Poisonville (21 page)

“If it’s any consolation, I’m not in much better shape myself. I’m going to have problems finding clients from now on.”

We sat in silence, seated face to face.

“There’s something I never told you,” she murmured in embarrassment. She stopped, unable to go on. I took one of her hands in both of mine. Carla’s hand returned the pressure and she continued with her story. “When I was working in Caserta, they forced me to alter some test results. This helped out a waste management company that was in cahoots with the Camorra. I could say that I was forced to do it, that if I had refused to do it someone else would have done it, for money. But the fact is that I did it. Altering those test results meant that thousands and thousands of acres of pastureland were polluted with toxic substances. It means that I allowed children to drink milk poisoned with dioxin. Children that might very well contract leukemia inside of a year.”

I let go of her hand. “That’s why Giovanna arranged to bring you up here. And now I understand why you knew so much about the Land of Fires. Why didn’t you tell me about at the beginning?”

“I had no obligation to tell you anything.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

Carla didn’t answer. She took a new pack of cigarettes out of her purse and opened it with nervous gestures. “Don’t take that tone with me,” she said, as she brought the flame of her lighter up to the tip of the cigarette. “I’m not Giovanna, get that into your head. I didn’t betray you, I never lied to you.”

Her words felt to me like a hard punch in the face. I was taking it out on the only person who had had the courage to tell the truth.

“I imagine it wasn’t easy to work with those people,” I said in an understanding tone.

“I’ll say,” she responded harshly. “I was twenty-eight years old and I had come down there from the deep north. It didn’t take them long to put me in a state of terror. A casual phrase here, a veiled allusion there. That’s how they do it. I felt so dirty, so soiled, that I decided that I’d never knuckle under again in my life.”

We sat smoking in silence. Then she got up and left without another word. I almost didn’t notice that she’d left. I was too busy looking deep inside myself.

* * *

Giacomo Zuglio was brooding as he sat slumped in his easy chair in his living room at home. For a moment, he allowed himself to be distracted by the pathetic spectacle of his sad-sack wife sitting at the dining room table, smoking one cigarette after another, staring into the middle distance. Lucio’s arrest, the ensuing loss of reputation in town, and the discovery of the secret toxic dump had wiped away for the moment any dreams he might have had of being admitted into the Foundation. Trevisan hadn’t minced words. “I couldn’t dream of nominating you right now,” Trevisan had told him. Then he’d added that Zuglio would only have to bide his time for a while, let things quiet down. He’d just have to be patient and wait. He hadn’t done anything but be patient and wait for the past several years, and he was sick of dealing with messengers and henchmen like Constantin Deaconescu. He wanted a place at the table with the Contessa. The Romanian had warned him that the next day the Carabinieri would conduct a raid on his land and on the headquarters of the Eco T.D.W. and that they would both officially become suspects of conspiracy to traffic in toxic wastes. Nothing to worry about, the Romanian had reassured him. They wouldn’t find any significant grounds for indictment, they’d never wind up in court. The trucks and the drivers had already gone back to Romania. He could rely on Constantin. He was a real hardass, and back in Romania, when the Communists had been in charge of things, he had worn the uniform of a captain in the intelligence agency. Zuglio was certain that now he was the right-hand man of the Romanian Mafia in the Northeast, but he had avoided asking any indiscreet questions. Every so often, Constantin had asked him to “invest” certain sums in dollars and marks. Old banknotes stuffed in plastic shopping bags or in black trash bags. That morning Constantin had arranged to meet on a dirt road outside of town.

“You need to get in touch with Barovier and convince him to meet you,” he had said.

Zuglio made a face. He had no desire to see Alvise, and he didn’t see any reason to do so.

The Romanian had explained the matter to him briefly, and Zuglio had been frankly impressed with the fiendish brilliance of the plan. Fate was about to play the same trick on Alvise Barovier a second time.

He had extracted his cell phone from the pocket of the heavy jacket and called the motel.

“It’s Giacomo Zuglio.”

“What do you want?” Barovier had asked, suspiciously.

“I have something to tell you about the old days.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, you never learn, do you? These aren’t things you talk about on the phone.”

Alvise said nothing.

“Well?” he insisted.

“Where and when?”

“This evening at nine, at the trout farm. You remember where it is?”

Zuglio snapped his phone shut with a satisfied smile. It had been easy. Alvise Barovier was an idiot. He always had been.

Zuglio stretched in an easy yawn and looked at his watch. It wasn’t long till the meeting. He walked downstairs to the cellar and took a can of wall paint from a shelf. He pried it open with a screwdriver. He pulled a plastic bag out of the paint and rinsed the paint off it in a sink. He ripped open the layers of plastic and checked to make sure that the pistol was loaded. Alvise had a nasty personality. And he was taller and bigger than Zuglio. Better take precautions, like Constantin had warned him. He didn’t want to return home that night with a black eye.

* * *

Alvise handed the key in at the reception desk. He climbed onto the stolen bicycle and pedaled off into the night. After a few hundred yards he was already panting. He filled his lungs with cold air to find the strength to keep up his speed. Anxiety had begun to devour him immediately after he hung up. And it kept him from thinking clearly. He couldn’t see the absurdity of his thoughts, which were only wish-fulfillments of the yearnings for justice, redemption, and revenge that had tormented him for all these years.

He had spent the last hour walking back and forth across the room. Three steps from the bed to the door, three-and-a-half from the door to the bathroom. He was convinced that Zuglio had finally decided to tell the truth. Or at least that part of the truth that did not involve him personally. After the discovery of the secret toxic waste dump, he must have understood that the only way to stay out of prison was to negotiate on one or several fronts. And now Alvise couldn’t wait to meet him face to face. Zuglio would finally clear him of the crime and he would be able to stay here in town to look after Paola and Lucio.

Alvise had never been so confused, weak, and defenseless, but when he looked in the bathroom mirror before leaving the house, he thought he was staring at the face of a winner. Ten minutes later, he reached the trout farm. He leaned the bicycle against the side of Zuglio’s Ferrari without a thought for the scratches he’d leave on the bodywork. He pushed the gate open and walked in. The place was empty and silent. Zuglio was waiting for him, leaning against the pole of one of the floodlights that illuminated the walkways between the trout tanks.

“Okay, talk,” Alvise snapped.

“What’s the hurry?” Zuglio replied sarcastically. “Let me take a good look at you. My goodness, you’re in bad shape. Nobody would think that you used to move in high society.”

Barovier lost control and grabbed him by the lapels. “You’re the reason all this happened to me,” he shouted.

Zuglio pulled out his pistol and leveled it at his chest. “Calm down, and get away from me.”

Alvise, frightened, took a step back. A cruel smile formed on Zuglio’s lips. “You’re right. I’m the one who ruined you. But it wasn’t my idea.”

“Then whose was it?”

“Let’s just say people from your social class. They had plans, and you and Conte Giannino didn’t fit in with those plans,” he answered in amusement. “They weren’t interested in your furniture factory, they just wanted to get you out of the way, they wanted a clear playing field. Then they took the whole town for themselves.”

In Alvise’s befuddled mind there was suddenly a shaft of light, a moment’s clarity. He felt like shouting: “Now I understand! Now I’ve figured it out!” like the town fool. He just had one more question for Zuglio.

“Who killed Giovanna? Was it you?”

Zuglio didn’t answer. He just snickered and shook his head. Alvise clenched both fists and took a step forward. The other man aimed the pistol right at his heart. A shot echoed through the silent countryside. The pistol dropped from Zuglio’s hand; Zuglio clutched at his chest. He tried to remain standing, but managed only to stumble two steps backward and then toppled into the ice-cold water of a trout tank. Alvise turned suddenly. He saw a man emerge from the darkness.

“I know you,” he whispered. “You’re the Romanian.”

Constantin said nothing. He stepped past him, picked Zuglio’s pistol up from the ground, and fired a shot into Alvise’s heart. Alvise dropped like a brick. Then the Romanian tossed Zuglio’s pistol into the tank, and carefully placed his own pistol into Alvise’s dead hand. He wedged his victim’s finger into the trigger guard and used it to fire a shot into the air. Then he stood up and looked around with satisfaction. He had always been particularly good at manipulating crime scenes. He walked off thinking to himself that there was nothing left to fear. Zuglio had always been the weak link in the chain. If he had talked, he would have allowed the Carabinieri to reconstruct the hierarchy of the organization that ran the traffic in toxic waste. The only thing that bothered him was that he didn’t understand why they had told him to eliminate Alvise Barovier as well.

* * *

At six in the morning the Carabinieri began their sweep. Police seals were placed on the gate outside the toxic waste dump and searches were conducted in the offices of the Eco T.D.W., the financial holding company owned by Zuglio, the Diana nightclub, and the homes of Davide Trevisan, Giacomo Zuglio, and Constantin Deaconescu. None of them was at home. Nor was any compromising evidence found. At 8:20 that morning, Inspector Mele was informed that two corpses had been found at the trout farm. At a little past ten, he called me. “Alvise Barovier is dead,” he announced in a formal voice. “He and Zuglio got into a duel and killed one another.”

I immediately went to see Carla. I didn’t want her to hear about it from the news report on Antenna N/E. She burst into tears and took refuge in my arms. When I got home, I received a phone call from my father.

“I told you he was a killer,” he said without preamble. “I don’t know how you could have believed him. And I don’t know how you could have betrayed my trust.”

“I acted according to my conscience, and in the full respect of the law,” I shot back. “It’s what you taught me to do, Papa.”

He ignored my words. “You’ve shown that you lack the maturity to take on significant professional responsibilities.”

“Are you kicking me out of the law firm even before I set foot in it?” I asked, speaking loudly and angrily.

“No, that’s hardly called for. I’m just saying that we’ll need to reexamine your role. I’m sorry but, at least for moment, you’re in no condition to take charge of the law firm.”

“At this point, I’m happy to turn down the offer.”

“You’re going to have to work with me if you hope to get any clients.”

“Then I’ll just have to do without clients.”

“You’re behaving like a child,” he huffed in annoyance. “I’m trying to be indulgent with you. I know it’s only because you’re upset about Giovanna’s death.”

“I don’t need your understanding, Papa.”

“Try to think clearly, Francesco. And above all, try not to disappoint me.”

“Disappoint you? You’ve disappointed me,” I said, snapping the phone shut on him.

On the 1
P.M.
news, Beggiolin largely overlooked the significance of the investigation into the toxic waste trafficking. That was not merely because the news was overshadowed by the day’s top news item—the deaths of Alvise and Zuglio—but also because cases of fraud of every sort were being discovered on a daily basis by the police. By now, that type of crime was endemic to the Northeast. One need only watch the weekly national broadcast on consumer’s rights to see it clearly. Beggiolin read the report with no particular interest or emphasis. He devoted greater attention, on the other hand, to a press release from the Torrefranchi Foundation. The Foundation stated that, while it was completely free of any involvement in the suspected crimes under investigation, it remained willing to clean up the site of the former secret dump, in virtue of its commitment to the environment. Davide Trevisan, through his lawyer, one of my father’s assistants, had communicated that he was out of the country on business, and that he would return home as soon as possible to clarify his position.

The special report lasted no longer than two minutes, and the detail that Zuglio had been declared a suspect was overlooked entirely. Then, on the screen, I saw footage of Alvise’s corpse prone on the cement. Then I saw Zuglio’s body being dragged dripping from the trout tank. The journalist took full advantage of the opportunity to delve into the macabre details, describing how the trout had ravaged the former bank officer’s facial features.

Then it was Mele’s turn. He refused to make a statement, pointing out that investigations were still underway. Last of all came Zan, who was much more amenable to Beggiolin’s questioning. The prosecutor stated that there was no doubt about the reconstruction of what had happened. Barovier and Zuglio had shot one another to death. He was equally confident about the motives. Barovier had nursed a grudge and a deep-seated hatred for Zuglio, since Barovier held Zuglio responsible for his bankruptcy. Probably Barovier had persuaded the former bank officer to meet to thrash out old disagreements, but it had tragically degenerated into a gunfight.