The Bastards of Pizzofalcone by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

sniff like dogs after the scent of a reason for hatred.
    Perhaps they’ll do a bad job of searching, because they won’t search for love. But in fact it is love, in many cases, that puts an end to life. Love is a powerful current, I would tell them; love is like a river, which flows along nice and calm, and then, around a bend that seems no different from any of the others, that seems no different from any of the other bends along the course a river follows from its source all the way to the sea, suddenly, there’s a cliff, and the river turns into a violent and terrible waterfall.
    You can live for love, I’d tell them. Love is a force that takes you by the hand and leads you to the end of the day, of the month, of the year, of the night. Love is a dream, a mere illusion: but you can treasure it and foster it, that illusion, you can make it grow until it’s big enough for you to live in.
    They’ll come, and maybe they’ll delve into the documents, in search of some foul-smelling trace made up of money and vested interests. And maybe they will find traces, and they’ll think they’re on the right trail.
    I would tell them to look elsewhere, to delve into caresses. Into sighs and flesh—that’s where I’d say to look. Because maybe the reason for everything is there, in an old acquaintance, in a gaze held for an extra fraction of a second. Because that is how an illusion is born, with a gaze and a fraction of a second. And you imagine something, and you cradle it in your arms like a newborn baby, helping it to grow, feeding it until it becomes so big that it takes up every bit of room there is.
    I would tell them that love is to blame for everything. That those who get in love’s way always run a terrible risk. Because love is powerful, and when it rushes down to the sea it doesn’t recognize obstacles, it uproots, it overturns, it undermines, it crushes; and then it carries away the pieces.
    I would tell them not to search for money, because the logic of love is much stronger than any mere pecuniary interest. And I would tell them that I tried to make her understand how absurd it is to try to stand in love’s way. I explained to her, speaking with my heart in my hand, that right around that last bend that resembles all the others, lies the abyss. That this wasn’t like the times before, that we were all now faced with real decisions. But she wouldn’t listen to what I said.
    We’ll watch them delve into the usual motivations, but they’ll be searching in the wrong direction. Because they won’t think of love, and all its reasons.
    I would tell them, if they only asked the right questions. I’d explain it to them, because it happened.
    Because I did it.
    But I won’t tell them, because they won’t search in the right direction. And the one who’ll pay is the one who ought to.
    Love will pay.
    Â 
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XIX
    T hey really did take five minutes to reach the address that Ottavia Calabrese had given Lojacono. A shiny brass plate next to the front door of the luxurious building announced: “Arturo Festa, Notary.”
    It was early, not yet ten o’clock. The lieutenant wondered whether anyone was already in the office. He couldn’t reasonably linger to give the husband the news in person. He had his cell phone number: he could try to call him. But what he really wanted was to observe the reactions of the people who knew the notary well, when they heard the news of the murder.
    They went over to the doorman, a diminutive, middle-aged fellow who was sorting catalogues into the various mailboxes. Without even turning around, the man gestured to the foot of a flight of stairs with his head: “Mezzanine, Staircase A,” he said.
    Which meant that someone was already there.
    Aragona rang the doorbell, and from inside someone hit a button to open the door automatically. They walked into a small waiting room, and a young