by Donna Leon
“That’s very kind of you, Dottoressa. Could we do it today?”
“I have some house calls to make this morning, but I should be finished with them by eleven. Where would you like to meet?”
Since it was she who was doing the favor, Brunetti didn’t feel comfortable asking her to come to the Questura.
“Where will you be at eleven, Doctor?”
“One moment, please,” she said and set the phone down. In an instant, she was back. “My patient lives near the embarcadero of San Marco,” she answered.
“Would you like to meet at Florian’s, then?” he asked.
Her answer was not immediate and, remembering what he did of her politics, Brunetti half-expected her to remark on this particular way in which he was choosing to spend the taxpayers’ money.
“Florian’s is fine, Commissario,” she finally said.
“I look forward to it. And thank you again, Dottoressa.”
“Eleven, then,” she said, and was gone.
He tossed the phone book into the drawer and slammed it closed with his foot. When he looked up, Vianello was coming into his office. “You wanted to see me, sir?” the sergeant asked.
“Yes. Sit down. The Vice-Questore’s given me Trevisan.” Vianello nodded, suggesting that this was already old news at the Questura. “How much have you heard?” Brunetti asked.
“Just what was in the papers and on the radio this morning. Found on the train last night, shot. No trace of a weapon and no suspect.”
Brunetti realized that, although he had read the official police file, he knew no more than that himself. He nodded Vianello toward a chair. “You know anything about him?”
“Important,” Vianello began as he lowered himself into a chair, his size immediately making it look smaller. “Used to be city counsellor in charge of, if I remember correctly, sanitation. Married, a couple of children. Has a big office. Over by San Marco, I think.”
“Personal life?”
Vianello shook his head. “I’ve never heard anything.”
“Wife?”
“I think I’ve read about her. Wants to save the rain forest. Or is that the mayor’s wife?”
“I think it is.”
“Then one of those things. Saving something. Africa, maybe.” Here Vianello snorted, whether at Signora Trevisan or at the likelihood of Africa’s being saved, Brunetti wasn’t sure.
“Can you think of anyone who might know something about him?” Brunetti asked.
“Family? Business partners? People who work in his office?” Vianello suggested. Seeing Brunetti’s response, he added, “Sorry I can’t think of anything better. I don’t remember anyone I know ever mentioning him.”
“I’ll speak to his wife, but not before the afternoon. I’d like you to go to his office this morning and see what the general feeling is about his death.”
“You think they’ll be there? The day after he’s been killed?”
“It will be interesting to find out if they are,” Brunetti said. “Signorina Elettra said that she heard something about his being involved in a business deal in Poland, or perhaps Czechoslovakia. See if anyone there knows anything about that. She thinks there was something in the paper, but she can’t remember what it was. And ask about the usual things.” They had worked together for so long that Brunetti didn’t have to specify what the usual things were: a disaffected employee, an angry business associate, a jealous husband, his own jealous wife. Vianello had the knack of getting people to talk, especially if they were Venetians. The people he interviewed invariably warmed to this large, sweet-tempered man who gave every appearance of speaking Italian reluctantly, who was only too glad to lapse into their common dialect, a linguistic change that often carried its speakers along to unconscious revelation.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. I’m going to be busy this morning, and I’ll try to see the widow this afternoon, so I’d like you to send someone down to the station to talk to the conductor who found the body. Find out if the conductors on the train saw anything.” Before Vianello could protest, Brunetti said, “I know, I know. If they had, they would have said something by now. But I want them to be asked about it anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’d like to see a list of the names and addresses of all the people who were on the train when it stopped, and transcripts of whatever they said when they were questioned.”
“Why didn’t they rob him, sir?”
“If that was the motive, then someone could have come along the corridor and scared him away before he had time to search the body. Or else whoever did it wanted us to realize that it wasn’t a robbery.”
“That doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Vianello asked. “Wouldn’t it be better for them to have us believe it was a robbery?”
“That depends on why they did it.”
Vianello considered this for a moment and then answered, “Yes, I suppose so,” but he said it in a tone that suggested he wasn’t fully convinced. Why would anyone want to give such an advantage to the police?
Not willing to spend the time pondering that, Vianello got to his feet, saying, “I’ll go over to his office now, sir, and see what I can learn. Will you be back here this afternoon?”
“Probably. It depends on what time I can see the widow. I’ll leave word.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you this afternoon,” Vianello said and left the office.
Brunetti turned back to the file, opened it, and read off the phone number listed for Trevisan’s house. He dialed the number. It rang ten times before it was answered.
“Pronto,” a male voice said.
“Is this the home of Avvocato Trevisan?” Brunetti asked.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“This is Commissario Guido Brunetti. I’d like to speak to Signora Trevisan, please.”
“My sister isn’t able to come to the phone.”
Brunetti flipped back to the page in the file that listed Signora Trevisan’s maiden name and said, “Signor Lotto, I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this, even sorrier to bother your sister, but it is imperative that I speak to her as soon as possible.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Commissario. My sister is under heavy sedation and can see no one. She’s been destroyed by this.”
“I realize the pain she must be suffering, Signor Lotto, and I extend my most sincere condolences. But we need to speak to someone in the family before we begin our investigation.”
“What sort of information do you need?”
“We need to get a clearer idea of Avvocato Trevisan’s life, of his business dealings, his associates. Until we have some idea of this, we’ll have no idea of what might have motivated this crime.”
“I thought it was a robbery,” Lotto said.
“Nothing was taken from him.”
“But there’s no other reason to kill my brother-in-law. The thief must have been scared away.”
“That’s entirely possible, Signor Lotto, but we’d like to speak to your sister, if only to rule out other possibilities and thus allow ourselves to follow the idea of a robbery.”
“What other possibilities could there be?” Lotto asked angrily. “I assure you, there was nothing in my brother-in-law’s life that was in any way unusual.”
“I have no doubt of that’s being true, Signor Lotto, but still I must speak to your sister.”
There was a long pause and then Lotto asked, “When?”
“This afternoon,” Brunetti said and kept himself from adding, “if possible.”
There was another long pause. “Wait, please,” Lotto said and set the phone down. He was gone so long that Brunetti took a piece of paper from his drawer and began to write “Czechoslovakia” on it, trying to remember how the word was spelled. He was on his sixth version when the phone was picked up again and Lotto said, “If you come at four this afternoon, either I or my sister will speak with you.”
“Four o’clock,” Br
unetti repeated and then gave a terse “I’ll see you then” before saying good-bye and hanging up. From long experience, he knew how unwise it was to seem grateful to any witness, no matter how sympathetic they might be.
He glanced down at his watch and saw that it was well past ten. He called the Ospedale Civile but, after speaking to five different people at three different extensions, got no information about the autopsy. He often thought that the only safe procedure a person could undergo at the Ospedale Civile was an autopsy. it was the only time a patient ran no risk.
With that opinion of medical prowess in mind, he left his office to go and talk to Dottoressa Zorzi.
7
Brunetti turned right when he left the Questura, going up toward the Bacino of San Marco and the Basilica. He was startled to find himself in full sunlight; earlier that morning he had been so surprised by the news of Trevisan’s murder that he had ignored the day given to the city, filled with the light of early winter and now, in mid-morning, so warm he regretted having worn his raincoat.
Few people were out, and those who were all seemed lifted almost to joy by the unexpected sun and warmth. Who would believe that only yesterday the city had been wrapped in fog and the vaporetti forced to use their radar for the short ride out to the Lido? Yet here he was, wishing for sunglasses and a lighter suit, and when he walked out to the waterside, he was momentarily blinded by the reflected light that came flashing up from the water. Opposite him, Brunetti could see the dome and tower of San Giorgio—yesterday they hadn’t been there—looking as though they had somehow crept into the city during the night. How straight and fine the tower looked, unencumbered by the scaffolding that had imprisoned the tower of San Marco for the last few years, turning it into a pagoda and making Brunetti suspect that the city administration had gone and sold the city outright to the Japanese, who had begun in this way to make themselves feel more at home.
He turned right and walked up toward the piazza, and Brunetti found himself, to his own vast surprise, looking kindly upon the tourists who strolled past him, mouths agape and steps slowed by wonder. She could still knock them over, this old whore of a city, and Brunetti, her true son, protective of her in her age, felt a surge of mingled pride and delight and hoped that those people who walked by would see him and somehow know him for a Venetian and, in that, part heir to and part owner of all of this.
The pigeons, usually stupid and hateful, appeared almost charming to him as they bobbed up and down at the feet of their many admirers. Suddenly, for no reason, hundreds of them flocked up, swirled around, and settled back right where they had been, to continue with their bobbing and pecking. A stout woman stood with three of them on her shoulders, face turned away in delight or horror, while her husband photographed her with a video recorder the size of a machine gun. A few meters away, someone opened a small bag of corn and threw it out in a wide circle, and again the pigeons swirled up and around, then settled to feed in the center of the corn.
He went up the three low steps and through the etched glass double door of Florian’s. Though he was ten minutes early, Brunetti looked through the small rooms on the right and then through those on the left, but he saw no sign of Dottoressa Zorzi.
When a white-jacketed waiter approached him, Brunetti asked for a table near one of the front windows. Part of him, this splendid day, wanted to sit with an attractive young woman by a window at Florian’s, and another part of him wanted to be seen sitting with an attractive young woman by a window at Florian’s. He pulled out one of the delicate, curved-back chairs and took a seat, then turned it to allow himself a better view of the piazza.
As it had been for as long as Brunetti could remember, the façade of the Basilica was partially covered by wooden scaffolding. Had he once, as a child, had a clear view of the whole thing? Probably not.
“Good morning, Commissario,” he heard from behind him, and he stood to shake hands with Dottoressa Barbara Zorzi. He recognized her instantly. Slender and straight, she greeted him with a warm handshake that was surprisingly strong. Her hair, he thought, was shorter than it had been the last time he’d seen her, cut in a cap of tight dark curls that fit close to her head. Her eyes were as dark as eyes could be: there was almost no difference between pupil and iris. The resemblance to Elettra was there, the same straight nose, full mouth, and round chin, but the element of ripeness that filled her sister had been toned down to a more somber, tranquil beauty.
“Dottoressa, I’m glad you could spare the time,” he said, reaching out to help her off with her coat.
She smiled in response to this and placed a squat brown leather bag on a chair near the window. He folded her coat and placed it on the back of the same chair and, looking at the bag, said, “The doctor who used to come to see us when we were boys carried a bag just like that.”
“I suppose I should be more modern and carry a leather briefcase,” she said, “but my mother gave me that as a present when I took my degree, and I’ve carried it ever since.”
The waiter came to the table, and they both ordered coffee. When he was gone, the doctor asked, “How is it that I can help you?”
Brunetti decided that there was nothing to be gained in disguising how he had come by the information and so began by saying, “Your sister told me that Signora Trevisan used to be a patient of yours.”
“And her daughter,” the doctor added, reaching toward the brown bag, from which she took a crumpled pack of cigarettes. While she was still groping around in the bottom of the bag for her lighter, a waiter appeared on her left and leaned forward to light her cigarette. “Grazie,” she said, turning her head toward the flame as if accustomed to this sort of service. Silently, the waiter moved away from their table.
She drew greedily at the cigarette, flipped the bag closed, and looked up at Brunetti. “Am I to take it that this is somehow related to his death?”
“At this point in our investigation,” Brunetti said, “I’m not sure what is and what isn’t related to his death.” She pursed her lips at this, and Brunetti realized how artificial and formal he had sounded. “That’s the truth, Doctor. As of the moment, we have nothing, nothing aside from the physical evidence surrounding his death.”
“He was shot?”
“Yes. Twice. One bullet must have severed an artery, for he seems to have died very quickly.”
“Why do you want to know about his family?” she asked, not, he noticed, asking which member of the family he might be curious about.
“I want to know about his business, his friendships, his family, anything that will allow me to begin to understand what sort of man he was.”
“You think that will help you learn who killed him?”
“It’s the only way to learn why someone would want to kill him. After that, it’s relatively easy to figure out who did.”
“You sound very optimistic.”
“No, I’m not,” Brunetti said, shaking his head. “Not at all, and I won’t be until I can begin to understand him.”
“And you think that by learning about his wife and daughter, you will?”
“Yes.”
The waiter reappeared at their left and set two cups of espresso and a silver sugar bowl down on the table between them. Each of them spooned two sugars into their small cups and stirred them around, allowing this ceremony to serve as a natural pause in the conversation. After she had sipped at the coffee and replaced the cup in her saucer, the doctor said, “Signora Trevisan brought her daughter, who was then about fourteen, to see me a little more than a year ago. It was obvious that the girl didn’t want her mother to know what was wrong with her. Signora Trevisan insisted that she come into the examining room with her daughter, but I kept her out.” She flicked ash from her cigarette, smiled, and added, “Not without difficulty.” She sipped again at her coffee; Brunetti said nothing to hasten her.
“The girl was suffering from a flare-up of genital herpes. I asked her the usual questions: whether her partner was using a prophylact
ic, whether she had other sexual partners, how long she had had the symptoms. With herpes, it’s usually the first outbreak of the symptoms that’s the worst, so I wanted to know if this was the first. Knowing that would help me assess the seriousness of the infection.” She stopped talking and crushed her cigarette into the ashtray on the table. When that was done, she took the ashtray and, without explanation, leaned aside to move it to the next table.
“And was it the first outbreak?”
“She said at first that it was, but it seemed to me that she was lying. I spent a long time explaining to her why I had to know, that I couldn’t prescribe the right medicines unless I knew how serious the infection was. It took a while, but she finally told me that this was the second outbreak and that the first one had been much worse.”
“Why hadn’t she gone to see you?”
“They were on vacation when it happened, and she was afraid if she went to a different doctor, he’d tell her parents what was wrong with her.”
“How serious was that outbreak?”
“Fever, chills, genital pain.”
“What did she do?”
“She told her mother she had cramps and went to bed for two days.”
“And the mother?”
“What about her?”
“Did she believe it?”
“Apparently so.”
“And this time?”
“She told her mother that she had very bad cramps again and wanted to see me. I’ve been her doctor for about seven years, since she was a little girl.”
“Why did the mother come with her?”
She looked down into her empty coffee cup as she answered, “Signora Trevisan has always been overly protective of her. When Francesca was smaller, her mother would call me if she had the least sign of fever. Some winters, she’d call me at least twice a month and ask me to go to the house to see her.”
“Did you?”
“In the beginning—I was new in my practice—I did, but then I gradually learned who would call only when they were really very sick and who would call … well, who would call for less than that.”