Read Online Poisonville by Massimo Carlotto - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Massimo Carlotto
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suggested the best strategies, and he had woven around her that network of consensus that had culminated in the creation of her masterpiece, the Torrefranchi Foundation. It had all happened so quickly, in the few dizzying years in which the Northeast had transformed itself from a land of farmers and emigrants into the wealthiest and most productive industrial region in all of Europe. A free-market network, a promised land of productivity that not even the most reactionary and pompous apparatus of government intervention could hobble or restrict. This is what she and Antonio had in common: a love of the modern, a love of the new.
Now times were changing again, and even faster this go-round. That was why she was worried. She needed Antonio more than ever, his strength and his courage. Giovanna’s death and the suspicions hovering over Francesco threatened to ruin everything. Now it was up to her to build, to fabricate if necessary, a public acknowledgment toward the Visentin family. A public acknowledgment of innocence.
“Contessa, we are home,” announced the Romanian chauffeur as he parked the black Mercedes in front of the staircase of Villa Selvaggia.
“Thank you, Toader, I won’t be needing the car again today.”
As she climbed the steps with a gait that a thirty-year-old woman would have envied, Giorgio, the imperishable butler of the Calchi Renier family, stepped forward and announced: “Counselor Visentin is waiting for you, Madame Contessa.”
“Ask the cook to prepare a karkade tea.” She wasted no mawkish sentiment on Giorgio; he was a reminder of her husband, and just as much of a snob as he had been while he lived. If it weren’t for Filippo’s objections, she would have sent him to a nursing home long since.
“Immediately, Contessa,” said the butler with a ceremonious bow.
“Contessa,” Selvaggia thought to herself. This title of respect, with which she was addressed by housemaids, butlers, chauffeurs, superintendents, secretaries, lawyers, business partners, executives, union leaders, prelates, and accountants, still stirred her soul. Contessa is a title usually acquired at birth. She had become a Contessa, eradicating completely her station at birth, eliminating even her peasant surname.
As she swept into her office, Antonio rose promptly to greet her with that unfailing gallantry that he would display even if there were a cocked pistol held to his forehead. But his expression was glum, and Selvaggia immediately had her worst fears confirmed.
“I have just been informed that our sons have exchanged blows at the Bar Centrale. I’ll spare you the details,” said Visentin.
The Contessa rolled her eyes heavenward. “That’s not helpful.” She patted the empty space on the sofa by her side. “Sit here, next to me,” she said with a kindness she never used with anyone else, not even with Filippo.
Visentin heaved a sigh. He pulled a cigar out of his inside jacket packet. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
She smiled. “You know I like the smell of your cigars.”
Antonio lit his cigar a little more hastily than usual. He leaned back into the backrest of the late Venetian sofa.
“You must persuade Filippo to withdraw his statement,” he said and, after gazing into her eyes thoughtfully for a long moment, he added: “And if Filippo were by chance to remember that he left Francesco a little later in the morning, Francesco would be entirely free of suspicion.”
“Filippo will do precisely what I tell him, rest assured,” the Contessa shot back confidently. “However, considering the way matters now stand, the new version of his testimony will not be enough. Idle gossip can be more damaging than an appeal-proof verdict, as you long ago taught me. We must think of the Foundation. The business structure is in a very delicate phase of transition, as you know all too well.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Selvaggia saw a gleam in the eyes of her personal lawyer. She smiled at
Now times were changing again, and even faster this go-round. That was why she was worried. She needed Antonio more than ever, his strength and his courage. Giovanna’s death and the suspicions hovering over Francesco threatened to ruin everything. Now it was up to her to build, to fabricate if necessary, a public acknowledgment toward the Visentin family. A public acknowledgment of innocence.
“Contessa, we are home,” announced the Romanian chauffeur as he parked the black Mercedes in front of the staircase of Villa Selvaggia.
“Thank you, Toader, I won’t be needing the car again today.”
As she climbed the steps with a gait that a thirty-year-old woman would have envied, Giorgio, the imperishable butler of the Calchi Renier family, stepped forward and announced: “Counselor Visentin is waiting for you, Madame Contessa.”
“Ask the cook to prepare a karkade tea.” She wasted no mawkish sentiment on Giorgio; he was a reminder of her husband, and just as much of a snob as he had been while he lived. If it weren’t for Filippo’s objections, she would have sent him to a nursing home long since.
“Immediately, Contessa,” said the butler with a ceremonious bow.
“Contessa,” Selvaggia thought to herself. This title of respect, with which she was addressed by housemaids, butlers, chauffeurs, superintendents, secretaries, lawyers, business partners, executives, union leaders, prelates, and accountants, still stirred her soul. Contessa is a title usually acquired at birth. She had become a Contessa, eradicating completely her station at birth, eliminating even her peasant surname.
As she swept into her office, Antonio rose promptly to greet her with that unfailing gallantry that he would display even if there were a cocked pistol held to his forehead. But his expression was glum, and Selvaggia immediately had her worst fears confirmed.
“I have just been informed that our sons have exchanged blows at the Bar Centrale. I’ll spare you the details,” said Visentin.
The Contessa rolled her eyes heavenward. “That’s not helpful.” She patted the empty space on the sofa by her side. “Sit here, next to me,” she said with a kindness she never used with anyone else, not even with Filippo.
Visentin heaved a sigh. He pulled a cigar out of his inside jacket packet. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
She smiled. “You know I like the smell of your cigars.”
Antonio lit his cigar a little more hastily than usual. He leaned back into the backrest of the late Venetian sofa.
“You must persuade Filippo to withdraw his statement,” he said and, after gazing into her eyes thoughtfully for a long moment, he added: “And if Filippo were by chance to remember that he left Francesco a little later in the morning, Francesco would be entirely free of suspicion.”
“Filippo will do precisely what I tell him, rest assured,” the Contessa shot back confidently. “However, considering the way matters now stand, the new version of his testimony will not be enough. Idle gossip can be more damaging than an appeal-proof verdict, as you long ago taught me. We must think of the Foundation. The business structure is in a very delicate phase of transition, as you know all too well.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Selvaggia saw a gleam in the eyes of her personal lawyer. She smiled at
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