right, I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing. This is a bad time for you,” he said, then he lowered his voice. “And anyway, even if it was you, you’re still a friend to me.”
I looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What are you saying?”
“You can count on me. When they questioned me, I said nothing about the slut who was rubbing your crotch. You know, it takes practically nothing for those guys to get the wrong idea.”
I was speechless. I turned and left. Davide was a small-town bar animal. Nothing but dirty jokes and filthy gossip. Now I knew what they thought about me. I almost ran into Beggiolin, who had come running, followed by his cameraman. When he saw me, he had an immediate reaction of fury.
I flashed him a satisfied smile. “You’re too late. The party’s already over.”
* * *
To the women of the town, Antonio Visentin “was still a good-looking man,” and according to the men “they don’t make them like Antonio Visentin anymore.”
This universal opinion was evident every time he crossed the main piazza, which he did four times a day to reach his law office in the center of town.
The men would bow their heads ever so slightly in a sign of intimate respect, or else they would greet him with stage gestures, hoping to ingratiate themselves with those who counted in town.
The women would cast him coquettish glances, or wait anxiously to be recognized and greeted. Which he unfailingly did. Counselor Visentin never missed a trick.
Things went differently that day. As he walked around the piazza under the porticoes, he failed to notice Judge Bellaviti and he avoided the curious glance of the widow Biondi.
Visentin looked at the ground as he walked, lost in dark thoughts. He didn’t even notice the uproar outside the Bar Centrale. If he had only looked up, he would have seen his son burst out of the café, arms pinned to his side by Trevisan and other customers.
He had an appointment with the head of the Medical Examiner’s Office.
“It’s a confidential matter,” he had told him over the phone.
Guido Marizza, the head of the Medical Examiner’s Office, was an old friend. They had gone to elementary school together, then to middle school and high school.
They’d drifted out of contact during their years at university, because each had followed in his father’s footsteps, as had been the case in each family for at least three generations. The sole exception was Marizza’s grandfather on his mother’s side. He, to the dismay of family and community, had chosen to become a professional soccer player, and wound up playing in the minor minors, the Italian
serie C
. This one unfortunate case aside, no other family member had ever left the beaten track.
Visentin had served as legal counsel to his old friend in a disagreeable case involving an inheritance. He had been successful in the case against Marizza’s sisters, relying on the usual nitpicking detail, a formal shortcoming that everyone else had overlooked. Since then, neither of the sisters acknowledged him in public, or spoke to him in private. But his friendship with Guido was as sound as ever. And so he chose to adopt a direct approach. If it hadn’t been Guido, he would never have taken such a gross risk. His usual approach could be summed up by the phrase: “Ask for a pear if an apple is what you want.” But things were different with Guido.
“I am very worried about Francesco. His alibi lends itself to ambiguous, dangerous interpretations.”
Marizza nodded wisely, wrinkling his nose as if he’d noticed a bad smell.
“This matter of the DNA. You know how these things can be, mistakes can be made . . . In other words, Guido, I’d like it if you were personally responsible for doing the testing, and not just one of your assistants. I . . . only trust you.”
Marizza gazed at him without expression. “Nowadays, I leave those tests to my assistants, I don’t spend much time in the laboratory
“It’s nothing. This is a bad time for you,” he said, then he lowered his voice. “And anyway, even if it was you, you’re still a friend to me.”
I looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What are you saying?”
“You can count on me. When they questioned me, I said nothing about the slut who was rubbing your crotch. You know, it takes practically nothing for those guys to get the wrong idea.”
I was speechless. I turned and left. Davide was a small-town bar animal. Nothing but dirty jokes and filthy gossip. Now I knew what they thought about me. I almost ran into Beggiolin, who had come running, followed by his cameraman. When he saw me, he had an immediate reaction of fury.
I flashed him a satisfied smile. “You’re too late. The party’s already over.”
* * *
To the women of the town, Antonio Visentin “was still a good-looking man,” and according to the men “they don’t make them like Antonio Visentin anymore.”
This universal opinion was evident every time he crossed the main piazza, which he did four times a day to reach his law office in the center of town.
The men would bow their heads ever so slightly in a sign of intimate respect, or else they would greet him with stage gestures, hoping to ingratiate themselves with those who counted in town.
The women would cast him coquettish glances, or wait anxiously to be recognized and greeted. Which he unfailingly did. Counselor Visentin never missed a trick.
Things went differently that day. As he walked around the piazza under the porticoes, he failed to notice Judge Bellaviti and he avoided the curious glance of the widow Biondi.
Visentin looked at the ground as he walked, lost in dark thoughts. He didn’t even notice the uproar outside the Bar Centrale. If he had only looked up, he would have seen his son burst out of the café, arms pinned to his side by Trevisan and other customers.
He had an appointment with the head of the Medical Examiner’s Office.
“It’s a confidential matter,” he had told him over the phone.
Guido Marizza, the head of the Medical Examiner’s Office, was an old friend. They had gone to elementary school together, then to middle school and high school.
They’d drifted out of contact during their years at university, because each had followed in his father’s footsteps, as had been the case in each family for at least three generations. The sole exception was Marizza’s grandfather on his mother’s side. He, to the dismay of family and community, had chosen to become a professional soccer player, and wound up playing in the minor minors, the Italian
serie C
. This one unfortunate case aside, no other family member had ever left the beaten track.
Visentin had served as legal counsel to his old friend in a disagreeable case involving an inheritance. He had been successful in the case against Marizza’s sisters, relying on the usual nitpicking detail, a formal shortcoming that everyone else had overlooked. Since then, neither of the sisters acknowledged him in public, or spoke to him in private. But his friendship with Guido was as sound as ever. And so he chose to adopt a direct approach. If it hadn’t been Guido, he would never have taken such a gross risk. His usual approach could be summed up by the phrase: “Ask for a pear if an apple is what you want.” But things were different with Guido.
“I am very worried about Francesco. His alibi lends itself to ambiguous, dangerous interpretations.”
Marizza nodded wisely, wrinkling his nose as if he’d noticed a bad smell.
“This matter of the DNA. You know how these things can be, mistakes can be made . . . In other words, Guido, I’d like it if you were personally responsible for doing the testing, and not just one of your assistants. I . . . only trust you.”
Marizza gazed at him without expression. “Nowadays, I leave those tests to my assistants, I don’t spend much time in the laboratory
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