Through a glass, darkly cgb-15

by Donna Leon

  'But that's what I'm telling you,' the maestro said. 'He can't.'

  Brunetti walked over and extended his hand to touch the arm of the silent man, hoping to give a sign of understanding or sympathy. He spoke to the maestro, as though he had become his companion's translator. 'I need to know what happened here. I need to know about the dead man.'

  At those words, the man who had not spoken clapped his hand over his mouth and turned away. He gagged and took two steps onto the grass, brushing past Brunetti. He doubled over and retched again and again, though nothing came up but thin yellow bile. Spasms tore his body until he was forced to lean over and brace himself with his hands on his knees. Another wave struck him, and he fell to one knee, his head bent over, one hand on the earth. More bile came up.

  Brunetti stood by helplessly. It was the maestro who finally intervened and helped the other man to his feet. 'Come on, Giuliano. I think you better go home. Come on, now.' Neither man so much as glanced at Brunetti, who stepped back and let them pass in front of him. He watched them until they reached the pavement running along the canal, where they turned to the left and disappeared in the direction of the bridge that crossed to the main part of the island. The men seemed to take some of the light with them, for just as they disappeared, clouds rolled in and blotted out some of the day.

  Brunetti looked around and saw no one. He heard a boat pass on the canal; the tide was low, so all he saw was a man's head pass smoothly by, just above the height of the embankment. The man noticed Brunetti and smiled, and Brunetti thought of the Cheshire Cat.

  He waited a minute, a minute more, as the boat's motor faded and nothing replaced it. He turned and approached the fornace; the metal doors had been pushed partly back. He slipped inside and paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  He had noticed the last time just how dirty the windows and skylights were, but because it had been full day, there had been enough light to work by. This morning, however, with the clouds darkening the sky, little light penetrated. He looked around for a light switch, but the sight of the closed doors of the two furnaces against the wall made him fear what turning the wrong switch might do to them. He knew that their temperature had to diminish gradually during the night, so as not to risk cracking the pieces that slept their way to solidity inside them.

  He took a few steps deeper into the factory, drawn by the light that emerged from the open door of the farthest furnace. It illuminated the area directly in front of it and a bit to either side, but the rest of the enormous shed remained shadowy and dim.

  He took another step, and it was then that Brunetti first became aware of a strange odour in the air; something sweet mixed with something foul and sour. Though it was springtime and trees and plants were already stirring into bloom, there was nothing floral about this scent. Nor was it like the rich fecund smell of the earth as busy plants renewed themselves and began to grow, though it was more the second than the first.

  Brunetti looked around, wondering if something, some chemical or colourant, could have been spilled, but it was not exactly chemical, that smell. He approached the first furnace and, as he drew closer, felt the sudden increase of temperature, even through the closed door. The wave of heat drove him to the left, to the space between the first and second furnaces. The temperature dropped suddenly, and he felt almost chilled by the contrast with the searing heat in the radius of the first furnace.

  As he drew closer to the second furnace, the heat leaped out at him again, stroking at the side of his arm and leg, warm at his face, offering to set him afire. Instinctively he held his hand up to protect his face and passed into the cooler zone beyond it.

  The door to the free-standing furnace lured Brunetti. He was helpless to prevent himself from glancing towards the infernal depths. He squinted as the heat dried his eyes, blinking repeatedly. He stepped back, into a cooler zone farther from the door, glad of the sudden drop in temperature. The smell was much stronger here.

  He looked around him, to left and right, but still he saw nothing untoward. He turned his attention back to the open door of the furnace, where the flames roared and hurled their heat at him. It had grown lighter while he was inside the building: perhaps the clouds had lifted or been blown away. The sun must just then have risen above the rooftops, for the first direct rays to come through the east-facing windows brought a sudden burst of illumination.

  Brunetti noticed a shadow on the floor, just in front of the furnace, little more than two metres from him. He held his hand up again, this time to block the too-bright light from the open furnace, hoping that he would be able to make it out, whatever it was. But the radiance flooded around his outspread palm, forcing him to raise his other hand to create a broader shield. And he saw it, then, in the early light of the day. A man, a tall man, lay on the floor in front of the third furnace. Brunetti looked away and found himself facing the row of thermometers on the wall. Forno III had a temperature of 1,342 degrees centigrade while the temperatures of the other two were less than half of that. He had to step back from the heat, for even here it assailed and seared him.

  The smell. The smell. Brunetti fell forward to his knees like an ox felled by an axe. He braced his palms on the burning floor and brought up bile and more bile as he felt the sweet odour on him, on his clothing, in his hair.

  The maestro found him like that a few minutes later. He bent over Brunetti, helped him to his feet, and steadied him as they walked out of the factory. The maestro led Brunetti a few metres away from the door, then released his arm and stepped away as Brunetti bent over again. The maestro turned towards the canal and paid careful attention to a boat that was going by.

  Brunetti dragged out his handkerchief and wiped at his mouth, then tried to stand up straight. It took him a full minute before he could look at the other man.

  'Was it you who found him?' Brunetti asked weakly.

  'No, that was Colussi, my servetto. He usually comes in about five to check the fornaci and anything we left cooling there.'

  Brunetti nodded. The other man went on. 'He called me, but I couldn't make much sense of what he was saying. He kept telling me, "Tassini's dead, Tassini's dead." So I told him to go outside and wait for me, and I called the police and then came over here.' When Brunetti said nothing, the other man said, as if he felt the need to justify himself, 'You saw him. I had to take him home.'

  'Where can we get something to drink?' Brunetti asked.

  The maestro looked at his watch and said, 'On the other side of the bridge. Franco's usually open by now.'

  It surprised Brunetti to find how unsteady he still was when he walked, but he fought against it and followed the other man. At the foot of the bridge was an old AMAV garbage tin, and Brunetti stepped aside to thrust his handkerchief deep into it.

  On the other side of the bridge, the maestro led Brunetti to the left along the riva, then quickly turned right into a narrow calk. Halfway along, he stepped into a bar that smelled of coffee and fresh pastries. Just inside the door, the man stopped and offered his hand to Brunetti. 'Grassi,' he said. 'Luca.' Brunetti returned the handshake and brought his other hand up to pat the man on the arm by way of thanks.

  Grassi turned away and walked to the bar. 'Caffe coretto,' he said to the barman, then gave Brunetti an interrogative glance.

  'A grappa and a glass of acqua minerale non gassata’ Brunetti said, those being the only things he could think of that his body might accept.

  'Give him the good grappa, Franco,' Grassi called after the barman. When the coffee and drinks came, Grassi picked up his glass and indicated one of the tables, but Brunetti shook his head, saying, 'A boat's coming out. I have to get back.'

  Grassi spooned in three sugars, then stirred the coffee around a few times. Brunetti picked up the grappa, swirled it around in rhythm with Grassi's spoon, and drank it quickly. Almost before the taste registered, he drank down half of the water and stood quietly, waiting to see what happened. After a moment, he finished the
water and set the glass on the counter, and nodded for another.

  Brunetti had not recognized the dead man. 'How did he know it was Tassini?'

  'I don't know’ Grassi answered with a tired shake of his head. 'When I saw him outside, all he said was that it was Tassini.'

  It was difficult for Brunetti to articulate the next question for to do so was to recall what he had seen inside the factory. 'Did you see him?' He held up his empty glass to the barman.

  'No’ Grassi answered. 'When I came in for you, I didn't look at him.' He shrugged at this admission. 'And when I got there after Giuliano called, he was standing outside, crying.' He gave Brunetti a quick glance. 'Don't tell him I told you that, all right?' Brunetti nodded. 'He told me Tassini was inside and he was dead. I tried to go in to see, but Giuliano grabbed my arm and pulled me back. He wouldn't let me go inside and he wouldn't tell me why.' He finished his coffee and set the cup down. 'So we stood outside and waited for someone to come. It must have been half an hour. He threw up a couple of times, but he still wouldn't tell me anything about it, just asked me to wait with him until you—the police—got there.'

  'I see’ Brunetti said and picked up the second glass of water. He took a small sip, and his body told him that was enough for the moment. He set the glass on the counter.

  'Why did you come inside?' Brunetti asked.

  Grassi moved the empty cup to the side and said, 'When I got back and you weren't there, I thought something might have happened to you, so I went in to see if you were all right. But I didn't look at him.' He paused for some time. 'Giuliano told me about it, when I was taking him home, so I didn't want to see.' He shoved the cup to the other side of the counter and said, 'Poor stupid devil.'

  Brunetti's attention was arrested by the second word: he was not certain whom the other man was talking about. 'Tassini?'

  'Yes,' he said, his tone a mixture of dismay and affection. 'He was always falling over things, getting in the way, tripping over his feet. He told De Cal once that he wanted to work the glass, but none of us would have him. We'd seen him drop things for years: imagine what he'd do if he tried to work with us.' Grassi seemed to realize he had switched into the present tense and stopped. 'I mean, he was a good man: honest. And he did his job. But he's not a glassmaker, never could be one.'

  'What did he do, exactly?' Brunetti asked, picking up his water and risking another small sip.

  'He had to keep the places clean and take care of the fornaci at night.'

  Brunetti waved a hand and said, 'I'm not sure I understand what that means, Signore. Aside from sweeping the floors, that is.'

  Grassi smiled in return and said, "That was part of it: sweeping, both our place and Fasano's.

  Well, after he started working for him, as well, that is. And making sure that the bags of sand didn't leak after they were opened.' He paused, as if he had never considered what the duties of l’uomo di notte might be.

  'And he had to keep an eye on the temperature and the miscela during the night’ he continued. 'But he also had to see that the bags didn't tip over and get mixed up.' Grassi asked the barman for another coffee, and while he waited for it, he asked, 'You know about the miscela, don't you?'

  Brunetti certainly remembered the word, but little more than that. 'Only that it's made of sand and other things,' he said.

  The coffee came and Grassi stirred in three more sugars. 'Sand, yes’ he said, 'then the minerals for the right miscela. If the colour we want is amethyst, then we mix in manganese, or cadmium for red. Some of the bags look alike, so they have to be kept separate and upright. The stuff can't spill on the floor or we have an awful mess and have to throw it all away.' He looked at Brunetti, who nodded to show he was following.

  'Starting when the rest of us get off work, l’uomo di notte shovels the miscela into the crogiolo, adding it according to the formula and stirring it, and then it heats all night long, so it's ready and we can start working at seven, when we come in.'

  'What else did he have to do?'

  Again, Grassi paused to try to remember what the dead man's duties would have been. 'Check the filters and maybe shift the barrels around.'

  'What filters?' Brunetti asked.

  'From the grinding wheels. It all gets filtered, the water they use when they're grinding, and then the gunk that's collected gets put in barrels. It's filtered a couple of times’ Grassi said without interest. 'I don't know about that stuff, really, only about glass.'

  Grassi gave Brunetti a speculative look, as if weighing his audience, and then said, 'It's crazy, isn't it? They let Marghera pump any crap it wants to into the air or the laguna: cadmium, dioxin, petro this and petro that, and no one says a word about it. But if we let a cupful of powdered glass drain into the laguna, they're all over us with inspectors and fines. Some of them are so big it would put you out of business.' He considered what he had said and then added, 'No wonder De Cal's thinking about selling the place.'

  Brunetti set this remark aside for future reference and returned to Tassini. 'Were these the sort of things Tassini said? About the environment?'

  Grassi rolled his eyes. 'It's all he'd talk about. All you had to do was start him talking about these things and he was off, sometimes until we had to tell him to shut up. Poison this and poison that, and not only at Marghera. Even here, and it was poisoning us all.' He delved into memory, then said, 'I tried to talk to him a couple of times. But he wouldn't listen.' He leaned towards Brunetti and put a hand on his arm. 'I've seen the numbers, and I know we don't die the way they do in Marghera: they die like flies over there.' He moved back and removed his hand.

  'Maybe it's the currents: maybe they take things away from here. I don't know. I tried to tell Giorgio this, but he wouldn't listen. He had his mind made up that we were all being poisoned, and that's what he was going to believe, no matter what anyone said.'

  Grassi stopped talking for a moment, then added, with a note of real sadness in his voice. 'He had to believe it, didn't he? Because of the little girl.' He shook his head, at the thought of the child or at the thought of human frailty, Brunetti had no idea. Grassi spoke with a complete absence of disapproval; in fact, Brunetti could hear little but affection in his voice, the sort one has for a person who always manages to get everything wrong yet who never manages to alienate anyone in the process.

  ‘I think your boat's coming,' Grassi said.

  Brunetti's question was no more than a tilting of his head.

  'I don't recognize the engine, and it's coming fast, out from the city,' the maestro said. He pulled some money from his pocket and left it on the counter; Brunetti thanked him and they headed for the door.

  When they reached the canal, Grassi was right: the police boat was pulling up to the ACTV embarcadero. On board were Bocchese and the crime team.

  15

  Brunetti waved to them from his side of the canal and crossed the bridge to meet them. Apart from Bocchese, there were two photographers and two technicians, all with the usual amount of equipment, which the men were busy unloading from the boat.

  Brunetti introduced Bocchese to Grassi and explained to the technician that Grassi was one of the maestri who worked at the fornace where the dead man was. Bocchese and Grassi shook hands and then Bocchese turned and said something to one of his crew, who waved a lazy hand in acknowledgement. Boxes and bags piled up on the dock; Brunetti waited until it seemed everything had been unloaded and then led them down the dirt path towards the metal doors of the factory. He was surprised to see two men standing outside, one of them a man in police uniform—he recognized Lazzari from the Murano squad—and the other De Cal, who was waving his arms and speaking loudly.

  De Cal saw Brunetti and stormed towards him, shouting, 'What the hell is it now? First you let that bastard out of jail, and now I can't even go into my own factory.'

  More familiar with De Cal than the others, Grassi stepped forward and, gesturing at the technicians, who were now struggling into their disposable scene-of
-crime suits, said, 'I think they want to go in there alone, sir.'

  'Remember who you work for, Grassi,' De Cal spat with effulgent rage. 'For me. Not for the police. I give the orders here, not the police.' He put his face close to Grassi's. Brunetti could see that the tendons of his neck were swollen. 'You understand that?'

  Brunetti moved up beside Grassi. 'Your factory is the scene of a death, Signor De Cal,' he said, noticing that Lazzari seemed relieved by his having taken over. 'The technical crew will be here for a few hours, and then the scene will be opened and your men can go back to work.'

  De Cal came suddenly closer, forcing Brunetti to move back one step. 'I can't afford a few hours.' De Cal noticed, as if for the first time, the technicians and their equipment. 'These fools will be in there all day. How can my men work with them there?'

  'If you prefer, Signore,' Brunetti said with his most official voice, 'we can get an order from a judge and sequester the site for a week or two.' He smiled. Grassi, he noticed, had taken the opportunity to disappear.

  De Cal opened his mouth, then closed it and backed away, muttering. Brunetti heard 'bastard' a few times, and worse, but he chose to ignore the old man.

  The technicians, who had set down their bags while all this was going on, now picked them up and moved towards the doors. Brunetti held up a hand to stop them. Turning to Bocchese, he said, 'If you have masks, you better use them.' The men set their bags down again and one of them hunted around until he found a stack of cellophane-wrapped surgical masks, which he passed out to the other men. Brunetti put out his hand and accepted one, ripped it open, and pulled the elastics over his ears. He adjusted the mask over his nose and mouth, then took a pair of plastic gloves from the same man and slipped them on.

  One of the crew humped a long bag onto his shoulder: lights and tripods. He went in first and started looking around for an electrical socket. To no one in particular, Brunetti said, 'He's down by the free-standing furnace', and then joined the technicians entering the building.