Poisonville (2 page)

The nicest moment of the day, when her mother kneeled in front of the tub to wash her hair. Her hair was blonder and longer then: it reached down to her hips. My little mermaid, her mother used to call her.

Childhood had been the only truly happy time in her life. Later, she had been forced to grow up in a hurry, without time to distinguish between men and boys, as if adolescence had been denied her. From teddy bears to a law degree had been a single dive from the Olympic platform—without even enough time to slip off her waterwings.

In town, people said that she had set her sights on Francesco to make her way into the circles that mattered. Instead, what had really happened was that Francesco had given her back her adolescence. Even better, he had shown her what innocence was. Francesco had been her redemption. And that was why, the next day, she was going to tell him everything. Not to free herself of a burden, but for the sake of honesty. Out of love.

Once she had read a Japanese poem: “Take what is good. / Pile it in one dish of the scale. / Do the same thing with what is evil. / Balance the two dishes. / When the scale is level, you will know the exact weight of life.”

If Francesco could find it in his heart to forgive her, their life together would be like those Sunday mornings when you wake up in the warmth of a comfortable bed, hear the rain outside, and have all the time you want to snuggle or fall asleep, smell nice smells, run your fingers over your smooth and well-rested skin, and feel happy. Happy that you’ve woken up.

The water was losing its warmth, but she hated to get out. She turned the faucet for more hot water. She closed her eyes, slipping into a pleasant slumber.

When she startled awake, she wasn’t sure what had made her open her eyes. A gust of cold breeze, a shiver across her skin. The candle flame trembled.

He appeared in the doorframe, in shirtsleeves. For one happy moment she had forgotten about him. He had remained in the other room, sitting on the side of the bed. Without talking, without looking at her. She hoped he had gone away. Out of her life forever. She was so stupid. The Ativan tablet that she had swallowed before climbing into the bathtub, with a long sip of Armagnac as a chaser—that’s why she felt so unconcerned.

The hot water kept pouring from the faucet; the tub was beginning to overflow.

He leaned over to turn off the water.

“Did you fall asleep?”

She watched as he sat on the edge of the tub, rolled up his sleeves, and squeezed some shampoo into his hand. She felt his hands slide delicately over her hair.

Like my momma—the thought emerged, absurd and incongruous.

His strong manicured hands ran through her hair, the hair that was much shorter than it had been when she was a girl all those years ago. His hands slid down her neck, to her shoulders.

“This is the last time you’ll ever touch me. Tomorrow I’m telling Francesco everything.”

The hands froze, motionless, resting on her shoulders.

“And so we put an end to this.”

The hands rested for another moment. Then they shoved her under. The water tasted of jasmine, but it was salty. She would never have imagined he could be so strong. She managed to lift her head, but not enough to get her nose and mouth above the surface. Now he was in the tub; he had one knee braced against her sternum. She could feel the oxygen draining out of her chest, forming bubbles. Her eyes were burning. Her arms scrabbled along the walls of the tub. One leg surged out of the water. “Salt on my lips, the taste of the sea.” The words of a song from the sixties surfaced in her mind, strangely. She felt a sharp pain, her heel slamming against the edge of the tub. Then nothing: her eyes opened on darkness. The last few little bubbles.

And the grieving moan of the man who had put an end to her life.

* * *

At night, the smaller train stations were deserted. Instead of ticket vendors and train dispatchers, everything was automated now: computerized machinery managed railroad traffic and issued tickets. That is why he had chosen the last train from Venice. No one was expecting him, no one could even have guessed he would arrive in town. He was certain they’d never see him. Even if he did happen to cross paths with someone, he could rely on the fog to provide concealment.

In that dense fogbank, he felt as if he were a damned soul in one of those circles of Dante’s Inferno that he had studied, distractedly, in another lifetime. He pulled up the collar and lapels of his heavy jacket. As he felt his way through the darkness, navigating by instinct, he felt as if the enveloping mist were issuing from him. He thought back to the bull. The bull. He was ten years old, coming home from school. A bull had suddenly appeared before him, blocking his way. The bull must have been lost. It stood there, motionless, staring at him, snorting and puffing. He had never told another living soul about that meeting. For years, though, he had cherished the belief that the bull was a devil, and that the fog was an evil spell the demon employed to steal children away, without interference. Now, though, it was he who snorted and puffed in hatred. It was he who would use the fog to act, undisturbed.

He arrived in the main piazza, where he recognized the silhouette of the bell tower and the neon sign of the Bar Centrale. He dropped his heavy suitcase on the pavement. He turned slowly, looking all around him, and leaving to his memory the task of glimpsing each and every detail.

The noise of a car startled him. He grabbed his duffel bag and hurried into hiding in the portico. The vehicle, a Jeep Cherokee, began driving in circles around the piazza. From the lowered windows issued excited youthful shouts. Then, with a revving roar and a screech of rubber, the car accelerated away into the fog. He emerged from his hiding place and went in search of a phone booth. He found one next to the old newsstand. It was pitch dark; some little kid must have spent a half-hour amusing himself by shattering the fluorescent tubes. He pulled a lighter and a scrap of paper out of his pocket and, by the light of the little flame, read a phone number. The impersonal voice of an answering machine responded. The subscriber was not at home.

“Where the hell have you gone?” he shouted.

Only the fear of discovery obliged him to regain a measure of calm and caution. He slithered away under the porticoes like a sly old rat with a well-honed instinct for survival.

* * *

I’d been lying awake for a while, but I felt too queasy to try to get out of bed. I’d had too much to drink the night before. Gin-and-tonics and champagne. I could still smell the hostess’s spicy perfume on my neck and chin. It wasn’t going to be an easy morning. Luckily, I didn’t have any court appearances scheduled; just a couple of office appointments. I looked over at the digital alarm clock for the tenth or eleventh time. I still had a few minutes left to try to get the alcohol out of my system. Then I’d bolt down an espresso, run a scalding hot shower, and be ready for another day on the job as a young lawyer. My friends had decided to throw me a stray party in the town’s one and only nightclub. Giovanna would ask me how it had gone. In reality, she wanted to know whether I’d wound up in bed with one of the young women at the Club Diana. No, I hadn’t. The party had been a flop. At least for me. Davide and the others had probably enjoyed themselves enormously. They were all pretty euphoric. They kept ducking in and out of the utility closet where one of the Romanians who worked at the club had lines of coke constantly at the ready. They had made perfect asses of themselves with the hostesses. The prettiest hostess, a Latin-American girl who—I think—was named Alicia, had been shoved into my arms, bedecked with ribbons and bows as though she’d been giftwrapped.

“She’s not as pretty as Giovanna,” Davide had told me. “But apparently she fucks divinely.”

She’d done her best, but I was careful to keep things within limits. I’m a Visentin after all, and as my father had once reminded me, there are certain things we don’t do.

“Not here in town, anyway,” he’d added with a smile.

Moreover, there were a number of people I recognized, most of them small-time industrialists, their pockets stuffed with money. Some of them were clients of my father. Constantin Deaconescu, the owner of the club, a Romanian with a criminal air, had come over to give his best wishes for my wedding.

So all eyes were on me. I felt ill at ease, I didn’t like the club one bit. It was as vulgar and pretentious as the brand of champagne that the waiters kept serving, in a sort of bucket brigade. When Alicia let her hands wander a little too far below the belt for my social position, whispering that she was entirely at my service—all night long—I looked at her carefully. She was beautiful and seductive, but at that moment I wished I were with Giovanna instead. I made an excuse, said that I must have had a little too much to drink, and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Behind me I heard a chorus of catcalls from my friends. It must have been two in the morning, and the icy chill in the air made me gasp. And there, stepping out of a sports car, was the last person on earth I wanted to see: Filippo Calchi Renier.

“What do you want?”

He pointed to the BMW. “Let’s take a drive. I have to talk to you.”

“Do you need a lawyer?”

He shook his head in annoyance. The scar on his cheek was bluish from the cold. “We need to talk about Giovanna.”

“Of course,” I muttered, as I turned and walked toward the sports car.

Filippo and Giovanna had been a couple a few years back. Then she left him when she and I started dating. She broke the news to him one summer evening, at the festival in honor of the town’s patron saint. He got in his car and drove off; a couple of hours later he plowed straight into an old oak tree that stood by the highway. He’d been driving at a recklessly high speed; he had a blowout and lost control of the vehicle. Or at least that was his version, but everyone in town speculated that he might have been trying to kill himself. He was never the same after that, physically or mentally. I just felt sorry for him. But for Giovanna, there was a sense of guilt that she just couldn’t shake. She and I couldn’t talk about him without starting a furious argument. Filippo was the only child of the Contessa Selvaggia Calchi Renier. His was the most prominent family in town; mine was the second-most prominent. I, too, was an only child. My mother had died about fifteen years ago. A tumor killed her. She died in a private clinic in California. All my father’s money couldn’t save her.

Filippo started the motor.

“We don’t have to go anywhere,” I said. “We can talk right here.”

Filippo ignored me and put the car in gear.

“You can’t marry her.”

“The wedding’s in nine days. You’d better get used to it.”

“She doesn’t love you.”

“Let me guess: she loves you?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you going to drive me all around town just so you can spout this nonsense?”

Filippo pressed down hard on the accelerator.

“Slow down,” I yelled in fright. “Slow down, you idiot.”

He had switched on his brights and was barreling at top speed toward a brick wall surrounding the park named for his father.

“You’ll never marry her. Giovanna belongs to me.”

I was terrified. I threw my arms up to protect my face, expecting the sound of the crash. Filippo slammed on the brakes at the very last instant, and the sports car screeched to a halt just inches short of the wall.

I staggered out of the car and then grabbed Filippo with fury. I dragged him out of the car, punched him hard, and threw him down onto the asphalt. He didn’t even try to defend himself. The harsh yellow light of the streetlamps illuminated his idiotic simpering smile and the blood running out of his nose.

“You’re crazy, you need professional help.”

“I always take my pills; I’m a good patient.”

I was about to haul back and punch him again, but something in his eyes stopped me.

“She’ll betray you, just like she did me,” he said, wiping the blood off his nose.

He was just a pathetic nut. I told him to go to hell and I started walking back home. When I got there I threw back a couple of really strong gin-and-tonics to quench my fury, and I climbed under the covers, alone, determined to say nothing to Giovanna. Filippo was hoping I would tell her what had happened, so that she’d rush to his side to comfort him. What I thought as I dropped off into slumber was that I should talk to my father about it. That knucklehead, Filippo, might very well cause a scene at the wedding. He was invited, of course. He and his mother would both be given a place of honor at my father’s table, along with Prunella, Giovanna’s mother. We should alert the Contessa: she would never allow her son to cause an unseemly row; if necessary, she’d make sure he was stuffed with sedatives. Selvaggia loathed Giovanna. She had always cast a jaundiced eye on Filippo’s relationship with a Barovier, a young woman branded by her father’s disgrace; she also blamed Giovanna for her son’s car crash. Of course, she had never said any of this explicitly; that would have been far too vulgar. She hadn’t needed to: a couple of venomous remarks had been quite sufficient, casual poisonous darts that Giovanna and her mother had been obliged to receive with smiles on their faces. And on the day of the wedding, they would all feign delight, exchange false hugs, and plant pecks on one another’s cheeks. False and hypocritical best-wishes and sincere thank-yous. But that was life in our town. The leading families never caused scenes in public. And that went for Filippo as well.

I summoned the strength to sit up in bed. My head was spinning, but not too badly. I gave up on the idea of an espresso; a cup of hot chamomile tea would do me more good. I dragged myself as far as the kitchen, and that’s when the phone rang.

“What are you doing still at home?” my father’s voice rapped out over the phone, without so much as a hello.

“I only have a couple of appointments later on this morning.”

“You need to make sure the office is up and running anyway. A self-respecting professional—”

“Papa!” I broke in with annoyance. “Last night was my bachelor party, and as if that’s not enough, I had an unpleasant run-in with Filippo.”