Poisonville by Massimo Carlotto

the following morning at ten, in the church of San Prosdocimo, however, the television reporter engaged in a little extra dollop of muckraking. Quoting an unnamed but highly reliable source, he talked about the semen found in Giovanna’s body. He made no further comment, but he did stare for a few extra beats into the lens, with a cynical smile impressed on his lips.
    I got rid of him by punching a button on my remote control, and then I moved into the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry, and my stomach was queasy with tension. I peered into the fridge and rummaged through the pantry. I decided to make a plate of pasta with butter. Whenever I was sick, that was the dish my mother would make for me. A pat of butter, a little milk, and grated parmesan cheese. I had decided not to leave the house until the funeral. After lunch, I’d take a couple of Giovanna’s sleeping pills. I wanted to knock myself out and just stop thinking. Instead, as soon as I had drained the pot of bowties, Carla rang the buzzer.
    “Have you already eaten?” I asked her at the door.
    Her only reply was to try to punch me in the face. I grabbed her wrist. “Whoa, take it easy. What’s that for?”
    Carla was panting with rage. “So you made a little arrangement after all, didn’t you? First you accuse each other, then you swap alibis.”
    “Get out of here, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snarled at her. I tried to shut the door, but she wouldn’t let me.
    “I should have known this is how it would end up. The Visentins and the Calchi Reniers can’t afford a scandal. So that’s how you arrange things. Tomorrow, they’re going to bury Giovanna, and the truth will go down into the grave with her body. This town will never change. And you’re no better than the rest of them.”
    I seized her by the shoulders and started to shake her. Her purse dropped to the floor, and she stared at me in fright. I let her go. She bent down to pick up her purse, and then turned and fled down the stairs.
    “Don’t you ever dare speak to me like that again,” I shouted after her.
    I tossed the pasta into the garbage. I was furious. I wanted to run out the door after her, I wanted to shout into her surprised face that, more than anything else, what I wanted to see was Giovanna’s murderer in handcuffs, flanked by a pair of Carabinieri. It was as those thoughts ran through my mind that a light shone into my mind. I suddenly glimpsed the price I would have to pay to ensure that the murderer went to prison. At the trial, the killer would tell the court all about his relationship with Giovanna. The lawyers and the prosecutor would want to probe for further details. How had they first met? How many dates? How often did they make love behind my back? The killer would swear that he loved her and never wanted to hurt her. In the eyes of the court, Giovanna would be remembered as his woman. I would fade into the background. The pathetic figure of the cuckolded fiancé, demanding justice. As a lawyer, I immediately reckoned up the likely sentence. Sixteen years, give or take a few. That was the price set on Giovanna’s life. I forced myself to take a hard look at my consience. Was I really willing to pay that price for revenge?
    I seized a bottle at random from the tray and poured myself a glassful of liquor. I gulped it down with the sleeping pills.
     
    Pale rays of sunlight illuminated one of the coldest mornings of the year. My father, Prunella, and I followed the hearse as it left the morgue.
    “This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life,” Prunella said suddenly, breaking into a doleful silence.
    Right. This was supposed to have been a day of celebration. I would have stood waiting for her by the altar, and she would appear at the head of the aisle on my father’s arm. She would walk slowly down the aisle, smiling and nodding her head at various guests. I slipped a hand into my pocket, and my fingers touched the case containing the two