Poisonville by Massimo Carlotto Page A

around a curve.
     
    On the evening news show, Beggiolin outdid himself. He managed to create an aura of mystery around the murder that would lure the television audience into watching Antenna N/E news until the case was fully resolved. Even though he didn’t say so explicitly, it was clear that the investigators were trying to establish my guilt or innocence.
    I was unable to eat. I drained a couple of glasses of cognac and I knocked back a couple of sleeping pills on top of them. They were Giovanna’s sleeping pills. She frequently suffered from insomnia. I had always blamed her problems getting to sleep on the stress of her job and the tension of preparing for the wedding. But in reality, the reason that Giovanna couldn’t fall asleep was that she had become the slut of the man who had ruined her life. That phrase was stuck in my mind, driven in like a nail by a hammer, and when it came to the surface it caused a dull pain that left me panting and breathless.
    I dropped off into a heavy slumber. In the morning I woke up stunned and confused. My tongue felt like a block of wood in my mouth. I took a shower and stepped out to buy the morning newspapers. The vendor looked at me with a diffident curiosity. My father was right: I would have to get used to suspicion and gossip.
    Back at home I made another cup of coffee and began reading. The dailies had nothing more than what Beggiolin had already said on the news. But they had done interview after interview with ordinary people, from an elementary school teacher to a supermarket cashier. In the absence of any solid, fresh news, they had seized on her father’s past, asking the man in the street what he thought about how that old story had affected poor Giovanna Barovier. There were also a number of articles about me, but I wasted no time reading them. I put on my overcoat and left the house. The time had come to face Prunella’s pain and grief.
    Prunella still lived in the villa that Alvise had built at the end of the sixties, one of the nicest homes in town, though with the passage of time it was slowly collapsing into ruin.
    The front gate was open. The expansive garden was still in good condition. Prunella herself did the gardening. A woman whom I had never seen before opened the door when I knocked. She greeted me courteously and led me into the living room. There were a number of people seated on the old sofas, upholstered in leather that was worn but still shiny and presentable. They were all holding hands and praying. Prunella greeted me with a nod and continued praying with unabated fervor. A man who looked to be about forty invited me to join the group but I shook my head no. I left the living room and waited in an adjoining room. Prunella came in a few minutes later.
    “They’re my friends from our prayer group,” she explained. “They’ve come to comfort me.”
    She spread her arms in a gesture that struck me as excessive and theatrical. “Come to my arms, I beg you,” she said in a doleful voice, as if she were still praying. “We have lost our Giovanna,” she whispered, hugging me tight. “Now we must pray for her soul.”
    I broke away from her embrace and looked at her directly. “Giovanna was murdered.”
    “I know. Inspector Mele was here.”
    “He suspects me of being the killer.”
    Prunella caressed my cheek. “You’re innocent. I know that.”
    “Giovanna had a lover.”
    “I know that too. Carla told me.”
    “But you don’t know who it was?”
    “No.”
    “Giovanna never told you anything about this?”
    “She would come here for meals, she would go into her room and shut the door, to rest. She seemed happy to me.”
    But she wasn’t. She had become the slut of the man who had ruined her life. I was tempted to ask Prunella if that phrase had any meaning for her, but I lacked the courage. That woman had been overwhelmed by a tsunami of grief and pain. She was resisting through pure faith.
    “We’re going to rehearse the hymns