Venice Noir

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “I had nothing to do with it!” Roberto cried out.

  “You can tell that to the judge.” Franco tightened the handcuffs around his wrists.

  VI

  “Roberto Milan’s still maintaining he’s innocent,” said Clelia, as if she were thinking aloud.

  “He’s spent the last few years in prison in Tunisia—do you think he wants to be sent away again?” Franco retorted.

  “Still, those aren’t the eyes of a murderer. There’s regret, like when a love affair ends.”

  “I didn’t think you could be so romantic, Clelia. But come on—we need to stick to the facts. Everything points at Roberto Milan being guilty of murder. Restivo ruined his life, so once he was back in Italy, he faked the man’s suicide. Don’t forget that he’d spoken with his ex-fiancée just a few days before. Perhaps he hoped he and Annalisa could get back together again, once he’d gotten rid of her father.”

  “Have you heard anything from Lettieri?”

  Franco glanced at his watch. “No. We had an appointment half an hour ago in my office, but he didn’t show up. I tried calling his cell, but it’s switched off.”

  “And the office?”

  “No one’s answering.”

  “That’s odd. At this time of day his law firm should be open. Shall we go and pay him a visit? If I’m not mistaken, the office is in the San Polo district, not far from here.”

  They boarded the police motorboat and Inspector Armati moved to the controls. The surface of the Grand Canal reflected the palazzi and the moving clouds like a mirror. It struck Clelia that she would never get tired of the magic of Venice. Certain views still took her breath away even though she had marveled at them thousands of times. It happened as they passed under the Ponte degli Scalzi, with its single Istrian stone arch. Franco went slowly, and every now and then he stole a glance at her. Neither of them talked during the journey.

  In twenty minutes or so they arrived at Lettieri’s offices. The front door was ajar.

  “Anybody there?” called out Inspector Armati.

  Papers were scattered over the floor of the entrance hall. The phone had been thrown to the ground. A woman’s leg was sticking out from behind a desk. Commissario Vinci approached the body and checked the pulse. “She’s still alive,” she whispered. “Someone must’ve hit her over the head.”

  Inspector Armati took out his Beretta and walked slowly toward Lettieri’s office, while Clelia, service gun in hand, covered his back, crouching next to the desk.

  “It’s a mess in here. Come and look,” Armati said. The commissario joined him. Enrico Lettieri had been murdered. His body, which was lying faceup on the floor, was covered in stab wounds. There was blood everywhere.

  Instinctively, Clelia covered her mouth with her hand.

  “The killer went at the victim in a fit of rage,” said Franco. “Lettieri tried to defend himself as best he could. See? Multiple cuts on the hands and arms. Then he was struck in the chest and stomach, but the fatal wound was presumably the one to the throat.”

  “You contact the station, and I’ll call an ambulance.”

  Just before the ambulance arrived, Lettieri’s secretary regained consciousness. “They buzzed the intercom,” she spluttered. “They said they had to deliver a package and I opened the door. I had my back turned—I was putting a file away—when someone hit me. I felt an excruciating pain in my head. I must’ve passed out …”

  “Can you tell us anything about the voice?”

  “All I can tell you is that it was a woman’s. I can’t believe that Signor Lettieri was killed while I was here … It’s awful,” she said, unable to hold back the tears.

  “Try to stay calm. You’re safe now,” Commissario Vinci reassured her, clasping her hand in a motherly way. Then she stood up and looked at Franco. “Roberto Milan is innocent.”

  “You were right, Clelia. I was wrong about him being the murderer.”

  “But we weren’t wrong about the motive: it’s revenge. A revenge someone’s thought about for years.” Commissario Clelia Vinci pushed a lock of her dark hair behind her ear and frowned.

  “What do you mean?” At that instant Inspector Armati’s cell phone rang. “It’s Rossana, Restivo’s secretary,” he said, surprised, before answering.

  The girl sounded frightened: “Inspector, please! Come here now. I’m scared—”

  “Calm down, miss. The important thing is not to open the door to anyone.”

  “I got a phone call, a threat. They said all the traitors will die and that Lettieri was murdered. It can’t be true!”

  “I’m afraid it is. We’re at his office now—we’re still searching it.”

  “It’s not possible! It shouldn’t end like this!” she sobbed.

  “Rossana, try to stay calm. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  The girl’s agitated breathing could be heard on the other end of the line. After a few seconds of silence, Rossana began talking again: “Me and Luciano were in love. It’s not what you think … I wasn’t with him just because he was someone important. I really loved him, and he loved me too! So much that he’d made up his mind to run away with me.”

  “What?!” exclaimed Franco. “And why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “I was afraid.” Rossana explained that no one knew that Restivo’s ad agency was going through a difficult time. Before long, Ad Work would have had to declare bankruptcy. So Restivo had falsified the accounts and, with embezzled funds hidden away in a tax haven, he was getting ready to leave Italy with Rossana.

  Franco pressed her further: “Who knew about your getaway plans?”

  The girl replied: “Only Lettieri.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I couldn’t stay in my apartment in Mestre. I didn’t feel safe. I’m at 140/B Calle de la Madonna, near the Rialto Bridge. Luciano bought this penthouse for us to meet. It was our love nest.”

  “Are you sure that no one else knows about your nest?”

  “Only Lettieri knew. He told me to keep quiet and not to talk to anyone, but then I got that threatening call. I got scared and I decided to call you.”

  “You did the right thing. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

  “But it will! They’ve killed Luciano, Lettieri, and now they’re coming after me! They said they know where I am and they’ll kill me.” She stopped talking suddenly. “Someone’s here!” she screamed.

  “Rossana, stay calm. Who said they’d kill you? Stay with me, we’re on our way!” But the phone had already gone dead. “Let’s go!” the inspector barked at Clelia.

  On the way to Calle de la Madonna, Franco explained to her what Rossana had said on the phone.

  “There’s no doubt now—it’s clear who’s behind these deaths,” the commissario said. “I just hope we’re there in time.”

  “I’ve told them at the Questura. They said they’ll get there as quickly as they can, but there aren’t many motorboats available, and we’re closest.”

  As soon as they were near the Rialto Bridge, Franco moored the boat. The famous bridge, with its arcades and white stone, was packed with tourists taking their souvenir photos. Franco held out his hand, helping Clelia to step ashore. They started to run, cutting through the chaotic crowd of passersby. When they reached Calle de la Madonna, they noticed that the front door of 140/B was open. Franco doubled over to catch his breath and Clelia sank back against the wall, gasping.

  “Wait here,” said Franco after a moment, looking her straight in the eye.

  “No. I’m coming with you. It might be dangerous.”

  “I’d prefer that you stay here and watch my back, in case the killer tries to find a way out.”

  “I’ll be able to watch your back better if I’m just behind you.”

  “You’re so stubborn. Okay then.”

  With their guns drawn, they headed up the steps. The building seemed deserted. Presumably it was made up of luxury apartments, currently vacant. The elevator wasn’t w
orking, or perhaps someone had deliberately tampered with it.

  By the time they were outside the apartment, they were both short of breath again. Clelia’s hands were sweaty and she had a tightness at the back of her throat. There was a key in the lock. “That must be Luciano Restivo’s key,” she whispered. “The killer must still be inside.”

  “Be careful,” Franco said quietly to her before sidling into the entrance hall. Perhaps it was in that very instant that Clelia realized how much she cared about him.

  As they cautiously approached the living room, a muffled groaning caught their attention. The noise was coming from the room at the end of the hall. Armati burst in, followed by Clelia a step behind. What greeted them was a sight that froze their blood: Mariasole Vincenzi Restivo was on her knees on the bed, her hands fastened tight around Rossana’s neck. The girl’s eyes were staring, her face turning blue, her tongue protruding.

  “Let her go! Now!” shouted Clelia, pointing her gun at Mariasole.

  The woman looked up, loosening her grip. Rossana started coughing.

  “Move away from the bed with your hands up.”

  Mariasole seemed to come out of a trance. She glanced around her, as if she didn’t understand where she was, and she let go. Slowly, she slid across the covers until she reached the window. “We women are so good at choosing the wrong man,” she murmured. She grabbed the handle of the window frame and opened the shutters.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” said Commissario Vinci in a firm but gentle tone of voice.

  “I gave Luciano everything. My youth, my beauty. A daughter. He was no one, but with my money he was able to make his way in society.” Mariasole’s face was a mask of pain. “And now he wanted to leave me. He was bankrupt. He would’ve run off to the tropics to enjoy life with that slut of a secretary, while I would have been left here. They would have taken everything from me to pay his debts. Even the house that my father built and loved so much. But I discovered everything, and I wouldn’t let him hurt us again.”

  “No one’s going to hurt you anymore. We’re here now, to help you.”

  “No one can help me. It’s too late. My husband was a bad man. He made my daughter ill—did you know that? He took away the love of her life, but even then I was able to forgive him. Not this time. This time he’s paid, and all the others had to pay as well.”

  Clelia realized that Mariasole was about to do something rash. She started to advance slowly toward her, moving around the bed. “Just take it easy,” she said, but her words were lost in a gust of cold air. Mariasole looked at her helplessly. Clelia saw the glimmer of green in her eyes that must have made her so beautiful when she was young. Mariasole threw herself out of the open window.

  Clelia rushed forward, trying to grab hold of her, but it was useless.

  A thud, then silence.

  VII

  The sunset blazed in scarlet streaks against the leaden sky behind the psychiatric hospital in Marghera. The Bora had returned, and the howling of the wind echoed through the branches of the trees. Clelia, breathless, got out of the police car and started to run toward the entrance. Behind her, Franco struggled to keep up.

  Roberto Milan was sitting on the steps, staring down at the ground. In front of him passed two nurses with a stretcher carrying a body covered by a white sheet. They loaded the stretcher into the back of an ambulance where a small group of hospital employees had gathered. Clelia made her way through the crowd to where Dr. Sofia Ghelfi was standing.

  “What’s happened?”

  The psychologist studied her for a long while before replying. Then she murmured: “I don’t know how it could have happened. Annalisa … she found a newspaper … There was something about Roberto Milan being arrested—”

  “She must have thought history was repeating itself,” Clelia interrupted. “That people like them don’t get a second chance at happiness.”

  “She cut her wrists sometime before dawn. She used a bread knife; it’s possible she took it from the kitchen.”

  “She couldn’t have known that her boyfriend was being released this morning.”

  “She was such a sweet girl. I can’t believe it …” Dr. Ghelfi couldn’t hold back a sob. “Excuse me,” she cried out, hurriedly retreating toward the doors of the hospital.

  Franco shook his head. “Mother and daughter, both of them ended up the same way.”

  Clelia moved closer to Roberto Milan. She bent down, trying to look him in the eye. He didn’t return her gaze. He just said: “For two years all I’ve done is dream about the moment when I’d hold Annalisa in my arms again. But I couldn’t protect her from the world. Or from herself.” Clelia laid a hand on his shoulder. Roberto shrank from her touch. “Is this the kind of justice you joined the police for? Your law should have protected Annalisa. And instead it’s killed her.” The boy’s voice trembled with rage.

  Clelia noticed that he was wearing a silver ring, identical to the one Annalisa had worn. She remembered what the girl had said: Roberto had given her the ring only a month after they had gotten together. Clelia couldn’t help thinking that the ring—representing the promise they had made to each other—had become the symbol of a shattered love affair. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  Franco came closer and took her arm for a moment. “We should go,” he said. Indeed, there was no reason for them to stay. They went back to the car and headed full speed in silence toward the Ponte della Libertà. Commissario Clelia Vinci stared stubbornly at the landscape beyond the car window. It wasn’t just an innocent girl who had died that day, but also the hope she had clung to that—despite all the suffering and death—something good could be salvaged.

  When they arrived at the Questura, Franco invited her into his office. He closed the door behind her and began to speak: “Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we want. You’ve got nothing to blame yourself for, Clelia.”

  “Thanks for saying that, but it’s not true,” she replied. She paused, then: “Certain people come into the world like shooting stars. You look up at the sky and all that’s left is a shining trail. Sometimes I wonder why I chose this job.”

  “You chose it so you could keep your father’s dream alive. Your dream, Clelia.”

  “My dream’s becoming a nightmare. Or perhaps it’s just all this wind; bit by bit it’s taking my soul.”

  Franco took a step toward her, but Clelia stopped him. “Sorry. My daughter’s waiting for me at home. I think I’ve already neglected her far too much recently. And for what?”

  Franco stood motionless, watching the silhouette of his boss disappearing down the corridor.

  A few days later, Clelia took her daughter to Murano. The days were getting longer and the air brought with it the first signs of a biting spring that seemed intent on sweeping away the ghosts of the winter.

  The church of Santi Maria e Donato rose up in front of them in all its grandeur. Light glinted off the red bricks and the white marble columns. Clelia sat down on a bench and helped Laura put on her rollerblades. Then she pulled a package out of her coat pocket. She unwrapped it to reveal the small crystal unicorn they had bought a few minutes before in one of the glassblowers’ workshops. She gazed at the blue shimmer of its coat, its outstretched wings, and the mane that seemed to be tousled by a never-ending breeze.

  Laura started skating backward and forward in the large square, waving her arms and shouting to attract her mother’s attention. Her voice sounded muffled by the time it reached Clelia.

  Clelia looked at her and forced a smile.

  LITTLE SISTER

  BY FRANCESCA MAZZUCATO

  Ghetto Vecchio

  Translated from Italian by Judith Forshaw

  The Old Ghetto. That’s the name of the area where she lives, but if anyone asks she says she lives near Cannaregio. She doesn’t like saying the word ghetto. Some words are too blunt, too aggressive, and because of their meaning they are left unspoken. She knows that ghettos exist but she doesn’t want to use t
hat name. And she knows that we create them, we invent them, and there are lots of people who choose to live in them out of fear. In fact, she is always on her own, she has an unvarying routine that she follows every day, and she inhabits what she calls in her head her personal ghetto, a ghetto constructed with painstaking care. It’s about having a boundary. She walks along it and never attempts to cross it. She has lived like this for so many years and it works for her. Or rather, she has made it work for her. It is a fundamental issue.

  She lives in a tiny house that gives off lots of different smells; they change depending on the day, her mood, the weather, the amount of work she has to do. She has always been hypersensitive to smells. Smells and flavors are subjective, they have no independent reality. She didn’t know that before she discovered the kaleidoscope of different sensations and different reactions that produce all the various smells that emanate from people, from the boats loaded with fish, and even from the streets, bridges, and squares of the city. She has always wanted to live here, in this particular area of Venice. She could have chosen many other places and she could still change her mind. There’s nothing keeping her here. She can’t go back, that’s for certain, but she can, if she wants, move somewhere else. Relocate, if she wants. With so many different cities to choose from, sometimes the idea pops into her head, but the next second it vanishes: she can’t. She feels complete here, even in her solitude. In the voluntary prison she’s lived in for years.

  My neighbors must have been cooking vegetables, revolting vegetables, there’s a disgusting smell on the landing, damn them, their complete lack of respect makes me shudder, I’m going to be sick, I’m running to the bathroom.

  She works most of the day and often at night as well; she doesn’t mind working hard or that she doesn’t do specific things at specific times. Sometimes she loses track of the time and isn’t sure if it is afternoon or evening, or which day it is. She forgets to eat. Apart from working, she puts load after load of washing in the machine because she likes watching it going around, the motion hypnotizes her; she reads romances, imagining lives that are outside her own experience and seem heavy with exotic, exaggerated emotion. Or else she lights scented candles. Only certain types. Perfumes she can tolerate and that make her feel good. She has carried out various experiments over the years. When those experiments have failed she has suffered the consequences. Now she knows perfectly the fragrances she doesn’t merely tolerate but that have a positive effect on her mood. She fills the house with them, as well as with incense sticks. She loves incense. She knows she is surrounded by a very strong protective force. It can be a ghetto, but it can also be a shrine. She shapes it herself.