Poisonville (14 page)

Zuglio had never shown his face to the investors. Once he had the money in hand, he paid off the salesmen, gave them time to get far away, and then reported the fraud to the police, making it appear that his own financial holding company had been the chief victim of those Canadian bastards.

After that swindle, he devoted his time to less fanciful but more remunerative activities: loan sharking, buying and selling real estate, and money laundering.

He had learned to operate discreetly; he frequented the same businessmen who, on occasion, saw their companies staggered beneath the burden of his 300 percent rate of interest. They continued to look down on him, but his diminutive stature no longer put them in a jocular mood. He owned fine homes and expensive automobiles. He could afford beautiful women of every race and color. He had even started investing in art. But he still wasn’t enjoying himself. There was only one thing that could brighten his world: to be allowed into the circle that mattered, the circle of the Torrefranchi Foundation.

He needed to rise to those heights. Only then could he feel that he had achieved his dream.

With the smile of a man who is certain that he will succeed, Zuglio parked in front of the town’s leading real estate agency. He got out of the car and opened the trunk of the Ferrari 612 Scaglietti that he had just purchased for himself. In the trunk were three rigid briefcases.

Before entering the building, Zuglio pulled a for-sale sign off the plate glass window:
PRESTIGIOUS HISTORIC TOWNHOUSE. VILLA DISTRICT. PRICE NEGOTIABLE.

Eliana Dal Toso, the bottle blonde who ran the real estate agency, came toward him, her eyes already glittering. Women like being blonde, but they don’t understand that brunettes light more fires, he thought indifferently. And her mouth was tight, and as everyone knows, like mouth like pussy.

In other words, the girl left him cold, which always made business dealings a little simpler and more effective.

The contract was ready and waiting. Zuglio signed it without a second glance, because he knew no one would dare to cheat him, handed over the valise, and ripped up the for-sale sign. In a couple of months, he’d resell the villa at twice the price. There was already interest from a Hollywood movie star. Now that Tuscany and Lake Como were well known, the jetset had discovered the Palladian villas. In his opinion, living in the countryside was nothing but a pain in the ass. All those mosquitoes . . .

Fifteen minutes later, he strolled into the paint factory that would belong to Stefano Ruzza for just a short while longer. He was carrying the second valise.

Stefano’s father had practically gone blind perfecting the colors in his paints. The matrons of Milan wanted only the most up-to-date and fashionable shades, and for a few years, the paint company had even managed to outdo the English paint manufacturers. Then, as happens in these cases, the father had been forced into retirement by lung cancer; he had left the business in his son’s hands. The boy was already bald at age twenty from all the testosterone that was clogging up his brain. And sure enough: in no more than four or five years, he had managed to destroy everything that his father had built up in the same period of time. The bald son would happily have declared bankruptcy, but his sick father shouted so loud he practically had a stroke. Not so long as there was a breath left in his body—and so forth. As a result, his son turned to the banks, and then, when his line of credit was used up, he turned to Zuglio, a midget cash machine who made loans at interest rates that started at twenty percent, and then rose to forty percent. Today’s loan would be the last. Billiard Ball would never be able to pay back the two hundred thousand euros contained in the second valise and Zuglio would become the owner of a nice little factory.

The second meeting was over in less time than the first, and Zuglio had to smile when he saw that bald head leaning forward, in a bow like that of a condemned man about to be guillotined.

It was 11 in the morning, the day had barely begun. He still had to swing by to meet with Prunella Barovier, another citizen who no longer had two pennies to rub together. She had asked him to lend her fifteen thousand euros so that she could bury her whore of a daughter in high style. He had agreed to lend her the money at a ridiculous rate of interest, just for the pleasure of watching her sob and blow snot into the last handkerchief with stitched monograms that she owned.

But first he needed to fill the tank with gas: that fucking Ferrari 612 got worse mileage than an American Hummer.

The espresso that the widow Barovier offered him was disgusting. He took a tiny sip and then left it to grow cold next to the pile of banknotes that he was counting out under the eyes of Prunella.

“Fourteen thousand eight hundred . . . and nine hundred, fifteen thousand,” he finished counting, rubbing each bill between thumb, middle finger and index finger.

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay you back.”

“Don’t let that bother you, you’ll pay me when you can. You made a sacrifice, but your daughter deserves a worthy farewell. Unfortunately, the people who run the funeral homes are shameless profiteers.”

The bundle of cash sat on the table. Neither of them seemed to want to touch it, as if it didn’t exist. You’re disgusted by money, but as soon as I leave you’ll scoop it up with both hands, Zuglio thought, as he paid lip service to his condolences. The poor little hypocrite was sitting on the very edge of her chair. It was obvious that she couldn’t wait to get him out of the house. Unfortunately for her, he had plenty of time to waste that day. He also had an offer to make. He was just casting around for the best approach.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for years,” he began. “Well . . . I never had anything against your husband. Unfortunately, back then, as the president of the bank, I was forced to cut off his line of credit.”

“Don’t think twice. So much time has passed since then.”

She must have practiced for years the art of the kind of forgiveness that makes you feel like a shit. But her confessional tone wouldn’t work with him. He looked around carefully, noticing the traces of neglect, the water stains, the shadows of paintings on the wall, paintings that had probably been sold, but that had once made that drawing room an elegant and prestigious room.

“Of course, it can’t be easy for you, all alone, in this big house. Have you ever thought of selling it? You could buy a smaller apartment and live very well on what’s left over, without worries, without obligations, without—”

“Without having to borrow money from you anymore?” Prunella interrupted him.

“I certainly didn’t mean—”

“No, of course not. In any case, don’t worry, I’ll pay that money back to you, with the interest that you asked for.”

The ruling class never loses its arrogance, thought Zuglio.

“If you change your mind, I’d certainly be interested,” he said as he stood up.

“That was more than evident,” the widow Barovier replied drily, as she raised an arm to point him toward the exit.

Anyway, he’d baited the hook and tossed it. It was only a matter of time now. Only a matter of accumulating interest.

* * *

The hall of the Order of Attorneys on the second floor of the court building was crowded with lawyers. I arrived at the last minute and had to push my way through the crowd to make it to my seat in the front row. On the low stage that had been set up for the occasion, there was a chair draped with a lawyer’s robes. They were Giovanna’s robes. When my father stepped up onto the stage, the hall fell silent. He was ashen and drawn.

“Beloved colleagues,” he began, in a solemn tone. “As chairman of the Order, it is customarily my sad duty to commemorate those who are no longer among us. And yet I never expected to have to honor the memory of the youngest colleague at the bar: Giovanna Barovier. Giovanna joined my law firm as an intern and never left. I admired her skill and intelligence, and I was very fond of her. She was about to marry my son, Francesco. But today, I am obliged to recall the life of the legal professional who once wore these robes . . .”

My father choked up; he couldn’t finish the sentence. He covered his face with both hands, sobbing.

“Excuse me,” he whispered.

Then he fell to his knees. The microphone emitted a whistle. I hurried to the lectern, along with everyone in the front row.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

“Forget about it, Antonio,” said one of his colleagues. “Just go home.”

“He’s right,” I said, as I helped him to his feet. “There’s nothing more to say.”

We walked out of the hall, flanked by two lines of lawyers. Some of them had expressions of profound sympathy and emotion on their faces, others had a glint of cruel satisfaction in their eyes. Papa’s success had always fostered rancor and envy, and there were more than a few for whom the sight of Antonio Visentin down on his knees, sobbing pitifully, must have been a priceless source of gratification.

My father refused to forgive himself. I walked him back to his offices. The secretaries had already been alerted about what had happened, and they overwhelmed him with attention, although in the inimitably discreet style that was a hallmark of the Visentin law firm.

“What an embarrassment,” my father mumbled, as he sank into an office chair.

“You should have let another member of the order make the speech. Someone who was less emotionally involved.”

“It was my responsibility.”

I poured a glass of tonic water for him, let him calm down, and then I asked, “When are you leaving for Romania?”

“This afternoon. I’m flying out of Verona,” he replied. “I managed to get the last seat available in business class.”

“Well, have a good trip,” I said.

“Sure you don’t want to come?”

“No. I’d only be in the way.”

Papa stood up. “Come here, let me give you a hug.”

I left the law office and headed for the little hill overlooking the land where the furniture factory had once stood. Alvise had been there since that morning, armed with a pair of binoculars. Carla was at work, in the laboratory of the local health board.

“Any news?” I asked, handing him a hot coffee I had picked up on the way over.

“A truck made a couple of trips,” he answered. “There was a driver and another guy. They unloaded some drums. Then one of them started up the excavator and buried them.”

“It looks like Carla was right,” I commented. “The next time they show up, we’ll try to follow them. Maybe we can figure out where the toxic waste is coming from.”

Alvise was numb with the cold. I suggested he sit in my car while I kept watch, but he refused. I would have preferred that he accept; that way I wouldn’t have to stand around and make conversation. I didn’t feel like talking. What I wanted was to go back home and climb into bed with a couple of Giovanna’s sleeping pills in my belly, to erase from my mind the image of my father on his knees before his assembled colleagues. I had never seen him look so weak and fragile. Until then, he had always played the part of the strong man, capable of controlling his own feelings. But Giovanna’s death had shaken him deep down, and in the end, it had been too much for him. I looked over at Alvise, as he stood surveying the lots with a pair of binoculars, wondering if I’d ever see him on his knees, broken by grief and pain. I couldn’t bring myself to trust that man. He was certain that Giovanna had been killed to keep her from rehabilitating his reputation. The very idea made me seethe with rage and jealousy. I was by no means confident that Alvise Barovier was worth such a sacrifice.

“Look, the truck is coming back,” he said suddenly, handing me the binoculars.

Through the twin lenses I saw a man leap down from the cab of the truck to open the padlocked gate. The truck pulled in and he quickly swung the gate closed. The two dogs ran to greet him, tails wagging, and he leaned over to pat them. The driver pulled the truck further in and then stepped out of the cab. He climbed up onto the seat of the excavator and lifted the toothed bucket of the backhoe up to the cargo deck of the truck. After he had dropped the second drum into a pit in the dirt, I decided that I had seen enough. We hurried over to the car and prepared to follow the truck.

We watched as the truck pulled out of the dump and drove off toward town. It stopped in front of a café. The two got out and went inside long enough to drink an espresso, and then they continued on toward the new industrial district. The truck turned in through the opening front gate of a printing plant, the Grafica Santi & Giustinian. Ten minutes later, the truck was already barreling down the main road, heading back to the dump. There the two men unloaded a number of plastic jerry cans, which they buried in another pit.

“Tell me about Giovanna,” said Alvise, breaking the silence that had endured until that moment.

“I’m not sure I feel like it.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Giovanna I knew is a memory that I do not intend to share with anyone. Much less with you,” I answered flatly. “You’ll have to be satisfied with what we may discover by following those two trucks, like a couple of deranged investigators.”

“You’re stupid and arrogant,” he said in an unemotional tone. “You remind me of your father.”

I clamped the steering wheel hard with both hands to keep from reaching across and hitting him. “Don’t even say his name,” I shot back menacingly.

He nodded, and a tense silence prevailed inside the car. Fortunately, the truck pulled out again a short while later. The truck rumbled along the northbound provincial road for a couple of miles, then turned off onto a country road. It pulled to a halt in the courtyard of a farmhouse. Two other trucks and a few cars were parked outside. While the two men got out of the truck, we saw someone come out of the farmhouse.

I focused on him with the binoculars. “I know that man,” I blurted out. “It’s the Romanian from the Club Diana.”

“What do you mean?” Alvise asked.

“His name is Constantin Deaconescu. He came to town three or four years ago. He owns a nightclub.”