The Murder at Belpoggio Street E-Book

Italo Svevo

• Herausgeber: F.Mazzola
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

After dropping out of high school, Giorgio, a lazy and reckless young man from Trieste, works as a porter and shares a small room with a peer of his age. Money is scarce, and so, in a moment of madness, the young man robs and kills a man. The hair-raising attempts to escape from the police begin. More than from the authorities, though, what Giorgio wants to flee from is himself and the horror he has committed. This unusual detective story, which immerses the reader in a bygone era, marks the literary maturity of Italo Svevo, one of the greatest Italian writers of the 20th century.

Italo Svevo (1861-1928), born Aron Hector Schmitz, was an Italian writer. Influenced by the multicultural nature of his city, Trieste, Svevo was a keen observer of social changes and a pioneer of psychological introspection in literature. Among his most famous works are "Una vita," "Senilità," and "La coscienza di Zeno" (Confessions of Zeno).

Leseprobe

Italo Svevo

The Murder at Belpoggio Street

First published by Mazzola Filippo 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Italo Svevo

Translation Mazzola Filippo

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy Find out more at reedsy.com

Contents

The Murder at Belpoggio Street

II

III

Generous wine

The specificity of Dr. Menghi

The Murder at Belpoggio Street

“Was killing, then, such an easy thing to do? He stopped for a moment in his run and looked back: In the long street, illuminated by a few lanterns, he saw lying on the ground the body of that Antonio, whose family name he didn’t even know, and he saw it with a precision that immediately surprised him. In that brief moment, he had almost been able to perceive the features – that thin face of someone who had suffered, and the position of the body, a natural but unusual position. He saw it obliquely, there on the slope, the head tilted on one shoulder because it had badly hit the wall; in the whole figure, only the tips of the feet were upright and projected long, long on the ground in the faint light of the distant lanterns, as if the body they belonged to had voluntarily laid down; all the other parts were truly lifeless, or rather, murdered.

He chose the most direct routes; he knew them all and avoided the alleyways that didn’t take him directly away. It was a frantic escape, as if he had guards on his heels. He nearly knocked down a woman and moved on, ignoring the curses she hurled at him.

He stopped in the square of S. Giusto. He felt the blood rushing through his veins, but he wasn’t out of breath, so the running hadn’t tired him. Perhaps the wine from earlier? Not the murder, certainly not that; it hadn’t tired him or frightened him.

Antonio had asked him to hold onto that bundle of banknotes for a moment. Soon after, when Antonio asked for it back, the idea flashed in his mind that very little separated him from absolute ownership of that bundle: Antonio’s life! He hadn’t fully conceived the idea yet, but he had already put it into action and marveled that an idea that wasn’t yet a resolution had given him the energy to strike that formidable blow, which he still felt in the muscles of his arm.

Before leaving the square, he tore open the wrapping enclosing the bundle of banknotes, threw it away, and haphazardly distributed the contents in his pockets. Then he walked with a deliberately calm pace, which soon, despite his attempts to slow down, became fast again because restraining it on level ground was difficult after having run up. Eventually, he was overwhelmed by a great anguish that forced him to stop, right under the castle, with the sentry watching the city in which the great crime had just been committed.”

On the staircase leading to Piazza della Legna, it was easier for him to moderate his pace, but he made sure to place both feet on a step before moving to the next one. He wanted to reflect, but he couldn’t find the right mindset. Soon, he realized there was no need for it, as every move he made was now dictated by necessity! He quickened his pace once again. Without delay, he would head to the railway station and attempt to depart for Udine; from there, it would be easy for him to cross into Switzerland.

At that moment, he was perfectly composed. The slight fog produced in his mind by the dinner paid for by poor Antonio had dissipated. It wasn’t the cause of the crime, but the wine, supplied by his own victim, had made the execution easier.

Had he not been light-headed, he wouldn’t have forgotten that after committing the crime, there was still much to do before securing its outcome, and with his weak and inert character, he would have always sought means and ways, ending up not acting at all, to be safe, never.

Where could he kill safely? And if there were such a place, could Antonio have been lured there? He laughed; that Antonio was such a fool that he could have been deliberately led to a more distant slaughterhouse.

He now walked openly and calmly through the street, knowing that none of the passersby could yet be aware of the crime he had committed. To them, absolutely, he was still an honest man and looked them squarely in the face, almost enjoying the last moments of the right he was about to lose.

However, at the station, the agitation from before struck him again. There, he had to take the step that would have a significant impact on his destiny. If they allowed him to leave, he would be safe. What tranquility he would feel being carried away at the dizzying speed of the train, because, with a sense he hadn’t known he possessed, from the other end of the city, he felt the news of the murder and the pursuit approaching, and he knew that if he didn’t flee, he would soon be caught.

At one o’clock, the train was scheduled to depart, and there was still about half an hour left. He didn’t want to enter the empty waiting hall too early before departure, but he couldn’t remain alone in the darkness either, not out of fear but impatience. He had gazed at the station clock, monitoring the passing time, and then observed the starry, cloudless sky.

What else was there for him to do? “If only I had someone to talk to!” he thought, almost approaching a coachman who was dozing on his carriage box. But he refrained, as he risked speaking about his crime. Surprisingly, besides the great fear of his fellow men’s judgment, he felt no remorse at all. Instead, he experienced a kind of pride for the sudden ironclad resolution he had taken and for the bold and confident execution.

He entered the waiting hall. He wanted to see the faces of those present, hoping to discern the fate that awaited him from their expressions.

On a bench next to the door, two Friulian women sat near their baskets, half asleep. At the far end, some customs officers were handling luggage, and to the left, in the beer hall, there was only one fat man smoking and sitting in front of a half-empty glass of beer.

He was amazed once again at the sharpness of his vision, and he had never felt so strong and agile, ready to fight or flee. It seemed that his body, aware of the danger he was in, had gathered all its strength to make it available to him at that moment.

His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty hall, causing a muffled echo. The two Friulian women lifted their heads and looked at him.

He knocked on the window of the ticket office to call the clerk and, with some effort, managed to wait without moving for the several minutes it took him to respond.

“One ticket to Udine!” he said.

“What class?” the clerk asked.

He hadn’t thought about it.

“Third,” he replied. He chose third class not for economy, but for prudence; he needed to travel in accordance with his shabby appearance.

“Round trip,” he quickly added, surprised by the good idea that came to him.

To pay, he took out a bundle of banknotes but quickly put them back in his pocket; there were a thousand florins there. He found a small package of ten florins and paid.

It seemed to him that the task was only half done when he had the ticket in his pocket. Actually, even better than half because he didn’t need to talk to anyone anymore. He could simply sit quietly in his compartment with those Friulian women who aroused little suspicion, and the rest was the locomotive’s business.

He needed to occupy the time remaining until departure. He put his hands in all his pockets and felt the banknotes. They were soft, as if symbolizing the life they could provide.

So, with his hands in his pockets, he leaned against a pillar by the door, the darkest spot in the waiting hall, from which he could survey the whole area without being seen. Even though he felt perfectly safe, he didn’t want to neglect any precaution.