my back. On Tuesdays I played volleyball on the covered field at the country club, and then, after the usual quick stop by the wine bar, I went straight to bed. But I always called her before falling asleep to say goodnight. How many times had she whispered sweet nothings over the phone to me while he lay at her side, breathing, waiting? I pictured her to myself, her hair damp and matted after a bout of lovemaking. Tuesdays might very well have been their standing date. Then, there were times that I had to work late in my law office, preparing a case. On those evenings, perhaps, she alerted him.
“Francesco has to work tonight. I’ll expect you.”
Or maybe they met whenever Giovanna and I were fighting. We’d certainly had our fights. And whenever we had a fight, Giovanna refused to spend the night with me. Sometimes lasted for days on end. Then everything was fine again, and we’d celebrate the end of hostilities in bed, after an intimate candlelight dinner. Business as usual in the life of any couple. Thinking back on our more recent quarrels, I found myself thinking that they occasionally seemed almost contrived. I had taken for granted that it was the stress over the impending wedding, but now that I thought about it, it was entirely possible that Giovanna had staged them in order to have an extra opportunity to see her secret lover. Giovanna wanted to break up with him, but he was trying to hold the relationship together. So she was obliged to see him more often, in order to persuade him to accept the end of their clandestine liaison. There is no question they had to meet at night, because it would be practically impossible for Giovanna to get away successfully during the day. Between the time she had to spend in the law office, in court, and with me, she didn’t have a spare minute. We rarely ate lunch together, but Prunella had told me that she almost always came home for lunch. And during the day, the town has a thousand eyes, a thousand tongues. Giovanna’s little town house was in a private and discreet neighborhood, but her lover certainly couldn’t park out front. Her neighbors were accustomed to seeing my car parked there. He must have left his car in an adjoining street and then walked to her house. I thought of mentioning that point to Mele: maybe he should question the neighbors. It also occurred to me that the forensic office must have done some sloppy work if they had failed to find any traces of the murderer. Maybe I could find those traces. I knew Giovanna and perhaps I would know just where to look. Five minutes later, I was heading over to her house.
I did what I presumed her lover must have done, and parked my car in the parallel side street. Dogs barked as I walked past, but no one paid any attention. I opened the garden gate and walked up to the front door. I broke the seals of the district attorney’s office, and I pulled my set of keys out of my overcoat pocket. I still had my keys because the detectives hadn’t gotten around to confiscating them from me yet. A few seconds later, I was in the house. I made sure that the shutters were tightly fastened, and turned on the light.
I was torn between two emotions: sheer terror at the idea of being caught, and pure determination to find any evidence that would provide me with her lover’s identity. The house was a mess, after the going-over that the Carabinieri had given it. There were splotches and smears of grey fingerprint powder everywhere. I found nothing. Finally, I gathered my courage and walked into the bedroom. I wanted to find out the truth about something that had been tormenting me from the moment I had discovered that my fiancée had a lover. What I was about to do was absolutely necessary: unless I resolved this, it would become an obsession. I swung open the twin doors of the large armoire and began rummaging through the drawers. I found my hands filled with Giovanna’s lingerie; my fingers explored the light silky objects. I
“Francesco has to work tonight. I’ll expect you.”
Or maybe they met whenever Giovanna and I were fighting. We’d certainly had our fights. And whenever we had a fight, Giovanna refused to spend the night with me. Sometimes lasted for days on end. Then everything was fine again, and we’d celebrate the end of hostilities in bed, after an intimate candlelight dinner. Business as usual in the life of any couple. Thinking back on our more recent quarrels, I found myself thinking that they occasionally seemed almost contrived. I had taken for granted that it was the stress over the impending wedding, but now that I thought about it, it was entirely possible that Giovanna had staged them in order to have an extra opportunity to see her secret lover. Giovanna wanted to break up with him, but he was trying to hold the relationship together. So she was obliged to see him more often, in order to persuade him to accept the end of their clandestine liaison. There is no question they had to meet at night, because it would be practically impossible for Giovanna to get away successfully during the day. Between the time she had to spend in the law office, in court, and with me, she didn’t have a spare minute. We rarely ate lunch together, but Prunella had told me that she almost always came home for lunch. And during the day, the town has a thousand eyes, a thousand tongues. Giovanna’s little town house was in a private and discreet neighborhood, but her lover certainly couldn’t park out front. Her neighbors were accustomed to seeing my car parked there. He must have left his car in an adjoining street and then walked to her house. I thought of mentioning that point to Mele: maybe he should question the neighbors. It also occurred to me that the forensic office must have done some sloppy work if they had failed to find any traces of the murderer. Maybe I could find those traces. I knew Giovanna and perhaps I would know just where to look. Five minutes later, I was heading over to her house.
I did what I presumed her lover must have done, and parked my car in the parallel side street. Dogs barked as I walked past, but no one paid any attention. I opened the garden gate and walked up to the front door. I broke the seals of the district attorney’s office, and I pulled my set of keys out of my overcoat pocket. I still had my keys because the detectives hadn’t gotten around to confiscating them from me yet. A few seconds later, I was in the house. I made sure that the shutters were tightly fastened, and turned on the light.
I was torn between two emotions: sheer terror at the idea of being caught, and pure determination to find any evidence that would provide me with her lover’s identity. The house was a mess, after the going-over that the Carabinieri had given it. There were splotches and smears of grey fingerprint powder everywhere. I found nothing. Finally, I gathered my courage and walked into the bedroom. I wanted to find out the truth about something that had been tormenting me from the moment I had discovered that my fiancée had a lover. What I was about to do was absolutely necessary: unless I resolved this, it would become an obsession. I swung open the twin doors of the large armoire and began rummaging through the drawers. I found my hands filled with Giovanna’s lingerie; my fingers explored the light silky objects. I