by Donna Leon
It was after eleven, so both men ordered a spritz, Vianello asking Bambola to put them in water glasses with lots of ice. When the drinks came, Vianello picked them up and headed toward the booth farthest from the door. It was an airless corner, but Brunetti had given in to the heat: nothing could make it worse, but at least there they could talk in peace.
When they were seated opposite one another, Brunetti decided to abandon all pretence that he had not understood the nature of the phone call and asked, ‘Your aunt?’
Vianello sipped at his drink, took a longer swallow, and set the icy glass on the table. ‘Yes.’
‘You looked worried,’ Brunetti prompted.
‘I suppose I am,’ Vianello said, wrapping both hands around his glass, a gesture more common with hot drinks than with cold. ‘I’m also trapped.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t shout at her, which is what I want to do. It’s a normal enough response when people do this.’ He looked at Brunetti and quickly away.
‘When people do what?’ Brunetti asked.
Their eyes met for an instant, but then Vianello looked at his glass again and said, ‘Go crazy. Take leave of their senses.’ He picked up the glass with both palms and set it down on the surface a few times, creating a pattern of rings, then he slid the glass through them, erasing them all.
‘What’s she done?’
‘She hasn’t done it yet,’ Vianello said. ‘But she will. I told you, Zia Anita has a strong will, and when she makes up her mind there’s no changing her.’
‘What’s she decided to do?’ Brunetti asked, and finally took a sip of his drink. It was by now so watery as to be almost tasteless, but it was cold and so he drank it.
‘She wants to sell the business.’
‘I thought it was your uncle’s.’
‘It was. Well, it was his, and now it belongs to his sons. But only in name.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Legally it all belongs to her. When he opened it, bought the building where the workshop and offices are, his commercialista told him it would be better for taxes if he put it in his wife’s name. Then, as time passed, they could transfer it to the boys.’ Vianello sighed.
‘But they didn’t?’
Vianello shook his head, finished his drink, and went to get another, not bothering to ask Brunetti if he wanted one. Brunetti finished his and slid the glass over near the wall.
Vianello was quickly back, but this time the glasses contained only mineral water and ice. Brunetti took his gratefully; the melting ice had ruined the first one, diluting the Campari and rendering the prosecco flat and tasteless.
‘Why does she want to sell it?’ he asked.
‘To get money,’ Vianello said and drank some of his water.
‘Come on, Lorenzo. Either tell me about this or we go back to work.’
Vianello propped his elbows on the table, his open palms pressed to either side of his mouth. Finally he said, ‘I think she wants to give it to a soothsayer.’
5
‘Gesù Bambino,’ Brunetti whispered; then, remembering what Vianello had told him, asked, ‘The magazines?’
‘That’s just a part of it,’ Vianello answered, his distress audible. He put his right hand inside the open collar of his shirt and ran his hand up his neck. ‘God, I hate this heat. There’s no way to get away from it.’
Brunetti avoided the distraction and took another sip of his water. He and Vianello had interrogated so many witnesses and suspects together that there was no tactic they had not been exposed to. He sat back with his arms folded, the very model of patience.
Vianello leaned back, as well. ‘I told you that’s how it started: reading the horoscopes. And the radio programme in the morning, and then she discovered those private channels where they have the people who read the cards.’ He made a fist with his right hand and banged it on the table, but lightly to show it was a gesture and not an act of rage.
‘One of her friends told her about the programmes, how much help they were to the people who called.’
‘What does your aunt need help with?’ Brunetti could not stop himself from asking. From the way Vianello had spoken of her over the years, she had always sounded like the pillar of strength and certainty in the family.
Something flashed across Vianello’s face, something Brunetti had never seen, at least never seen directed at him. ‘I’m coming to that, Guido,’ he said. Vianello must have been startled by his own voice because he opened his fist and spread his arm along the top of the bench, as if offering his open hand as an apology.
Brunetti smiled but said nothing.
Vianello continued. ‘She liked the way the people who read the cards gave advice to everyone who called. They seemed sensible. That’s what she told her children.’ Vianello paused, as if to invite questions, but Brunetti had none to ask.
‘That’s how I learned about this,’ the Inspector continued. ‘A few months ago, my cousin Loredano mentioned it to me, almost as a joke: something his mother had got interested in. Like she was listening to Radio Maria or had started to read gardening magazines. He didn’t think much of it, but then his sister, my cousin Marta, called me about a month after that and told me she was worried about their mother, that she talked about it all the time and really seemed to believe in all this horoscope stuff.
‘She didn’t know what to do, Marta.’ Vianello finished his glass of water and set it on the table. ‘I didn’t, either. She was worried, but Loredano thought it would pass, and I guess I thought it would, too, or I wanted to believe that because it was easier.’ He looked across at Brunetti and pulled up one side of his mouth in a wry grimace. ‘I think we all wanted it not to be a problem. So we ignored it and pretended it wasn’t happening.’
There was noise at the door as people came into the bar, but neither of them paid attention to it. Vianello continued: ‘Then Loredano called me about a month ago and told me Zia Anita had taken three thousand Euros out of the company account without telling him.’
He waited for Brunetti to comment, but he did not, so the Inspector went on. ‘Loredano took a look at the bank account and saw that, over the last few months, she’d been taking money from the account: five hundred, three hundred, six hundred at a time. When he asked her about it, all she said was that it was her money and she could do whatever she wanted with it, and that it was necessary and for the best of causes and that she was doing it for his father.’
Old women, Brunetti knew, often felt a need to give their money to good causes, and very often that cause proved to be the Church. Though Brunetti would hardly call that a ‘good cause’, he knew that many people considered it to be, just as he knew that people who gave to the Church would feel no hesitation about naming it. Vianello’s aunt’s failure to do so opened a Pandora’s Box of possibility about the recipient of her generosity.
‘ “Good cause”,’ Brunetti repeated in a neutral voice. ‘ “For his father”. ’
‘That’s all she said,’ Vianello replied.
‘Have your cousins got any idea how much money is involved?’
‘Including that three thousand, maybe seven thousand in total. But she’s also got money of her own, and they’ve no way of knowing what she’s done with that.’
‘Was that what you were talking about with her now?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I was listening, not talking,’ Vianello said tiredly. ‘She called me to complain about how Loredano is bothering her.’
‘Bothering her?’
Vianello failed to smile. ‘That’s how she sees it now: she’s doing something she says is necessary. She thinks she has every right to do it, and she’s angry because her children are trying to make her stop.’
‘I’ve forgotten, Lorenzo. How many children are there?’
‘Marta and Loredano: they’re the oldest. And Luca and Paolo, the two youngest. The three boys – men, really – run the business.’
‘And your uncle? Where’s he in all of thi
s?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello raised his hands involuntarily. ‘I told you: he doesn’t pay attention to much. Never did, and now that he’s older and not in the best of health, it’s even worse. Loredano said he tried to talk to him and make him understand, but all he said was that his wife had her own money and could do whatever she wanted with it. Or with his. I suppose he thinks it’s some sort of proof of his masculinity that his wife can spend a lot of money: shows what a good provider he is.’
‘Even if he isn’t working any more?’
‘Probably more important, now that he isn’t and now that he can’t do the things he used to do.’
‘God, it’s complicated, isn’t it?’ Brunetti said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. ‘Do any of them know what she’s doing with it?’
Vianello shook his head. ‘Nothing they’re certain of. But if she says it’s for a good cause, then she’s probably giving it to someone.’ This time Vianello slapped the surface of the table, making no attempt to disguise his anger. ‘The trouble is,’ the Inspector continued, ‘I agree with her. Well, partly. She does have the right to do whatever she wants to do with her money. When the business was new, she worked like a dog for years, and she never got a lira for it. Even after things got better, she stayed on in the office and ran it. And never got paid for it.’
Brunetti nodded.
‘So she’s entitled to as much money as she wants. Both legally and . . . and morally, if that’s the right word.’
Brunetti suspected it was.
‘But . . .’ the Inspector began but failed to finish the sentence.
Brunetti suggested a way to do so. ‘But her family has the right to know what she’s doing with it?’
‘I think so, yes. I don’t like saying it, but I think that’s the case. And it’s not because it’s their money. It’s not. It’s hers. But surely the fact that she refuses to tell them means she suspects she shouldn’t be doing whatever it is she’s doing with it.’
‘What are your cousins going to do?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello looked at the table. ‘Follow her,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon.’
Vianello looked up and, entirely without humour said, ‘I think they’ve watched too much television or something. They’ve spoken to the manager of the bank. He’s known the family for thirty years. He’s done all their banking for them.’
Vianello stared at his hands, as if one of his fingers were the director of the bank and he wanted to see what he was going to do.
‘What did they tell him?’
‘About the withdrawals and how she won’t tell them what she’s doing with it.’
‘And?’
‘And he said he’d call Loredano the next time she made a withdrawal and then start talking to her and keep her in the bank for as long as he could.’
‘Until someone from the family got there to see where she went?’ Brunetti asked, failing to disguise his astonishment. ‘Cops and robbers?’
Vianello shook his head, eyes still on his fingers. ‘I wish it were that easy.’
‘It’s not easy,’ Brunetti said. ‘It’s crazy.’
‘I thought so, too,’ Vianello said. ‘That’s what I told them.’
‘So?’
‘So they want me to do it.’
Brunetti found no words. He looked across at his friend, who continued to study his hands. Finally Brunetti said, ‘That’s crazier.’
‘That’s what I told them, too.’
‘Lorenzo,’ Brunetti said, ‘I don’t want to have to sit here and prise this out of you. What are you going to do?’
‘I thought about this while I was listening to her – some way to see what she’s doing – but the only idea I could come up with involves you. Sort of.’
‘Involves me how?’
‘I need you to let me do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Ask some of the guys if they’ll help me.’
‘Help you follow your aunt?’
‘Yes. I thought Pucetti would be willing to do it if I asked him.’ Vianello looked across at Brunetti, face tense. ‘If they did it in their free time, when they’re not working, then there wouldn’t be anything illegal about it, not really.’
‘They’d just be taking a walk through the city, minding their own business,’ Brunetti snapped. ‘Just happening to be going in the same direction as the little old lady with all that cash in her purse.’ He felt a rush of indignation. Had the police been reduced to this?
‘Guido,’ Vianello said, voice dead level. ‘I know how it appears and what it sounds like, but it’s the only way to find out what she’s doing with it.’
‘And if she’s been lying to you all, and she ends up going down to the Casinò to lose it all in the slot machines?’ Brunetti demanded.
Vianello surprised him by taking him seriously. ‘Then we can get her barred from the Casinò.’
Brunetti changed his tone and asked, ‘And if she goes in somewhere and comes out without the money? Then what? You and your cousins go in and beat up whoever has the money and take it back?’
‘No,’ Vianello said calmly. ‘Then perhaps we see if there are any more little old ladies going into the same address with cash in their purses.’
Surprise stopped Brunetti from answering immediately, and when he did speak, all he could say was, ‘Oh my, oh my, oh my.’ And then, ‘Is that what you think?’
‘I don’t know what I think,’ Vianello answered. ‘But my aunt is no fool, so whoever is convincing her to give them money – if that’s what’s happening, and she’s not losing it all on the slot machines – is also not a fool, so it’s a fair bet that she’s not the only one involved in this.’
Brunetti pushed himself out of the booth and went over to the counter, where he got two more glasses of mineral water and took them back to Vianello. He set the glasses down and slipped back into his seat.
‘There’s a way we can do it officially,’ Brunetti said.
‘How?’
‘Isn’t Scarpa running the training classes for new officers?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see . . .’
‘And one of the things they’re supposed to learn, if they’re not Venetian, is how to follow someone in the city.’
Flawlessly, Vianello picked it up and ran. ‘And since Scarpa isn’t Venetian, he hasn’t got an idea of how to do it.’
‘Which means,’ Brunetti concluded, ‘that he has to let the Venetians show them how to do it.’
Vianello picked up his glass and raised it to Brunetti. ‘I know it’s wrong to toast with water, but still . . .’ He drank some and set the glass on the table.
‘And so all we’ve got to do,’ Vianello began, heartening Brunetti with his casual use of the plural, ‘is ask Signorina Elettra to see that the right Venetians are assigned to lead the detail. It won’t make any difference to Scarpa: he distrusts and dislikes us all equally.’
Vianello turned towards the counter and waved a hand in Bambola’s direction. ‘Would you bring us two glasses of prosecco, please?’
6
Not only was it too hot to think about crossing the city to go home for lunch; it was too hot to think about eating. Brunetti went back to the Questura with Vianello, saying he would speak to Signorina Elettra about the schedule for Scarpa’s orientation classes, but when he got to her office, she was gone. He went back to his own and called Paola, who sounded almost relieved to learn he would not be coming home.
‘I can’t think about food until the sun goes down,’ she said.
‘Ramadan?’ Brunetti inquired lightly.
She laughed. ‘No! But the sun comes into the living room in the afternoon, so I have to hide in my study most of the day. It’s too hot to go out, so all I can do is sit and read.’
For most of the academic year, Paola spoke longingly of the summer vacation, when she looked forward to sitting in her study and reading. ‘Ah, poor you,’ Brunetti said, just as if he meant
it.
‘Guido,’ she said in her sweetest voice, ‘it takes a liar to recognize another one. But thank you for the sentiment.’
‘I’ll be home after sunset,’ he said, quite as though she had not spoken, and replaced the phone.
Talk of food had made Brunetti feel something akin to hunger but nothing strong enough to cause him to risk leaving the building to go in search of food. He opened his drawers one after another but found only half a bag of pistachios he could not remember having seen before, a packet of corn chips, and a chocolate bar, with hazelnuts, that he had brought to the office last winter.
He prised open one of the pistachios, put it in his mouth and bit down, only to make contact with something the consistency of rubber. He spat it into his palm and tossed it and the rest of the bag into the wastepaper basket. By comparison, the corn chips were excellent, and he enjoyed them. It was good, he told himself, to eat lots of salt in this heat. These would protect him, he was sure, at the Equator.
When he tore open the chocolate bar, he noticed that it was covered with a thin white haze, the chocolate equivalent of verdigris. He took out his handkerchief and rubbed the bar vigorously until it looked like chocolate again: dark chocolate with hazelnuts. His favourite. He whispered ‘Dessert’, and took a bite. It was perfect, as smooth and creamy as it would have been six months before. Brunetti marvelled at this fact as he finished the bar, then lowered his head to look in the back of the drawer in hope that there might be another one, but there was not.
He glanced at his watch and saw that it was still lunchtime. That meant the squad room computer might be free for him to use. As he entered, he saw Riverre at the desk he shared with Officer Alvise, just pulling on his jacket.
‘You on your way to lunch, Riverre?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, trying to salute, but with his arm caught in his sleeve, he made a mess of it.
Brunetti followed the path of habit and ignored what had just happened. ‘Could you stop at Sergio’s on your way back and bring me some tramezzini?’