Anonymous Venetian

by Donna Leon

  ‘Which would be?’

  ‘People who choose not to invest with us. People who hear about this or read about this and, as a result, choose to entrust their finances to another bank.’

  Brunetti thought about this for a while, and he also thought about the way bankers always avoided the use of the word ‘money’, thought of the broad panoply of words they’d invented to replace that crasser term: funds, finances, investments, liquidity, assets. Euphemism was usually devoted to crasser things: death and bodily functions. Did that mean there was something fundamentally sordid about money and that the language of bankers attempted to disguise or deny this fact? He pulled his attention back to Ravanello.

  ‘Have you any idea of how much this might be?’

  ‘No,’ Ravanello said, shaking his head as at the mention of death or serious illness. ‘There’s no way to calculate it.’

  ‘And what you call the real losses, how great have they been?’

  Ravanello’s look became more guarded. ‘Could you tell me why you want that information, Commissario?’

  ‘It’s not a case of my wanting that information, Signor Ravanello, not specifically. We are still in the opening stages of this investigation, and so I want to acquire as much information as possible, from as many sources as possible. I’m not sure which of it will prove important, but we won’t be able to make that determination until we have acquired all of the information there is to be had regarding Signor Mascari.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ Ravanello said. He reached out and pulled a folder towards him. ‘I have those figures here, Commissario. I was just looking at them.’ He opened the folder and ran his finger down a computer printout of names and numbers. ‘The combined worth of the liquidated assets, just from the two depositors I mentioned - the third hardly matters - is roughly eight billion lire.’

  ‘Because he was wearing a dress?’ Brunetti said, intentionally exaggerating his response.

  Ravanello disguised his distaste at such levity, but just barely. ‘No, Commissario, not because he was wearing a dress. But because that sort of behaviour is suggestive of a profound lack of responsibility, and our investors, perhaps rightly, are concerned that this same lack of responsibility might have characterized his professional as well as his personal life.’

  ‘So people are bailing out before it’s discovered that he’s bankrupted the bank by spending it all on stockings and lace underwear?’

  ‘I see no reason to treat this as a joke, Commissario,’ Ravanello said in a voice that must have brought countless creditors to their knees.

  ‘I am merely attempting to suggest that this is an excessive response to the man’s death.’

  ‘But his death is very compromising.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘For the bank, certainly. But far more so for Leonardo himself.’

  ‘Signor Ravanello, however compromising Signor Mascari’s death may seem to be, we have no definite facts regarding the circumstances of that death.’

  ‘Is that supposed to mean that he was not found wearing a woman’s dress?’

  ‘Signor Ravanello, if I dress you in a monkey suit, that does not mean you are a monkey.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Ravanello asked, no longer attempting to disguise his anger.

  ‘It’s supposed to mean exactly what it does mean: the fact that Signor Mascari was wearing a dress at the time of his death does not necessitate the fact that he was a transvestite. In fact, it does not necessitate the fact that there was the least irregularity in his life.’

  ‘I find that impossible to believe,’ Ravanello said.

  ‘Apparently so do your investors.’

  ‘I find it impossible to believe for other reasons, Commissario,’ Ravanello said and looked down at the folder, closed it, and set it to the side of the desk.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is very difficult to talk about,’ he said, took the folder and shifted it to the other side of the desk.

  When he said nothing more, Brunetti urged in a softer voice, ‘Go on, Signor Ravanello.’

  ‘I was a friend of Leonardo’s. Perhaps his only close friend.’ He looked up at Brunetti, then down again at his hands. ‘I knew about him,’ he said in a soft voice.

  ‘Knew what, Signor Ravanello?’

  ‘About the dressing-up. And about the boys.’ His colour rose as he said this, but he kept his eyes steadily on his hands.

  ‘How did you know it?’

  ‘Leonardo told me.’ He paused here and took a deep breath. ‘We’ve worked together for ten years. Our families know each other. Leonardo is my son’s godfather. I don’t think he had other friends, not close ones.’ Ravanello stopped talking, as if this was all he could say.

  Brunetti allowed a moment to pass and then asked, ‘How did he tell you? And what did he tell you?’

  ‘We were here, working on a Sunday, just the two of us. The computers had been down on Friday and Saturday, and we couldn’t begin to work on them until Sunday. We were sitting at the terminals in the main office, and he just turned to me and told me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘It was very strange, Commissario. He just looked over at me. I saw that he had stopped working, thought he wanted to tell me something or ask me something about the transaction he was recording, so I stopped and looked at him.’ Ravanello paused, conjuring up the scene. ‘He said, “You know, Marco, I like boys.” Then he bent down over the computer and continued to work, just as if he’d given me a transaction number or the price of a stock. It was very strange.’

  Brunetti allowed silence to emanate out from this for a while, and then he asked, ‘Did he ever explain the remark or add to it?’

  ‘Yes. When we were finished work that afternoon, I asked him what he meant, and he told me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he liked boys, not women.’

  ‘Boys or men?’

  ‘Ragazzi . Boys.’

  ‘Did he say anything about the dressing?’

  ‘Not then. But he did about a month later. We were on the train, going out to the main office in Verona, and we passed a few of them on the platform in Padova. He told me then.’

  ‘How did you respond to what he told you?’

  ‘I was shocked, of course. I never suspected Leonardo was that way.’

  ‘Did you warn him?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘His position at the bank?’

  ‘Of course. I told him that if anyone learned about it, his career would be ruined.’

  ‘Why? I’m sure many homosexuals work in banks.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It was the dressing-up. And the whores.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘Yes. He told me that he used them and that he would do the same, sometimes.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Whatever you call it - solicit? He would take money from men. I told him that this could destroy him.’ Ravanello paused for a moment and then added, ‘And it did destroy him.’

  ‘Signor Ravanello, why haven’t you told the police any of this?’

  ‘I’ve just told you, Commissario. I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘Yes, but I came here to question you. You didn’t contact us.’

  Ravanello paused and finally said, ‘I saw no reason to destroy his reputation.’

  ‘It would seem, from what you’ve told me about your clients, that there isn’t much left to destroy.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important.’ Seeing Brunetti’s look, he said, ‘That is, everyone seemed to believe it already. So I saw no reason in betraying his confidence.’

  ‘I suspect there’s something you aren’t telling me, Signor Ravanello.’

  The banker met Brunetti’s gaze and looked quickly away. ‘I also wanted to protect the bank. I wanted to see if Leonardo had been... if he had been indiscreet.’

  ‘Is that banker’s language for “embezzle”?’

  Again, Rav
anello’s lips expressed his opinion of Brunetti’s choice of words. ‘I wanted to be sure that the bank had been in no way affected by his indiscretions.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘All right, Commissario,’ Ravanello said, leaning forward and speaking angrily. ‘I wanted to see that his accounts were in order, that nothing was missing from any of the clients or institutions whose funds he handled.’

  ‘You’ve had a busy morning, then.’

  ‘No, I came in this weekend to do it. I spent most of Saturday and Sunday at the computer, checking through his files, going back three years. That’s all I had time to check.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. Everything is perfectly as it should be. However disorderly Leonardo’s private life might have been, his professional life is perfectly in order.’

  ‘And if it had not been?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Then I would have called you.’

  ‘I see. Can copies of these records be made available to us?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ravanello agreed, surprising Brunetti by the speed with which he did so. In his experience, banks were even more reluctant to disclose information than to give money. Usually, it was available only with a court order. What a pleasant, accommodating gesture for Signor Ravanello to make.

  ‘Thank you, Signor Ravanello. One of our finance people will be down to get them from you, perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll have them ready.’

  ‘I’d also like you to think of anything else Signor Mascari might have confided in you about his other, his secret, life.’

  ‘Of course. But I think I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘Well, perhaps the emotion of the moment might be preventing you from remembering other things, minor things. I’d be very grateful if you’d make a note of anything that comes to mind. I’ll be in touch with you in a day or two.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ravanello repeated, perhaps made amiable by the clear sense that the interview was soon to end.

  ‘I think that will be all for today,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet. ‘I appreciate both your time and your candour, Signor Ravanello. I’m sure this time is very difficult for you. You’ve lost not only a colleague, but a friend.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Ravanello said, nodding.

  ‘Again,’ Brunetti said, extending his hand, ‘let me thank you for your time and your help.’ He paused a moment and then added, ‘And your honesty.’

  Ravanello looked up sharply at this but said, ‘You’re welcome, Commissario,’ and came round the desk to accompany Brunetti to the door of the main office. They shook hands again, and Brunetti let himself out on to those same steps down which he had followed Ravanello on Saturday afternoon.

  * * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Because he was near Rialto, it would have been easy for Brunetti to go home for lunch, but he neither wanted to cook for himself nor risk the rest of the insalata di calamari, now in its third day and hence suspect. Instead, he walked down to Corte dei Milion and had an adequate lunch in the small trattoria that crouched in one corner of the tiny campo.

  He got back to his office at three and thought it might be wise to go down and talk to Patta without having to be summoned. Outside the Vice-Questore’s office, he found Signorina Elettra standing by the table that stood against the wall of her tiny office, pouring water from a plastic bottle into a large crystal vase that held six tall calla lilies. The lilies were white, but not so white as the cotton of the blouse she wore with the skirt of her purple suit. When she saw Brunetti, she smiled and said, ‘It’s remarkable how much water they drink.’

  He could think of no adequate rejoinder, so he contented himself with returning her smile and asking, ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Yes. He just got back from lunch. He’s got an appointment at four-thirty, so if you want to talk to him, you better do it now.’

  ‘Do you know what kind of appointment it is?’

  ‘Commissario, are you asking me to reveal a confidence about the Vice-Questore’s private life?’ she asked, managing to sound properly shocked, then continued, ‘The fact that his appointment is with his lawyer is one I do not feel myself at liberty to reveal.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Brunetti said and looked down at her shoes, the same purple as her skirt. ‘Then perhaps I better see him now.’ He stepped a bit to the side and knocked on Patta’s door, waited for the ‘Avanti’ that answered his knock, and went in.

  Because he sat behind the desk in Patta’s office, the man had to be Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta. But the man Brunetti saw sitting there resembled the Vice-Questore in much the same way a police photo resembled the person it depicted. Usually bronzed to a light mahogany by this time of the summer, Patta was still pale, but it was a strange kind of paleness that had been laid down under a superficial coating of tanned skin. The massive chin, which Brunetti could not glimpse without calling to mind photos of Mussolini seen in history books, had lost its jutting firmness and had grown soft, as if it needed only another week to begin to sag. Patta’s tie was neatly knotted, but the collar of the suit under which it sat looked as though it needed to be brushed. The tie was just as bare of tie-pin as the lapel was of flower, creating the strange impression that the Vice-Questore had come to his office in a state of undress.

  ‘Ah, Brunetti,’ he said when he saw the other man come in. ‘Have a seat. Please have a seat.’ In the more than five years Brunetti had worked for Patta, this, he was certain, was the first time he had heard the Vice-Questore say ‘please’, other than to strain the word through tightly clenched teeth.

  Brunetti did as he was asked and waited to see what new marvels were in store.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for your help,’ Patta began, looking at Brunetti for a second and then glancing away, as if following a bird that had flown across the room behind Brunetti’s shoulder. Because Paola was gone, no copies of Gente or Oggi were in the house, so Brunetti could not be sure of the absence of stories about Signora Patta and Tito Burrasca, but he assumed that this was the reason for Patta’s gratitude. If Patta wanted to credit that fact to Brunetti’s supposed connections with the world of publishing rather than to the relative inconsequence of his wife’s behaviour, Brunetti saw no sense in disillusioning the man.

  ‘It was nothing, sir,’ he said, quite truthfully.

  Patta nodded. ‘What about this business in Mestre?’

  Brunetti gave him a brief account of what he had learned so far, concluding with his visit to Ravanello that morning and the man’s assertion that he knew of Mascari’s inclinations and tastes.

  ‘Then it would seem that his murderer has got to be one of his, what do you call them, “tricks”?’ Patta said, showing his unerring instinct for the obvious.

  ‘That is, sir, if you think men of our age are sexually attractive to other men.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Commissario,’ Patta said, returning to a tone with which Brunetti was more familiar.

  ‘We’re all assuming that he was either a transvestite or a whore and was killed as a result of that, yet the only evidence we have is the fact that he was found in a dress and the statement of the man who took his job.’

  ‘That man is also the director of a bank, Brunetti,’ Patta said, with his usual reverence for such titles.

  ‘Which job he has as a result of the other man’s death.’

  ‘Bankers do not kill one another, Brunetti,’ Patta said with the rock-solid certainty so characteristic of him.

  Too late, Brunetti realized the danger here. Patta had only to see the advantage of attributing Mascari’s death to some violent episode in his deviant private life, and he would be justified in leaving it to the Mestre police to search for the person responsible and thus effectively remove Brunetti from any involvement with the case.

  ‘You’re probably right, sir,’ Brunetti conceded, ‘but this is not the time when we can risk a suggestion in the press that we have no
t explored every possible avenue in this case.’

  Like a bull at the slightest flip of the cape, Patta responded to this reference to the media. ‘What are you suggesting, then?’

  ‘I think we should, of course, concentrate all efforts on an examination of the world of the transvestites in Mestre, but I think we should at least go through the motions of examining the possibility of some connection to the bank, however remote we both know that to be.’