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Authors: Massimo Carlotto
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anymore.”
“I would be infinitely grateful,” Visentin insisted.
Marizza slumped back into his imposing leather office chair, a gift from his staff for his twenty-year anniversary. He grimaced, as if the stockfish and polenta from the
baccalà alla vicentina
that he’d eaten for lunch had risen to the back of his throat. Then he leaned forward, speaking in an archly confidential tone of voice.
“There’s a machine that we use in the forensic lab. About a month ago, it caused a real problem, it skewed the DNA results on a piece of evidence. Luckily, it was just a paternity case, so we were able to rerun the test. But in a case like this . . . If the machine damaged the evidence, it would be impossible to reconstruct. And even if there were still traces of sperm in Giovanna’s body, they would no longer be usable. Too much time has gone by.”
“I know.”
“This involves a murder . . .”
“This involves my Francesco.”
“Certainly, certainly.”
Visentin realized he’d ventured too far. He shifted tone, as if they had just met at the country club, enjoying a glass of prosecco.
“How is Elisabetta?” he asked.
“She’s doing well. She’s well liked on the job. They say she’s a talented art restorer. I think she’s ready to take the next step, but you know what public institutions are like. Talent isn’t enough.”
“Is Volpi still the director?”
“That stubborn old cuss won’t retire . . .”
“Perhaps the time has come to make way for young blood. When this is all over, I could invite the old gentleman to the trout-fishing lake. And let him catch all the trout . . .”
“As long as Elisabetta never finds out. That girl has her mother’s sense of pride.”
“It’ll be our little secret.”
The two friends smiled in complicity.
Visentin stood up. “Fine. I’m very pleased.”
When he was at the door, Marizza’s voice reached him: “Francesco is a good boy, certainly not the kind of boy who would . . .”
“Certainly not,” said Visentin, as he turned to look back.
“Fine,” Marizza echoed.
There was nothing more to be said.
* * *
Whenever she had an important meeting with Antonio Visentin, the Contessa Selvaggia Calchi Renier made an appointment with her hairdresser. She did it to ensure that her hair gleamed with that coppery highlight that, as Antonio always said, gave her a dangerous resemblance to Rita Hayworth. The irony in all this was that Antonio was the only prominent man in town who had never been her lover. What bound them together was much more important than sex. It was a tie that transcended emotions and had its foundations, one might say, in their shared sense of taste. No one else could claim to have a fraction of the aesthetic sense that Antonio put—not into winning a case, but winning resoundingly, over-winning. No one had a better instinct than he did for the perfect timing in driving home a thrust or withdrawing from an excessively risky business deal without looking weak. Antonio, and Antonio alone, knew how important it was to her to occupy center stage—no matter whether it was a business conference or opening night in a new concert season. If he had never been a lawyer, he could certainly have became a great director: he glimpsed things before others did, he knew how to guide his protagonists, and he knew how to describe—even recount—a new business opportunity to any audience. Antonio had never lorded it over her that he had been born a Visentin, while she had had to become a Contessa. If it hadn’t been for Antonio, this difference would have condemned her to a role as a co-star, a decorative gewgaw, a role to which her late husband would gladly have relegated her, if he had been strong enough. She owed the single most important thing to Antonio Visentin: her public recognition. When her husband was still alive, Antonio had encouraged her in her efforts to rejuvenate the ancient fortunes of the Calchi Renier family, he had
“I would be infinitely grateful,” Visentin insisted.
Marizza slumped back into his imposing leather office chair, a gift from his staff for his twenty-year anniversary. He grimaced, as if the stockfish and polenta from the
baccalà alla vicentina
that he’d eaten for lunch had risen to the back of his throat. Then he leaned forward, speaking in an archly confidential tone of voice.
“There’s a machine that we use in the forensic lab. About a month ago, it caused a real problem, it skewed the DNA results on a piece of evidence. Luckily, it was just a paternity case, so we were able to rerun the test. But in a case like this . . . If the machine damaged the evidence, it would be impossible to reconstruct. And even if there were still traces of sperm in Giovanna’s body, they would no longer be usable. Too much time has gone by.”
“I know.”
“This involves a murder . . .”
“This involves my Francesco.”
“Certainly, certainly.”
Visentin realized he’d ventured too far. He shifted tone, as if they had just met at the country club, enjoying a glass of prosecco.
“How is Elisabetta?” he asked.
“She’s doing well. She’s well liked on the job. They say she’s a talented art restorer. I think she’s ready to take the next step, but you know what public institutions are like. Talent isn’t enough.”
“Is Volpi still the director?”
“That stubborn old cuss won’t retire . . .”
“Perhaps the time has come to make way for young blood. When this is all over, I could invite the old gentleman to the trout-fishing lake. And let him catch all the trout . . .”
“As long as Elisabetta never finds out. That girl has her mother’s sense of pride.”
“It’ll be our little secret.”
The two friends smiled in complicity.
Visentin stood up. “Fine. I’m very pleased.”
When he was at the door, Marizza’s voice reached him: “Francesco is a good boy, certainly not the kind of boy who would . . .”
“Certainly not,” said Visentin, as he turned to look back.
“Fine,” Marizza echoed.
There was nothing more to be said.
* * *
Whenever she had an important meeting with Antonio Visentin, the Contessa Selvaggia Calchi Renier made an appointment with her hairdresser. She did it to ensure that her hair gleamed with that coppery highlight that, as Antonio always said, gave her a dangerous resemblance to Rita Hayworth. The irony in all this was that Antonio was the only prominent man in town who had never been her lover. What bound them together was much more important than sex. It was a tie that transcended emotions and had its foundations, one might say, in their shared sense of taste. No one else could claim to have a fraction of the aesthetic sense that Antonio put—not into winning a case, but winning resoundingly, over-winning. No one had a better instinct than he did for the perfect timing in driving home a thrust or withdrawing from an excessively risky business deal without looking weak. Antonio, and Antonio alone, knew how important it was to her to occupy center stage—no matter whether it was a business conference or opening night in a new concert season. If he had never been a lawyer, he could certainly have became a great director: he glimpsed things before others did, he knew how to guide his protagonists, and he knew how to describe—even recount—a new business opportunity to any audience. Antonio had never lorded it over her that he had been born a Visentin, while she had had to become a Contessa. If it hadn’t been for Antonio, this difference would have condemned her to a role as a co-star, a decorative gewgaw, a role to which her late husband would gladly have relegated her, if he had been strong enough. She owed the single most important thing to Antonio Visentin: her public recognition. When her husband was still alive, Antonio had encouraged her in her efforts to rejuvenate the ancient fortunes of the Calchi Renier family, he had
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