Dressed for Death

by Donna Leon

  “But why didn’t anyone say something then?”

  “I think it’s because most of us prefer to treat the Lega as a joke. I think that’s a very serious mistake.” There was a note of uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I think the political wave of the future is groups like the Lega, groups which aim at fragmenting larger groups, breaking larger units into smaller. Just look at Eastern Europe and Yugoslavia. Look at our own political lege, wanting to chop Italy back up into a lot of smaller, independent units.”

  “Could you be making too much of this, Damiano?”

  “Of course I could be. The Lega della Moralità could just as easily be a bunch of harmless old ladies who like to get together and talk about how good the old times were. But who has an idea of how many members they have? What their real goal is?”

  In Italy, conspiracy theories are sucked in with mother’s milk, and no Italian is ever free of the impulse to see conspiracy everywhere. Consequently, any group that was in any way hesitant to reveal itself was immediately suspected of all manner of things, as had been the Jesuits, as are the Jehovah’s Witnesses. As the Jesuits still are, Brunetti corrected himself. Conspiracy certainly bred secrecy, but Brunetti was not willing to buy the proposition that it worked the other way, and secrecy necessitated conspiracy.

  “Well?” Padovani prodded him.

  “Well what?”

  “How much to you know about the Lega?”

  “Very little,” Brunetti admitted. “But if I had to be suspicious of them, I wouldn’t look to their goals; I’d look to their finances.” During twenty years of police work, Brunetti had come to form few rules, but one of them was surely that high principles or political ideals seldom motivated people as strongly as did the desire for money.

  “I doubt that Santomauro would be interested in anything as prosaic as money”

  “Dami, everyone is interested in money, and most people are motivated by it.”

  “Regardless of motive or goal, you can be sure that if Gian-carlo Santomauro is interested in running it, it stinks. That’s little enough, but it’s certain.”

  “What do you know about his private life?” Brunetti asked, thinking of how much more subtle “private” sounded than “sexual,” which is what it meant.

  “All I know is what has been suggested, what has been implied in remarks and comments. You know the way it is.” Brunetti nodded. He certainly did. “Then what I know, which, I repeat, I don’t really know —though I know—is that he likes little boys, the younger the better. If you check his past, you’ll see that he used to go to Bangkok at least once a year. Without the ineffable Signora Santomauro, I hasten to add. But for the last few years he has not done so. I have no explanation for this, but I do know that tastes such as his do not change, they do not disappear, and they cannot be satisfied in any way other than by what they desire.”

  “How much of that is, um, available here?” Why was it so easy to talk to Paola about some things, so difficult with other people?

  “A fair bit, although the real centers are Rome and Milano.

  “ Brunetti had read about this in police reports. “Films?”

  “Films, certainly, but the real thing, as well, for those who are prepared to pay. And I was about to add, who are willing to take the risk, but there really cannot be said to be any risk, not today.”

  Brunetti looked down at his plate and saw that his peach lay there, peeled but untouched. He didn’t want it. “Damiano, when you say, ‘little boys,’ is there an age you have in mind?”

  Padovani suddenly smiled. “You know, Guido, I have the strangest sensation that you are finding all of this terribly embarrassing.” Brunetti said nothing. “’Little’ can be twelve, but it can also be ten.”

  “Oh.” There was a long pause, and then Brunetti asked, “Are you sure about Santomauro?”

  “I’m sure that’s his reputation, and it’s not likely to be wrong. But I have no proof, no witnesses, no one who would ever swear to it.”

  Padovani got up from the table and went across the room to a low sideboard with bottles crowded together on one side of its surface. “Grappa?” he asked.

  “Please.”

  “I’ve got some lovely pear-flavored. Want to try it?”

  “Yes.”

  Brunetti joined him on that side of the room, took the glass Padovani offered him, and went to sit again on the sofa. Padovani went back to his chair, taking the bottle with him.

  Brunetti tasted it. Not pears, nectar.

  “It’s too weak,” Brunetti said.

  “The grappa?” Padovani asked, honestly confused.

  “No, no, the connection between Crespo and Santomauro. If Santomauro likes little boys, then Crespo could just be his legal client and nothing more.”

  “Entirely possible,” Padovani said in a voice that said he thought it wasn’t.

  “Do you know anyone who could give you more information about either of them?” Brunetti asked.

  “Santomauro and Crespo?”

  “Yes. And Leonardo Mascari, as well, if there’s some connection between them.”

  Padovani looked down at this watch. “It’s too late to call the people I know.” Brunetti looked at his watch and saw that it was only ten-fifteen. Nuns?

  Padovani had noticed his glance and laughed. “No, Guido, they’ll all have gone out for the evening, the night. But I’ll call them from Rome tomorrow and see what they know or can find out.”

  “I’d prefer that neither of the men know that questions are being asked about them.” It was polite, but it was stiff and awkward.

  “Guido, it will be as if gossamer had been floated in the air. Everyone who knows Santomauro will be delighted to spread whatever they know or have heard about him, and you can be equally certain that none of this will get back to him. The very thought that he might be mixed up in something nasty will be a source of tingly delight to the people I’m thinking of.”

  “That’s just it, Damiano. I don’t want there to be any talk, especially that he might be mixed up in anything, especially anything nasty.” He knew he sounded severe when he said it, so he smiled and held out his glass for another grappa.

  The fop disappeared and the journalist took his place. “All right, Guido. I won’t play around with it, and perhaps I’ll call different people, but I ought to be able to have some information about him by Tuesday or Wednesday.” Padovani poured himself another glass of grappa and sipped at it. “You should look into the Lega, Guido, at least into its membership.”

  “You’re really worried about it, aren’t you?” Brunetti asked.

  “I’m worried about any group that assumes its own superiority, in any way, to other people.”

  “The police?” Brunetti asked with a smile, trying to lighten the other man’s mood.

  “No, not the police, Guido. No one believes they’re superior, and I suspect that most of your boys don’t believe it either.” He finished his drink but poured himself no more. Instead, he put both glass and bottle on the floor beside his chair. “I always think of Savonarola,” he said. “He started by wanting to make things better, but the only way he could think of to do that was to destroy anything he disapproved of. In the end, I suspect zealots are all like him, even the ecologisti and the feministi. They start out wanting a better world, but they end up wanting to get it by removing anything in the world around them that doesn’t correspond to their idea of what the world should be. Like Savonarola, they’ll all end up on the pyre.”

  “And then what?” Brunetti asked.

  “Oh, I guess the rest of us will somehow manage to muddle through.”

  It wasn’t much in the way of philosophical affirmation, but Brunetti took it as a sufficiently optimistic note on which to end the evening. He got to his feet, said the necessary things to his host, and went home to his solitary bed.

  15

  Another reason Brunetti had been relu
ctant to go to the mountains was that this was his Sunday to visit his mother; he and his brother Sergio alternated weekends or went in the other’s place when necessary. But this weekend Sergio and his family were in Sardinia, so there was no one but Brunetti to go. It made no difference, of course, whether he went or not, but still he went or Sergio went. Because she was in Mira, about ten kilometers from Venice, he had to take a bus and then either a taxi or a long walk to get to the Casa di Riposo.

  Knowing that he was to go, he slept badly, kept awake by memory, heat, and the mosquitoes that could not be kept out. He finally woke at about eight, woke to the same decision that he had to make every second Sunday: whether to go before or after lunch. Like the visit itself, this made no difference whatsoever and today was influenced only by the heat. If he waited until the afternoon, it would only be more infernal, so he decided to go immediately.

  He left the house before nine, walked to Piazzale Roma, and was lucky to get there only minutes before the bus for Mira left. Because he was one of the last people to get on, he stood, rocked from side to side as the bus crossed the bridge and entered onto the maze of overpasses that carried traffic above or around Mestre.

  Some of the faces on the bus were familiar to him; often some of them would share a taxi from the station in Mira or, in better weather, walk together from the station, seldom talking about anything more than the weather. Six people climbed down from the bus at the main station; two of them were women familiar to him, and the three of them quickly agreed to share the taxi. Because the taxi was not air-conditioned, they could talk about the weather, all of them glad of that distraction.

  In front of the Casa di Riposo, each pulled out five thousand lire. The driver used no meter; everyone who made the trip knew the fare.

  They went inside together, Brunetti and the two women, still expressing the hope that the wind would change or that rain would come, all protesting that they had never known a summer like this one, and what would happen to the farmers if it didn’t rain soon?

  He knew the way, walked to the third floor, the two women going their separate way on the second floor, where the men were kept. At the top of the stairs, he saw Suor’ Immacolata, his favorite of the sisters who worked here.

  “Buon giorno, Dottore,” she said, smiling and coming across the corridor toward him.

  “Buon giorno, Sister,” he said. “You look very cool, as if the heat doesn’t bother you at all.”

  She smiled at this, as she did every time he joked with her about it. “Ah, you Northerners, you don’t know what real heat is. This is nothing, just a taste of springtime in the air.” Suor’ Immacolata was from the mountains of Sicily, had been transferred here by her community two years before. In the midst of the agony, madness, and misery which engulfed her days, the only thing she minded was the cold, but her remarks about it were always wry and casually dismissive as if to say that, exposed to real suffering, it was absurd to discuss her own. Seeing her smile, he saw again how beautiful she was: almond-shaped brown eyes, a soft mouth, and a thin, elegant nose. It made no sense. Worldly, believing himself to be a man of the flesh, Brunetti could see only the renunciation and could make nothing of the desires that might have animated it.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “She’s had a good week, Dottore.” That could, to Brunetti, mean only negative things: she hadn’t attacked anyone, she hadn’t destroyed anything, she had done no violence to herself.

  “Is she eating?”

  “Yes, Dottore. In fact, on Wednesday she went and had lunch with the other ladies.” He waited to learn what disaster that might have brought, but Suor’ Immacolata said nothing more.

  “Do you think I could see her?” he asked.

  “Oh, certainly, Dottore. Would you like me to come with you?” How beautiful, the grace of women, how soft their charity.

  “Thank you, Sister. Perhaps she would be more comfortable if she could see you with me, at least when I first go in.”

  “Yes, that might take away the surprise. Once she gets accustomed to another person, she’s usually all right. And once she senses that it’s you, Dottore, she’s really quite happy.”

  This was a lie. Brunetti knew it, and Suor’ Immacolata knew it. Her faith told her it was a sin to lie, and yet she told this lie to Brunetti and his brother each and every week. Later, on her knees, she prayed to be forgiven for a sin she could not help committing and knew she would commit again. In the winter, after she prayed and before she slept, she would open the window of her room and remove from her bed the single blanket she was allowed. But, each week, she told the same lie.

  She turned and led the way, the well-known way, down toward room 308. On the right side of the corridor, three women sat in wheelchairs pushed up against the wall. Two of them beat rhythmically against the arms of their wheelchairs, muttering nonsense, and the third rocked back and forth, back and forth, a mad human metronome. As he passed, the one who always smelled of urine reached out and grabbed at Brunetti. “Are you Giulio? Are you Giulio?” she asked.

  “No, Signora Antonia,” Suor’ Immacolata said, leaning down and stroking back the old woman’s short white hair. “Giulio was just here to see you. Don’t you remember? He brought you this lovely little animal,” she said, taking a small chewed teddy bear from the woman’s lap and putting it into her hands.

  The old woman looked at her with puzzled, eternally confused eyes, eyes from which only death could remove the confusion, and asked, “Giulio?”

  “That’s right, Signora. Giulio gave you the little orsetto. Isn’t he beautiful?” She held out the tiny bear to the old woman, who took it from her, then turned back toward Brunetti and asked, “Are you Giulio?”

  Suor’ Immacolata took his arm and led him away, saying, “Your mother took Communion this week. That seemed to help her a great deal.”

  “I’m sure it did,” Brunetti said. When he thought about it, it seemed to Brunetti that what he did when he came here was similar to what a person who was going to experience physical pain—an injection, exposure to sharp cold—did with his body: he tensed his muscles and concentrated, to the exclusion of all other sensation, on resisting that anticipated pain. But, instead of tightening his muscles, Brunetti found himself, if such a thing could be said to be, tightening his soul.

  They stopped at the door of his mother’s room, and memories of the past crowded around and beat at him like Furies: glorious meals filled with laughter and singing, his mother’s clear soprano rising up above them all; his mother breaking into angry, hysterical tears when he told her he wanted to marry Paola, then coming into his room that same night to give him her gold bracelet, her only remaining gift from Brunetti’s father, saying that it was for Paola, for the bracelet was always supposed to belong to the wife of the eldest son.

  A twist of his will, and all memory fled. He saw only the door, the white door, and the white back of Suor’ Immacolata’s habit. She opened the door and went in, leaving the door open.

  “Signora,” she said, “Signora, your son is here to see you.” She moved across the room and went to stand near the bent old woman sitting by the window. “Signora, isn’t that nice? Your son’s come to visit you.”

  Brunetti stood by the door. Suor’ Immacolata nodded to him, and he stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him as he had learned to do.

  “Good morning, Dottore,” the nun said loudly, enunciating clearly. “I’m so glad you could come to see your mother. Isn’t she looking well?”

  He came a few more steps into the room and stopped, holding his hands well away from his body. “Buon di, Mamma,” he said. “It’s Guido. I’ve come to see you. How are you, Mamma?” He smiled.

  The old woman, never taking her eyes off Brunetti, grabbed at the nun’s arm, pulled her down, and whispered something in her ear.

  “Oh, no, Signora. Don’t say such things. He’s a good man. It’s your son, Guido. He’s come to see you and see how you are.” She stroked the old wo
man’s hand, knelt down to be closer to her. The old woman looked at the nun, said something else to her, then looked back at Brunetti, who hadn’t moved.

  “He’s the man who killed my baby,” she suddenly shouted. “I know him. I know him. He’s the man who killed my baby.” She pushed herself from side to side in her chair. She raised her voice and began to shout, “Help, help, he’s come back to kill my babies.”

  Suor’ Immacolata put her arms around the old woman, held her tight, and whispered in her ear, but nothing could contain the woman’s fear and wrath. She pushed the nun away with such force that she fell sprawling on the ground.

  Suor’ Immacolata quickly pushed herself to her knees and turned to Brunetti. She shook her head and made a gesture toward the door. Brunetti, keeping his hands clearly visible in front of him, backed slowly out of the room and closed the door. From inside, he heard his mother’s voice, screaming wildly for long minutes, then gradually growing calmer. Under it, in low counterpoint, he heard the softer, deeper voice of the young woman as she soothed, calmed, and gradually removed the old woman’s fear. There were no windows in the corridor, and so Brunetti stood outside the door and looked at it.

  After about ten minutes, Suor ‘Immacolata came out of the room and stood beside him. “I’m sorry, Dottore. I really thought she was better this week. She’s been very quiet ever since she took Communion.”

  “That’s all right, Sister. These things happen. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

  “Oh, no. Poor thing, she didn’t know what she was doing. No, I’m all right.”

  “Is there anything she needs?” he asked.

  “No, no, she has everything she needs.” To Brunetti, it seemed like his mother had nothing she needed, but maybe that was only because there was nothing she needed any longer and never would again.