by Donna Leon
Brunetti got to his feet and walked across the room. Behind the Contessa, boats moved up and down the canal, and light spilled from the windows of the buildings on the other side. He wanted to say something to her, but before he could speak, she said, ‘Please give Paola and the children our love.’ She patted his arm and moved past him. Before he could say anything, she was gone, leaving him to study the view from the palazzo which would someday be his.
Chapter Seven
Brunetti let himself into the apartment a little before eight, hung up his coat, and went immediately down the hall to Paola’s study. He found her, as he knew he would, sprawled in her tattered armchair, one leg curled under her, a pen in one hand, book open on her lap. She glanced up when he came in, made an exaggerated kissing motion in his direction, but looked down at her book again. Brunetti sat on the sofa opposite her, then turned and stretched himself out across its surface. He grabbed up two velvet pillows and pounded them into shape under his head. First he looked at the ceiling, and then he closed his eyes, knowing that she would finish whatever passage she was interested in and then devote herself to him.
A page turned. Minutes passed. He heard the book drop to the floor and said, ‘I never knew your mother read.’
‘Well, she asks Luciana to help her with the big words.’
‘No, I mean read books.’
‘As opposed to what? Palms?’
‘No, really, Paola, I never knew she read serious books.’
‘She still reading Saint Augustine?’
Brunetti had no idea if this was meant to be a joke or not and so he answered, ‘No. Darwin. The Voyage of the Beagle.’
‘Oh, really?’ Paola said with what seemed little interest.
‘Did you know she read things like that?’
‘You make it sound like she’s reading kiddieporn, Guido.’
‘No, I just wondered if you knew she read books like that, that she was a serious reader?’
‘She is my mother, after all. Of course I knew it.’
‘But you never told me.’
‘Would that make you like her any more than you do?’
‘I like your mother, Paola,’ he said, voice perhaps a bit too insistent. ‘What I’m talking about is that I never knew who she was. Or,’ he corrected himself, ‘what she was.’
‘And will knowing what she reads make you know who she is?’
‘Can you think of a better way to tell?’
Paola considered this for a long time and then gave him the answer he expected. ‘No, I suppose I can’t.’ He heard her move around on her chair, but Brunetti kept his eyes closed. ‘What were you doing, talking to my mother? And how did you find out about the book? Surely you didn’t call her up to ask her for some reading suggestions.’
‘No, I went to see her.’
‘My mother? You went to see my mother?’
Brunetti grunted.
‘Whatever for?’
‘To ask her about some people she knows.’
‘Who?’
‘Benedetta Lerini.’
‘Ou la la,’ Paola sang out. ‘What’s she done, finally confessed she beat that old bastard’s head in with a hammer?’
‘I believe her father died of a heart attack.’
‘To universal rejoicing, I’m sure.’
‘Why universal?’ When Paola didn’t answer him for a long time, Brunetti opened his eyes and glanced across toward her. She sat with the other leg under her now, chin propped on one hand. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘It’s funny, Guido. Now that you ask, I don’t know why it should be. I guess it’s just because I’ve always heard that he was a terrible man.’
‘Terrible in what way?’
Again, her answer was long delayed. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember anything, not a single specific thing I might have heard about him, just this general impression that he was bad. That’s strange, isn’t it?’
Brunetti closed his eyes again. ‘I’d say so, especially in this city.’
‘You mean everybody knows everybody?’
‘Pretty much. Yes.’
‘I suppose so.’ Both stopped talking, and Brunetti knew she was running her mind back down the long passages of her memory, trying to hunt out the comment, the remark, some trace of the opinion of the late Signor Lerini which she seemed to have taken on, unexamined, as her own.
Paola’s voice called Brunetti back from near sleep. ‘It was Patrizia.’
‘Patrizia Belloti?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She worked for him, for about five years before he died. That’s how I know about him and his daughter. Patrizia said she’d never known a person so awful and that everyone in his office hated him.’
‘He was in real estate, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, among other things.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘Why what?’
‘People hated him?’
‘Let me think for a minute,’ Paola said. Then, after a pause, she added, ‘I think it had to do with religion.’
Brunetti had been half expecting this. If the daughter was any indication, he would have been one of those sanctimonious bigots who forbade swearing in the office and gave rosaries as Christmas presents. ‘What did she say?’
‘Well, you know Patrizia, don’t you?’ A childhood friend of Paola’s, she had never seemed very interesting to Brunetti, though he had to confess he had seen her no more than a dozen times in all these years.
‘Um hum.’
‘She’s very religious.’
Brunetti remembered: it was one of the reasons he didn’t like her.
‘I think she said that he made a scene one day because someone, a new secretary or something, put some sort of religious picture on the wall in her office. Or a cross. I really don’t remember now what she told me. It was years ago. But he made a scene, made her take it down. And he swore terribly, too, I think I remember her telling me. Really a foul mouth – “the Madonna this, the Madonna that”. Things that Patrizia wouldn’t even repeat. Things that would offend even you, Guido.’
Brunetti ignored this casual revelation that Paola appeared to consider him some sort of arbiter of scurrility and directed his thoughts, instead, to this revelation about Signor Lerini. From this drifty world Brunetti was called back by the soft press of Paola’s body as she sat down on the sofa near his hip. He pulled himself closer to the back of the sofa to allow her more room without bothering to open his eyes, then felt her elbow, arm, breast lean across his chest.
‘Why did you go to see my mother?’ her voice asked from just below his chin.
‘I thought she might know the Lerini woman, and the other one.’
‘Who?’
‘Claudia Crivoni.’
‘And did she know Claudia?’
‘Uh hum.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Something about a priest.’
‘A priest?’ Paola said, exactly as had Brunetti when he heard the same thing.
‘Yes. But only rumour.’
‘That means it’s probably true.’
‘What’s true?’
‘Oh, don’t be a goose, Guido. What do you think is true?’
‘With a priest?’
‘Why not?’
‘Aren’t they supposed to take a vow?’
She pushed herself away. ‘I don’t believe you. Do you actually believe that makes any difference?’
‘It’s supposed to.’
‘Yes, and children are supposed to be obedient and dutiful.’
‘Not ours,’ he said and smiled.
He felt Paola’s body shake in a quick laugh. ‘That’s true enough. But really, Guido, you really don’t mean that about priests, do you?’
‘I don’t think she’s involved with anyone.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘I’ve had a look at her,’ he said and made a sudden grab at Paola, catching her around th
e waist and pulling her on top of him.
Paola squealed aloud in surprise, but the noise had much the same delighted horror as did the shrieks Chiara made whenever Raffi or Brunetti tickled her. She squirmed, but Brunetti tightened his arms around her and forced her to lie still.
After a while, he said, ‘I never knew your mother.’
‘You’ve known her for twenty years.’
‘No, I mean I never knew her as a person. All these years and I had no idea of who she was.’
‘You sound sad,’ Paola said, pushing herself up on his chest, the better to see his face.
He released his hold on her. ‘It is sad, to know a person for twenty years and never have any idea of what they’re like. All that time wasted.’
She lay back down and moved around until her curves fitted more easily into his body. At one point, he let out a sudden, ‘Ouf,’ as her elbow dug into his stomach, but then she lay still and he wrapped his arms around her again.
Chiara, who came in a half hour later, hungry and looking for dinner, found them asleep like that.
Chapter Eight
The next day, Brunetti woke with a strange, clearheaded sensation, as if a sudden fever had passed in the night and he’d been returned to his senses. He lay in bed for a long time, running through all of the information he had accumulated during the last two days. Rather than come to the conclusion that he had spent his time well, that the Questura and its doings were in safe hands and he in pursuit of crime, he felt himself suddenly embarrassed by his having run off in pursuit of what he now admitted gave every indication of being a wild-goose chase. Not content with believing Maria Testa’s story, he had commandeered Vianello and gone off to question people who obviously had no idea what he was talking about nor any idea of why a commissario of police would come unannounced to their door.
Patta was due back in ten days, and Brunetti had no doubt what his response would be when he learned how police time had been spent. Even in the warmth and safety of his bed, Brunetti could feel the icy chill of Patta’s remarks: ‘You mean you believed this story told by a nun, by a woman who’s been hiding in a convent all her life? And you went and hounded those people, made them think their relatives had been murdered? Are you out of your mind, Brunetti? Do you know who these people are?’
He decided that, before abandoning everything, he would speak to one last person, someone who might be able to corroborate, if not Maria’s story, then at least her reliability as a witness. And who would know her better than the man to whom she had confessed her sins for the last six years?
The address Brunetti sought was toward the end of the sestiere of Castello, near the church of San Francesco della Vigna. The first two people he asked had no idea where the number was, but when he asked where he could find the Fathers of the Sacred Cross, he was immediately told they were at the foot of the next bridge, the second door on the left. So it proved, announced by a small brass plate that bore the name of the order beside a small Maltese cross.
The door was answered after his first ring by a white-haired man who could well have been that figure so common in medieval literature – the good monk. His eyes radiated kindness as the sun radiates warmth, and the rest of his face glowed in a broad smile, as if truly made glad by the arrival of this stranger at his door.
‘May I help you?’ he asked as if nothing could give him more joy than to be able to do just that.
‘I’d like to speak to Padre Pio Cavaletti, Brother.’
‘Yes, yes. Come in, my son,’ the monk said, opening the door even wider and holding it open for Brunetti. ‘Careful there,’ he said, pointing down and reaching out instinctively to put a steadying hand on Brunetti’s arm as he stepped over the wooden cross bar which formed the bottom of the frame of the heavy wooden door. He wore the long white skirt of Suor’Immacolata’s order, but his was covered by a tan apron stained by years of work in grass and dirt.
Brunetti stepped into sweetness and stopped, looking around, trying to identify the odour.
‘Lilac,’ the monk explained, taking joy in the pleasure he read on Brunetti’s face. ‘Padre Pio is mad for them, has them sent to him from all over the world.’ And so, as Brunetti looked around, it proved to be. Shrubs, bushes, even tall trees filled the entire courtyard in front of them, and the scent swirled around him in waves. As he looked, he saw that only a few of the bushes were bent under the magenta clusters; most of them were not yet in flower.
‘But there are so few of them to give such a strong smell,’ Brunetti said, unable to disguise his astonishment at the strength of their perfume.
‘I know,’ the monk said with a proud smile. ‘They’re the first bloomers, the dark ones: Dilatata and Claude Bernard and Ruhm von Horstenstein.’ Brunetti assumed that the monk’s linguistic flight had to do with the names of the lilacs he was smelling. ‘Those white ones, over there against the far wall,’ he began, taking Brunetti’s elbow and pointing off to their left, to a dozen green-leafed shrubs that huddled up against the high brick wall, ‘White Summers, and Marie Finon, and Ivory Silk – they won’t bloom until June, and we’ll probably have some still in flower until July, so long as it doesn’t get too hot too soon.’ Looking around with pleasure that filled both his voice and his face, he said, ‘There are twenty-seven different varieties in this courtyard. And in our chapter house up by Trento, we’ve got another thirty-four.’ Before Brunetti could say anything, he went on, ‘They come from as far away as Minnesota,’ which he pronounced with an entirely Italian crispness of consonant, ‘and Wisconsin,’ which he could barely get his tongue around.
‘And you’re the gardener?’ Brunetti asked, though it was hardly necessary.
‘By the goodness of God, I am that. I’ve worked in this garden,’ he began, giving Brunetti a closer look, ‘since the time you were a boy.’
‘It’s beautiful, Brother. You should be proud of it.’
The old man gave Brunetti a sudden look from under his thick eyebrows. Pride was, after all, one of the seven deadly sins. ‘Proud that beauty like this gives glory to God, that is,’ Brunetti amended, and the monk’s smile was restored.
‘The Lord never makes anything that isn’t beautiful,’ the old man said as he started across the brick path that led across the garden. ‘If you have any doubt of that, all you’ve got to do is look at His flowers.’ He nodded in affirmation of this simple truth and asked, ‘Do you have a garden?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ Brunetti answered.
‘Ah, that’s a shame. It’s good to see things grow. Gives a sense of life.’ He came to a door and opened it, standing aside to allow Brunetti to pass into the long corridor of the monastery.
‘Do children count?’ Brunetti asked with a smile. ‘I’ve got two of those.’
‘Oh, they count more than anything in the world,’ the monk said, smiling at Brunetti. ‘Nothing is more beautiful, and nothing gives greater glory to God.’
Brunetti smiled at the monk and nodded in full agreement with at least the first proposition.
The monk stopped in front of a door and knocked. ‘Go right in,’ he said without bothering to wait for an answer. ‘Padre Pio tells us never to stop anyone who wants to see him.’ With a smile and a pat on Brunetti’s arm, the monk was gone, back toward the garden and his lilacs – what Brunetti had always believed was the scent of paradise.
A tall man sat at a desk, writing. He looked up when Brunetti came in, set his pen down, and stood. He came out from behind the desk and walked toward his unknown visitor, hand extended, a smile beginning in his eyes, then moving to his mouth.
The priest’s lips were so red and full that anyone seeing him for the first time would immediately centre their attention on them, but it was his eyes that revealed his spirit. Somewhere between grey and green, his eyes were alive with a curiosity and interest in the world around him that Brunetti suspected would characterize everything he did. He was tall and very thin, this last emphasized by the long folds of the hab
it of the Order of the Sacred Cross. Though the priest must have been in his forties, his hair was still black, the only sign of age a thinning natural tonsure at the crown.
‘Buon giorno,’ the priest said in a warm voice. ‘How may I help you?’ His voice, though it moved in the undulant Veneto cadence, did not have the accent of the city. Perhaps from Padova, Brunetti thought, but before he could begin to answer, the priest continued. ‘But excuse me. Let me offer you a seat. Here.’ Saying this, he pulled out one of two small cushioned chairs that stood to the left of the desk and waited until Brunetti was seated before he lowered himself into the one opposite.
Suddenly Brunetti was filled with the desire to do this quickly and have done with it, finish with Maria Testa and her story. ‘I’d like to speak to you about a member of your order, Father.’ A puff of wind blew into the room, rustling the papers on the desk and reminding Brunetti of the rich promise of the season. He felt how warm it was and, looking around him, saw that the windows were open to the courtyard to allow the scent of the lilacs to flood in.
The priest noticed his glance. ‘I seem to spend my entire day holding papers down with one hand,’ he said with an embarrassed smile. ‘But the season for the lilacs is so short, I like to appreciate them as much as I can.’ He looked down for a moment, then up at Brunetti. ‘I suppose it’s a form of gluttony.’
‘I don’t think it’s a serious vice, Father,’ Brunetti said with an easy smile.
The priest nodded his thanks for Brunetti’s remark. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound rude, Signore, but I think I have to ask who you are before I can discuss a member of our order with you.’ His smile was an embarrassed one, and he extended a hand half-way across the distance that separated them, palm open in a request for Brunetti’s understanding.
‘I’m Commissario Brunetti,’ he said by way of explanation.
‘Of the police?’ the priest asked, making no attempt to hide his surprise.
‘Yes.’
‘Good heavens. No one’s been hurt, have they?’
‘No, not at all. I’ve come to ask you about a young woman who was a member of your order.’