Poisonville by Massimo Carlotto Page A

wedding rings. I had decided to have them buried with her body.
    Inspector Mele was right. Giovanna’s funeral was a spectacle that no one in town would miss for any reason. Those who had been unable to find a place to sit in the church itself crowded the church courtyard and a substantial portion of the main piazza. The citizenry watched our arrival in silence. Many made the sign of the cross when they saw us. When we stepped out of our car, we were approached by our closest acquaintances and by the leading citizens of the town. Selvaggia, elegant in her black overcoat with a fur collar, hurried to embrace Prunella. Filippo stood off to one side, in isolation.
    “My poor Prunella,” she exclaimed loudly. “Misfortune seems to follow you everywhere. But you’re always so strong.”
    Her voice and her face were intently acting out the role of a bereaved Contessa, but her eyes told an entirely different story. Selvaggia never missed a chance to settle old scores. Prunella noticed it, and reddened with fury, but she was quickly surrounded by her prayer group, which immediately struck up a hymn to the Lord, and accompanied her into the church. I followed close behind the coffin, resting one hand on the dark polished wood. I wanted to be sure that everyone saw that the cuckold had decided to follow his destiny to its logical conclusion. Carla was already seated in the front row. She made a big show of ignoring me. Don Piero and Don Ante stood waiting by the altar. The old priest conducted the ceremony. He recalled Giovanna with a short but affectionate speech. He concluded by warning the murderer that he would face the Lord’s wrath. Prunella and her friends distinguished themselves with a series of prayers recited with a level of fervor that struck me as unsettling. Their arms flung outward in imitation of Jesus Christ on the cross, and their faces turned heavenward clearly irritated Don Piero as well; from time to time he glared angrily over at the group.
    When the coffin was carried out of the church, my hand was still there, resting on the gleaming cherry wood. Beggiolin pointed me out to the cameraman, who took a long steady shot. It was at that very moment that Inspector Mele came over and shook my hand firmly. Mele had also decided to transmit a precise signal.
    Beggiolin raised the microphone to his lips. “The whole town has turned out to pay tribute to Giovanna Barovier; it is certainly not mere rhetoric to speak of a young life shattered in the bloom of youth, just a few steps short of the crowning dream of love with her own Francesco.”
    Beggiolin was capable of staining anything with just his tone of voice. I wanted to pound his face with both fists, but this was neither the place nor the time for that.
    When the coffin was loaded onto the hearse, as if by magic El Mato appeared, kneeling and crying out: “Now I understand! Now I’ve figured it out!”
    Mele gently seized him by the scruff of the neck and handed him over him to a pair of young Carabinieri.
    Half an hour later it was all over. I walked away from the cemetery with an image in my head of the gravedigger who had sealed the tomb with cement strolling away, lighting a cigarette as he went.
     
    I had been slumped on the sofa for hours. My mind was buzzing with images from the funeral. Faces familiar and unknown. Among them was the murderer—of that I felt certain. Perhaps he had even shaken my hand and expressed his sincere condolences. But I hadn’t singled out any prime suspect. The killer would have to be charming, elegant, young, and a member of the upper crust. I knew Giovanna well. She had strong opinions when it came to men and the social circles in which they moved. Mele probably didn’t know quite what to look for. Lovers communicate in secret codes. If they were bold enough to meet at Giovanna’s house, they must have had some way of being certain I wouldn’t walk in on them. I ransacked my memory for the perfect times to meet behind