by Donna Leon
This time both Signorina Elettra and Vianello shook their heads. Seeing Brunetti’s disappointment, she said,’ I can check at the Ufficio del Catasto and see what apartments they own. Once we know where they live, then we just have to check if there are rental contracts for their other apartments.’
Brunetti’s uncle, who lived near Feltre, used to go hunting, and with him went Diana, an English setter whose greatest joy, aside from gazing adoringly at his uncle as he stroked her ears, was to chase birds. In the autumn, when the air changed and the hunting season began, a wild restiveness came over Diana, who knew no peace until the day his uncle could finally take down his shotgun and open the door that led to the woods behind his home.
Looking at Signorina Elettra poised on the edge of her chair, Brunetti was struck by how much she resembled Diana: there were the same liquid dark eyes, the flared nostrils, and the badly restrained nervousness at the thought of prey that was to be seized and brought back. ‘Can you find everything with that thing?’ he asked, not needing to name her computer.
She turned towards him and she sat up straighter. ‘Perhaps not everything, sir. But many things.’
‘Don Alvise Perale?’ he asked. He sensed, rather than saw, Vianello’s start of astonishment, but when he turned to look at him, Brunetti saw that the inspector had managed not to display his surprise. Brunetti permitted himself a half-smile, and after a moment Vianello was forced to shake his head in rueful appreciation of Brunetti’s inability to trust anyone fully.
He remembered that Diana needed no encouragement or explanation: a flutter of motion and she was off, like the wind. Signorina Elettra wasted no time with questions or clarifications. ‘The ex-priest, sir?’
‘Yes.’
She rose to her feet in a single graceful motion. ‘I’ll go and see what I can find.’
‘It’s almost eight, Signorina,’ he reminded her.
‘Just a quick look,’ she said and was gone.
When the door closed behind her, Vianello said, ‘Don’t worry, sir. She doesn’t have a bed here. So she’ll go home eventually.’
10
Brunetti found a seat at the back of the cabin, on the left-hand side of the vaporetto, so his view was of San Giorgio and the façades on the Dorsoduro side of the canal. He studied them as he headed up towards San Silvestro, but his attention was far removed from Venice, even from Europe. He considered the mess that was Africa, and he considered the endless historical argument of whether it was caused by what had been done to the Africans or by what they had done to themselves. It was not a subject upon which he believed himself sufficiently expert to comment, nor one where he thought there was much hope that people would arrive at the kind of consensus that passes for historical truth.
His memory filled with images: Joseph Conrad’s battleship, firing round after futile round into the jungle in an attempt to force it to submit to peace; shoals of bodies washed up on the shores of Lake Victoria; the shimmering surface of a Benin bronze; the yawning pits where so many of the earth’s riches were mined. No one of these things was Africa, he knew, any more than the bridge under which the boat was passing was Europe. Each was a piece in a puzzle no one could understand. He remembered the Latin words he had once seen on a sixteenth-century map to mark the limit of Western exploration of Africa: Hic scientia finit: Knowledge Stops Here. How arrogant we were, he thought, and how arrogant we remain.
At home he found peace, or perhaps it is more accurate to say that he found a truce that seemed to be holding. Chiara and Paola talked as usual at dinner, and if the way Chiara packed away two helpings of pasta with broccoli and capers and then two baked pears was any indication, her appetite had returned to normal. Taking this as a good sign, he allowed himself to stretch out on the sofa in the living room after dinner, the smallest of small glasses of grappa on the table beside him, his current book propped on his stomach. For the last week, he had been rereading Ammianus Marcellinus’ history of the later Roman Empire, a book which Brunetti enjoyed chiefly for its portrait of one of his greatest heroes, the Emperor Julian. But even here he found himself drawn into Africa, with the account of the siege of the town of Leptis in Tripolis and of the perfidy and duplicity of both attackers and defenders. Hostages were killed, men were condemned to have their tongues cut out for speaking the inconvenient truth, the land was laid waste by pillage and slaughter. He read to the end of the twenty-eighth book but then closed it and decided that an early night would be better than this reminder of how little mankind had changed in almost two millennia.
In the morning, after the children had left for early classes, he and Paola spoke about Chiara, but neither of them was sure what her apparent return to normal behaviour implied. He also repeated his concern about the source of the opinion she had expressed.
‘You know,’ Paola said, after listening to him, ‘all these years the kids have been in school, I’ve listened to their friends’ parents respond to their kids’ bad grades. It’s always the fault of the teacher. No matter what the subject, no matter who the student: it is always the fault of the teacher.’
She dipped a corner of a biscuit in her caffè latte, ate it, and continued. ‘Never once have I heard anyone say, “Yes, Gemma’s really not very bright, so I understand why she didn’t do well in mathematics” or, “Nanni is a bit of a dope, you know, especially at languages.” Not a bit of it. Their children are always the best and the brightest, are perceived as spending every waking moment bent over their books, and into the lambent clarity of their minds no teacher has ever been capable of adding even the dimmest light or glimmer of improvement. Yet these are the same kids who come home with Chiara or Raffi and talk of nothing but pop music and films, seem to know nothing about anything except pop music and films and, when they can tear their attention away from pop music and films, do nothing except call one another on their telefonini or send SMS’s to each other, the grammar and syntax of which I most sincerely hope to be spared.’
Brunetti ate a biscuit, took another, looked across at her and asked, ‘Do you prepare these speeches when you’re washing the dishes, or do such rhetorical flourishes come to you unrehearsed?’
She considered his question in the spirit in which it had been asked and answered, ‘I’d say they come to me quite naturally, though I imagine I’m aided by the fact that I see myself as the Language Police, ever on the prowl for infelicities or stupidities.’
‘Lots of work?’ he asked.
‘Endless.’ She smiled, but the smile disappeared and she said, ‘All of that means I have no idea where she got it from.’
During all of this, his thoughts had never been far from the dead man, and so when she paused, he asked, ‘If you have any time left over after patrolling the language, could you think of someone at the university who might be able to identify an African by looking at a photo? I mean his tribe or where he might come from.’
‘The one who was shot,’ she said.
Brunetti nodded. ‘All we know is that he’s an African – presumably from Senegal – and not even that for sure. Is there anyone there who might help?’
She dipped another biscuit, ate it, took a sip of coffee, and said, ‘I know a man in the archaeology department who spends six months a year in Africa. I could ask him.’
‘Thanks,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’ll ask Signorina Elettra to send the photos to you at the university.’
‘Couldn’t you just bring them home and give them to me?’
‘They’re in the computer file,’ Brunetti said, speaking calmly so that it would sound as if he understood how this was possible.
She glanced at him, surprised. Then, reading his expression, she asked, ‘Who’s my little computer genius, then?’ She smiled.
Chagrined, he returned the smile, and asked, ‘How did you know?’
‘It’s part of being on the Language Police. We detect all forms of mendacity.’
He finished his coffee and set the cup down. ‘I should be home for lunch,’ h
e said as he got to his feet, then bent and kissed her on the head. ‘From policeman to policeman,’ he said, and left for the Questura.
When he reached his office, he found papers on his desk. The first page was a list of the addresses of the apartments owned by Renato Bertolli and Alessandro Cuzzoni, with a note stating that Cuzzoni was not married, and Bertolli’s wife owned nothing more than a half-interest in the apartment in which they lived.
Bertolli, whose home address in Santa Croce was given, owned six apartments, for two of which formal rental contracts were on record in the Ufficio delle Entrate. The fact that those two contracts dated back thirty-two and twenty-seven years, when Bertolli would have been a boy, suggested that they were in the hands of Venetian families whose right to remain in them, by now, was virtually beyond challenge. Bertolli and his wife were listed as resident in the third, but no contracts existed for the other apartments, suggesting they were empty, a suggestion which the information from Signorina Elettra’s friend called into question.
Attached was a note in Signorina Elettra’s hand, which read, ‘I called your friend Stefania at the rental agency and asked her to call around for me. She called back to say Bertolli rents all three of the apartments to foreigners by the week or month. She also asked me to tell you she’s still trying to sell the place near Fondamenta Nuove.’
Cuzzoni, then. He lived in San Polo, at an address only a few numbers distant from Brunetti’s, owned the apartment where he lived and a house in Castello, though no contract was on file at the Ufficio delle Entrate to indicate that the house was being rented.
How convenient, that the city offices never bothered with even the most simple cross-check. If no rental contract was on file, then there was no reason to believe that the owner was being paid rent, and who could be expected to pay tax if an apartment was empty? A person of a certain turn of mind might so argue, but Brunetti had spent decades looking into the myriad ways citizens cheated one another and everyone cheated the state, and so he assumed that there was some other game afoot here, some way that money was being made on the house and taxes avoided. Renting to illegal immigrants seemed as good a way as any.
He pulled down his copy of Calli, Campielli, e Canali and looked for Cuzzoni’s address: he found it on the other side of Rio dei Meloni, literally the building next but one to his own, though getting to it from his home would require walking up to Campo Sant’ Aponal, then turning back towards the water. Using the same book, he checked the address of the house Cuzzoni owned. It was a high number in Castello, a location that was, for many Venetians, as far away as Milano.
He could easily speak to Cuzzoni, either at home or in his shop, but first Brunetti decided he would go and have a look down in Castello to determine if there was any sign that people were living in his house and who those people might be. He remembered his promise to Gravini, not to act until the officer had had a chance to speak to the African he knew, but looking did not count as acting.
The weather had not changed, and cold assaulted him the instant he stepped from the door of the Questura. One end of his scarf whipped out like an eel on a fishing line and tried to fly away from him. He grabbed it and wrapped it around his neck, hunkered down, and went over the bridge in the direction of Castello.
His memory of the map was clear: also, he knew the building because a former classmate of his in middle school had lived in the house next door. To spare his face from the wind, he kept his eyes on the pavement and navigated by radar more than vision. He walked past the Arsenale, the lions looking far more pleased than they should have been at finding themselves out in this cold.
He turned left into Via Garibaldi and walked past the monument to the hero who, gazing down at the frozen surface of the water in the pool at his feet, looked more concerned about the cold than had the lions. He took the second turn on the right, made a quick left, and then as quickly another right. The number he sought was the second building on the left, but he walked quickly past it and went into a bar in the small campiello just ahead.
Three old men wearing overcoats and hats sat playing cards at a table in the corner, small glasses of red wine at their right hands. One of them tossed a card face-up on the table, followed by the second man, and then the third, who swept up all three with arthritic difficulty, tapped them into order on the table in front of him, closed his cards and then quickly fanned them open and laid a new card on the table. Brunetti went to the bar and ordered un caffè corretto, not because he wanted the grappa, but because it looked like the kind of bar where real men drank caffè corretto at eleven in the morning.
He walked to the end of the bar and opened the copy of La Nuova that lay there. When his coffee came, he accepted it with muttered thanks, stirred in two sugars, and turned a page of the newspaper. The old men continued to play cards, none of them talking, even when the hand came to an end and the winner shuffled the cards and dealt them out again.
On page twelve there was an article about the murder. ‘God, next thing you know, they’ll be shooting us, too,’ Brunetti said to no one in particular, careful to speak in Veneziano. He finished his coffee and placed the cup back in the saucer. He continued reading to the end of the story, looked at the bartender, and asked, ‘Filippo Lanzerotti still live up at the corner?’
‘Filippo?’
Brunetti gave the explanation that had obviously been asked for, ‘We went to school together, but I haven’t seen him in years. I just wondered if he still lived down here.’
‘Yes. His mother died about six years ago, so he and his wife moved into the house.’
Brunetti interrupted him here. ‘I remember, with those windows looking back over the garden. We didn’t appreciate it then, that view.’ He put the paper on the counter and pushed it aside, reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. He gave an inquiring glance and paid what was asked.
He nodded towards the paper he had left open to the story of the murder and asked, ‘You have any of them around here, the vu cumprà?’ Even as he spoke, he regretted it: the words sounded leaden and forced, filled with inappropriate curiosity.
It was some time before the barman answered, ‘Not so anyone would notice.’
‘They come in here?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Brunetti said. ‘Just that I know a lot of people don’t like them, but I’ve always found them very polite.’ Then, as if remembering, ‘One of them even lent me his telefonino one day when I forgot mine and had to make a call.’ He was talking too much and knew it, but still he could not stop.
His example must have fallen short as proof of human solidarity, for the barman said only, ‘I’ve got no complaint against them.’
‘Not like the Albanians,’ came a sepulchral voice from the card table. By the time Brunetti turned to look at them, the three men’s attention had returned to their cards, and there was no way to know which one of them had spoken. From the placidity of their faces, the voice might well have belonged to any member of the chorus.
‘If you see Filippo,’ Brunetti said, ‘tell him Guido said hello.’
‘Guido?’
‘Yes, Guido from maths class. He’ll remember.’
‘Good, I’ll do that,’ the barman said just as one of the men at the table called for more wine, and he turned away to take down a clean glass.
Outside, Brunetti retraced his steps until he was back on Via Garibaldi. He went into the fruit and vegetable shop on the left, saw that the endive was described as coming from Latina, and asked for a kilo. While the woman was selecting the stalks, he asked, still in dialect, ‘Is Alessandro still renting to the vu cumprà?’ He jerked his head back in the direction of the Cuzzoni address.
She looked up, surprised by his leap from endive to real estate. ‘Alessandro. Cuzzoni,’ Brunetti clarified. ‘A couple of years ago, he tried to sell me that house of his back there, around the corner, but I bought a place in San Polo. Now my nephew’s getting married, and they’re looking for
a place, and so I thought of Alessandro. But someone told me he was renting to the vu cumprà, and I wondered if he still was. Before I say anything to my nephew, that is.’ Then, before she could grow suspicious of his question and of him, he said, ‘My wife told me to get some melanzane, but the long ones.’
‘All I’ve got are the round ones,’ she said, clearly more comfortable talking about vegetables than about the business of her customers.
‘All right. I’ll tell her it was all I could find. Give me a kilo of the round ones, then, as well.’
She pulled out a second paper bag and selected three plump melanzane. As if comforted by their solidity, she said, ‘I don’t think it’s for sale any more, that house.’
‘Ah, all right. Thank you,’ Brunetti said, understanding that she had answered his question without seeming to. She handed him the plastic bag of vegetables and he paid, hoping that Paola could find some use for them.
He decided to go home, where Paola was pleased at the quality of the endive and said they’d have it that evening. She made no comment on the aubergines, and he forbore to explain that they were, in a certain sense, part of his investigative technique.
Because the children were not home for lunch, the meal was, at least by Brunetti’s standards, spartan, nothing more than risotto with radicchio di Treviso and a plate of cheese. Seeing his badly concealed disappointment at the sight of the selection of cheeses, Paola came and stood close beside him. ‘All right, Guido. I’ll make the pork tonight.’
Brunetti cut a piece of taleggio and set it on his plate. Interested, he looked up at her and asked, ‘Which one?’
‘The one with olives and tomato sauce.’
‘And the endive?’
She looked away from him and addressed, it appeared, the light fixture, ‘How did this happen to me? I married a man, and I find myself living with an appetite.’
‘With butter and parmigiano?’ he asked, spreading a thick layer of the cheese on a slice of bread.
Deciding to ignore his promise to Gravini, he left the apartment at three-fifteen and walked up to Sant’ Aponal, then back towards Fondamenta Businello, where the apartment had to be. He found the number, where the only doorbell bore the name Cuzzoni. He rang, waited a moment, then rang again.