by Donna Leon
‘Someone they trust?’ Pucetti asked.
‘Or fear,’ Brunetti said, not much liking the sound of that, either.
‘Who?’
‘Whom they fear is probably easier,’ Brunetti answered. ‘I’d say we start with the people who rent rooms to them. Then we try the wholesalers who sell them the bags. Then the officers here who have arrested them,’ he said, holding up a finger as he named each group.
‘It might be easier to start with us, sir. That is, those of us who have arrested them,’ Pucetti said, adding, ‘Because we’re right here, if for no other reason.’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti said. ‘That technician get the photos done yet?’
‘Not that I know of, sir,’ Pucetti answered, starting to get to his feet, ‘but I could go down to the lab and see if he’s got them.’
‘Yes. Do,’ Brunetti told him. ‘And see if there’s any sign of Signorina Elettra while you’re down there, would you?’
Pucetti saluted and was gone. Brunetti took the paper out of his briefcase and finished reading the first section, looking in vain for any sort of editorial comment on the death. That was sure to come, he knew.
By the time he started the second section, the first page of which carried a longer, though no more informative, story about the murder, Pucetti was back, carrying in his hand a thick pile of full page photos.
Quickly Brunetti flipped through them, discarding the photos of the whole body in place and selecting those taken from each side and from front on. The man’s eyes were closed, and the solemnity of his face was such that no one who saw the photos would expect him ever to open them again.
‘Handsome devil, wasn’t he?’ Pucetti asked, looking down at the photos. ‘How old would you say he was?’
‘I doubt he was more than thirty,’ Brunetti said.
Pucetti nodded in agreement. ‘Who’d want to do something like that to one of these guys? They don’t cause any real trouble.’
‘You ever arrest one?’ Brunetti asked.
‘A couple,’ Pucetti said. ‘But that doesn’t mean they aren’t good people.’
‘Does Savarini say that?’ Brunetti asked.
Pucetti paused a moment, then finally answered, ‘That’s different.’
‘And Novello?’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘Because they broke his finger the last time he was sent to arrest them.’
‘It was an accident, sir,’ said an affronted Pucetti. ‘He grabbed the big sports bag that held everything the man wanted to sell, and the guy did what anyone would do: he tried to yank it back. Savarini’s finger was in the strap, and when the vu cumprà pulled at it, he broke his finger. But it wasn’t like the guy intended to do it.’
‘So it’s not broken?’ Brunetti asked, curious to see how Pucetti would answer.
‘No, of course it’s broken. Only he didn’t mean to do it, and Savarini doesn’t bear him any ill will. I know because he told me so. Besides,’ continued an even more heated Pucetti, ‘he was one of the cops who jumped into the canal to save the one who fell in.’
‘While trying to evade arrest, if memory serves,’ Brunetti remarked.
Pucetti started to speak but stopped and gave Brunetti a long look, then asked, ‘Are you playing with me, sir?’
Brunetti laughed.
6
An hour later, Pucetti and Brunetti had shown the photos to most of the officers at the Questura. Halfway through the process, Brunetti began to notice an unsettling correlation between their political affiliations and their responses. Most of those he knew to be sympathetic to the current government displayed little sympathy for, indeed, little interest in, the dead man. The further left on the political spectrum, the more likely it was that people would display sympathy for the man in the photo. Only two officers, both of them women, showed real sorrow that a man so young should have been killed.
Gravini, who had been in the squad that had made the last raid on the ambulanti, thought he recognized the man in the photo but also said he was sure he had never seen him among the vu cumprà he had arrested.
They were down in the officers’ squad room, so Brunetti gave an inquiring glance around and asked, ‘Do you have photos of those who have been?’
‘Rubini has all the papers in his office, sir,’ the sergeant answered. ‘Arrest reports, copies of their passports, their permessi di soggiorno, at least for those who have them, and copies of the letters we send them.’
‘Letters?’ interrupted Pucetti. ‘Why do we bother to send them letters?’
‘We don’t actually send them,’ Gravini answered. ‘We give them to them, saying they have forty-eight hours to leave the country.’ He snorted at the absurdity of this, then added, ‘And then we arrest them a week later and give them another copy of the same letter.’
Brunetti waited for his next comment, which he assumed would be much in line with what the old man on the vaporetto had said that morning. Gravini shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know why we bother. They aren’t hurting anyone, just trying to make a living. And no one forces people to buy the bags from them.’
Pucetti interrupted suddenly, ‘Gravini, you’re one of the ones who went into the canal, aren’t you?’
Gravini lowered his head, as if embarrassed at having been caught at some folly. ‘What was I supposed to do? He was new, the one who fell in. It was probably the first time he’d been caught in one of our raids. He panicked, really just a kid, and he ran. What else would he do, with cops all over the place, running at him? It was over by the Misericordia, and he ran up that bridge that doesn’t have a parapet. Lost his footing or something and fell in. I could hear him screaming all the way back by the church. When we got there, he was flailing around like a madman, so I did the first thing that came into my head: I went right in after him. Didn’t realize until I was in the water that it wasn’t very deep, at least not near the sides. I don’t know what he was making all the fuss about.’ Gravini tried to make himself sound angry but without much success. ‘Ruined my jacket, and Bocchese spent a day cleaning the mud out of my pistol.’
Brunetti chose not to comment on this. ‘Any idea where you might have seen this one, then?’ he asked, tapping his forefinger on the full-face photo.
‘No, sir. It doesn’t come to me, but I know I’ve seen him somewhere.’ He took the photos and looked through the series. At last he said, ‘Can I take these, sir? And maybe show them to some of the men I’ve arrested?’
Brunetti was not sure how to refer to the other vu cumprà. ‘Colleagues’ of the dead man would sound strange, suggesting as it did an ordered world of work. He finally decided on, ‘His friends?’
‘Yes. There’s one I’ve arrested at least five times; I can ask him.’
‘But what if he sees you coming?’ Pucetti asked.
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that,’ Gravini insisted. ‘A bunch of them live in an apartment off Via Garibaldi, down near where my mother lives, so I see them when I go to visit her, when . . .’ he trailed off, seeking a way to say it. ‘Well, when we’re both off work. He says he used to be a teacher, Muhammad. I can ask him.’
‘You think he’d trust you?’ Brunetti asked.
Gravini shrugged. ‘No way to know until I ask him.’
Brunetti told Gravini to keep the photos and to show them around, perhaps ask Muhammad if he would do the same among the men with whom he worked. ‘Gravini,’ he added, ‘tell them that all we’re asking for is a name and an address. No questions after that, no trouble, nothing else.’ He wondered if the Africans would trust the word of the police and suspected that they had no reason to do so. Even though there were men like Gravini, willing to jump into a canal to save them, Brunetti feared that the prevailing attitude of the police would more closely resemble that of the old man on the vaporetto and thus not encourage cooperation.
He thanked both men and went down to Signorina Elettra’s office, where he found her at her desk. For some days, Signorina Elettra
had been keeping the gloom of winter at bay with a refulgence of colour: she had begun last Wednesday with yellow shoes, Thursday with emerald green slacks and Friday with an orange jacket. Today, to begin the week, she had decided to skip her throat – no doubt because a bright scarf would be too predictable an accessory – and had wrapped her hair in a piece of silk that seemed to be covered with parrots.
‘Lovely birds,’ Brunetti said as he came in.
She glanced up, smiled, and thanked him. ‘I think next week I might suggest to the Vice-Questore that he try the same thing.’
‘Which? Yellow shoes or the turban?’ Brunetti asked, just to show he had noticed.
‘No, his ties. They’re always so very sober.’
‘Not the tie-pins, though. They have different coloured jewels in them, don’t they?’ Brunetti asked.
‘One would hardly notice, they’re so small,’ she said. ‘I wonder if I should get him some.’
Brunetti had no idea if she meant ties or jewelled pins for them: it hardly mattered. ‘And put them down as office expenses?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘Perhaps I’d list them as “maintenance”.’ Then, turning to business, she asked, ‘What is it I can help you with, Commissario?’
Hearing her, Brunetti wondered when she had last asked anyone what she could do for them, whether himself or the Vice-Questore. ‘I’d like you to see what you can find out about the vu cumprà,’ he said.
‘It’s all in here,’ she answered, pointing at her computer. ‘Or in the Interpol files.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not that sort of information. I want to know what people know, really know, about them: where they live and how they live, what sort of people they are.’
‘Most are from Senegal, I believe,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know. But I want to know if they’re from the same place and if they know one another or are related to one another.’
‘And,’ she continued, ‘presumably, you’d also like to know who the murdered man is.’
‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘But I don’t think that’s going to be an easy thing to find out. No one has called about him. The only people who volunteered anything were some American tourists who were there at the time, and all they saw was a very tall man with hairy hands who they said looked “Mediterranean”, by which they mean dark. There was another man, but all they noticed about him was that he was shorter than the other. Aside from that, the shooting might as well have taken place in another city, for all we know. Or on another planet.’
After a thoughtful pause, she asked, ‘That’s pretty much where they live, isn’t it?’
‘Excuse me?’ he asked, confused.
‘They don’t have any contact with us, not real contact, that is,’ she began. ‘They appear like mushrooms, set out their sheets, and do business until they disappear again. It’s as if they popped out of their space capsules, then vanished again.’
‘That’s hardly another planet,’ he said.
‘But it is, sir. We don’t talk to them, or really see them.’ She noticed how he responded to this and so insisted, ‘No, I’m not trying to attack us for the way we treat them nor trying to defend them, the way my friends do, saying they’re all victims of this or that. I simply think it’s very strange that they can live among us and yet, for the entire time they aren’t on the street, selling things, remain invisible.’ She looked to see if he realized how serious she was, then added, ‘That’s why I say they live on a different planet. The only attention we pay to them on this planet, it seems, is when we arrest them.’
He considered this and had to agree with her. He remembered once, last year, an evening when he and Paola were on their way to dinner and had been caught in a sudden rainstorm, how the streets had instantly blossomed with Tamils, all carrying bouquets of collapsible umbrellas, which they tried to sell for five Euros apiece. Paola had remarked that they seemed – the Tamils – freeze dried: all one had to do was add water, and they sprang to full size. Much the same, he realized, could be said of the vu cumprà: they had the same ability to appear as though out of nowhere and then as easily disappear.
He decided to accept her point and said, ‘Then that’s a way to begin: see if you can find out where it is they go when they disappear.’
‘You mean who rents to them and where?’
‘Yes. Gravini said there are some who live down in Castello near his mother. Ask him for her address or have a look in the phone book: it can’t be a very common name.’ He recalled what Gravini had said about the tenuous nature of his relationship – one could hardly call it friendship, not if it originated in one man arresting the other – with Muhammad. ‘All I want is the address. I don’t want to do anything until Gravini has had a chance to talk to the one he knows. See what you can find out about any other apartments that might be rented to them.’
‘You think there’d be contracts?’ she asked. ‘There would be copies at the Comune.’
Brunetti doubted the willingness of most landlords to offer the protection of a formal contract to Africans: they were certainly reluctant enough to give them to Venetians. Once a tenant had a contract, the law made eviction difficult, if not virtually impossible. Besides, a formal contract had to state the rent, and thus the income became visible, and taxable: any sane landlord would want to avoid that. So the Africans were probably renting – Brunetti found no way around the obvious pun –in nero.
‘I think it would be better to ask around,’ he answered. ‘Try the people at the Gazzettino and La Nuova. They might know something. They always do a story every time we do a round-up and arrest some of them. They’ve got to know something.’
His attention wandered and he found himself wondering how Elettra endured wearing the turban. The office was warm, one of those offices on the side of the building where the radiators worked, so surely it must have become uncomfortable to wear it tight to her head all day long. But he said nothing, thinking that perhaps Paola would be able to explain.
‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ she said. ‘Are there fingerprints I could send to Lyon?’
‘I haven’t got the autopsy report yet,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’ll send the photos to you as soon as I get them.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
On his way back to his own office, Brunetti was already running through the list of friends who might be able to help him with information. By the time he reached his desk, he had accepted the fact that there was no one he knew who could supply him with reliable information about the ambulanti, which led him to suspect that Signorina Elettra was right and they did indeed live on different planets.
He called down to the office of Rubini, the inspector in charge of the Sisyphean labour of arresting the ambulanti, and asked him to come up for a moment.
‘About last night?’ Rubini asked over the phone.
‘Yes. You hear anything?’
‘No,’ Rubini answered. ‘But I didn’t expect to.’ There was a pause, and then he asked, ‘Should I bring my files?’
‘Please.’
‘I hope you’ve got a long time, Guido.’
‘Why?’
‘There must be two metres of them.’
‘Then should I come down there?’
‘No, I’ll just bring the summaries of the ones I’ve submitted. It will still take you the rest of the morning to read them.’ Brunetti thought he heard Rubini laugh quietly but wasn’t sure. He replaced the phone.
When Rubini showed up more than ten minutes later, a stack of files in his hands, he explained that the delay was caused by his having searched for the file containing all of the photos that had been taken of the Africans who had been arrested in the last year. ‘We’re supposed to photograph them every time we arrest them,’ he explained.
‘Supposed to?’ Brunetti asked.
Rubini set a large stack of papers on Brunetti’s desk and sat down. From Murano, Rubini had been on the force for mo
re than two decades and, like Vianello, had moved up through the ranks slowly, perhaps blocked by the same refusal to curry favour with the men in power. Tall and so thin as to seem emaciated, Rubini was in fact a passionate rower and every year was among the first ten to cross the finish line of the Vogalonga.
‘We did at the beginning, but after a while it seemed a waste of time to take the photo of a man we’d arrested six or seven times and who we say hello to on the street.’ He pushed the papers closer to Brunetti and added, ‘We call them tu by now, and they address us all by name.’
Brunetti pulled the papers towards him. ‘Why do you still bother?’
‘What, to arrest them?’
Brunetti nodded.
‘Dottor Patta wants arrests, so we go and arrest them. It makes the statistics look good.’
Brunetti had suspected this would be the answer, but he asked, ‘You think it really does any good?’
‘God knows,’ Rubini said with a resigned shake of his head. ‘It keeps the Vice-Questore off our backs for a week or two, and I suppose if we were to be serious about it, arrest them and take all their bags, they’d simply decide to go somewhere else.’
‘But?’ Brunetti asked.
Rubini crossed his legs, pulled out a cigarette and lit it without bothering to ask if he could. ‘But my men always leave them a couple of bags when they confiscate them, even though they’re supposed to take them all. After all, they’ve got to eat, these guys, whether they’re African or Italian. If we take all of their bags, they’ve got nothing to sell.’
Brunetti shoved the top of a Nutella jar towards the inspector. ‘And the bags?’ he asked.
Rubini took an enormous pull at his cigarette and let the smoke filter slowly from his nose. ‘You mean the ones we leave them or the ones we take?’
‘There’s the warehouse in Mestre, isn’t there?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Two of them by now.’ Rubini leaned forward and flicked ash into the proffered ashtray. ‘It’s all in there,’ he went on, using the hand with the cigarette to point to the files. ‘So far this year we’ve confiscated something like ten thousand bags. No matter how fast we chop them up or burn them, we keep confiscating more. Soon there won’t be enough room to store them.’