The Dawn Of Sin

Valentino Grassetti

The Dawn of Sin

Valentino Grassetti
THE DAWNOF SIN

This novel is a fantasy work. The characters mentioned are inventions of the author and are intended to give truth to the story. Any analogy with facts and people, living or disappeared, is absolutely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Tektime
Original title: L’alba del peccatoI edition august 2018
Author: Valentino GrassettiTranslation: Fatima Immacolata Pretta
Graphic design: [e-mail]

THE DAWN OF SIN

I violate the canvas with nervous, impulsive and powerful brush strokes.

Dirty with truth.

(Pardo Melchiorri. Painter)

Nicole Dubuisson went out of her way to delight Paolo Magnoli with certain erotic games he loved to define très rare, where sex was often a note on the side-lines of their complicated lives.

In bed, Nicole needed neither love nor perversion. No handcuffs, ropes or whips to injure the flesh and relieve the scars of the soul. No feeling, pure or indecent it was, gave her pleasure. Nicole enjoyed only enjoying the taste of revenge.

She had sex with Paolo Magnoli because she had an outstanding account with her husband. A list of small and large misunderstandings, a long-lasting mourning list had led her to hate her spouse to the point of keeping him close, but only to be able to get rid of her own way. In fact, Nicole had decided to ruin his life without stamped papers. No goodbye jobs brought up by the immoral fees of certain lawyers. If Paolo Magnoli made sense of the miseries of his life by having Nicole put a twelve heel in the ass, for her to indulge the erotic fantasies of a depraved lover represented nothing more than one of the many moves of a chess game played against the very concept of marriage . Such a castrating institution was to be punished. This was his recurring thought every time he left the house wearing lace panties and winking smiles.

The two lovers lived in Castelmuso, a village of fifteen thousand souls, a geographical point suspended in time placed on a hill close to the Adriatic Sea.

A sign informed tourists that the country was counted among the most beautiful villages in Italy. It stood on the highest point of a pleasant hill, where the houses, the sumptuous and decadent buildings, the vaults thrown between the alleys, the dangling arches were an invitation to touch with hand those stones full of the energy of all their ghosts.

Sandra, Paolo Magnoli's wife, drove her husband out of the house when the psychologist told her that the children were ready to give up the presence of such a degenerate father. A week after being sent away from the family, they found Paolo's body near the farmhouse I Cavalieri. An elastic tie dangled from the branch of a robust olive tree: his last tie.

The inhabitants of Castelmuso said that he got crazy because of what they called the perfect poker: four aces made of coca, whiskey, debts and vaginas that sucks Mastercard. Daisy, Paolo Magnoli's daughter, was twelve when the tragedy happened. Adriano one less. The two children never forgave their father for leaving such a cowardly life.

But this was now part of the past.

1

DAISYSIXTEEN YEARS

The first Thursday of the month was a particularly grey day. The low clouds had settled on the roofs, the drizzle beating insistently on the school windows. Despite the weather Daisy Magnoli had the sun in her pocket. The news that had been waiting so long had come and he could not hide his enthusiasm. He did not attend the psychology course until the break.

He entered the classroom with his umbrella turned by the wind, his coat dripping, a cake decorated with a curl of silver ribbon and a smile that would have made that moment perfect. She was ready to report the news of the news. But first she had to rely on a ritual, something that would not break the balances, as she liked to call them. The thing was in fact rather delicate, and the girls were certainly not saints in earth. Especially those of the last year, sailed snakes that made no discounts to anyone.

Those who attended the psychology course knew that a good harmony or, on the contrary, a complete disagreement was necessary among the students. Daisy knew how much the contrasts trained the temperament and formed the character, animating the discussions. But in classroom B of the Giacomo Leopardi high school there was neither one nor the other. The relationships between the girls could be considered rather vague and indefinite, enough to induce them to pretend they were all more or less friends with each other.

Daisy took off her coat, placed the box she had just picked up from Le Romainson the desk, the pastry shop in front of the high school. She blew a tuft of soft, smooth hair that

covered her forehead. He wanted to scrutinize the row of desks, from which his companions peered. They all wanted to know but none of them dared to ask.

The dessert, however, was a clue.

Daisy untied the bow and unwrapped the cake. He took a pack of plastic plates out of his backpack, removed the nylon and sliced the puff pastry delicacy.

The girls already disagreed about the dessert. Those on a diet thanked and even avoided tasting it. The others, convinced that food restrictions wasted more time than excess pounds, tasted the cake considering it something similar to their idea of paradise.

«Come on, tell us how it went!» Lorena Rossi asked excitedly appreciating the soft fragrance of the flan parisien, with its delicate lemon aftertaste.

"Oh well … where do I start? Let me think, ”Daisy began, her eyes sparkling to chase exciting memories. He wanted to tell everything. But the balanceswere balances, and she had to be careful. He took a breath, the feeling that everything he had to say, the words, the phrases to conjugate, the letters themselves of the alphabet were struggling to come out. At that moment he had a strange fantasy: he imagined the sloping roof shape of the A to stick on the sternum, the curves of the B push behind, as well as the half-curves of the C and the concave and convex lines of the whole alphabet.

The little speech she had prepared seemed not to want to come out of her mouth. The imagination persisted in not making her give the News of the News. "How did it go … right, then: I arrived with my mother at the Hotel Granduca, the four-star hotel along the main road” she finally managed to say. “There were a lot of people outside. At first I had an exaggerated squeeze, then I calmed down and thought "dirty misery, here we will be sleeping." Fortunately I discovered that many had appeared. Guys sent from production. In

short, a little scene for the backstage to be seen on television. There were about fifty who were there for the audition. "

"Shit. The bell. We have little time, "Lorena nibbled her lips, urging the girls to finish the cake.

"And then? Then what happened?» Asked her friend anxiously, who started to gather plates and cutlery scattered around the counters.

"Then I went into the conference room” Daisy continued.

“They had set up a kind of rehearsal room. Low lights. Spotlights on the face, sweat, blush dripping on the cheeks and all that stuff there. There were three guys sitting at the table with bored faces and dead-bitch expressions. The base has started. I sang for a minute, I think. Then they took the music off. I stood still, didn't breathe and waited for the verdict, but they kicked me out without even looking at my face. I say, not even a look that it is one! I thought they didn't catch me. Point. End of the story. For two weeks I sent the big cams to fuck, then, all of a sudden, when I started to stop thinking about it … surprise! She has arrived! She ran agile and graceful on the telephone line, I on the other side to pick up the phone. You, the call, finally came. "

Daisy held her breath before the words began to flow smoothly and weightlessly.

«Girls, hold on tight. I will participate in the next edition of Next Generation. »

A murmur of wonder meandered between the pews. A lot of compliments followed, some sincere, many forced arose, others ringing like a death bell.

Some girls, especially the most talented of the course, could not stand that someone like Daisy Magnoli, with a good but certainly not terrific scholastic profit, could overshadow them with that lightning bolt that cleared their ego a lot. Daisy thought it was normal. Jealousy was part of the game. And then she was used to being considered bulky.

Daisy Magnoli attended third year of high school. Despite the adolescence marked by the death of his father, it seemed the publicity of life.

Long and shiny hair, a smile that shone precious, blue eyes wide on the world, the expression of the face volubly shrewd or innocent depending on the whim of the moment. And then the beauty of a body made to be desired … all ingredients that created a particular charm from which no one was able to escape.

All good reasons to be hated.

She noticed that Milena Nassi and Susy Del Nero were the most envious. The two eighteen year olds, known as the blonde and the brunette of the fifth D, had their lips turned upwards pushed by an artificial smile, their cold eyes sparkling with perfidy that seemed to say: "Make yourself beautiful now, dear. Do it as long as it lasts …"

Daisy knew that participating in the flagship program of Channel 104was out of the reach of all the high school girls and wondered what bad things they were thinking about. At that moment he heard a phrase half-mouthed by Lorraine.

"I mean, are you kidding?" The girl growled at Milena and Susy.

"Won't you really think so?"

The two did not respond, but looked at Lorena with an arrogant look, as if to say that she was right in pulling her claws out to defend her friend, but they were right.

"No. I'm serious. What does it have to do … »

Daisy did not hear Lorena's sentence because of the sound of a backpack slammed on the counter. But the companion's lip did not escape her. Lorena's wet lips had moved nervously up and down opening a phrase that ruined the rest of the day.

'… what does the father have to do with it?'

In order not to bleed, the ego of the two girls had found a compromise: the belief that Daisy, the beautiful Daisy, the fragrant flower Daisy had been chosen because they love

strong stories on TV. And Daisy had a father who had hanged himself.

Soon, on the stage of Next Generation they would make the shadows of his past dance.

Secret file # 1

The editorial team received the registered documentation.

To interview the witness is (omitted)

THE REGISTRATION IS INTEGRAL

"Are we starting with the sermon?"

"What do you think?"

"All right. I was in a fucking abstinence, okay? I needed to dive me a dose. That's why I went down the coast. It's only a five-minute drive. "

«Alberto, holy Christ, you are under house arrest. Do you want to go back to jail? You know how much everyone spent on you. "

"I know I know. The community, the recovery, and all the rest. It is thanks to them if I did not die of an overdose. I still have a brain melted. I also have broken teeth, scars on my arms, the marks of the stab wounds behind the backs, my ass is deflowered. I'm a carrion, it's true. A lost soul. But I'm not a liar. "

"So that's true?"

«I never believed in Mazinger Zeta, or Slender Man or some shitty fucking superman. But that wasn't a normal one there. "

"Tell me again."

"But why are you recording this stuff? Then you give it to the police? "

«Alberto, we got you out of jail I don't know how many times. And you still don't trust me? Come on, tell me."

"Oh, fuck, again?"

" yes."

"Okay, okay. Back then: it was about three in the morning. In the Duomo district everything is dead at that hour. I was sitting on the church stairs, the snare to squeeze the arm and

the syringe to look for a decent vein. Before, at home, I had vomited, and with a lot of convulsions. I mean, I had to do it. Half an hour and I got the stuff. I didn't know where the fuck to inject it. The arms were swollen and bright, full of holes, all red, blue and green hematomas. The crescent was missing and I was like the flag of Azerbaijan. The legs were worse off than the rest. In the end I took off a shoe to skewer the sole of my foot. With heroin circulating I was good . Then I see that white van. It came down quietly. You know, the ones with the body behind that the bricklayers use. "

"I know. I knew Giovanni. "

«And who did not know Giovà? One day he gave me so many blows. I wanted to steal a lot of cement from the warehouse, just like that, just to sell it and make a few euros. He had his hands like two shovels. He said that he loved me and did not lead me to the sack, but to make me understand the value of things earned through sacrifice. He was an educator in his own way. "

«Don't ramble. Tell me what happened. "

«So, Giovanni take the road towards Porta Duomo, pass the traffic light that indicates the work in progress. The street is narrow, partly because it is closed between the buildings, partly because there is a pile of cobblestones huddled on the roadside. They were doing the sidewalk. Then comes that taxi in the wrong direction. He was going like crazy and … pum! A terrifying front. The taxi rolls over on its side and catches fire. The taxi driver leaves, I don't know how. His shirt is covered of blood. He takes a few steps, falls to his knees, and then down with his face to the ground. I didn't understand if he was dead or just unconscious. While the poor Giovanni was inside the van with his head protruding from the broken windows of the windshield. Blood dripped onto the hood and … man, are you okay? You're white as a rag. "

«No, it's all right. Giovanni did not deserve to die like this. Go ahead."

«Yes, poor Giovanni. But do you really give me thirty euros later? "

«They are not for you. But for your mother. That holy woman must go shopping. "

"Ok. Look, I'm not buying my stuff, don't worry. So: a moment later the taxi is enveloped in flames. A horrible scene. Inside was her. Trapped like a mouse. Then that guy came. "

"Can you describe it to me?"

"I don't know what he looked like. Smoke pulled towards me. I was blown away and couldn't get up. I thought I was going to be intoxicated. I was coughing and vomiting, partly because of the smoke and partly because the heroin was cut into a dog's cock. However I kept my eyes wide open, my head poisoned by drugs made me believe I was a brave hero who had to see his own death in the face. I just saw more. I peered at the guy in the smoke who approached the car. The car was a fireball. The guy's clothes flared up and he started to burn. I swear to God he was burning, but it was as if he didn't notice. The hair crackled, the skin of the nose melted sizzling on the ground like fried oil. In spite of everything, the man broke the window, opened the door from the inside and pulled it out. He held her in his arms, which were no longer arms but two black embers. He took her away from the stake and laid her on the ground. I laughed. It always happens when I overdose. If I really have to die I want to do it with a certain optimism. The last thing I remember was the girl: burned, her clothes all burned, her face disfigured, a half-pulpy thigh that showed a piece of femur. The muscles, the nerves, the tendons all outside … the rest of the skin around the leg was a patch of loose fat that spread like dog piss on the road. "

"You know who was the girl? "

"No. I never knew. It was unrecognizable and … but you're sick. "

"No, no … don't worry …"

"But you're really sick. Christ. Don't cry, come on. "

"It's nothing. We continue. Tell me about the man. What do you remember? "

«I remember he moved away. A burnt ember that walked with a calm step in the direction of the arch of Porta Duomo, while everything around it came alive. I remember the faces of those in the neighbourhood who went out into the street with buckets and fire extinguishers. Then the sirens, the flashing lights of the ambulance, some policeman. The burning guy was gone as he appeared, in silence. And then the dark. I ended up in an overdose coma. And … are you better now? "

"It is gone. Thank you."

"Ok"

"Let's get back to us. Alberto, are you sure you saw that man? Because nobody knows anything about it. He disappeared without a trace. "

"I know. Nobody saw it, and nobody believes me. Why should it? You know how they view me. I am scum for them. And the scum is irrelevant, lying, shrewd and treacherous. Who do you want to listen to Alberto the disgusting larva. But you believe in me. "

"What makes you think so?"

'Why wouldn't you be here asking me all these questions. We finished?"

"Done, yes."

"Can you give me another ten euros? I swear to god they are for cigarettes. ”

«You stole thirty from the alms box in the church, Alberto. Be content. "

«I prefer you when you cry. Asshole. "

End of registration.

2

Sandra's domestic rites began early in the morning. They were tedious and always the same, but she didn't consider them demeaning.

The fixed pattern included: washing and dressing Adriano, preparing breakfast, feeding Chicco, the ash-colored Siberian and carriony character, cleaning the litter box, emptying or filling the washing machine, getting dressed, putting on makeup, going to work. There were of course several variations and some unexpected events to liven up domestic customs.

That day it was his daughter who broke the pattern. Daisy and her brother were sitting in front of two cups of steaming coffee, when Sandra took the tablet to read Cronache Cittadine, the digital newspaper of Castelmuso.

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.