I spread my arms helplessly. “I have a hard time believing there was a plot. Who would have a reason to ruin you?”
Alvise started walking back and forth in the room. “I don’t think you can imagine how often I’ve thought about it. It was a difficult time, lots of things were changing, but it was possible to glimpse the dawn of the golden age of the Northeast. Conte Giannino and I were planning to create an organized industrial sector.”
“Exactly what the Torrefranchi Foundation did later,” I broke in.
“Precisely. There weren’t many companies back then and we didn’t really know what we were doing, but we did know that we could consolidate and coordinate our operations. And we knew that would make us stronger, both on the market and as an association. It was our dream. Instead, I wound up in prison, and he died of a heart attack a short while later.”
He sat back down, his gaze lost in an indeterminate moment in the past. Barovier was a beaten man dreaming pointlessly of redemption. I felt no pity for him. He had squandered his fortune on roulette; he had betrayed his wife—details that vanished from his version of what happened. Carla wrapped the towel around his neck again and went back to cutting his hair, with a cigarette clamped between her lips. Between the index and middle fingers of her left hand, she would seize a lock of hair, check the length, and then clip it. The smoke from her cigarette forced her to close one eye, but she didn’t seem to mind. Only when the cigarette had burned down to the filter did she finally decide to stub it out. She reached out for an ashtray emblazoned with the logo of a pharmaceutical company.
“Zuglio ruined the Barovier family’s life,” Carla said suddenly, staring at me.
I immediately saw what she was driving at. I had thought of it myself. “I became the slut of the man who ruined my life,” that damned sentence that I couldn’t get out of my mind was beginning to make sense. Moreover, Zuglio’s name appeared repeatedly in the trial record. And it was the most frequently underlined name. Sharp, almost angry strokes of the pencil.
It was my turn to stare at Carla. “I know what you’re thinking but I can’t believe it.”
“You don’t want to believe it,” she said emphatically.
She was right. What little we had discovered pointed to Zuglio—both past and present. Most important, he was the owner of a secret toxic waste dump, and Giovanna had known about it, since she had asked Carla to carry out tests on soil samples.
Okay, all the evidence pointed to Zuglio but I couldn’t accept the idea that Giovanna had been his lover.
I looked Carla in the eye. “Do you know him?”
“No.”
“I know him by sight,” I said. “I can assure you that he’s not Giovanna’s type.”
“What do you know?” Alvise cried. “Maybe Giovanna got caught up in something she couldn’t control.”
“Maybe she didn’t know how to manage things properly,” Carla added. “She got in over her head, and wound up in bed with that bastard.”
“You’re fantasizing now,” I replied, uncertainly. “Anyway, all we know about Zuglio is what they say about him in town.”
“We can always find out the rest,” Alvise suggested.
* * *
Giacomo Zuglio was a short man. Until third grade, he had been the tallest kid in his class. Then all the other kids that he had enjoyed tormenting began to grow, leaving him behind and, finally, looking down at him from above. From then on, the fun was over for him. His only purpose was to clamber over obstacles that cropped up in his path, each of them always too tall to get over easily. It was hard for him; by nature he was a fighter, a puncher, a combatant.
He’d had to settle for a bank job. When he was hired, he was convinced that he had what it takes for a spectacular career, but that’s not how it went. He remained on the ground floor, a humble director of a small-town branch. Any jerk could look down on him, just because he was so-and-so or such-and-such, from this important family, descended from this or that successful manufacturer. Lawyers, doctors, industrialists, craftsmen: they were all better than him. Soon, however, he noticed that there was a river of money flowing through his little branch of the bank, and not all of that money was earned through sheer hard work. And so he began to use the bank as if it were his personal property. He loaned money at cutthroat rates and deposited the profits in his personal coffers, which took the form of a fictitious holding company, a shell company that he had founded under his wife’s name. Once he had socked away enough money to equal a sizable win at the state lottery, he resigned from the bank and began his career as an “investor.”
His masterpiece had been a three-million euro swindle, the “Klondike gold rush.” He had got in touch with certain Italo-Canadians, well known to the FBI and Scotland Yard since the seventies, who turned out to be the owners of a few gold mines in Canada.
There actually was a little bit of gold still in them, but it would cost too much to bring it to the surface.
He had enrolled twenty or so fake promoters, genuine talents in the realm of cajoling and tricking the gullible and simple-minded. He had put together conventions in luxury hotels run by his usual group of friends and he had printed up tempting prospectuses. There was even a video depicting the bustling activity at the mine site.
The fraud had scooped up the savings of about a thousand small investors—a thousand fat chickens to be plucked. Clearly, none of them were readers of Mickey Mouse comics, because if they had been, they would have been well aware that even Scrooge McDuck had stopped prospecting for gold in that part of the world a hundred years ago. But such are the wonders of the free market. Small investors—the chickens—had just been skinned alive by the financial crisis of 2001, and for them actually to have to resort to hiding their money under their mattresses, the way their grandparents had done, only reminded them of their peasant origins. The initial investment was quite prudent, only 3,500 euros, but it was the investors themselves who insisted on putting in larger sums. There were some investors who put in their entire retirement nest egg. The salesmen were trained to dissuade those who were caught up in the fever, but most of the time even they couldn’t talk the investors out of it. People from the Northeast refuse to listen to reason if they think that by investing 3,500 euros they can earn 21,900 euros. The most mistrustful investors were invited to Canada. There they were welcomed by attractive hostesses, loaded into limousines, and then accompanied to the mines, where work was proceeding at a furious pace. When they returned home, they told their friends what they had seen, and they ultimately proved to be even more persuasive than the salesmen.
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. I
n 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.
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