A Sea of Troubles

by Donna Leon

  ‘Why not come back here?’

  The old man shook his head wearily, either at the impossibility of such a feat in weather like this or at the ignorance of a person who would have to ask it. ‘No chance. If he tried to turn in the canal, the wind and tide could turn him over. Only thing he can do is try to run on to Ca’ Roman. Back in ‘27,’ he began, making it sound as though he’d seen that storm, too, ‘that’s what happened to Elio Magrini. Flipped him over like a turtle. They never found him, and what was left of the boat wasn’t worth salvaging.’ He raised his glass, perhaps to the memory of Elio Magrini, and emptied it in a single long swallow.

  During all of this, Brunetti had been considering possibilities: with the wind coming from the north-west and the retreating tide pushed along by it, the narrow spit of land that led down to Ca’ Roman would be awash, perhaps already completely under water. He and Montisi could get there only by boat, and if what the old man said was true, that would mean running the police launch aground.

  ‘You really think she’s gone out with him? In this?’ Brunetti asked in his best man of the world voice.

  The puff of wind the old man shot out of his compressed lips expressed disgust, not only at the foolishness of Signorina Elettra, but at that of all women. Adding nothing, the old man pushed himself away from the bar and went to sit at one of the tables.

  Brunetti placed a few thousand lire on the bar, put the tape recorder back in his pocket, and started for the door. Just before he reached it, it banged open from outside, but no one came in: only wind and rain battered it repeatedly against the wall. Brunetti stepped out into the rain, careful to pull the door shut behind him.

  He was instantly wet; it happened so quickly that he had no time to worry about it or to think about protecting himself from the rain. One moment he was dry, the next soaked through, his shoes filled with water, as though he’d stepped into a lake. He set off back towards the pier and, perhaps, Montisi. After a few seconds he had to raise a hand above his eyes to block the power of the wind that drove rain into them, blinding him. His progress was slowed by the added weight of water that bore him down, pulling at his shoes and jacket.

  Once he stepped out from the shelter of the buildings that lined the laguna side of the road, the wind pounded at him, as if trying to batter him to the ground. Luckily, a row of street lights ran along the pier, and in the dim light they managed to cast through the sudden darkness of the day, he made his way towards the launch. He moved ahead slowly, or he might have fallen when his foot hit the metal stanchion to which the boat was moored.

  He grabbed at its mushroom top with both hands, leaned towards the vague shape he thought was the boat, and called Montisi’s name. When there was no response, he bent and felt for the mooring line, but when he found it, it was slack in his grasp, for the wind had driven the boat tight against the side of the pier. He stepped on to the boat and, blinded by a sudden gust of rain, stumbled against the door of the cabin.

  Montisi opened the door, popped his head outside, and seeing that it was Brunetti, pulled him in. There, sheltered from the rain, Brunetti realized that the noise of it crashing into the pavement and on to the water had deafened him to all other sounds. It took him a moment to adjust to the relative silence of the cabin.

  ‘Can you move in this?’ he called to Montisi, his voice raised unnecessarily against the sound of the rain.

  ‘What do you mean, “move”?’ the pilot asked, unwilling to believe the obvious.

  ‘Down towards Ca’ Roman.’

  ‘That’s crazy. We can’t go out in this.’ As if to prove him right, a sheet of rain pounded against the starboard windows of the cabin, drowning out voices and thought. ‘We have to wait until it’s over to go back.’ The wind had risen, so Montisi had to shout.

  ‘I’m not talking about going back.’

  Montisi, afraid he’d misunderstood, asked, ‘What?’

  ‘Elettra’s with them. On Spadini’s boat. Someone said they were going out fishing.’

  Montisi’s face grew stiff with surprise, or fear. ‘I saw them. At least I saw a boat, a fishing boat. It went past about twenty minutes ago. Two men, and someone leaning over the other side, pulling a rope up from the water. You think it’s her?’

  Brunetti nodded: it was easier than speech.

  ‘They’re crazy to go out in this,’ Montisi said,

  ‘Someone said they’d head towards Ca’ Roman and try to run ashore there.’

  ‘That’s crazy, too,’ Montisi shouted. Then, ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘One of the fishermen.’

  ‘From here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Montisi closed his eyes as if to study the map of the land and the channels running beside it. Farther down, the land was bisected by the Porto di Chioggia, a kilometre wide, but still narrow enough to allow fierce rip tides to run through, especially when there were heavy winds to drive them. On a day like this, it would be suicide to try to cross it in a boat as light as the police launch. Even a fishing boat the size of the one he’d seen would have trouble. Before the Porto, however, there was the last point of land, home to nesting birds and the crumbling ruins of a fort. Yet even if someone were to run aground there, waves might still pull the boat off, swirling it into the water to be swept around the tip of the island and out to sea.

  Montisi opened his eyes and looked at Brunetti. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What? That she’s on board?’

  This was Montisi, gruff, often irascible Montisi, asking the question.

  ‘I’m not sure. A man in the bar said she was on the pier with them.’

  ‘It couldn’t be anyone else,’ Montisi said, more to himself than to Brunetti. He pushed past Brunetti and opened the door to the cabin. He stepped outside for a moment, closed his eyes and held his palms up in front of him, like an Indian listening for the voice of one of his gods. Eyes still closed, he turned his head to one side, then the other, searching for something Brunetti couldn’t hear.

  He stepped back into the cabin and commanded, ‘Go out and get two life jackets.’ Brunetti sprang to obey. He was back with the jackets in an instant, no wetter than before. He watched Montisi to see how he tied it around his body and then did the same.

  ‘All right,’ Montisi said. ‘There’s going to be a pause in the wind, and then it will get worse.’ Brunetti had no idea how Montisi knew this, but it never occurred to him that it was less than pure truth. His voice raised, Montisi went on, ‘I’m going to take us down there. If we run aground in the channel, I should be able to back us off, at least until the wind gets worse. When we get down to Ca’ Roman, you’ll have to use the spotlight to look for them or for the boat. If they’ve run aground, I’ll try to take us in next to them.’

  ‘And if they’re not there?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Then I’ll try to bring us round and get us back here.’

  For a moment, remembering the story of Elio Magrini, Brunetti was tempted to ask the pilot if they should risk this, but he stopped himself and, instead, ran his cupped hands over his face and head to stop the water from dripping into his eyes.

  Montisi switched the motor into life, turned on the lights and the windscreen wipers, neither of which seemed to make much difference against the growing darkness and cascading rain. Remembering in time, Brunetti ran out into the storm to uncoil the mooring rope and loop it loosely around a stanchion on the railing of the boat. He went back into the cabin and stood behind Montisi. Idly, he wiped with the sodden sleeve of his jacket at the humidity condensed on the windows of the cabin, but as soon as he wiped them clear, they immediately turned opaque, and he was forced to keep wiping them.

  Montisi flipped another switch, and a current of air flowed across the inside of the windscreen, removing the film of humidity. Slowly, he moved the boat away from the pier. The boat lurched to the left as though slapped by an enormous hand, slamming Brunetti against the side of the cabin. Montisi tightened his grip on the tiller and leaned
his weight to the right, fighting against the force of the wind.

  Dirty grey froth banged against the windscreen; the door to the cabin slammed open and then shut. Again and again, the wind forced them to the left. Montisi hit another switch, and a powerful spotlight on the prow made a feeble attempt to penetrate the chaotic darkness in front of them. As soon as it punched a hole and they could see a few metres ahead, another wave or spray of foam roared in to wipe out the space.

  One side of the cabin door crashed open against Brunetti’s back, but the blow was buffeted by his life jacket, and he hardly registered it. Nor was he much aware of the temperature, which continued to drop as the bora roared over them. The boat jumped to the left again, and again Montisi pulled it back into what might have been the centre of the channel. From behind them, out on the back deck, they heard an enormous crash, and a piece of wood smashed through the starboard window of the cabin, grazing Brunetti’s hand before landing at their feet.

  He had to put his mouth close to Montisi’s ear to shout, ‘What was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something from the water.’ Brunetti glanced down at it but it was nothing more than a bottle-sized piece of rotten wood. He flipped it out of the way with an impatient foot, but no sooner had he done so than a sudden gust of wind rolled it back towards him. Rain flooded through the broken window, soaking Montisi and lowering the temperature of the cabin even more.

  ‘Oh Dio, oh Dio,’ he heard Montisi begin to mutter. The pilot suddenly swung the wheel to the left and then as quickly to the right, but not before both of them felt a heavy thud against the port side of the boat.

  Brunetti froze, waiting to see if the boat began to founder or sink lower in the water. Realizing that Montisi could have no clearer idea than he of what had happened, he didn’t bother him with a question. There were two smaller thumps, but the boat continued to move forward, though the wind seemed to grow more intense, always pounding at them from the right.

  Out of nowhere, a shape loomed up on the left, and Montisi almost fell on to the wheel, trying to put his whole weight into pulling it to the right. The shape moved out of sight, but then, from behind them, there was an enormous, pounding crash, as powerful as the thunder had been, and the boat spun off, but heavily, as though it were suddenly as sodden as Brunetti’s clothing.

  Montisi swung the tiller to the left, and even Brunetti could sense how slow the boat was to respond. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We hit something. I think it was a boat,’ Montisi answered, still pulling at the wheel. He pushed the throttle forward, and Brunetti heard the engine respond, though the boat seemed to move no faster.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve got to run us in,’ Montisi said, leaning forward, straining to see what was in front of them.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ca’ Roman, I hope,’ Montisi said. ‘I don’t think we’ve passed it.’

  ‘If we have?’ Brunetti asked.

  By way of answer, all Montisi did was shake his head, but Brunetti didn’t know if this was to deny the possibility or the consequences.

  Montisi hit the throttle again, and though this increased the sound of the engine, it had no effect on their speed. A wave crashed over the side of their bow, and over the deck, hurling water up the wall of the cabin. Through the broken window it poured in over both of them.

  ‘There, there, there!’ Montisi shouted. Brunetti bent forward to stare out of the windscreen but could see nothing but an unbroken grey wall in front of them. Montisi turned to look at him for a second. ‘Don’t go outside until we hit. When we do, climb up on the deck. Don’t go over the side. Get to the front and jump as far forward as you can. If you land in water, keep going forward, and when you get out of the water, keep going.’

  ‘Where are we?’ Brunetti demanded, though the answer would not mean anything to him.

  There was a tremendous crash. The boat stopped as though it had run headlong into a wall, and both men were thrown to the floor. The boat tilted over on its right side, and water flooded in through the shattered window. Brunetti pushed himself to his feet and grabbed at Montisi, who had a long gash on the side of his head and responded slowly, moving like a man under water. Another wave broke through the window and poured down on them.

  Brunetti reached down to help the pilot, who was already pushing himself upright, though this was hard to do on the steeply slanting deck. ‘I’m all right,’ Montisi said.

  One side of the cabin door hung from a single hinge, and Brunetti had to kick it open. When he pulled Montisi outside, water surged at them from everywhere. Remembering what Montisi had told him, he pulled and pushed the pilot up on to the raised deck in front of the cabin, then hauled himself up afterwards.

  Pushing Montisi in front of him, Brunetti held him steady with one hand as waves raged at the stricken boat, rocking the deck back and forth under their feet. Step by step they moved drunkenly towards the prow and the single searchlight that cut the darkness in front of them. They reached the railing, and Montisi, without an instant’s hesitation or a backward glance, leaped heavily from the prow of the boat, disappearing into the greyness.

  A wave knocked Brunetti to his knees; he grabbed the base of the spotlight to hold himself steady as another and stronger wave battered at him from behind, sending him sprawling. He pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet, and moved again to the point of the prow. At the moment when he shifted his balance to spring forward, an enormous wave swept up from behind him, catapulting him, head over heels, into the howling darkness.

  24

  HAD MONTISI AND Brunetti approached Pellestrina earlier, as they passed the dock of San Pietro in Volta they would have seen a glowing Signorina Elettra, dressed in navy blue linen slacks, standing on the deck of a large fishing boat, waiting impatiently to set off, while Carlo and the man she had always heard called Zio Vittorio waited as the double fuel tanks were filled. She was vaguely conscious, to the degree that she could be conscious of anything other than Carlo when she was with him, of a low bank of clouds lying off behind the dimly seen towers of the distant city. But when she turned towards the waters of the Adriatic, invisible beyond the low houses of Pellestrina and the sea wall that protected them from those waters, she saw only fluffy, careless clouds and a sky of such transparent blue as to add to her already considerable joy. When Vittorio pulled his boat away from the gas station just above San Vito, the police launch was already moored to the dock in Pellestrina, and by the time the fishing boat passed the launch, heading south, Brunetti was already inside the bar, having his first sip of wine.

  It would be an exaggeration to say that Signorina Elettra was afraid of Zio Vittorio, but it would also be less than true to say that she was comfortable in his presence. Her response to him was somewhere in between, but because he was Carlo’s uncle, she usually managed to ignore the uneasiness he created in her. Zio Vittorio had always been perfectly friendly with her, always seemed glad to find her in Carlo’s house and at his table. Perhaps it would come close to explaining her feelings to say that, when she spoke to Vittorio, she was always left with the suspicion that he was secretly enjoying the thought of where else in Carlo’s house she had been.

  He was not a tall man, Zio Vittorio, hardly taller than she, and had the same muscular frame as his nephew. Because he had spent most of his life at sea, his face was tanned mahogany, making the grey eyes which were said to resemble those of his sister, Carlo’s mother, seem all the lighter in contrast. He wore his thinning hair slicked straight back from his face, long at the base of his head, and kept it in place with a pomade that smelled of cinnamon and metal filings. His teeth were perfect: one night after dinner he had cracked open walnuts with them, smiling at her when she failed to disguise her shock at this.

  He must have been sixty, an age which, to Elettra, automatically consigned him to a genderless void in which any sort of expressed interest in sex was embarrassing, even worse than that. Yet the consciousness of sex and s
exual activity always seemed to lurk behind even his most innocent remarks, as though he were incapable of conceiving a universe in which men and women could relate to one another in any other way. Somewhere, beneath the tremor that still filled her when she thought of Carlo, this vague unease lurked, though she had become adept at ignoring it, especially on a day like this, when the sky to the east boded so well.

  The heavy boat pulled out into the channel and started to move south, back past Pellestrina and towards the narrow opening of the Porto di Chioggia, through which they would pass into the open sea. There was no thought of fishing that day: his uncle had told Carlo he wanted to take the boat to sea to test a rebuilt motor that had just been installed. It had sounded perfectly fine when they set out, but just as the boat grew level with the Ottagono di Caroman, Vittorio called back to them that something was wrong. Only seconds later both Carlo and Elettra felt a sudden change in the rhythm of the motor: it began to hiccup, and the boat jerked reluctantly ahead instead of proceeding steadily.

  Carlo walked forward, saying, ‘What is it?’

  The older man flicked the starter switch off, then on, then off again. In the momentary calm, he answered, ‘Dirt in the fuel line, I’d say.’ He switched on the motor again, and this time it jumped to life and throbbed with the steady rhythm they were accustomed to.

  ‘Sounds fine to me,’ Carlo said.

  ‘Hmm,’ his uncle murmured, seeming to listen to Carlo but really intent on the sound of the engine. He placed the palm of his left hand flat on the control panel and shoved the throttle forward with his right. The volume increased, but suddenly the engine gave a single dyspeptic burp and then a series of choking noises until it stopped entirely.

  Carlo, as he knew to his cost, was neither a real fisherman nor a mechanic, though he had learned to do much of the work of the first. In a case like this, he deferred absolutely to his uncle’s greater experience and wisdom and so waited to be told what to do. The boat slowed, then stopped dead in the water.