by Donna Leon
‘Maybe the paintings are too hard to sell.’
‘Come on, sir. You know the market as well as I do. You look hard enough, you can find a buyer for anything, no matter how hot it is. I could sell the Pietà if I could get it out of Saint Peter’s.’
Vianello was right. It didn’t make any sense. Ruffolo was hardly the type to reform, and there was always a market for paintings, no matter where they came from. The moon had just turned full, he remembered, and he thought of what a clear target he would be, dark jacket outlined against the pale wall of the Arsenale. He dismissed the idea as ridiculous.
‘Well, I’ll go along and see what Ruffolo has to offer,’ he said, sounding to himself like one of those nitwit heroes in a British film.
‘If you change your mind, sir, let me know tomorrow. I’ll be home tomorrow night. All you have to do is call.’
‘Thanks, Vianello. But I think it will be all right. I appreciate it, really I do.’
Vianello waved his hand and went back to the papers on his desk.
If he had to be a midnight hero, even if it was a day away, Brunetti saw no reason to stay in his office any longer.
When he got home, Paola told him that she had spoken to her parents that afternoon. They were well, enjoying what her mother persisted in believing was Ischia. Her father’s only message to Brunetti was that he had begun to take care of that matter for him and that it ought to be fully resolved by the end of the week. Though Brunetti was convinced it was a matter that would never be fully resolved, he thanked Paola for the information and told her to extend his greetings to her parents the next time they called.
Dinner was a strangely tranquil meal, chiefly because of Raffaele’s behaviour. He seemed, though Brunetti was astonished when he found himself thinking the word, he seemed cleaner, though it had never occurred to Brunetti that he might have been dirty. His hair had been recently cut, and the jeans he wore had a discernible crease down the front of both legs. He listened to what his parents said without objecting and, very strangely, did not fight Chiara for the last helping of pasta. When the meal was over, he protested at being told it was his turn to do the dishes, which reassured Brunetti, but then he did them without sighs and grumbles of dissatisfaction, and that silence caused Brunetti to ask Paola, ‘Is anything wrong with Raffi?’ They were sitting on the sofa in the living room, and the silence that came in from the kitchen filled the entire room.
She smiled. ‘Strange, isn’t it? I felt like it was the calm before the storm.’
‘Do you think we should lock our door at night?’ he asked. They both laughed but neither was sure if it was at the remark or at the possibility that it might be over. For them, as for the parents of all adolescents, ‘it’ needed no clarification: that awful, brooding cloud of resentment and righteous indignation that drifted into their lives with certain hormonal levels and remained there until those levels changed.
‘He asked me if I’d read over an essay he had to write for his English class,’ Paola said. Seeing his surprise, she added, ‘Brace yourself. He also asked if he could have a new jacket for the autumn.’
‘New, like you buy it in a shop?’ Brunetti asked, amazed. This from the boy who had, two weeks ago, delivered a ringing condemnation of the capitalist system and its creation of false consumer needs, that had invented the idea of fashion just to create the unending demand for new clothing.
Paola nodded. ‘New. From a shop.’
‘I don’t know if I’m ready for this,’ Brunetti said. ‘Are we going to lose our rough-mannered anarchist?’
‘I think so, Guido. The jacket he said he wanted is in the window of Duca d’Aosta and costs four hundred thousand lire.’
‘Well, tell him Karl Marx never went shopping at Duca D’Aosta. Let him go to Benetton with the rest of the proletariat.’ Four hundred thousand lire; he’d won almost ten times that at the Casinò. In a family of four, Raffi’s fair share? No, not for a jacket. This must be it, the first crack in the ice, the beginning of the end of adolescence. And adolescence over, that meant the next step his son would take was into young manhood. Manhood.
‘Do you have any idea why this is happening?’ he asked her. If it occurred to Paola to say that he would be a better person to understand the phenomenon of male adolescence, she didn’t say it, and instead, answered, ‘Signora Pizzutti spoke to me on the stairs today.’
He gave her a puzzled stare, and then it registered. ‘Sara’s mother.’
Paola nodded. ‘Sara’s mother.’
‘Oh my God! No!’
‘Yes, Guido, and she’s a nice girl.’
‘He’s only sixteen, Paola.’ He heard the bleat in his voice, but he couldn’t stop it.
Paola put her hand on his arm, then up to her mouth, and then burst into loud peals of laughter. ‘Oh, Guido, you should hear yourself. “He’s only sixteen.” No, I don’t believe it.’ She continued to laugh, had to lean back against the arm of the sofa, so helpless did her mirth render her.
What was he supposed to do, he wondered, grin and tell dirty jokes? Raffaele was his only son, and he didn’t know anything about what was out there: AIDS, prostitutes, girls who got pregnant and made you marry them. And then, suddenly, he saw it through Paola’s eyes, and he laughed until tears came into his.
Raffaele came in then to ask his mother to help him with his Greek homework and, finding them like that, he wondered what all this talk about adulthood was.
23
Neither that night nor the following day did Ambrogiani call, and Brunetti had to fight the constant temptation to call the American base and try to get in touch with him. He called Fosco in Milan and got only his answering machine. Feeling not a little foolish at being reduced to talking to a machine, he told Riccardo what Ambrogiani had told him about Gamberetto, asked him to see what else he could find out, and asked him to call. Beyond this, he could think of little to do, so he read and commented on reports, read the newspapers, and found himself constantly distracted by the thought of that night’s meeting with Ruffolo.
Just as he was preparing to leave to go home for lunch, the intercom rang. ‘Yes, Vice-Questore,’ he answered automatically, too preoccupied to be able to savour Patta’s inevitable moment of unease when he was recognized before he identified himself.
‘Brunetti,’ he began, ‘I’d like you to step down to my office for a moment.’
‘Immediately, sir,’ Brunetti answered, pulling yet another report towards him, opening it, and beginning to read.
‘I’d like you to come now, not “immediately”, Commissario,’ Patta said, so sternly that Brunetti realized he must have someone, someone important, in his office with him.
‘Yes, sir. This instant,’ he answered and turned the page he was reading face down, the better to resume his place when he came back. After lunch, he thought, and went to the window to see if it still looked like rain. The sky above San Lorenzo was grey and ominous, and the leaves of the trees in the small campo flipped over with the force of the wind that swirled around them. He went over to the cupboard to hunt for an umbrella: he hadn’t bothered to bring one with him this morning. He pulled open the door and looked inside. There was the usual jumble of abandoned objects: a single yellow boot, a shopping bag filled with old newspapers, two large, padded envelopes, and a pink umbrella. Pink. Chiara’s, left there months ago. If he remembered correctly, it had large, happy elephants on it, but he didn’t want to open it to find out. Pink was bad enough. He looked deeper, shifting things aside delicately with his toe, but there was no second umbrella.
He took the umbrella from the closet and went back to his desk. If he rolled La Repubblica the long way, he could wrap it around most of the umbrella, leaving only the handle exposed, the handle and a handsbreadth of pink. He did this to his satisfaction, left his office, and took the steps down to Patta’s. He knocked, waited until he was sure he heard his superior call ‘Avanti’, and went in.
Usually, when Brunetti entered, he found Patta behi
nd his desk – ‘enthroned’ was the word that sprang most easily to mind – but today he was seated in one of the smaller chairs that sat in front of the desk, seated to the right of a dark-haired man who sat entirely at his ease, legs crossed at the knees, one hand dangling from the arm of the chair, cigarette held between the first two fingers. Neither man bothered to stand when Brunetti came in, though the visitor did uncross his legs and lean forward to stab out his cigarette in the malachite ashtray.
‘Ah, Brunetti,’ Patta said. Had he been expecting someone else? He gestured to the man beside him. ‘This is Signor Viscardi. He’s in Venice for the day and stopped by to bring me an invitation to the gala dinner at Palazzo Pisani Moretta next week, and I asked him to stay. I thought he might like to have a word with you.’
Viscardi got to his feet then and approached Brunetti, hand extended. ‘I’d like to thank you, Commissario, for your attention to this case.’ As Rossi had noted, the man spoke with the elided R of Milan, the consonant slithering unpronounced from his tongue. He was a tall man with dark brown eyes, soft and peaceful eyes, and an easy, relaxed smile. The skin under his left eye was slightly discoloured and appeared to be covered with something, perhaps make-up.
Brunetti shook his hand and returned his smile.
Patta interrupted here. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much progress, Augusto, but we hope to have some information about your paintings soon.’ He used the familiar ‘tu’ with Viscardi, an intimacy Brunetti assumed he was meant to register. And respect.
‘I certainly hope so. My wife is very attached to those paintings, especially the Monet.’ He made it sound like the enthusiasm children had for their toys. He turned his attention, and his charm, to Brunetti. ‘Perhaps you could tell me if you have had any, I think they’re called “leads”, Commissario. I’d like to be able to take good news back to my wife.’
‘Unfortunately, we have very little to report, Signor Viscardi. We’ve passed the descriptions you gave us of the men you saw to our officers, and we’ve sent copies of your photos of the paintings to the Art Fraud Police. But beyond that, nothing.’ Signor Viscardi smiled when he heard this, and Brunetti knew he didn’t want him to learn about Ruffolo’s attempt to speak to the police.
‘But haven’t you,’ Patta interrupted, ‘got a suspect? I remember reading something in your report about Vianello, that he was going to talk to him last weekend. What happened?’
‘A suspect?’ Viscardi asked, eyes bright with interest.
‘It turned out to be nothing, sir,’ Brunetti said, addressing Patta. ‘A false lead.’
‘I thought it was that man in the photograph,’ Patta insisted. ‘I read his name in the report, but I forget it.’
‘Would that be the same man your sergeant showed me a picture of?’ Viscardi asked.
‘It seems it was a false lead,’ Brunetti said, smiling apologetically. ‘It turns out he couldn’t have had anything to do with it. At least we’re convinced that he couldn’t have.’
‘It seems you were right, Augusto,’ Patta said, insistent upon the repetition of his first name. He turned to Brunetti and made his voice firm. What have you got on the two men whose descriptions you do have?’
‘Unfortunately, nothing, sir.’
‘Have you checked …’ Patta began, and Brunetti gave him his undivided attention, waiting to see what concrete suggestions would follow. ‘Have you checked the usual sources?’ Underlings knew details.
‘Oh, yes, sir. It was the first thing we did.’
Viscardi shot back his starched cuff, glanced down at a gleaming fleck of gold, and said, turning to Patta, ‘I don’t want to keep you from your lunch appointment, Pippo.’ As soon as Brunetti heard the nickname, he found himself turning it in his mind like a mantra: Pippo Patta, Pippo Patta, Pippo Patta.
‘Perhaps you’ll join us, Augusto,’ he asked, ignoring Brunetti.
‘No, no, I’ve got to get to the airport. My wife expects me for cocktails, and then, as I told you, we have guests for dinner.’ He must have told Patta the names of these guests, as well, for the mere reminder of their magic power was enough to cause Patta to smile broadly and clasp his hands together, as if in vicarious enjoyment of their presence, here in his office.
Patta glanced at his own watch, and Brunetti was witness to his agony, having to leave one rich and powerful man to go and dine with others. ‘Yes, I really must go. Can’t keep the minister waiting.’ He didn’t bother to waste the minister’s name on Brunetti and Brunetti wondered if it was because Patta assumed he wouldn’t be impressed or because he wouldn’t recognize it. Little matter, he was not to learn it.
Patta went to the fifteenth-century Tuscan armadio that stood beside the door and took his Burberry from it. He slipped it on, then helped Viscardi into his coat. ‘Are you leaving now?’ Viscardi asked Brunetti, who answered that he was. ‘The Vice-Questore is going to Corte Sconta for lunch, but I’m going up towards San Marco, where I can get a boat to the airport. Are you walking that way, by any chance?’
‘Why, yes, I am, Signor Viscardi,’ Brunetti lied.
Patta walked ahead with Viscardi until they got to the front door of the Questura. There, the two men shook hands, and Patta said something about seeing Brunetti after lunch. Outside, Patta turned up the collar of his raincoat and hurried off to the left. Viscardi turned right, waited a moment for Brunetti to position himself beside him, and started towards Ponte dei Greci and, beyond it, San Marco.
‘I certainly hope this case can be quickly ended,’ Viscardi said by way of beginning.
‘Yes, so do I,’ Brunetti agreed.
‘I had hoped to find a safer city here, after Milan.’
‘It certainly was an unusual crime,’ Brunetti offered.
Viscardi paused for a moment, glanced sideways at Brunetti, then continued walking. ‘Before I moved here, I had believed that all crime would be unusual in Venice.’
‘It’s certainly less common here than in other cities, but we do have crime,’ Brunetti explained, and then added, ‘and we have criminals.’
‘Could I offer you a drink, Commissario. What do you Venetians call it, “un’ ombra”?’
‘Yes, “un’ ombra”, and yes, I’d like one.’ Together, they turned into a bar they were passing, and Viscardi ordered them two glasses of white wine. When they came, he handed one to Brunetti and lifted his own. He tilted up his glass and said, ‘Cin, cin.’ Brunetti responded with a nod.
The wine was sharp, not good at all. Had he been alone, Brunetti would have left it. Instead, he took another sip, met Viscardi’s glance, and smiled.
‘I spoke to your father-in-law last week,’ Viscardi said.
Brunetti had wondered how long it would take him to get around to this. He took another sip. ‘Yes?’
‘There were a number of matters we had to discuss.’
‘Yes?’
‘When we finished with our discussion of business, the Count mentioned his relationship with you. I admit that I was at first surprised.’ Viscardi’s tone suggested that his surprise was the result of his discovery that the Count would have allowed his daughter to marry a policeman, especially this one. ‘By the coincidence, you understand,’ Viscardi added, just a beat too late, and smiled again.
‘Of course.’
‘I was, quite frankly, encouraged to learn that you were related to the Count.’ Brunetti gave him an inquiring look. ‘I mean, that offered me the possibility of speaking frankly to you. That is, if I might.’
‘Please, Signore.’
‘Then I must admit that a number of things about this investigation are upsetting to me.’
‘In what way, Signor Viscardi?’
‘Not the least,’ he began, turning to Brunetti with a smile of candid friendliness, ‘are my feelings about the way I was treated by your policemen.’ He paused, sipped at his wine, tried another smile, this time a consciously tentative one. ‘I may speak frankly, I hope, Commissario.’
‘Certainly, Signor
Viscardi. I desire nothing else.’
‘Then, let me say that I felt, at the time, as if your policemen were treating me more as a suspect than as a victim.’ When Brunetti said nothing to this, Viscardi added, ‘That is, two of them came to the hospital, and both of them asked questions that had little bearing on the crime.’
‘And what is it that they asked you?’ Brunetti enquired.
‘One asked how I knew what the paintings were. As if I wouldn’t recognize them. And the second asked me if I recognized that young man in the photo and seemed sceptical when I said that I did not.’
‘Well, that’s been sorted out,’ Brunetti said. ‘He had nothing to do with it.’
‘But you’ve got no new suspects?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Brunetti answered, wondering why it was that Viscardi was willing so quickly to abandon interest in the young man in the photo. ‘You said that there were a number of things that bothered you, Signor Viscardi. That is only one. Might I ask what the others are?’
Viscardi raised his glass towards his lips, then lowered it without drinking and said, ‘I’ve learned that certain questions have been asked about me and about my affairs.’
Brunetti opened his eyes in feigned surprise. ‘I hope you don’t suspect that I would pry into your private life, Signor Viscardi.’
Viscardi suddenly set his glass, still almost completely full, back onto the counter and said, quite clearly, ‘Swill.’ When he saw Brunetti’s surprise, he added, ‘The wine, of course. I’m afraid we haven’t chosen the right place to have a drink.’
‘No, it isn’t very good, is it?’ Brunetti agreed, setting his empty glass down on the counter beside Viscardi’s.
‘I repeat, Commissario, that questions have been asked about my business dealings. No good can come of asking those questions. I’m afraid that any further invasion of my privacy will force me to seek the aid of certain friends of mine.’
‘And what friends are those, Signor Viscardi?’
‘It would be presumptuous of me to mention their names. But they are sufficiently well-placed to see that I am not the victim of bureaucratic persecution. Should that be the case, I am sure they would step in to see that it was stopped.’