by Donna Leon
"I told you, he's not here."
Suddenly angry, Brunetti said, "I don't believe you." The idea of what
life in the countryside was like came to him, the
boredom of work relieved only by the hope that some new misery would
befall a neighbour. "If you like, we can leave and then come back
again with three cars, with sirens wailing and red lights flashing, and
fill your courtyard and then go and ask all of your neighbours if they
know where he is."
"You wouldn't do that," she said, far more truthfully than she
realized.
"Then let me talk to him Brunetti said. "Giuliano," said the first
woman, surprising them all.
"It's all right, Luigina," the younger woman said, placing a hand on
her forearm. These men have come to see Giuliano."
"Giuliano," the older woman repeated in the same dull, uninflected
tone.
"That's right, cam. They're friends of his, and they've come to
visit."
"Friends," the woman repeated with a crooked smile. She moved towards
the bulk of Vianello, who was looming behind his colleagues. She
raised her right hand and placed the open palm on the centre of his
chest. She raised her face up to his and said, "Friend."
Vianello placed his hand over hers and said, That's right, Signora.
Friends."
There ensued a moment of intense awkwardness, at least for Brunetti,
Pucetti and the younger woman. Vianello and Luigina remained linked by
her hand on his chest, while Brunetti turned to the other woman and
said, "Signora, I do need to speak to Giuliano. You have my
inspector's word: we're friends."
"Why should I trust you?" she demanded.
Brunetti turned partly towards Vianello, who was now softly patting the
back of the other woman's hand. "Because she does he said.
The younger woman began to protest but let it drop even before she
could pronounce the first word. As Brunetti watched, her face
displayed her recognition of the truth of his remark. Her body relaxed
and she asked, "What do you need to ask him?"
The told you, Signora. About the death of the cadet."
"Only about that?" Her glance was as clear and direct as her
question.
"Yes." He could have left it at that, but he felt himself bound
by Vianello's promise. "It should be. But I won't know until I speak
Lo him."
Luigina suddenly took her hand from Vianello's chest. She turned to
the other woman and said, "Giuliano." After she pronounced the name,
she gave a nervous grin that tugged at Brunetti's pity as it pulled at
her mouth.
The younger woman stepped close to her and took her right hand in both
of hers. "It's all right, Luigina. Nothing will happen to
Giuliano."
The woman must have understood what she heard, for the grin expanded
into a smile and she clapped her hands together in undisguised
happiness. She turned towards the back of the house, but before she
could move the younger woman placed a hand on her arm, stopping her.
"But the gentleman needs to speak to Giuliano alone," she began, making
a business of looking at her watch. "And while he's doing that, you
can feed the chickens. It's time for that." Brunetti knew little
about country life, but he did know that chickens didn't get fed in the
middle of the day.
"Chickens?" Luigina asked, confused by the abrupt change of subject.
"You have chickens, Signora?" Vianello asked with great enthusiasm,
stepping forward until he was directly in front of her. "Would you
show them to me?" he asked.
Again, the lopsided smile, at the chance to show her friend the
chickens.
Turning to Pucetti, Vianello said, The Signora's going to show us the
chickens, Pucetti." Without waiting for Pucetti to respond, Vianello
placed a hand on the woman's arm and started to walk with her to the
front door of the house. "How many ... ?" Brunetti heard the
Inspector begin, and then, as if he'd realized that the act of counting
was probably well beyond this woman's powers, he continued seamlessly,
'... times have I wanted to see chickens." He turned to Pucetti.
"Come on, let's go see the chickens."
When they were alone, Brunetti asked the woman, "May I ask who you are,
Signora?"
"I'm Giuliano's aunt."
"And the other signora?" he asked.
"His mother." When Brunetti followed this with no inquiry, she added,
"She was injured some years ago, while Giuliano was still a boy."
"And before that?" Brunetti asked.
"What do you mean? Was she normal?" she demanded, attempting an angry
tone but not fully succeeding.
Brunetti nodded.
"Yes, she was. As normal as I. I'm her sister, Tiziana."
"I thought so he said. "You look very much alike, the two of you."
"She was the beautiful one," she said sadly. "Before." If this
woman's neglected beauty were any indication, then Luigina must indeed
have been a wonder.
"May I ask what happened?"
"You're a policeman, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Does that mean you can't repeat things?"
"If they're not related to the case I'm investigating, no." Brunetti
failed to tell her that it was more a case of what he chose not to
reveal than what he was forbidden to, but his answer satisfied her.
"Her husband shot her. And then he shot himself," she said. When
Brunetti made no comment, she continued, "He meant to kill her and then
himself. But he failed, at least with Luigina."
"Why did he do it?"
"He thought she was having an affair."
"Was she?"
"No." Her answer left no doubt in Brunetti's mind. "But he was a
jealous man, always. And violent. We all warned her not to marry him,
but she did." After a long pause, she added,
"Love/ as though asked to name the disease that had destroyed her
sister.
"How long ago did this happen?"
"Eight years. Giuliano was ten." The woman suddenly folded her arms
across her stomach, her hands grabbing at the opposite arms as though
seeking security there.
When it occurred to him, the idea so shocked him that he spoke before
he considered how painful the question would be for her. "Where was
Giuliano?"
"No, he wasn't there she answered. "At least he didn't do that to
him."
Brunetti wanted to know the full extent of the damage to the other
woman, but he recognized this as the prurient curiosity it was, and so
he forbore to ask. The evidence in Luigina's behaviour and
asymmetrical face sufficed to indicate what was left: this woman's
vitality was enough to suggest what had been taken.
As they were walking across to the back of the house, Brunetti asked,
"Why did he leave the school?"
"He said .. ." she began but then stopped, and Brunetti sensed that
she was sorry not to be able to explain it to him. The think it would
be better if you asked Giuliano that."
"Was he happy there?"
"No. Never." Her answer was instant and fierce.
"Then why did he go, or why
did he stay?"
She stopped and turned to face him, and he noticed that her eyes, which
had at first appeared dark, were in reality flecked with amber and
seemed to glow, even in the dim light of the hall.
"Do you know anything about the family?"
"No. Nothing/ he said, at once regretting that he had failed to ask
Signorina Elettra further to invade their privacy and ferret through
their secrets. All of this would then have been far less surprising,
and he would have known what information to try to get out of her.
Again, she crossed her arms in front of her and turned to |r face him.
"You didn't read about it, then?"
"No, not that I recall." He wondered how he could have missed a case
like this: it must have been a three-day wonder for the press.
"It happened when they were in Sardegna, on the naval base there she
said, as though that would explain it. "And my sister's father-in-law
managed to keep it quiet."
"Who is he, her father-in-law?" Brunetti asked.
"Ammiraglio Giambattista Ruffo," she said.
Brunetti recognized the name instantly: the man known as the "King's
Admiral' for his avowedly monarchist sentiments and opinions. Brunetti
thought Ruffo was Genovese by birth, had a vague memory of having heard
people talk about him for decades. Ruffo had risen through the ranks
of the Navy on merit, keeping his ideas to himself, but once his senior
rank was confirmed and Brunetti thought this had been about fifteen
years ago he had ceased to disguise or equivocate about his belief that
the monarchy should be restored. The attempt on the part of the War
Ministry to silence Ruffo had given him a sort of overnight celebrity,
for he refused to retract any of his statements. The serious
newspapers, if, in fact, any can be said to exist in Italy, quickly
tired of the story, and it was relegated to those weekly magazines
whose covers devote attention week by week to various parts of the
female anatomy.
Given his celebrity, it was nothing short of miraculous that his son's
suicide could have been kept from turning into a media feeding frenzy,
but Brunetti had no memory of the case. "How did he manage to silence
it?" Brunetti asked.
Tn Sardegna, at the naval base, he was in command," she began.
"You mean the Admiral?" Brunetti interrupted to ask.
"Yes. Because it all happened there, the press could be kept out."
"How was it reported?" Brunetti asked, knowing that, given these
conditions, almost anything was possible.
That he had died in an accident, and Luigina had been seriously injured
at the same time."
That's all they said?" he asked, surprised at his own ingenuousness at
thinking this unusual.
"Of course. The Naval police investigated, and a Naval doctor did the
autopsy. Luigina wasn't even badly hurt by the bullet. It hit her in
the arm. But she fell and hit her head. That's what did the
damage."
"Why are you telling me this?" Brunetti asked.
"Because Giuliano doesn't know what really happened."
"Where was he?" Brunetti asked. "When it happened, I mean."
There. But in a different part of the house, with his grandparents."
"And no one's ever told him?"
She shook her head. The don't think so. At least, not until now."
"Why do you say that?" he asked, sensitive to a sudden lessening of
confidence in her tone.
She raised her right hand and rubbed at her temple, just at the
hairline. "I don't know. He asked me about it when he came home this
time. I'm afraid I didn't handle it well. Instead of just telling him
what we've always told him, about the accident, I asked him why he was
asking." She stopped speaking, glancing at the floor, her fingers
still busy at the edge of her hair.
"And?" Brunetti prodded.
"And when he didn't answer me, I told him that he already knew what
happened, that there was a terrible accident and his father was
killed." She stopped again.
"Did he believe you?"
She shrugged the question away like a wilful child refusing to deal
with an unpleasant subject.
Brunetti waited, not repeating the question. Finally she t>aid,
raising her eyes to meet his, I don't know if he did or not." She
stopped, considering how to explain this, then went on, "When he was
younger, he used to ask about it. It was almost like a fever: it would
grow and grow on him until he couldn't do anything except ask me about
it again, no matter how many times I'd told him what happened. And
then he'd be all right for a time, but then it would start again, and
he'd refer to his father or ask questions about him, or about his
grandfather, until he couldn't stand it any more, and then he'd ask
about his father's death." She closed her eyes, letting her hands fall
to her sides. "And I'd tell him the same old lie again. Until I was
sick of hearing it."
She turned away from him and started towards the back of the house
again. Following her, Brunetti risked one last question: "Did he seem
different this time?"
She kept walking, but he saw the sudden rise and fall of her shoulders
as she shrugged the question away. After a few more steps, she stopped
just in front of a door but did not turn to face him. "Every time he
asked, he was calmer for a while after I told him what had happened,
but this time he wasn't. He didn't believe me. He doesn't believe me
any more." She didn't explain why she thought this, and Brunetti
didn't think it necessary to ask: the boy would be a far more reliable
source.
She opened a door that gave on to another long corridor, then stopped
at the second door on the right and knocked. Almost immediately it
opened, and Giuliano Ruffo came out into the corridor. He saw his aunt
and smiled, then turned to Brunetti and recognized him. The smile
disappeared, flared up for a hopeful moment, then died away again.
"Zz'a," he named her. "What is it?" When she didn't answer, the boy
said to Brunetti, "You're the man who came to my room." At Brunetti's
nod, he asked, "What do you want now?"
The same thing I did last time, to talk about Ernesto Moro."
"What about him?" Giuliano asked neutrally. Brunetti thought the boy
should have been more disturbed to have the police pursuing him to his
home to ask about Ernesto Moro. Suddenly he was conscious of the
awkwardness of their situation, the three of them standing in the
unheated corridor, the woman silent while Brunetti and the boy circled
one another with questions. As if sensing his thoughts, the woman
said, indicating the room behind her nephew, "Shall we go somewhere
warmer to talk?"
If it had been a command, the boy could not have responded more
quickly. He went back inside, leaving the door open for them to
follow. Entering, Brunetti was reminded of the unnatural orderliness
of Giuliano's room at the Academy, but reminded only because here he
saw its antithesis: clothing lay discarded across the bed and on top of
the radiator; compact discs, vulnerable and n
aked outside of their
boxes, covered the desk; boots and shoes cluttered the floor. The only
thing that surprised him was the absence of the smell of cigarettes,
though he saw an open pack on the desk and another on the table beside
the bed.
Giuliano went to the armchair in front of the window and picked up the
clothing draped over it, then told his aunt that she could sit there.
He tossed the clothing on to the foot of the bed, adding it to a pair
of jeans already there. He nodded his head towards the chair in front
of his desk, indicating to Brunetti that he could sit there, then sat
down in the space he had just made on the bed.
Brunetti began, "Giuliano, I don't know what you've been told or have
read, and I don't care what you might have told anyone. I don't
believe that Ernesto killed himself; I don't believe he was the kind of
boy to do it, and I don't think he had any reason to do it." He
paused, waiting for the boy or his aunt to say something.
Neither did, so he continued, That means either he died in an accident
of some sort or that someone killed him."
"What do you mean, accident?" Giuliano asked.