of vitality. “We need a public acknowledgment.”
    She intentionally used those precise words, even if Antonio at that juncture would be unable to grasp their more profound meaning. “We own a broadcasting company. Let’s use it.” And in order to leave Visentin the time necessary to appreciate her strategy, she plucked the cigar from his fingers and indulged in a deep and voluptuous drag.
    “Well, maybe that reporter at Antenna N/E, Beggiolin. He has a big following in town.”
    “That’s exactly who I was thinking of,” smiled Selvaggia, returning his cigar to him.
     
    * * *
     
    My father lived in an Art Nouveau villa that had belonged to one of the earliest major industrialists in the area—a pioneer in the field of farm machinery. His factory was demolished decades ago, and his heirs had chosen to change their line of work and place of residence. My father bought the villa immediately after my mother’s death and I had never lived in it, what with boarding school and the university. Papa decided not to remarry, and his only companions were his domestic servants and the family of the concierge who had lived with him for many years now.
    Severina, the concierge’s wife, opened the gate for me and gave me a melancholy smile. Sergio, the butler, opened the door just as my finger was about to touch the buzzer. He greeted me with a deferential hauteur, like a movie butler, and showed me into the living room. A comforting fire was crackling in the little fireplace. Papa sat watching television. He gestured for me to sit down beside him.
    On the screen I saw the images of the piazza and the café. Beggiolin appeared on screen, pointing to the interior of the café.
    “Here, in the Bar Centrale, a few minutes ago, according to reports from numerous eyewitnesses, Filippo Calchi Renier and Francesco Visentin engaged in a fistfight. That alone would be a minor piece of news—though we must say that when two scions of two such important and respected families brawl in public, the town’s image is badly tarnished as a result—were it not for one significant detail. Filippo Calchi Renier has publicly accused Francesco Visentin of murdering his own fiancée, the unfortunate Giovanna Barovier . . .”
    My father picked up the remote control and turned the television off.
    “Nice work,” he said with a cutting tone. “They’ve been running and rerunning this piece for more than an hour. They stop for a commercial break, and then they run it again.”
    “I know, I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
    “You have no excuses, Francesco. And don’t try to feed me nonsense about being upset and losing control. There are things you just don’t do. It could result in my being hauled before the board of the order, and as you know, I’m the chairman. I would have no choice but to resign.”
    He stood up and went to pour himself a glass of prosecco from a bottle chilling in an elegant silver ice bucket. “In any case, that’s not the main problem. You displayed yourself to the world as a violent individual incapable of self-control,” he went on. “And everyone will feel justified in assuming that you killed Giovanna.”
    “To tell the truth, that’s what they already think.”
    He ignored my comment. “From this moment on, you will do nothing on your own initiative. You will do only what I tell you to do. I will take care of everything. I’ve already arranged to take care of the evidence, and tomorrow evening we will go and have a talk with Filippo.”
    “What evidence are you talking about?”
    “The sperm. I talked to Marizza, we won’t have any surprises.”
    I stood up and grabbed the wineglass out of his hand. “Why did you do that? Do you think I’m guilty?”
    “No. But you can never be too sure in cases like this one. I’ve been a lawyer for too many years to leave things to chance. One mistake and you’re screwed. It would be just one more piece of evidence