by Donna Leon
Vianello standing in the corridor.
They still here?" asked Brunetti.
"Yes/ Vianello said, glancing at his watch, then at the closed door.
"Been in there more than an hour."
"Hear anything?" Pucetti asked.
Vianello shook his head. "Not a word. I went in a half-hour ago to
ask them if they wanted anything to drink, but the lawyer told me to
get out."
"How'd the boy look?" Brunetti asked.
"Worried."
The father?"
The same."
"Who's the lawyer?"
"Donatini," Vianello said in a studiedly neutral voice.
"Oh, my," Brunetti answered, finding it interesting that the most
famous criminal lawyer in the city should be chosen by Maggiore Filippi
to represent his son.
"He say anything?" Brunetti asked.
Vianello shook his head.
The three men stood in the corridor for a few minutes until Brunetti,
tiring of it, told Vianello he could go back to his office and himself
went up to his own. There he waited until, almost an hour later,
Pucetti phoned and told him that Avvocato Donatini said his client was
ready to talk to him.
Brunetti called Vianello and told him he'd meet him at the
interrogation room but deliberately made no haste in going downstairs.
Vianello was there when he arrived. Brunetti nodded, and Vianello
opened the door and stood back, allowing his superior to pass into the
room before him.
Donatini stood and extended his hand to Brunetti, who shook it briefly.
He smiled his cool smile, and Brunetti noticed that he had had
extensive dental work since last they met. The Pavarotti-style caps on
his upper front teeth had
been replaced with new ones that better corresponded to the proportions
of his face. The rest was the same as ever: skin, suit, tie, shoes all
joining in a hallelujah to wealth and success and power. The lawyer
gave Vianello a curt nod but did not offer his hand. The Filippis,
father and son, looked up at the policemen but did not acknowledge
their arrival with even a nod. The father wore civilian clothes, but
it was a suit that, like Donatini's, spoke so eloquently of wealth and
power that it might as well have been a uniform. He was perhaps
Brunetti's age but looked a decade younger, the result of either
natural animal grace or hours in a gym. He had dark eyes and the long,
straight nose that was mirrored on the face of his son.
Donatini, staking a claim to the proceedings, waved Brunetti to a seat
at the opposite end of the rectangular table and Vianello to a chair
across from the father and son. Thus he himself faced Brunetti, while
the other two looked at Vianello.
"I won't waste your time, Commissario," Donatini said. "My client has
volunteered to talk to you about the unfortunate events at the Academy/
The lawyer looked to his side, where the cadet sat, and the boy gave a
solemn nod.
Brunetti gave what he thought was a rather gracious one.
"It would seem that my client knows something about the death of Cadet
Moro."
T'd be very eager to hear what that is," Brunetti said with a curiosity
he allowed to be tempered with politesse.
"My client was .. ." Donatini began, only to be stopped by Brunetti,
who held up a hand, but gently and not very high, to suggest a moment's
pause. "If you don't mind, Avvocato, I'd like to record what your
client has to say."
This time it was the lawyer who responded with politesse, which he
conveyed by the merest inclination of his head.
Brunetti reached forward, conscious as he did so of how
often he had done the same thing, and switched on the microphone. He
gave the date, his name and rank, and identified all of the people in
the room.
"My client .. ." Donatini began again, and again Brunetti saw fit to
stop him with a raised hand.
"I think it would be better, Avvocato Brunetti said, leaning forward to
switch off the microphone, 'if your client were to speak for himself."
Before the lawyer could object or question this, Brunetti went on with
an easy smile, "That might give a greater appearance of openness on his
part, and it would certainly then be easier for him to clarify anything
that might seem confusing." Brunetti smiled, aware of how elegant had
been his implication that he reserved the right to question the boy as
he spoke.
Donatini looked at Maggiore Filippi, who until now had remained
motionless and silent. "Well, Maggiore?" he asked politely.
The Maggiore nodded, a gesture his son responded to with what appeared
to be an involuntary half-salute.
Brunetti smiled across at the boy and turned the microphone on again.
"Would you tell me your name, please?" he asked.
"Paolo Filippi." He spoke clearly and louder than he had spoken the
last time, presumably for the benefit of the microphone.
"And are you a third-year student at the San Martino Military Academy
in Venice?"
"Yes."
"Could you tell me what happened at the Academy on the night of
November third of this year?"
"You mean about Ernesto?" the boy asked.
"Yes, I'm asking specifically about anything concerning the death of
Ernesto Moro, also a cadet at the Academy."
The boy was silent for so long that Brunetti finally asked, "Did you
know Ernesto Moro?"
"Yes?"
"Was he a friend of yours?"
The boy shrugged that possibility away, but before Brunetti could
remind him about the microphone and the need to speak, Paolo said, "No,
we weren't friends."
"What was the reason for that?"
The boy's surprise was obvious. "He was a year younger than me. In a
different class."
"Was there anything else about Ernesto Moro that prevented him from
being a friend of yours?"
The boy thought about this and finally answered, "No."
"Could you tell me about what happened that night?"
When the boy did not answer for a long time, his father turned
minimally towards him and gave a slight nod.
He leaned towards his father and whispered something, the last words of
which, 'have to?" Brunetti couldn't help but overhear.
"Yes/ the Maggiore said in a firm voice.
The boy turned back to Brunetti. "It's very difficult," he said, his
voice uneven.
"Just tell me what happened, Paolo/ Brunetti said, thinking of his own
son and the confessions he had-made over the years, though he was sure
none of them could compare in magnitude to what this boy might have to
say.
"I was the boy began, coughed nervously, and began again. "I was with
him that night."
Brunetti thought it best to say nothing and so did nothing more than
look encouragingly.
The boy glanced up to the top of the table at Donatini, who gave an
avuncular nod.
"I was with him he repeated.
Where?"
"In the showers the boy said. Usually, it took them a long time to get
to the confession. Most people had to build up to it with a lo
ng set
of details and circumstances, all of which
would make what finally happened seem inevitable, at least to
themselves. "We were there the boy said and then stopped.
Brunetti looked at Donatini, who drew his lips together and shook his
head.
The silence went on so long that at last Donatini was driven to say,
Tell him, Paolo."
The boy cleared his throat, looked at Brunetti, started to glance at
his father but stifled the gesture and looked back at Brunetti. "We
did things he said, and stopped.
For a moment that seemed all he was going to say, but then he added, To
one another."
Brunetti said, "I see. Go on, Paolo."
"A lot of us do it the boy said in a voice so soft Brunetti doubted the
microphone would pick it up. "I know it's not right, not really, but
nobody gets hurt, and everybody does it. Really."
Brunetti said nothing, and the boy added, "We have girls. But at home.
And so it's .. . it's hard .. . and .. ." His voice stopped.
Brunetti avoided the eyes of the boy's father and turned to Donatini.
"Am I to understand that these boys engaged in sexual acts with one
another?" He thought he might as well be as clear as he could and
hoped he was right.
"Masturbation, yes Donatini said.
It had been decades since Brunetti had been as young as this boy, but
he still failed to understand the strength of Paolo's embarrassment.
They were boys in late adolescence, living among other boys. Their
behaviour didn't surprise him: the boy's reaction did.
Tell me more about it Brunetti said, hoping that whatever he heard
would help this to make sense to him.
"Ernesto was strange Paolo said. "It wasn't enough for him to, well,
just to do what we do. He always wanted to do other things."
M5
Brunetti kept his eyes on the boy, hoping with his attention to spur
him on to explain.
That night, he told me that... well, he told me he'd read about
something in a magazine. Or a newspaper." Paolo stopped and Brunetti
watched him worry at this detail. Finally he said, "I don't know where
he read it, but he said he wanted to do it that way." He stopped.
"To do what?" Brunetti finally asked. "What way?" For an instant, he
took his eyes from the boy and saw his father, sitting with his head
lowered, looking down at the table as if he were willing himself not to
be in the room where his son had to admit this to a policeman.
"He said the thing he read said it made it better, better than
anything," the boy went on. "But it meant he had to put something
around his neck and choke himself a little bit when he ... well, when
he did it. And that's what he wanted me there for, to be sure that
nothing went wrong, when it happened."
The boy gave an enormous sigh, pulling air into his lungs, preparing
himself for the final leap. "I told him he was crazy, but he wouldn't
listen." He brought his hands together and folded them primly on the
table.
"He had the stuff there in the bathroom, and he showed me the rope. It
was where it was ... I mean, where it was after, when they found him.
It was long, so he could sort of crouch on the floor in there and
pretend to fall over. And that would make him choke. And that's why
it was so good. The choking, or something. Or that's what he said."
Silence. From beyond the wall, everyone in the room could hear a low
humming noise: computer? tape recorder? It hardly mattered.
Brunetti remained absolutely silent.
The boy began again. "So he did it. I mean, he had this bag and put
it over his head and over the rope. And then he started laughing and
tried to say something, but I couldn't
understand what he said. I remember he pointed at me and laughed
again, then he started to ... and after a while, he crouched down and
sort of fell over to the side."
The boy's face grew suddenly red and Brunetti watched his hands grip at
one another. But he went on, unable to stop himself from telling it
all until it was finished. "He kicked a few times and his hands
started to wave around. And then he started to scream or something and
kick real hard. I tried to grab him, but he kicked me so hard he
knocked me out of the shower. But I went back and I tried to untie the
rope, but the plastic bag was tied over it, so I couldn't get to the
rope, and when I did, I couldn't untie the knot because he was yanking
around so much. And then, and then, he stopped kicking, but when I got
to him it was too late, and I think he was dead."
The boy wiped at his face, which was covered with sweat.
"And then what did you do, Paolo?" Brunetti asked.
The don't know. For the first minute, I just was there, next to him. I
never saw a dead person before, but I don't remember what I did." He
glanced up, then immediately down. As Brunetti watched, his father
reached out and placed his left hand on top of his son's clenched
hands. He squeezed them once and left his hand there.
Encouraged by that pressure, Paolo went on. "I guess I panicked. I
thought it was my fault because I hadn't been able to save him or stop
him. Maybe I could have, but I didn't."
"What did you do, Paolo?" Brunetti repeated.
"I wasn't thinking much, but I didn't want them to find him like that.
People would know what happened."
"And so?" Brunetti prodded.
The don't know where I got the idea, but I thought if it looked like a
suicide, well, it would be bad, but it wouldn't be as bad as ... as the
other." This time, Brunetti didn't press, hoping that the boy would
continue by himself.
"So I tried to make it look like he hanged himself. I knew I had to
pull him up and leave him there." Brunetti's eyes fell to
their clasped hands; the father's knuckles were white. "So that's what
I did. And I left him there." The boy opened his mouth and pulled air
into his lungs as though he'd been running for kilometres.
"And the plastic bag?" Brunetti asked when his breathing had grown
calmer.
"I took it with me and threw it away. I don't remember where. In the
garbage somewhere." "And then what did you do?"
"I don't remember much. I think I went back to my room." "Did anyone
see you?" "I don't know." "Your roommate?"
"I don't remember he said. "Maybe. I don't remember how I got back to
my room."
What's the next thing you do remember, Paolo?" "The next morning,
Zanchi woke me up and told me what had happened. And then it was too
late to do anything." "Why are you telling me this now?" Brunetti
asked. The boy shook his head. He separated his hands and grabbed at
his father's with his right. Finally in a soft voice, he said, "I'm
afraid." "Of what?"
"Of what will happen. Of what it could look like."
"What's that?"
That I didn't want to help him, that I let it happen to him because I
didn't like him."
"Did people think you didn't like him?"
That's what he told me to do," Paolo said, turning minimally away from
h
is father, as if fearful of what he would see on his face, but not
letting go of his hand. That's what Ernesto told me to do. So people
wouldn't know about the other thing."
That you were, well ... ?"
"Yes. All of is do it, but we usually do it with different
guys. Ernesto just wanted to do it with me. And I was ashamed of
that."
The boy turned to his father. "Papa, do I have to say any more?"
The Maggiore, instead of answering his son, looked across the table at
Brunetti. Instead of replying, Brunetti leaned forward, gave the time,
and said that the interview was over.
Silently, all five of them got to their feet. Donatini, who was
closest to the door, went and opened it. The Maggiore wrapped his
right arm around his son's shoulders. Brunetti pushed his chair under
the table, nodded to Vianello that they would leave now, and moved
towards the door. He was just a step from the door when he heard a
noise behind him, but it was only Vianello, who had stumbled against