by Donna Leon
‘We had a call from Pellestrina, sir. Two men were murdered on their boat.’ Brunetti tried his best to sound uninterested. ‘The call came to us, so I had no choice but to go out and have a look.’
‘That’s out of our jurisdiction,’ Patta said, though they both knew this was not true.
‘The Carabinieri were also called,’ Brunetti said with a small smile meant to display both relief and agreement with Patta’s objection. ‘So it’s entirely likely that the case will be given to them.’
Something about the way Brunetti spoke made Patta suspicious, the way a dog is when he hears an unfamiliar tone in a familiar voice. ‘Does it look like a simple case?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. Things like this usually turn out to be the result of either jealousy or greed.’
‘If that’s the case, then it might be a simple thing to solve. Perhaps we could keep it.’
‘Oh, I’ve no doubt that it will be a simple case, sir. In fact, some of the people out there have already given us the name of a man who had trouble with one of the victims.’
‘And?’ Patta demanded, eager now that it sounded easy. The quick solution of a murder would be a coup for the Questura of Venice. Brunetti could almost see him writing the headline: ‘QUICK ACTION BY VICE-QUESTORE SOLVES MURDER CASE.’
‘Well, sir, with you away next week, I thought it might be better if the Carabinieri handled it.’ Brunetti paused, waiting to see if Patta would pick up on his comment and discuss the hierarchy of command during his absence.
‘And let them get the credit?’ Patta demanded, making no attempt to hide his indignation and with no reference to the following week. ‘If this is as simple as you say,’ he began, raising a hand to stop Brunetti’s protest, ‘then it’s definitely something we should investigate. The Carabinieri will make a complete hash of it.’
‘But, sir,’ Brunetti objected weakly, ‘I’m not sure we can spare anyone to go out there.’ One of Brunetti’s favourite characters had always been Iago, whose skill he had long admired and often sought to emulate. Clasping Iago’s image, as it were, to his bosom, Brunetti went on, ‘Perhaps Marotta could take it. It would be good to send someone who couldn’t possibly have any involvement with the people there. He’s from Turin, isn’t he, sir?’ When Patta nodded, Brunetti went on, ‘Good, then there’s no chance that he’d know or be related to anyone in Pellestrina.’
Patta had had enough. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, use your head, Brunetti. If we send un torinese out there, no one will say a word to him. It’s got to be someone local.’ As if as an afterthought, Patta added, ‘Besides, Marotta’ll be taking my place during my absence, and he can’t go running off to the ends of the laguna to interview people who don’t know how to speak anything but dialect.’ If these people also believed that the earth was flat as well as the centre of the universe, Patta’s contempt for them could not have been more audible.
Ignoring Patta’s remark and not at all certain that he should risk it, Brunetti nevertheless asked, ‘But who, sir?’
‘There are times when you’re incredibly blind, Commissario.’ Patta spoke so condescendingly that Brunetti could but admire his superior’s self-restraint in not having said ‘stupid’. ‘You’re Venetian. You’ve already been out there.’
With the exercise of equal self-restraint, Brunetti stopped himself from raising his hands to display shock and astonishment. It was a gesture he’d often seen in silent films from the Twenties and one he’d always wanted to use. Instead, voice deeply serious, he said, ‘I’m not sure, sir.’ A small goad, he had often noticed, worked on Patta far more effectively than a stronger impetus.
‘Well, I am. It’s a simple case, and we can use all the good publicity we can get, especially after those fools in the magistratura let all of the mafiosi out of prison.’ The papers had been filled with little else for the last few days. Fifteen Mafia leaders, all condemned to life imprisonment, had been ordered to be released when a minor legal irregularity was discovered in the processing of their appeal. One of them, the papers never ceased to report, had confessed to the murders of fifty-nine people. And now all of them were free. Brunetti recalled Signorina Elettra’s words, ‘As free as air.’
‘I’m not sure the two cases are related, sir,’ Brunetti objected.
‘Of course they’re related,’ Patta said, voice raised angrily. ‘Any sort of bad publicity reflects on all of us.’
Was that all it was for Patta, Brunetti wondered, bad publicity? These laughing monsters are set free to return to feast on the bodies of their enemies, and all Patta can see is bad publicity?
Before principle could spur Brunetti to protest, Patta continued, ‘I want you to go out there and settle this. If you’ve already got the name of someone, see what you can find out about him. Get this taken care of quickly.’ Patta picked up a file from his desk, opened it, took his Mont Blanc from his breast pocket, and began to read. Good sense prevented Brunetti from raising an objection to Patta’s peremptory commands or to the rudeness of his dismissal. He’d got what he had come for: the case was his. But not for the first time he left Patta’s office feeling cheapened by having so easily manipulated the other man, by having again donned the cap and bells of the fool in order to achieve what he knew to be his by right. Marotta’s temporary assignment had never been discussed, which meant Patta had been deprived of the opportunity to gloat over what he would perceive as a victory. But at least Brunetti had been spared the need to pretend to be offended by the decision. Command was the last thing he sought, but this was a piece of information he chose never to reveal, by word or deed, to his superior. Incapable by both nature and inclination of worshipping at the altar of the bitch goddess, Success, Brunetti had more modest desires. He was a man of short views, interested in the here, the now, the concrete. He left larger goals and desires to others, contenting himself with smaller ones: a happy family, a decent life, the attempt to do his job as well as he could. It seemed to him little enough to ask of life, and he settled for those hopes.
10
THE NEXT MORNING, Brunetti and Vianello left for Pellestrina a little after nine. Though both knew they were engaged in the investigation of two savage murders, the glory of the day once again conspired to lighten their hearts and fill them with a schoolboy sense of adventure and fun. No office to be stuck in, no Patta calling to demand instant progress, and no fixed times to be anywhere; even Montisi, grumbling at the helm that they’d be slowed down by cross-tides, couldn’t dim their mood. The morning did not disappoint. The trees in the Giardini were covered with new leaves, and occasionally a sudden breeze set them shimmering, their undersides twinkling in the light reflected from the water.
As they approached the island of San Servolo, Montisi arched the boat in a wide curve to the right and took them past Santa Maria della Grazie and San Clemente. Even the thought that these islands had been used for centuries to isolate the sick in mind and body from the rest of the population of Venice did nothing to dampen Brunetti’s spirits.
Vianello surprised him by saying, ‘Soon there’ll be no more chance to go blackberrying.’
Confused, thinking that the rush of the wind might have caused him to misunderstand, Brunetti leaned towards him and asked, ‘What?’
‘There,’ Vianello said, pointing off to their right to the larger island that lay in the farther distance. ‘Sacca Sèssola. We used to go out there when we were kids to pick blackberries. It was abandoned even then, so they grew like crazy. We’d pick kilos in a day, eat until we were sick with them.’ Vianello raised his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. ‘But someone told me it’s been sold, auctioned off to a university or some company, and they’re going to make it into a convention centre or something like that.’ Brunetti could hear his sigh. ‘No more blackberries.’
‘But more tourists, I suppose,’ Brunetti said, referring to the deity currently worshipped by those who ran the city.
‘I’d rather have blackberries.’
Neither
of them spoke until they saw the single campanile of Poveglia on their right, when Vianello asked, ‘How are we going to do this, sir?’
‘I think we should try to find out more about the waiter’s story, about his brother and anything that might have come of that argument. See if you can find the brother and see what he says, and I’ll go back and talk to Signora Follini.’
‘You’re a brave man, Commissario,’ Vianello said, deadpan.
‘My wife has promised to call the police if I’m not home by dinnertime.’
‘I doubt that even we would be any good against Signora Follini.’
‘I’m afraid you might be right, Sergeant, but still, a man must do his duty.’
‘Like John Wayne.’
‘Precisely. After I’ve spoken to her, I’ll try the other bar: I think there was one up the street from the restaurant, on the other side.’
Vianello nodded. He’d seen it, but it had been closed the day they were there. ‘Lunch?’ he asked.
‘Same place,’ Brunetti answered. ‘If you don’t mind having to pass over the clams and fish.’
‘Believe me, sir, I don’t mind in the least.’
‘But it’s the food we grew up with,’ Brunetti surprised himself by insisting. ‘You must mind not eating it any more.’
‘I told you, sir,’ Vianello said, turning to look him in the face as he spoke, one hand holding his hat down against a sudden gust of wind, ‘everything I’ve read tells me not to eat them.’
‘But you’ve still got to miss them, want to eat them,’ Brunetti insisted.
‘Of course I miss them. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t. People who stop smoking always miss cigarettes. But I think they’ll kill me, really I do.’ Before Brunetti could question or ridicule, he continued, ‘No, not one plate of them and not fifty plates of them. But they’re loaded with chemicals and heavy metals. God knows how they live themselves. I just don’t want to eat them; the idea makes me faintly sick.’
‘Then how can you miss them?’
‘Because I’m Venetian, and they’re what I grew up eating, as you said. But they weren’t poisoned then. I loved them, loved eating them, loved my mother’s spaghetti with clam sauce, her fish soup. But now I know what’s in them, and I just can’t eat them.’ Aware that he still hadn’t satisfied Brunetti’s curiosity, he said, ‘Maybe it’s what Indians feel about eating cows.’ He thought about it for a while, then corrected himself. ‘No, they never eat them to begin with, so they can’t stop, can they?’ He considered the question further, finally gave up. ‘I can’t explain what it’s like, sir. I suppose I could eat them if I wanted to; it’s just that I don’t want to.’
Brunetti started to say something, but Vianello asked, ‘Why does it confuse you so much? You wouldn’t react like this if someone stopped smoking, would you?’
Brunetti considered this. ‘I suppose not.’ He laughed. ‘It’s probably because it’s about food, and I find it hard to believe that anyone could stop eating something as good as clams, regardless of the consequences.’
That seemed to settle the issue, at least for the moment. Montisi gave the engine full throttle, and its noise blocked out any further attempt to talk. Occasionally they passed boats on either side, anchored in the water, men sitting idly with fishing rods in their hands, engaged more in contemplation than in the attempt to catch fish. Hearing the speed of the approaching boat, most of the men looked up, but when they saw that it was a police boat they returned their attention to the water.
Too soon, as far as Brunetti was concerned, they saw the long dock of Pellestrina. A narrow gap showed the place where the Squallus still lay on the bottom, the masts emerging from the water at the same crazy angle. Montisi took them to the end of the pier, cut the motor, and glided silently until they were less than a metre from the riva, when he suddenly shot the motor into reverse for a few seconds, then as quickly shut it down. The boat drifted silently to the dock. Vianello tossed a mooring rope around the metal stanchion, easily pulling the boat into place. With quick precision, he knotted the rope and dropped it on deck.
Montisi leaned out of the cabin and said, ‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘That’s all right, Montisi,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’ve no idea when we’ll finish; we can take the bus back to the Lido and the boat from there.’
‘I’ll wait for you,’ Montisi repeated as if Brunetti had never spoken or he hadn’t heard what his superior said.
Since Montisi’s duties were those of a pilot only, Brunetti could hardly ask him to move among the population of Pellestrina, asking for information about the murder of the Bottins. Nor did he want to order him to return to the Questura, even though the boat might be needed there. He compromised by asking, ‘What’ll you do all day?’
Montisi turned and pulled open the lid of the locker to his left. He bent down and pulled out three fishing rods and a small plastic-covered pail. ‘I’ll be out there,’ he said, indicating the water to their right. He looked directly at Brunetti and said, ‘If you like, I could go and have a coffee in the bar after I’m done fishing.’
‘That might be a good idea,’ Brunetti agreed and stepped up on to the pier.
He and Vianello walked towards the clustered houses of the small village. Brunetti looked down at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven now. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.’
When they reached what passed as the centre of Pellestrina, Brunetti turned to his left and approached Signora Follini’s store, while Vianello continued on ahead, intending to stop at the restaurant and see if the waiter could tell him where to find his brother.
Signora Follini was already standing behind the counter, talking to an old woman. Signora Follini glanced up when he came in and started to smile. But as Brunetti watched, he saw her suddenly remember the presence of the other woman and change the smile into a formal acknowledgement of the arrival of a stranger who had no claim to anything beyond civility.
‘Buon giorno,’ Brunetti said.
Signora Follini, today wearing an orange dress with large bands of ivory-coloured lace at neck and waist, returned his greeting but immediately turned her attention back to the old woman, who was watching Brunetti. She looked at him, eyes the clouded grey of advancing age, but no less keen for that. If she had teeth, she hadn’t bothered to wear them that day. She was short, at least a head shorter than Signora Follini, and she was entirely dressed in black. Looking at her, Brunetti thought that the word ‘swathed’ would be more appropriate, for it was difficult to distinguish just what it was she wore. A long skirt came to well below her knees, and some sort of woollen coat was buttoned tightly over that. Wrapped around her shoulders and covering her head was a crocheted woollen scarf the ends of which hung down almost to her waist.
Her clothing declared her widowhood as indisputably as would a hand-held placard or a giant letter pinned to her breast. The South was full of women like this, shrouded in black and destined to pass, cloud-like, through the remaining years of their lives, the limits of their behaviour as strictly delineated as those of peasant women in Bengal or Peru. But that was the South, and this was Venice, where widows wore bright colours, went dancing if and with whom they pleased, married again if they so chose.
He felt her eyes on him, nodded, and said, ‘Good morning, Signora.’
She ignored him and turned back to Signora Follini. ‘And a package of candles and half a kilo of flour,’ Brunetti thought she said, though her dialect was so strong he wasn’t sure. Here he was, less than twenty kilometres from his own home, and he found it hard to understand the natives.
He moved towards the back of the store and started to examine the goods on the shelves. He picked up a can of Cirio tomatoes and, out of curiosity, turned it over to look at the sell-by date. It had expired two years before. He set the can carefully back into the ring of dust that had surrounded it and moved towards the soap powder.
He glanced back at the counter, but the widow was still there. He heard her talking to Si
gnora Follini, but her voice was too low for him to hear what she was saying, not that he was sure he’d understand her if he could. A thin film lay on top of the irregularly stacked boxes of detergent; one had been chewed open at a corner, and a small mound of tiny white and blue beads had spilled out on to the shelf.
His watch told him he’d been inside the store for more than five minutes. Signora Follini had added nothing to the candles and flour, which sat on the counter in front of the old woman, but still they stood there and still they talked.
He retreated further into the back of the shop and directed his attention to a row of bottles of pickles and olives that stood at the height of his chest. One bottle of what appeared to be mushrooms caught his attention because of a small oval of white mould that had edged from beneath the lid and begun to make its way slowly down the side of the bottle. Next to it stood a tiny can that had no label. It sat there, looking curiously lost and useless, yet faintly menacing.
Brunetti heard the bell and turned towards the counter. The old woman was gone, and with her had disappeared the candles and flour. He walked towards the front of the store and said again, ‘Buon giorno.’
She smiled in response, but the smile had little warmth; perhaps the old woman had taken some of it with her or had left behind a cool warning about how women with no visible husbands were meant to behave in the presence of strange men.
‘How are you today, Signora?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ she answered with some formality. ‘How can I help you?’ On his previous visit, she would have asked this with the clear suggestion that what she would be willing to provide contained at least the promise of sensuality. This time, however, the list suggested by her voice went no further than dried peas, salt and a bottle of anchovies.
Brunetti gave her his warmest smile. ‘I’ve come back to speak to you, Signora,’ he began, wondering if this would cause her to respond. When it did not, he went on, ‘I wanted to ask if you’d remembered anything else about the Bottins that might be useful to us.’ Her face remained expressionless. ‘You suggested, the last time we spoke, that you knew at least the son very well, and I wondered if you’d thought of anything else that might be important.’