The Dawn of Sin Read online

  There had been an accident. An old woman had driven a stretch of highway against the road and crashed into a truck. When an inhabitant of Castelmuso died in that way always

  ended up on the front page. But not that day. The place that would have belonged to the deceased woman was occupied by a huge photo of Daisy. A seductive selfie borrowed from Facebook, where the soft curve of her breasts glimpsed under a tank top knotted maliciously above the navel. Daisy was the news of the day.

  Sandra, after a moment of amazement, showed the photo to her daughter, who blushed with embarrassment.

  "But son of a bitch ... this Guido pays me” he said with a desperate note in his voice.

  Guido Gobbi was his classmate. He was working as an aspiring publicist in Cronache Cittadine. He thought to impress her by dedicating the opening news to her. The article was not bad, but that photo ...

  "But what did that fool think of? Oh my god, no. Pimples. I hadn't noticed the pimples. Why didn't you take them out with Photoshop? "

  "But no, you came along well” Sandra reassured her, disapproving of her daughter's habit of portraying herself in sexy poses, certainly not in keeping with her young age. He did not scold her just for not scratching the fresh and evolving, and therefore fragile, self-esteem of the adolescent Daisy.

  The girl tore the tablet from her mother's hands, and read: "Daisy Magnoli started singing and dancing at the age of six. She took part in numerous competitions, winning them: among all the new Cantagiro, and the third edition of Una voce per te. She shot a video (directed and music by Adriano Magnoli), entitled Iʹm Rose. The song totaled more than four hundred thousand views. From there to being chosen to participate in a talent the step was short. Soon we will see our fellow citizen on Canale 104, and sorry if it is little! We just have to wish Daisy Magnoli a big good luck. "

  "A profound article, no doubt about it” Daisy snorted.

  "It's not that bad” Sandra assured her. "Guido was nice, especially when ..." Sandra paused, as if she had to say something that was particularly close to her heart.

  "... especially when he mentioned your brother."

  "So Adry, aren't you happy?" Asked the mother, showing the article to her son. "It doesn't happen every day to end up in the newspaper."

  Adriano did not reply. He looked at the cup held in his hands, a trickle of milk that fell to the side of his trembling lips, the look that at times seemed dull at times he sought that of his mother. But at that moment the eyes were only full of shame. Sandra sighed patiently. He reached out under the table, resting it on the flap of his son's pants. They were wet with urine.

  She had to change it once again. That too was part of his daily rituals. Daisy had noticed her brother's unease, but as always pretended nothing. "I go to school. Hi, big brother. Please, be good! »He exclaimed smacking a kiss on the cheek. When it happens to have a sick brother, stuffed with drugs and stunned by a fate made only of bad luck, the best cure is to feed him with massive doses of love. Daisy had got it right, and was doing everything she could to put it into practice.

  The girl slung her backpack and left the house. The bus was stopped on the road, right in front of the driveway of his house, a two-storey house with exposed beams, large and bright windows and a flower garden, a small undisputed kingdom of bees and colored butterflies in search of sweet scents and intense. The villa, together with a substantial account in the name of the children, were the only bearable things left by Paolo Magnoli before killing himself.

  Daisy got on the bus, the door closed with a plunger behind her. On the way he reviewed the history lesson:

  “Torquato Tasso was born in Sorrento on 11 March 1054. Son of Porzia deʹ Rossi and Bernardo, a court man and

  scholar. Left orphan of his mother, he follows his father to Urbino, Venice, Padua ... and therefore, ... but who the hell does the rest remember it! ʹ

  The bus went up the narrow, winding road and entered the ring road. At eight in the morning, the inhabitants of Castelmuso and always queuing to occupy two roundabouts of that stretch of the provincial road, where a fat and bored policeman disposed of the traffic with laughable authority.

  The Leopardi high school was at the end of the last roundabout, a three-storey red brick building with a flat roof serving as a terrace. It had been built in the eighties, when the town tended to expand the periphery on the east side, not too far from the industrial area.

  Daisy got off the bus, crossed the gate and crossed the courtyard to reach the literature room. Some students greeted her by making witty jokes; someone whistled with his fingers in his mouth, others clapped his hands to tease her, a sign that the article had not gone unnoticed.

  Lorena was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, one arm supporting the massive dictionary of Italian, the other swirling the air to tell her to hurry. Daisy quickened her pace to reach Lorena, when she saw Guido. The author of the article was a boy who, if not entirely introverted, was still a dark and silent teenager, with ruffled raven curls, a discolored sweatshirt, round, small and slippery glasses that he placed with a finger so as not to let them fall from the nose.

  "H ... hello, Daisy” he said insecure, the words that got stuck because of a bad omen that was suggesting that he keep quiet. A middle ground emerged that made him stammer instead of being silent.

  "Did you like the article?" He said putting his hands in the bottom of his pants pockets, focusing his eyes on her fresh and clean face.

  Daisy did not reply and went straight, reserving those attentions that are given, rather than to an unwelcome person, to a particularly insignificant piece of furniture.

  "Well? What's wrong with you now? "

  "The photo, asshole!" Lorena scolded him. «You put a selfie posted on Facebook. Only friends could see it on social media. Everybody saw it on Chronicles. "

  «But the photo is, how to say, intense. Yes. Intense is the right term. "

  Lorena also agreed, and Daisy probably thought the same way. Lorena however knew the strange psychology of her friend.

  She was not angry with Guido for the photo, but for something deeper and more complicated.

  Daisy Magnoli had a crush on him. An attraction that he could not manage, or even forgive himself. In fact, Guido did not have any of those qualities he would have wanted in a boy. He didn't find him attractive or very nice. He was unsociable, closed and boring. The other boys, on the contrary, were eccentric, a little wild and reckless. While Guido was depressed and grey like a sky without lightning. Daisy couldn't have come up with someone like that.

  In spite of everything, the curly boy was always at the centre of his thoughts. That's why he treated him badly. He wanted to force him to be detested, so maybe he would get it out of his head.

  The students entered the classroom. Lorena placed the dictionary on the counter and sat down next to Daisy.

  "The thing is, I can't stand having it always on my mind” she murmured to her friend. «But have you seen him? Today it is more curved than usual. But how much time do you spend in front of the computer? »He said, looking for an excuse that made him indigestible.

  Guido entered the courtroom last. He shared the counter with Filippa Villa, a huge and arrogant girl, a middle finger

  tattooed on the lower back that came out of a shirt that was too short. The lesson had started, but the professor was not yet seen.

  The Italian teacher was the union representative of the school.

  Someone had seen him arguing in the secretariat, where he had shouted something about some reimbursement of expenses for teachers' extra-curricular activities. Each union question to be solved took a long time, and Manuel Pianesi, the student who occupied the first desk, took the opportunity to turn on the computer on the desk.

  Manuel downloaded the video of Iʹm rose from YouTube, which immediately appeared projected on the interactive whiteboard.

  "Manu, get that stuff out!" Daisy complained.

  "Have you seen? Nearly half a million views, "Manuel
noted, the dreadlocks coming down on two straight, sturdy shoulders. Manuel was a rowdy and amusing type, of those who felt the irrepressible need to show off.

  "Has anyone by chance read the latest comments?" Laughed the boy, trying to draw attention to himself.

  "What do you mean?" Daisy was alarmed and, fearing a joke, got up from the desk, reached the desk and snatched the mouse from Manuel's hands. He shrugged, she clicked on the comment bar.

  Daisy Magnoli looks like a diva, but I can guarantee you that she is so shy that if you ask her, she will show it only on Instagram. Signed Manuel Pianesi, beloved high school classmate.

  "Fool. You pay me this, "Daisy got angry.

  «Come on, it's just a constructive criticism. And then you didn't see what Leo wrote, "Manuel reported pointing his thumb to indicate Leonardo Fratesi, a boy with an athletic physique, not very tall, with red hair straight as bristles.

  Leo stood up from his seat and mocked Daisy with a bow.

  Daisy Magnoli's always getting off on it. That means we'll wait till she's old and ugly, then she'll throw it at us. Signed Leo Fratesi, another beloved high school buddy.

  Daisy read a plethora of funny comments, all signed by her "beloved high school friends".

  Daisy Magnoli has tits so small that she wears beer caps instead of a bra.

  Daisy Magnoli, tired of jamming the mower, has decided to stop shaving.

  Daisy Magnoli vowed to be a virgin at the wedding. That's why she got married when she was 12.

  Daisy, while reading, blushed more and more, her eyebrows curled to threaten storm.

  Guido watched the dark and silent video. The film was a small masterpiece created by her brother. Adriano Magnoli had an extraordinary creative talent. A vein that the disease seemed somehow to have accentuated. I’m Rose was written in a single night. In the morning, the boy had sampled everything, and in the afternoon he was already in the cellar with his sister to film her singing the piece. Daisy danced in a room crammed with aluminium shelves and packing boxes sealed with scotch. Adriano made everything disappear thanks to digital effects. In the video Daisy appeared wrapped in coils of floating fog that seemed to dance with her.

  Daisy's success on the web was the key to her participation in the Next Generation, for her brother, I’m Rose, it became the object of his mania. Adriano sat in front of the computer for hours watching his sister's film. Now, the democratic, free, peeping web had thrown her into the moods of the people. She was criticized, celebrated and insulted by unknown people. She would never confess to it, but she found it exciting, as if someone were watching her naked through the keyhole.

  "I mean, what have I done to deserve a bunch of assholes as schoolmates?" she laughed.

  "Oh, boy, here he comes!" Lorraine became alarmed as the professor walked down the corridor.

  Daisy was about to turn off her computer when a new commentary appeared on the video.

  A short, mean sentence addressed to her brother.

  Adriano, stop looking for me. Or you're going to end up dead.

  Secret file #2

  The editorial office received the recorded documentation.

  To interview the witness is (omissis)

  THE REGISTRATION IS COMPLETE

  "Is that recorder on? Is that really necessary?"

  "Don't worry about the recorder. Just pretend it's not there."

  "Then, as I said before, after my Luca's death I couldn't find peace. I missed him. I miss him so much. I spent whole days on his grave. I sat on a picnic stool, a folding one. I'd sit

  there and talk to him. I talked about everything. School, mostly. I'd scold him for his grades. He could have given so much more, but he didn't want to study. Oh, how important school was to me, but not to him. And then I talked about the sport, the championship he couldn't see anymore. I told him about his AC Milan and the girls he really didn't care about, and what Pedra, our labrador who is like one of the family, did. When I'd finish chatting with him I'd close my chair and go home. I'd look at his photos, I'd see his films from when he was little... But that wasn't enough. Then I... I..."

  (witness starts crying)

  "Luca was his son."

  (The witness nodded without responding. She has a seizure. I want to suspend for a minute. The witness decides to continue.)

  "Sorry. It’s ok now."

  "I know it's painful. I understand. And tell me, was that when you decided to go to the medium?"

  "Yes. I don't usually believe in such things, but I missed it so much. She was 20 years old, you know? Only 20 years old. I had to hear his voice, or rather, delude myself that I could hear him, see him, touch him. I know I would offend Holy Mother Church by acting like that. I know I have sinned."

  (takes a glass of water)

  "Don't worry about that. Let's get down to business."

  "So... I'm going to the building across the street. On the fourth floor, the second door of the three, the ones facing the corridor. I enter the apartment. He takes me to a room that looks like a little chapel. The room smelled of incense. Above an altar were three lighted candlesticks and a monstrance. And the statue of the saint. A big, heavy statue, the kind you only see in churches. I was very impressed. I thought, "Where could he have gotten it?"

  "Are you talking about the statue of the patron saint?"

  "Yes. Very similar to the one they carry in the procession in winter."

  "The procession on the 24th of November. I know it. Go on."

  "The medium, Madame Geneve, as she called herself, closed the heavy velvet curtains. The room plunged into darkness. I sat with my hands resting on a dark wooden table. She was on the other side of the table. She began to call out my son's name. I felt stupid and petty at that point. How could I put my pain in that woman's hands? I knew she'd been in jail for fraud, but she lived in my neighbourhood, she was a stone's throw from my house, and the death of a child doesn't make you lucid. Yes, I was confused..."

  (pause. Start sobbing)

  "Please, you don't have to justify yourself. I'm not here to judge you."

  "Y... yes, of course. I wanted to leave, when suddenly I heard blows in the window. You know that noise that glass makes when it's hit by big hailstones?"

  "Yes, I do. Only it wasn't hail, was it? Tell me, didn't you think of a trick?"

  "I don't know what I thought. It just happened out of the blue. And then, no. It wasn't a trick. I know because when Madame Geneve moved the curtains, she screamed. She was frightened. I say, if it was a trick, what was the point of screaming in fear?"

  (nodding)

  "The ticking became louder, you could hear the noise even over the rooftops. The medium was at the window to check what was going on. The fog had lifted outside. But we still saw the coal hit the building."

  "Coal? Coal falling from the sky?"

  "That's right. Pieces of burning coal. It was banging on the tiles, on the wall. "Big and hard enough to dent the gutters."

  "How did you react? Did you get scared?"

  "Look, it's funny to say, but I was calm. An unusual calm. In fact, I was almost happy. I had deluded myself that it was a signal from my son. I was certain of it. But the psychic was terrified. I found myself calming her because Luca was there. He was there with me. And it was because of her. But she said it had nothing to do with what was happening. All she had to do was read me the papers, or something, she said.

  Like all the other bums, she was shuffling holy with the layman. Then the window suddenly opened wide. Pieces of coal fell into the room and hit the medium. The poor thing fell to the floor and lost a slipper.

  I don't know why the slipper stuck me. But it was all a blur at that point. Everything else, except the slipper that stuck to the carpet, is vague. I remember the table hit by the burning coal, the carpet that started to catch fire. It almost seemed as if that rain was hitting us as if to get us out of that place.

  A sort of warning coming from the sky. I tried to escape but the door was closed and wouldn'
t open. I was hit by some kind of fire. I got scalded and bruised. The blows hurt. Well, I don't know if what I saw was real. I just know that I wasn't calm or happy anymore. At that moment, I felt a dark and evil presence. I was terrified. I screamed. I realized no, it couldn't be my son. The last thing I remember was the statue of the patron saint. It was made of marble, very heavy, at least that's what it looked like to me. Before I fainted, I saw the statue fall. Madame Geneve was on her knees, hit on her back by large pieces of coal, but unable to find her slipper. With all that was going on, she was thinking about that shoe. I understood that she was trying to escape from that malignant reality by diverting it to simple, banal thoughts. What would be the point of fixing on a stupid wool slipper? That's when the statue fell on her and hit her on the back of the head. The poor woman's eyes turned to stare at the ceiling, the white of the sclera glittering in the light of the

  fire. A bloodstain came out of her head, spreading across the carpet. Then darkness. They found me an hour later at the bus stop. I don't know how I got there. I hoped I'd imagined it all. I thought the stress of losing my son, the medication I was taking to withstand pain that can't be explained, was causing the hallucinations. I held on unnecessarily to that hope. The night the police arrived in the neighbourhood. Madame Geneve had been found dead. Everyone thinks it was a murder. But I know what happened. It was something bad that killed her. The same thing that killed my son."

  (witness begins crying again)

  "Why didn't you go straight to the police?"

  "Because I was afraid! I couldn't tell them what I saw. They'd think I was crazy. Above all, I didn't want to be accused of murder."

  "You are aware that when the medium was found on the ground with a broken skull, there was an inscription on the wall marked with a piece of coal: 'Decus et Damnationisʹ. Beauty and Damnation. What do you think that means?"

  "I... I don't know. I swear I don't know."