by Donna Leon
‘I don’t want you to leave this place again before you’re relieved.’
‘Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.’
‘Alvise,’ Brunetti said, pushing his face so close to Alvise’s that he could catch the sharp odour of coffee and grappa on the man’s breath, ‘if I come back here and I find you either sitting or reading, or not here in front of this door, you will be dismissed from the force so fast you won’t even have time to explain it to your union steward.’ Alvise opened his mouth to object, but Brunetti cut him off. ‘One word, Alvise, one word and you’re finished.’ Brunetti turned and walked away.
He waited till after dinner to tell Paola that the name of Opus Dei had entered into this investigation. He did this not from uncertainty about her discretion but because he dreaded the inevitable pyrotechnics of her response to the name. They came long after dinner, when Raffi had gone to his room to finish his Greek homework and Chiara to read, but when they came, they were no less explosive for having been delayed.
‘Opus Dei? Opus Dei?’ Paola’s opening salvo soared across the living room, from where she sat sewing a button onto one of his shirts, and struck at Brunetti, slumped down in the sofa with his feet crossed in front of him on the low table. ‘Opus Dei?’ she shouted again, just in case one of the children hadn’t heard. ‘Those nursing homes are mixed up with Opus Dei? No wonder old people are dying; they’re probably being killed so their money can be used to convert some heathen savages to Holy Mother Church.’ Decades with Paola had accustomed Brunetti to the extremity of most of her positions; they had also taught him that, on the subject of the Church, she was immediately incandescent and seldom lucid. And never wrong.
‘I don’t know that they’re mixed up in it, Paola. All I know is what Miotti’s brother said, that there is talk the chaplain is a member.’
‘Well, isn’t that enough?’
‘Enough for what?’
‘Enough to arrest him.’
‘Arrest him for what, Paola? That he disagrees with you on matters of religion?’
‘Don’t be smart with me, Guido,’ she threatened, aiming the needle in her hand at him to show how serious she was.
‘I’m not being smart. I’m not even trying to be. I can’t go out and arrest a priest just because there’s a rumour he belongs to a religious organization.’ He knew that, in Paola’s vision of justice, little more evidence of crime was necessary, but he refrained from making this observation, judging the time inappropriate.
It was clear from her silence that Paola had to accept the truth of what he said, but the vigour with which she stabbed the needle through the cuff of his shirt gave evidence of how much she resented that fact. ‘You know they’re power-hungry thugs,’ she said.
‘That might well be true. I know that many people believe it, but I have no first-hand evidence of it.’
‘Oh, come on, Guido, everyone knows about Opus Dei.’
He sat up straighter and crossed his legs. ‘I’m not sure they do.’
‘What?’ she asked, shooting him an angry glance.
‘I think everyone thinks they know about Opus Dei, but it is, after all, a secret society. I doubt that anyone outside of the organization knows very much about it, or about them. Or at least not anything that’s true.’
Brunetti watched Paola as she considered this, the needle quiet in her hand as she continued to stare down at the shirt. Though she was violent on the subject of religion, she was also a scholar, and it was this part that caused her to look up and across at him. ‘You may be right.’ She grimaced at her own admission and then added, ‘But isn’t it strange that so little is known about them?’
‘I just said they’re a secret society.’
‘The world is full of secret societies, but most of them are a joke: the Masons, the Rosicrucians, all those Satanic cults the Americans are always inventing. But people are really afraid of Opus Dei. The way they were afraid of the SS, the Gestapo.’
‘Paola, wouldn’t you say that’s an extreme position?’
‘You know I can’t be rational on this subject, so don’t ask me to be, all right?’ Neither spoke for a moment, and then she added, ‘But it really is strange, the way they’ve managed to create such a reputation about themselves while still managing to remain almost entirely secret.’ She set the shirt aside and stuck the needle into the pincushion that sat beside her. ‘What is it they want?’
‘You sound like Freud,’ Brunetti said with a laugh. ‘“What do women want?”’
She laughed at the joke: contempt for Freud and all his works and pomps was part of the intellectual glue that held them together. ‘No, really. What do you think it is they really want?’
‘Beats me,’ Brunetti was forced to admit. Then, after he had considered it for a while, he answered, ‘Power, I suppose.’
Paola blinked a few times and shook her head. ‘That’s always such a frightening idea for me, that anyone would want it.’
‘That’s because you’re a woman. It’s the one thing women believe they don’t want. But we do.’
She looked up, half-smiling, thinking this was another joke, but Brunetti, straight-faced, continued, ‘I mean it, Paola. I don’t think women understand how important it is for us, for men, to have power.’ He saw that she was going to object, but he cut her off. ‘No, it’s got nothing to do with womb envy. Well, at least I don’t think it does – you know, feeling we’re inadequate because we don’t have babies and have to make it up in other ways.’ Brunetti paused, never having articulated this, not even to Paola. ‘Maybe it’s no more than that we’re bigger, so we can get away with pushing other people around.’
‘That’s terribly simplistic, Guido.’
‘I know. Doesn’t mean it’s wrong.’
She shook her head again. ‘I just can’t understand it. In the end, no matter how much power we have, we get old, we get weak, and we lose it all.’
Brunetti was suddenly struck by how much she sounded like Vianello: his sergeant argued that material wealth was an illusion, and now his wife was telling him that power was no more real. And what did that make him, the gross materialist yoked between two anchorites?
Neither of them spoke for a long time. Finally Paola glanced at her watch, saw that it was after eleven, and said, ‘I’ve got an early class tomorrow.’ At her hint, Brunetti stood, but even before she could get to her feet, the phone rang.
She started to get up to answer, but Brunetti moved more quickly, certain that it would be Vianello or someone from the hospital. ‘Pronto,’ he said, mastering both fear and excitement and keeping his voice calm.
‘Is this Signor Brunetti?’ a strange woman’s voice asked.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Signor Brunetti, I need to speak to you,’ she began in a rush. But then, as though her spirit had been deflated, she paused for a moment and then said, ‘No, could I speak to Signora Brunetti, instead?’
The tension in her voice was so strong that Brunetti didn’t dare ask who it was, for fear that she would hang up. ‘One minute, please. I’ll get her,’ he said and set the phone down on the table. He turned to Paola, still seated on the sofa, looking up at him.
‘Who is it?’ she asked in a low voice.
‘I don’t know. She wants to talk to you.’
Paola came to the table and picked up the receiver. ‘Pronto,’ she said.
Not knowing what to do, Brunetti turned to walk away, but then he felt Paola’s hand snap out and grab his arm. She shot one quick glance toward him, but then the woman on the other end said something, and Paola’s attention was pulled away from him and she released him.
‘Yes, yes. Of course you can call.’ Paola, as was her habit, started to play with the coiled wire of the phone, wrapping it around her fingers in a series of living rings. ‘Yes, I remember you from the meeting with the teachers.’ She pulled the wires from her left fingers and began to wrap them around the right ones. ‘I’m very glad you called. Yes, I think it was the right thing
to do.’
Her hands grew still. ‘Please, Signora Stocco, try to stay calm. Nothing’s going to happen. Is she all right? And your husband? When will he be back? The important thing is that Nicoletta’s all right.’
Paola glanced up at Brunetti, who raised his eyebrows interrogatively. She nodded twice, though he had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and shifted her weight to lean against him. He put an arm around her and continued to listen to her voice and the sharp crackle from the other end of the line.
‘Of course, I’ll tell my husband. But I don’t think he can do anything unless you ...’ The voice cut her off. It went on for a long time.
‘I understand, I understand completely. If Nicoletta’s all right. No, I don’t think you should talk to her about it, Signora Stocco. Yes, I’ll speak to him tonight and call you tomorrow. Could you give me your number, please?’ Leaning away from him, she jotted down a number and then asked, ‘Is there anything I could do for you tonight?’ She paused and then said, ‘No, of course it’s no trouble. I’m very glad you called.’
Another pause, and then she said, ‘Yes, I’d heard rumours, but nothing definite, nothing like this. Yes, yes, I agree. I’ll talk to my husband about it and I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Please, Signora Stocco, I’m glad to be of help in any way I can.’ More sounds from the other end.
‘Try to get some sleep, Signora Stocco. The important thing is that Nicoletta is all right. That’s all that matters.’ After another pause, Paola said, ‘Of course you can call again if you want to. No, it doesn’t matter what time it is. We’ll be here. Of course, of course. You’re welcome, Signora. Good night.’ She replaced the receiver and turned to him.
‘That was Signora Stocco. Her daughter Nicoletta is in Chiara’s class. R.E. class.’
‘Padre Luciano?’ Brunetti asked, wondering what new lightning bolt was to be hurled at him by the forces of religion.
Paola nodded.
‘What happened?’
‘She didn’t say. Or she didn’t know. She was helping Nicoletta with her homework tonight – her husband’s in Rome for business all this week – and she said Nicoletta started to cry when she saw the religion book. When she asked her what was the matter, she wouldn’t say. But after a while, the girl said that Padre Luciano had said things to her in the confessional and then that he had touched her.’
‘Touched her where?’ Brunetti asked, a question he asked as much as a father as a policeman.
‘She wouldn’t say. Signora Stocco decided not to make too much of it, but I think she’s shaken. She was crying when she talked to me. She asked me to speak to you.’
Brunetti was already far ahead, thinking of what would have to happen before he could separate parent from policeman and act. ‘The girl would have to tell us,’ he said.
‘I know. From what the mother said, I think that’s unlikely.’
Brunetti nodded. ‘Unless she does, there’s nothing I can do.’
‘I know,’ Paola said. She was silent for a while and then added, ‘But I can.’
‘What do you mean?’ Brunetti asked, surprised by the strength and suddenness of his fear.
‘Don’t worry, Guido. I won’t touch him. I promise you that. But I will see that he’s punished.’
‘You don’t even know what he did,’ Brunetti said. ‘How can you talk of punishment?’
She backed away a few paces and looked at him. She started to speak and then stopped. After a pause during which he saw her start to speak twice and stop, she stepped toward him and put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Guido. I won’t do anything that is illegal. But I will punish him and, if necessary, I will destroy him.’ She watched his shock turn into acceptance that she meant what she’d said. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized, ‘I always forget how you hate melodrama.’ She looked at her watch and then up at him. ‘As I said before, it’s late and I have an early class.’
Leaving him there, Paola went down the corridor toward their bedroom and their bed.
Chapter Eighteen
Usually a sound sleeper, that night Brunetti was kept awake by dreams, animal dreams. He saw lions, turtles, and a peculiarly grotesque beast with a long beard and a bald head. The bells of San Polo counted out the intermittent hours for him, keeping him company as he endured the long night. At five, the realization came to him that Maria Testa must recover and begin to speak, and as soon as he saw that, he slipped into a sleep so peaceful and dreamless that even Paola’s noisy departure failed to wake him.
He woke a little before nine and spent twenty minutes lying in bed, planning it, attempting vainly to hide from himself the fact that it was she who would run all of the risks attendant upon her resurrection. The desire to put it into action grew so strong that he was finally driven up and into the shower, then out of the apartment and toward the Questura. From there, he called the chief of neurology at the Ospedale Civile and from him received his first setback, for the doctor insisted that Maria Testa could not, under any circumstances, be moved. Her condition was still too uncertain and precarious to allow her to be disturbed. A long history of battles with the health system suggested to Brunetti that a more realistic explanation lay in the fact that the staff simply didn’t want to be bothered by something they considered as inconsequential as this, but he knew it was useless to argue.
He asked Vianello to come up to his office and began by explaining his plan. ‘All we do,’ he concluded, ‘is have a story put in the Gazzettino tomorrow morning, saying that she’s come out of the coma. You know how they love that sort of thing – Back from the Edge of the Grave. Then, whoever was in that car, once they believe she’s recovered and able to talk, they’ll have to try again.’
Vianello studied Brunetti’s face, as if seeing new things in it, but said nothing.
‘Well?’ Brunetti prompted.
‘Is there time for the story to get in by tomorrow?’ the sergeant asked.
Brunetti looked at his watch. ‘Of course there is.’ When Vianello looked no more content, Brunetti asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t like the idea of putting her at even greater risk,’ the sergeant finally answered. ‘Using her as bait.’
‘Someone will be in the room, I told you.’
‘Commissario,’ Vianello began, and Brunetti was immediately on his guard, as he was whenever Vianello addressed him by his title and in that patient tone. ‘Someone in the hospital will have to know what’s going on.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’ Brunetti snapped. He had thought of all of this and knew the dangers, so the force of his reaction to Vianello’s question was no more than a reflection of his own unease.
‘That’s a risk. People talk. All anyone has to do is go into the bar on the ground floor and start asking about her. Someone – an orderly, a nurse, a doctor even – is bound to say something about there being a guard in the room with her.’
‘Then we don’t tell them it’s a guard. We say the guard’s been removed. We can say they’re relatives.’
‘Or members of the order?’ Vianello suggested, voice so level that Brunetti couldn’t tell if he was being helpful or sarcastic.
‘No one in the hospital knows she’s a nun,’ Brunetti said, though he seriously doubted this.
‘I’d like to believe that.’
‘What does that mean, Sergeant?’
‘Hospitals are small places. It’s not easy to keep a secret for long. So I think we should take it as given that they know who she is.’
After having heard Vianello use the word ‘bait’, Brunetti was unwilling to admit that was exactly what he wanted her to be. Tired of hearing Vianello give voice to all of the uncertainties and objections he had spent the morning attempting to deny or minimize, Brunetti asked, ‘Are you in charge of the duty roster this week?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Then continue with the shifts at the hospital, but I want them moved inside her room
.’ Remembering Alvise and the comic book, he said, ‘Tell them they aren’t to leave the room, for any reason, unless they get a nurse to stay in there with her while they’re gone. And put me down for one of the shifts, starting tonight, from midnight until eight.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Vianello said and got to his feet. Brunetti looked down at the papers on his desk, but the sergeant made no attempt to leave. ‘One of the strange things about this exercise programme,’ he began, waiting for Brunetti to look up at him. When he did, Vianello continued, ‘is that I need a lot less sleep. So I can split that shift with you, if you’d like. Then, we just have to use two officers for the other two, and it will be a lot easier to juggle the hours.’
Brunetti smiled his thanks. ‘You want to begin the shift?’ he asked.
‘All right,’ Vianello agreed. ‘I just hope this doesn’t keep on long.’
‘I thought you said you needed less sleep.’
‘I do. But Nadia isn’t going to like it.’
Nor, Brunetti realized, was Paola.
Vianello got to his feet and made a waving motion with his right hand, whether a lazy salute or the sign one accomplice gives another was impossible to determine.
After the sergeant went downstairs to make up the duty roster and tell Signorina Elettra to call the Gazzettino, Brunetti decided to stir the waters even more. He called the San Leonardo nursing home and left a message for the Mother Superior, saying that Maria Testa – he was insistent in using her name – was recovering well in the Civil Hospital and hoped to be able to receive a visit from the Mother Superior sometime in the future, perhaps as early as next week. Before he hung up, he asked the nun he spoke to if she’d also pass the message on to Dottor Messini. He found the number of the chapter house and, when he called, was surprised to have the call taken by an answering machine. He left much the same message for Padre Pio.
He thought of calling both Contessa Crivoni and Signorina Lerini, but he decided to let them learn the news of Suor’Immacolata’s recovery from the newspaper.