by Donna Leon
‘Anything else, sir?’ Vianello asked.
‘This afternoon,’ Brunetti said, answering his question but thinking of the copies of the wills Signorina Elettra had promised him, ‘I should have the names of some people I’d like to go and talk to.’
‘Would you like me to come with you, sir?’ Vianello asked.
Brunetti nodded. ‘Four o’clock,’ he decided, thinking that would give him plenty of time to get back from lunch. ‘Good. I think that’s all for now. Thank you both.’
‘I’ll come up and get you,’ Vianello said. As the younger man moved toward the door, Vianello turned, gestured toward the disappearing Miotti with his chin, and nodded to Brunetti. If there was anything to be discovered about Miotti’s reluctance to spend time with his brother’s clerical friends, Vianello would find it out that afternoon.
When they were gone, Brunetti opened a drawer and pulled out the Yellow Pages. He looked under doctors but found no listing in Venice for Messini. He checked the white pages and found three of them, one a Doctor Fabio, with an address in Dorsoduro. He made a note of Messini’s phone number and address, then picked up the phone and dialled a different number from memory.
The phone was picked up on the third ring, and a man’s voice said, ‘Allò?’
‘Ciao, Lele,’ Brunetti said, recognizing the painter’s gruff voice. ‘I’m calling about one of your neighbours, Dottor Fabio Messini?’ If someone lived in Dorsoduro, Lele Bortoluzzi, whose family had been in Venice since the Crusades, would know who they were.
‘Is he the one with the Afghan?’
‘Dog or wife?’ Brunetti asked with a laugh.
‘If it’s the one I’m thinking of, the wife’s a Roman, but the dog’s an Afghan. Beautiful, graceful thing. Just like the wife, if you think about it. She walks it past the gallery at least once a day.’
‘The Messini I’m looking for has a nursing home over near the Giustiniani.’
Lele, who knew everything, said, ‘He’s the same one who runs the place Regina’s in, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is she, Guido?’ Lele, only a few years younger than Brunetti’s mother, had known her all his life and had been one of her husband’s best friends.
‘She’s the same, Lele.’
‘God save her, Guido. I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said. There was nothing else to be said. ‘What about Messini?’
‘As far as I can remember, he started with an ambulatorio over here, about twenty years ago. But then after he married the Roman, Claudia, he used her family’s money to start the casa di cura. After that, he gave up private practice. Well, I think he did. And now I believe he’s the director of four or five of them.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No. I see him every once in a while. Not often. Certainly not as often as I see the wife.’
‘How do you know who she is?’ Brunetti asked.
‘She’s bought a few paintings from me over the course of the years. I like her. Intelligent woman.’
‘With good taste in paintings?’ Brunetti asked.
Lele’s laugh came down the phone. ‘Modesty prevents my answering that question.’
‘Is there any talk about him? Or about them?’
There was a long pause, at the end of which Lele said, ‘I’ve never heard anything. But I can ask around if you’d like me to.’
‘Not so that anyone knows you’re asking,’ Brunetti said, even though he knew it was unnecessary.
‘My tongue shall be as gossamer,’ Lele said.
‘I’d appreciate it, Lele.’
‘It doesn’t have anything to do with Regina, does it?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Good. She was a wonderful woman, Guido.’ Then, as if suddenly realizing he’d used the past tense, Lele quickly added, ‘I’ll call you if I learn anything.’
‘Thanks, Lele.’ Brunetti came close to reminding him about being delicate, but he reflected that anyone who had thrived as Lele had in the world of Venetian art and antiquities had to have as much gossamer as steel in his nature, and so all he said was a quick goodbye.
It was still well before twelve, but Brunetti felt himself lured from his office by the scent of spring that had been laying siege to the city for the last week. Besides, he was the boss, so why couldn’t he just up and leave if he chose to? Nor did he feel himself obliged to stop and tell Signorina Elettra where he was going; she was probably elbow-deep in computer crime, and he didn’t want to be either an accessory or, truth be told, an impediment, so he left her to it and headed toward the Rialto and home.
It had been cold and damp when he left the apartment that morning, and now, in the growing warmth of the day, he felt himself burdened by his jacket and his overcoat. He loosened both, removed his scarf and stuffed it in his pocket, but still it was so warm that he sensed the year’s first perspiration break out across his back. He felt trapped in his woollen suit, and then the traitorous thought came to him that both slacks and jacket were tighter than they had been in early winter when he had first worn the suit. When he got to the Rialto Bridge, he pushed ahead in a sudden surge of buoyant energy and started to trot up the steps. After a dozen steps, he found himself winded and had to slow down to a walk. At the top, he paused and gazed off to the left and up toward the curve that took the Grand Canal off toward San Marco and the Doge’s Palace. The sun glared up from the surface of the water on which bobbed the first black-headed gulls of the season.
His breath caught, he started down the other side, so pleased with the softness of the day that he felt none of his usual irritation with the crowded streets and milling tourists. Walking between the double bank of fruit and vegetable stalls, he saw that the first asparagus had arrived and wondered if he could persuade Paola to get some. A glance at the price made him realize he had no hope of that, at least for another week, when it would flood into the market and the price be cut in half. Ambling along, he studied the vegetables and their prices, occasionally nodding or exchanging a greeting with people he knew. In the last stall on the right, he saw a familiar leaf and went over to have a closer look.
‘Is that puntarelle?’ he asked, surprised to find it in the market this early.
‘Yes, and the best in Rialto,’ the vendor assured him, his face flushed with years of wine drinking. ‘Six thousand a kilo and cheap at the price.’
Brunetti refused to respond to this absurdity. When he was a boy, puntarelle cost a few hundred lire a kilo, and few people ate it; those who bought it generally took it home to give to the rabbits kept illegally in courtyards or back gardens.
‘I’ll take half a kilo,’ Brunetti said, pulling some bills from his pocket.
The vendor leaned forward over the piles of vegetables displayed in front of him and grabbed up an abundant handful of the pungent green leaf. Magician-like, he pulled a sheet of brown paper from nowhere and plunked it onto the scale, dropped the leaves into it, then quickly wrapped it together into a neat package. He laid it on top of a box of neatly ordered rows of baby courgettes and extended his palm. Brunetti gave him three thousand-lire notes, didn’t ask for a plastic bag, and set off toward home.
At the clock high on the wall, he turned left and headed up toward San Aponal and home. Without thinking, he took the first right and went into Do Mori, where he had a piece of prosciutto wrapped around a thin breadstick and a glass of Chardonnay to wash away the salty taste of the meat.
A few minutes later and newly winded by the more than ninety stairs that led to it, he opened the door to his apartment and was greeted by the mingled smells that warmed his soul and sang to him of home, hearth, family, and joy.
Though the delirious odour of garlic and onions told him that she was in, Brunetti still called out, ‘Paola, are you here?’
A shouted ‘Si’ from the kitchen answered him and drew him down the corridor toward her. He set the paper-wrapped package on the kitchen table, went across the room to kiss her a
nd have a look at what was frying in the pan in front of her.
Yellow and red strips of pepper simmered in a rich tomato sauce, and from it rose the aroma of sausage. ‘Tagliatelle?’ he asked, naming his favourite fresh pasta.
She smiled and bent to stir the sauce. ‘Of course.’ Then, turning to the table, she saw the package. ‘What’s that?’
‘Puntarelle. I thought we could have that salad with the anchovy sauce.’
‘Good idea,’ she said, voice filled with delight. ‘Where’d you find them?’
‘That guy who beats his wife.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ came her confused response.
‘The last one on the right as you’re heading toward the fish market, the one with the veins in his nose.’
‘Beats his wife?’
‘Well, we’ve had him down at the Questura three times. But she always drops the charges after she sobers up.’
Brunetti watched as she ran through a mental file of the different vendors on the right side of the market. ‘The woman with the mink jacket?’ she finally asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I had no idea.’
Brunetti shrugged.
‘Can’t you do anything about it?’ she asked.
Because he was hungry and because discussion would delay his meal, he was curt. ‘No. Not our business.’
He tossed his overcoat, and then his jacket, across the back of a kitchen chair and went to the refrigerator to get himself some wine. Moving around her to get a glass, he murmured, ‘Smells good.’
‘It’s really none of your business?’ she asked, and he knew, both from her tone and from long experience, that she had found A Cause.
‘No, it’s not, not unless she makes a formal denuncia, which she has never been willing to do.’
‘Perhaps she’s afraid of him.’
‘Paola,’ he answered, having hoped to avoid this, ‘she’s two of him, must weigh a hundred kilos. I’m sure she could toss him out a window if she wanted to.’
‘But?’ she asked, hearing the unspoken words in his voice.
‘But she doesn’t want to, I’d say. They fight, it gets out of control, and she calls us.’ He filled a glass and took a swallow, hoping it was over.
‘And then?’ Paola asked.
‘And then we come and pick him up and take him down to the Questura and hold him until she comes to get him in the morning. It happens every six months or so, but there are never any serious signs of violence on her, and she’s glad enough to have him go back home with her.’
Paola thought about this for a while but finally shrugged the subject away. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’
‘Very,’ Brunetti agreed, knowing from long experience that Paola had decided not to pursue the subject.
Bending down to pick up his coat and jacket and take them back into the hall, he saw a brown manila envelope on the table.
‘Is that Chiara’s report card?’ he asked as he reached toward it.
‘Um huh,’ Paola said, adding salt to the pot of water that boiled on a back burner.
‘How is it?’ he asked. ‘Good?’
‘Excellent in everything except one subject.’
‘Physical Education?’ he guessed, at a loss, for Chiara had catapulted to the head of her first class in grammar school and had remained there for the last six years. Like him, his daughter preferred lolling about to exercise, and so that was the only subject he could imagine her not doing well in.
He opened the envelope, pulled out the page, and cast his eye across it.
‘Religious instruction?’ he asked. ‘Religious instruction?’
Paola said nothing and so he continued and read the notes added by the teacher in explanation of her grade of ‘unsatisfactory’.
‘“Asks too many questions?”’ he read. And then, ‘“Disruptive behaviour.” What’s this all about?’ Brunetti demanded, holding the page out toward Paola.
‘You’ll have to ask her when she gets home.’
‘She isn’t back yet?’ Brunetti asked, and the wild thought came to him that Chiara knew of the bad report and was hiding out somewhere, refusing to come home. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was still early; she wouldn’t be back for another fifteen minutes.
Paola, who was setting four plates onto the table, nudged him gently aside with her hip.
‘Has she said anything about this to you?’ he asked, moving out of her way.
‘Nothing special. She said that she didn’t like the priest, but she never said why. Or I didn’t ask her why.’
‘What kind of priest is he?’ Brunetti asked, pulling out a chair and sitting at his place.
‘What do you mean, “what kind”?’
‘Is he, what do you call it, regular clergy, or a member of an order?’
‘I think he’s just a regular parish priest, from the church by the school.’
‘San Polo?’
‘Yes.’
As they spoke, Brunetti read through the comments of the other teachers, all forthright in their praise of Chiara’s intelligence and industry. Her mathematics teacher, in fact, referred to her as ‘an extraordinarily talented pupil, with a gift for mathematics,’ and her Italian teacher went so far as to use the word ‘elegance’ when speaking of Chiara’s written expression. In none of the comments was there a word of qualification, no evidence of that natural inclination of teachers to deliver a stern warning to offset the danger of vanity that was sure to result from each word of praise.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Brunetti said, slipping the pagella back in its envelope and tossing it gently back down onto the table. He thought for a moment, considering how to phrase his question, and asked Paola, ‘You haven’t said anything to her, have you?’
Paola was known to her wide circle of friends as many things, and those things varied, but everyone who knew Paola considered her ‘una mangia-preti’, an eater of priests. The anti-clerical rage that sometimes flashed out from her still managed to surprise Brunetti, even though it was not often that he could any longer be surprised by anything Paola said or did. But this was the red flag subject which, more than any other, could launch her – with no warning and almost without fail – into fulminant rage.
‘You know I agreed,’ she said, turning away from the stove and facing him. It had always surprised Brunetti that Paola had so readily acquiesced to their families’ suggestion that the children be baptized and sent to religious instruction classes at their schools. ‘It’s part of Western Culture,’ Paola often said with chilling blandness. No fools, the children had quickly learned that Paola was not the person to ask about matters of religious faith, though they had just as quickly realized that her knowledge of ecclesiastical history and theological disputation was virtually encyclopaedic. Her clarification of the theological foundations of the Arian heresy was a study in levelheaded objectivity and scholarly attention to detail; her denunciation of the centuries of slaughter that had resulted from that the Church’s different opinion was, to use a temperate word, intemperate.
All of these years, she had kept her word and never spoken openly, at least in the presence of the children, against Christianity or, in fact, against any religion. And so whatever antipathy toward religion or any ideas that might have led Chiara toward ‘disruptive behaviour’ had not come from anything Paola had ever said, at least not openly.
Both turned toward the sound of the opening door, but it was Raffi, not Chiara, who let himself into the apartment. ‘Ciao, Mamma!’ he called, heading back toward his own room to put down his books. ‘Ciao, Papá.’ A short time later, he came down the hall and into the kitchen. He bent down and kissed Paola on the cheek, and Brunetti, still seated, saw his son from a different perspective and saw him taller.
Raffi lifted the top on the frying pan and, seeing what was inside, kissed his mother again. ‘I’m dying, Mamma. When are we going to eat?’
‘As soon as your sister gets here,’ Paola said, turning back to lower the fl
ame under the nowboiling water.
Raffi pushed back his sleeve and checked the time. ‘You know she’s always on time. She’ll walk through the door in seven minutes, so why don’t you put the pasta in now?’ He reached down onto the table and ripped open a cellophane package of bread sticks and pulled out three of the thin grissini. He put the ends between his teeth and, like a rabbit chewing at three longs stalks of grass, nibbled at them until they were gone. He grabbed three more and repeated the process. ‘Come on, Mamma, I’m starved, and I’ve got to go over to Massimo’s this afternoon to work on physics.’
Paola placed a platter of fried aubergine on the table, nodded in sudden agreement, and began to drop the newly made strips of pasta into the boiling water.
Brunetti pulled the pagella from the envelope and handed it to Raffaele. ‘You know anything about this?’ he asked.
It was only in recent years and with the abandonment of what his parents referred to as his ‘Karl Marx Period’ that Raffi’s own report cards had come to take on the repetitive perfection his sister’s had had from her first days in school, but even in the worst academic disasters of that period, Raffi had never felt anything but pride in his sister’s achievements.
He looked up and down the page and handed it back to his father, saying nothing.
‘Well?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Disruptive, huh?’ was his only response.
Paola, stirring the pasta, managed to give the side of the pot a few heavy clangs.
‘You know anything about it?’ Brunetti repeated.
‘No, not really,’ Raffi said, obviously reluctant to explain whatever it was he knew. When neither of his parents said anything, Raffi said, voice aggrieved, ‘Mamma will just get mad.’
‘At what?’ Paola asked with false lightness.
‘At ...’ Raffi was cut off by the sound of Chiara’s key in the door.
‘Ah, the guilty one arrives,’ Raffi said and poured himself a glass of mineral water.