by Donna Leon
‘This was a call that lasted six minutes,’ Brunetti added, as if hoping to prod his memory.
Vittori studied his hands again, searching for a plausible answer. Brunetti used this opportunity to glance at Griffoni. There could have been a wall between her and Vittori, so little attention did she pay him.
‘I might have,’ Vittori finally answered. ‘People feel free to call me very early.’
‘When?’ Brunetti inquired.
‘Oh,’ Vittori exclaimed, ‘didn’t you say?’
‘No, but if it might help you remember, it came at 8.43, which is indeed early,’ Brunetti said.
‘Yes, yes,’ Vittori answered, dragging out the two words. ‘It is.’ He kept his attention on Brunetti, as if afraid of what would happen to him if he looked at Griffoni.
Brunetti was put in mind of a television programme he had watched ages ago, must be thirty years: Visitors, which featured man-sized reptiles disguised as humans. When they were killed, their human carapace fell away, exposing the giant reptile within that was already shrinking into death. Vittori was losing his carapace of casual arrogance and seemed, even as Brunetti observed him, to be growing smaller, as if withering away.
Vittori took a deep breath, started to speak, and then took another. He remained silent for a long time, carefully attentive to his joined hands, which were clasped tight, fingers enmeshed.
When he decided that Vittori was not going to speak, Brunetti changed the subject and said, ‘Signor Vittori, we know about your job at the stables, and the letter from Signor degli Specchi.’
Vittori, who had been motionless, froze. Brunetti thought he heard a soft noise, like the sound a man makes when he picks up something heavy.
‘People who were working there at the time,’ Brunetti proceeded calmly, ‘are sure to remember you and anything . . . peculiar about your behaviour.’ He watched these words thud into Vittori.
Vittori continued in close communion with his hands for some time, then looked back at Brunetti. ‘Someone saw me on television,’ he finally said. ‘And he called with some crazy story and said he wanted money from me or he’d call you and tell you.’
‘The police?’ Brunetti asked. He watched Vittori as he spoke, amazed at how fear could change the face of a person, exaggerating the bones and shrinking the eyes. ‘Tell us what?’ he prompted.
Brunetti had the feeling that Vittori was working out just how to tell his story. Finally he said, ‘He told me if I didn’t give him money, he’d call you and say he saw me throw Manuela into the canal.’ He waited for Brunetti’s response, then added, ‘He’d destroy my honour,’ and Brunetti heard a small intake of breath from Griffoni, as though she’d touched something nasty in the dark.
‘What did you do?’ Brunetti asked.
Indignation splashed across Vittori’s face. ‘What could I do? This was a madman, making a false accusation. I didn’t know who he was. His threats were insane.’
Brunetti watched the other man continue to shift the gears of his story until Vittori said, ‘I hung up on him.’
Brunetti looked at Vittori, who was again studying his folded hands, then at Griffoni, who shook her head.
‘And then?’ Brunetti asked.
‘And then nothing. He never called back.’
‘You didn’t try to trace the call?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Use reverse dialling?’
‘No. I was terrified. Accusations like this could destroy my reputation, my career. I’d be dragged through the courts, and that woman would scream her crazy accusations at me. I’d have no chance. Everyone would believe her.’
Brunetti thought it wise not to point out to Vittori that Manuela had not screamed accusations at him, had only screamed. Instead, he asked mildly, ‘Should they believe her?’
‘Of course not,’ Vittori said, throwing his hands into the air. ‘She was always following me around, touching me when I helped her into the saddle. She was like one of the mares in heat, begging for it.’
Brunetti glanced quickly at Griffoni, who had grabbed the sides of her chair, as if that were the only way she could keep her hands from reaching for Vittori.
Speaking as though he were a friend of Vittori’s, surprised that he had failed to recognize the turn-off to his own street, Brunetti asked, ‘But what were you afraid of?’
‘A false accusation by a woman who was a minor at the time of the . . .’ he drew in his breath and spat out with contempt, ‘the supposed attack. Even that would cause me trouble.’
‘But no one would get the chance to listen to her,’ Brunetti said, careful to avoid Griffoni.
‘Of course they would,’ Vittori insisted petulantly. ‘They always believe the woman.’
‘But there’s nothing she could do about it or that we could,’ Brunetti insisted in the face of Vittori’s failure to understand. ‘The statute of limitations,’ he said. ‘It’s ten years, and then no accusation can be made. Even if you had done it, you couldn’t be charged with it now. It’s over. It’s gone.’
Vittori’s face froze. As Brunetti watched, he struggled to open his mouth, but failed. He broke free of his trance and licked his lips, finally managing to force them open, but he produced nothing more than a bleated ‘uh, uh’. The colour had drained from his face, and for a moment Brunetti thought he was going to faint. Time stopped in the room as Vittori tried to force himself back to life.
Brunetti had read that many people, faced with the end of life, see it all pass before them. For Vittori, only the last weeks mattered: Brunetti believed that.
The voice that finally came from Vittori was an old man’s. ‘That can’t be true.’ If a desert could have spoken, it would have sounded like this. ‘No.’
Griffoni spoke. ‘You must be relieved, Signor Vittori. Nothing she says can hurt your honour now. As my colleague has told you: no matter what you might have done to her, it’s over. It’s gone.’
Had Vittori been standing, he would have reeled from side to side. As it was, he imitated Griffoni’s gesture and clasped the seat of his chair. He took one deep breath and then another and then gave an enormous sigh, as at the end of a valiant feat.
Brunetti was tempted to drag this out and give Vittori the chance to say more, but he had never approved of torture, even for someone like the man sitting in front of him, and so he said, ‘But the murder of Pietro Cavanis is still with us, Signor Vittori, and I am both accusing you of that crime and arresting you for having committed it.’
At this point in the interview with Signor Vittori, Brunetti was later to testify during Alessandro Vittori’s trial for the murder of Pietro Cavanis, Commissario Claudia Griffoni got to her feet and left the room.
During that same trial, Signor Vittori testified that Manuela Lando-Continui had begged him to have sex with her but that he had refused because she was underage and he did not want to endanger his job. Two persons who had kept horses at the stable while Signor Vittori was employed there testified that Signor Vittori had, on the contrary, been almost violent in his attentions to Signorina Lando-Continui, who was both troubled and angered by his behaviour.
In the face of Signor Vittori’s repeated protestations of his innocence of the crime of murder, the prosecuting magistrate introduced forensic evidence to the contrary. The DNA sample taken from Vittori’s handkerchief matched that found on the knife with which Pietro Cavanis has been killed. Further, the morning of the murder of Signor Cavanis – and shortly after he had received a phone call made with a phonecard found in Pietro Cavanis’ possession – Signor Vittori had searched the internet and found newspaper accounts of Manuela Lando-Continui’s rescue from the waters of Rio San Boldo, an account which provided the name of Signor Cavanis, who was the only Pietro Cavanis in the phone book and still resident at the address in Santa Croce given in the article.
Unfortunately for him, Signor Vittori had not used the
internet to search for the statute of limitations for the crime of rape, which had expired well before Signor Cavanis had phoned him. Had he done so, he might not have been led to murder, for which he was convicted in the first trial, a conviction that is now under appeal.
29
Brunetti, although he knew where they were going, had no idea that they had arrived, so careful had Griffoni been to leave the autostrada well before Preganziol and arrive by a web of small roads well to the north-west of the town, the opposite direction from which one would normally arrive from Venice. Griffoni, who was driving a friend’s car, made sure not to be seen from the house and pulled up on the other side of the property, the main building hidden by the new growth on the trees.
She stopped the car a hundred metres from the fence, turned off the engine, and the three people in it sat and listened to the creaks and cracks as the engine cooled and the metal parts contracted. It was springtime, the leaves were on their way back, but still the day was brisk; even the clouds were busy, scuttling to the north.
Brunetti got out first. He looked around for the dog, but there was no sign of Hector, who was probably assigned to sleep duty that day. Without thinking, he was careful to close the door of the car quietly.
Griffoni was leaning into the front seat to help Manuela unlatch her seat belt, after which the younger woman had no trouble opening the door and getting out. ‘Oh, how pretty,’ she said, looking around at the fresh green leaves that surrounded them on three sides. ‘Everything’s new.’
Griffoni turned from her study of the fields and linked her arm in Manuela’s. ‘Yes, springtime’s lovely, isn’t it,’ she chirped in that voice Brunetti had heard her use with Manuela. It was happy and upbeat and spoke of endless opportunity; it was the voice he had used with his own children but never used any more.
Then, in her real voice, Griffoni said to Brunetti, ‘Springtime always makes me think life’s decided to give us another chance.’
Manuela turned to look at her. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter, Tesoro. In spingtime, it’s green everywhere, and we get to hear the birds. We’re in the countryside.’ She flung her arms out and spun around, and Manuela imitated her, turning and turning until Griffoni had to take her arm to stop her, pulling her close and holding her until her excitement quietened.
Griffoni turned to Brunetti and asked, ‘Shall we take a walk?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Which way?’
‘Oh, let’s follow that fence and see where it leads,’ Griffoni said casually. ‘Is that all right with you, Manuela?’ she asked, careful not to ask her to decide between more complicated alternatives.
‘Yes, yes,’ Manuela said and hooked her arm through Griffoni’s.
Keeping the wooden fence on their left, they began to walk. Horizontal rails had collapsed here and there along the way: some were propped back in place and held together with twisted lengths of wire. One fence post was entirely covered with the fierce green leaves of a clematis, too early for it to show buds.
Manuela stopped suddenly and Griffoni banged against her side. ‘What is it?’ Griffoni asked.
‘I hear a noise,’ Manuela said.
Griffoni stood stock still; so did Brunetti. It took them a few moments to adjust to the silence, but when he did, Brunetti heard the noise, coming from somewhere amidst the trees to their right. Again it came: high low, high low, and then again.
‘Is that the noise?’ Griffoni asked.
Manuela nodded.
Griffoni released her arm and searched in the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a five-euro note. Brunetti was busy searching in his trouser pockets.
‘What are you doing?’ Manuela asked, but, perhaps because she was with Griffoni, she sounded curious, not fearful.
‘Do you have any money in your pockets?’ Griffoni asked her.
‘I don’t know,’ Manuela said and put her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Her right hand emerged with a few coins. ‘I have these,’ she said, showing them to Griffoni.
The older woman bent down and used her forefinger to separate the coins on Manuela’s extended palm. ‘Six euros, twenty-seven,’ she said, turning to Brunetti.
‘Very good,’ Brunetti said and held out his handful of change. ‘I’ve got four euros, twelve.’
Manuela’s face showed only confusion. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand. Tell me, tell me, tell me.’
‘It’s a cuckoo,’ Griffoni said in her calming voice. ‘The first time you hear a cuckoo in springtime, you have to see how much money you have in your pockets. And the more you have, the more money you’ll get during the year.’
Manuela looked down at her palm. ‘Do I have a lot?’
‘Yes, you have more than I do and more than Signor Brunetti.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Oh yes,’ Griffoni said. She folded Manuela’s hand around the money, and told her she should put it back in her pocket so she didn’t lose it.
‘What can I do with it?’ Manuela insisted.
‘Oh, you could buy yourself ice cream, if you like.’
Manuela thought about this, then asked, ‘Is there enough for me to buy some for you and for Signor Brunetti, too?’
Griffoni leaned to her side and kissed Manuela’s cheek. ‘Of course there is, Stella,’ she said in an unsteady voice.
‘We can stop on the way back to the city,’ Brunetti interrupted to say.
Manuela nodded in delight at this thought, then asked, ‘Where are we going?’
‘Oh, just along the fence a little bit,’ Griffoni said.
The cuckoo commented on this, as did a few other birds. They continued to walk, following the fence. At a point where it angled away to the left, Griffoni stopped and turned to look over the fence, putting her right foot up on the first rail.
She put her index fingers under her tongue and gave a piercing whistle, then again. Manuela giggled, and Brunetti looked at Griffoni and then at a flash of motion on the far side of the field.
Something large had started to move in their direction. It seemed to slow, and Griffoni gave another whistle, at the sound of which the motion increased.
It was a horse, catapulting towards them. He knew the names of the different speeds of a horse: walk, trot, canter, gallop. But this was something different: jet-propelled.
As Brunetti watched, the horse thundered towards them, leaping over obstacles the humans couldn’t see from where they were, aimed right at them, relentless.
Fifteen metres from them, the horse, began to slow, then slowed again, until it stopped only a metre away and reared up on its back legs. While still in the air, just like a horse in some phony American Western, it threw back its head and let out a high-pitched whinny, then thudded back down on its front hooves and moved up to the railing, head moving up and down, up and down in a frenzy.
During all of this, Manuela had been at first afraid, then quiet, then stunned. Brunetti turned and watched her, saw her face, for the first time, washed clean of the uncertainty that too often veiled it.
Moving as if spurred by some stronger force, she stood on the bottom rung of the fence and then the second. She leaned forward, arms spread wide.
‘Petunia,’ she said and wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck. ‘Petunia.’