12. The Barena
Some months earlier.
A few sentences, a few words and the feeling of a fabric struggling to stay together and is fraying, from which all the threads detach.
It’s a Sunday. David’s sipping at a cappuccino at a bar in Mestre, not far from his house, absentmindedly leafing through the pages of the local Gazzettino.
A journalist, in a weekly column entitled Crimes in Venice from 1945 to today, has written about a crime article dating back to around a decade ago.
His attention is drawn to a title he doesn’t understand right away, but won’t take long to leave him no shadow of a doubt.
The tragedy of a child who thought he was playing […] On that terrible day many years ago, D.S. pulled the trigger of his grandfather’s heavy handgun that had been left unattended and sho
