by Donna Leon
‘Ah, how convenient, Commissario. I’ve been hearing a strange thudding in the motor all morning, and I wanted to take it over to the mechanic – who just happens to be in Cannaregio – before lunch to have him take a look at it. Sure, your friend can come along: I can ask him to listen to the noise and tell me what he thinks it might be.’
‘He’d be delighted, Foa. And what a happy coincidence that your mechanic is in Cannaregio.’
‘Indeed it is, isn’t it, Commissario?’ With a laugh, the pilot was gone. Brunetti imagined Foa had mechanic friends conveniently located in every sestiere of the city, just in case he was asked to give someone a ride home.
When Rugoletto arrived, the young officer came over and took Gonzalo’s left arm; Brunetti took the right, and together they went with him out to the hallway and down the stairs. Gonzalo made a number of grunting sounds and pulled in a few sharp gasps, but he made it down the stairs. At the bottom, he freed his arms and thanked them for their help, then said, ‘I’ve never liked stairs; always been afraid of falling.’ He straightened up and walked unaided to the door, Brunetti following behind. Outside, Brunetti helped him on to the boat, and then he and Foa helped him down the steps and into the cabin.
‘Would you like me to come along with you, Gonzalo?’ Brunetti asked when the older man was seated near the door.
‘Of course not, Guido. Your captain here can easily take me home. And María Grazia and Jérôme are probably already at the door – pair of old fools – waiting for the boat.’
‘Fine, then,’ Brunetti said and leaned down to kiss Gonzalo on both cheeks. ‘I’m happy to have seen you again.’
‘It was too long,’ Gonzalo said, but Brunetti was already on the point of leaving and wasn’t sure if Gonzalo meant the time they hadn’t seen one another or the time they’d spent talking so he didn’t turn to ask.
The twin doors swung closed behind him. He jumped from the boat; Foa revved the motor and swung the boat around towards Rio San Giovanni Laterano. And then, from the cabin, Gonzalo was waving at him. Brunetti waved back with both arms and watched them until the boat turned to the right and disappeared, on its way to the laguna and then left towards Cannaregio.
As he went back to his office, Brunetti reminded himself that, had Gonzalo been interested in a woman forty years younger and wanted to marry her, few people would have questioned his desire. The good sense of it, perhaps, but not the desire itself. He was a man, after all, and they were entitled to what they could afford. But because the person he’d chosen was a man, and Gonzalo’s desire was to adopt, this would be viewed in a different light, for what could a man in his prime want from a man so much older but his wealth? Regardless of whether this was true or not, Brunetti did not question that it was likely to be common belief. Nor did he question that most would believe it was natural for a woman to sell herself for money, although not for a man.
When Brunetti got to his computer, he called up the laws regarding the adoption of an adult and read through them, then read them again carefully.
If a childless person wanted to keep his or her fortune flowing in a straight, lightly taxed line, he or she had only to convince his or her spouse to agree to adopt the most acceptable person, so long as this person was at least eighteen years younger. The fact that the parents of the person to be adopted were still alive presented no impediment, so long as the natural parents gave their consent. Once adopted, the son or daughter was attached to the new parent or parents like a limpet to a rock and had most of the rights of a legitimate or illegitimate child. The new parent had the legal obligation to maintain the adopted person financially for as long as they were unable – or unwilling – to do it themselves.
Brunetti could not hypothesize the situation which would induce a shoemaker, for example, to adopt an adult nor understand why an adult would want to be adopted by the greengrocer. But to keep the treasure of the Duca of this or the Contessa of that from being devoured by the less worthy heirs or by the fees of the lawyers hired to fight for their clients’ shares, how much wiser to choose the best of the new generation and leave it all to him, or to her. No need, thus, to fight over the tapestries and villas, the bank accounts hidden here and there, and no indecorous revelations about the origin – or, more shocking, the extent – of the wealth. Adopt an adult and everything can remain the same, with few inconvenient demands made by the state. And now, in democratic times, the law applied to all, so anyone could adopt.
People of many other countries, Brunetti knew, could do with their money what they wanted: leave it to orphans and widows, to their mistresses, to their cat; even – if they chose – pile it on a Viking ship, set it ablaze, and shove it out to be carried off by the tide. But he, and all other Italians, had to follow a blueprint and leave an appointed share to their relatives in legally mandated percentages. The remainder was for squandering or for following the laws of love, not those of the state.
Brunetti had, upon his mother’s death, inherited 712, half of the savings in her bank account. Thus he had a measure of difficulty in understanding the concern others felt about seeing that their fortunes went to the right person or people. He knew that his wife would some day become an heiress, and his children would eventually be rich. He thought it far more important that both were already concerned with the environment, and Chiara had no goal other than saving the planet. Could one’s child have a grander dream?
He looked around, startled to find himself still at his desk. He refused to call Foa to ask if someone had been there to meet Gonzalo. Surely, the pilot would have called if there had been any trouble. He looked at his watch, saw that it was past one, and decided to go and get something to eat. When he arrived at the bar, he saw only tourists there, so he asked Bambola, the Senegalese barman, for a coffee and two tramezzini, slid that day’s Gazzettino across the counter and looked at the front page while he waited for what he had decided he was going to call lunch.
When it arrived, Brunetti thanked Bambola and remained at the counter to page through the newspaper. Known for the shock value of its headlines – often followed by factual accounts that ran counter to their insinuations – the paper today did not disappoint. The murderer who had left the dismembered body of a woman in a forest to the north of Verona had, the newspaper opined, hoped that the local wild boars would dispose of the corpse for him.
‘I think that’s enough,’ Brunetti said under his breath and folded the newspaper closed. He moved down the bar towards the cash register. ‘Come va?’ he asked the barman.
The smile of a joyful Cheshire cat revealed teeth no whiter, though they were perhaps wider. ‘Fine, Dottore,’ Bambola said. ‘My wife and daughter are coming.’ He paused for a moment, as if uncertain whether he should say more, then added, ‘Dottoressa Griffoni, she wrote some letters for me. And she called a friend of hers in Rome. And then the papers came.’ Overwhelmed by his emotions, he braced his arms on the counter and looked down at it. Brunetti thought he saw tears in the man’s eyes. ‘I haven’t seen them for two years,’ he said in a voice that jagged in and out of a whisper.
‘How old is she now?’ Brunetti asked, hoping that banality would help the other man regain his composure. ‘When you showed me the photo, she was just a tiny little girl.’
Bambola lifted his head and stared at him. ‘You remember the photo?’
‘Your daughter was just like mine when she was that age. What was she then, three?’ Brunetti asked. At the other man’s nod, he continued. ‘She stood just the same way, legs all twisted around one another, her hand in her mother’s, and just the littlest smile on her face, as if she couldn’t decide whether she was happy or afraid.’
Then, suddenly serious, Brunetti said, ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost these years, Bambola.’ After a moment’s thought, he added, ‘But she’s still a little girl, and there’s nothing more beautiful in the world. And soon she’ll be here.’ He reached across the counter and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘I hope the days pas
s quickly, and I hope we get to see them all here very soon.’
Keeping his head lowered to see the coins, Bambola slid the three Euro across the counter and put them in the cash register, ringing up the sale. He looked at Brunetti, smiled, and said, ‘I’ll have a reason to live again.’
‘There’s no better one,’ Brunetti answered and turned towards the door.
How could a man bear that? Brunetti asked himself as he went back to the Questura. Without his family for two years, called by a name some Italian invented because his real one was too difficult to pronounce. All the years Brunetti had known him, Bambola had worn his djellaba, each day radiantly white and freshly washed and ironed. Was this the way he clung to who he was?
He went up to Griffoni’s office and found her at a document-covered desk, one hand shifting a messy pile from left to right. She grunted in greeting and reached for another pile of documents.
‘You wrote letters for Bambola?’
She nodded but didn’t bother to look up.
‘And called someone in Rome?’
‘I have a friend who works in the Ministry of the Interior,’ she said, still shifting papers around.
‘To get his family here?’
‘No, Guido, to see if I could get him a job as Undersecretary to the Minister,’ she shot back. Then, looking up at him, ‘Of course to get his family here. You don’t expect him to go on living like that, do you?’
‘Did he ask you?’ Brunetti wanted to know.
‘It’s none of your business,’ she said in a voice that was no longer very friendly. But then she clarified by adding, ‘The only thing he’s ever asked me, other than how I am that day, is whether I’d like a coffee.’
‘When you wrote those letters, you had to use his real name, didn’t you?’
Removing the vocal gloves, Griffoni said, ‘Yes. Of course. The Ministry would hardly give a residence permit to the wife and daughter of someone called Bambola, would they?’
Ignoring her tone, Brunetti asked, ‘What is it? His real name?’
‘Bamba Diome.’
‘Thank you.’
To admit to curiosity did not come easily to Griffoni, so it took her some time to ask, ‘And?’
‘And I can start calling him by his right name.’
Griffoni nodded and added, ‘His wife’s name is Diambal, and his daughter is Pauline.’
‘Pauline?’
‘Yes. She’s five.’
‘Good,’ Brunetti said, and then, ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Griffoni answered and returned to moving papers around on her desk. Brunetti went back to his office.
16
About an hour later, Signorina Elettra came into Brunetti’s office to say goodbye. He lacked the courage to ask her where she was going and contented himself with nothing more than to wish her ‘Buone vacanze.’ She failed even to suggest she’d be in touch during the next three weeks, and he did not presume to ask if she would be reachable by SMS. He thought of going over to the door to shake her hand but did not. Impervious to his awkwardness, she gave a small wave and wished him ‘Buon lavoro.’
As if crime had decided to take advantage of her absence, towards the end of the first week, thieves managed to remove three pieces of jewellery on exhibition in the Palazzo Ducale from under the amiable gaze of one of the video cameras set up to protect the objects. The video from one surveillance camera showed the two thieves idly gazing at the cabinets, keeping close attention on the other people in the room. Then, when they were alone, a camera on the other side of the room showed one of them opening the display case with surprisingly little effort, slipping the three pieces into his pocket, and following his accomplice from the room. They ambled to the main exit and mingled with the other visitors, hands in their pockets – calm, calm, calm – even when the alarms began to sound.
The personnel at the Palazzo shut some of the exits and tried to stop the flood of tourists from leaving the building. This all served no good: the two men and the three objects were gone, subsumed into the crowds of tourists strolling along the Riva degli Schiavoni or pushing their way through the crowds of other tourists on their way to the Rialto, or to the Accademia, or down to Florian’s for a coffee.
Vianello and Pucetti took charge of all communication and exchange of information with the staff of the Palazzo. Within hours, they had photos of the missing pieces, photo stills of the two thieves taken from the video cameras trained on all of the display cases, and copies of the provenance and insurance documentation for every object in the show. They worked in the officers’ staff room, no one daring to use Signorina Elettra’s desk. Her computer sat abandoned, and a rumour circulated that she had extracted the hard disk before she left, although no one could be found to admit to knowing this for a fact. Nor was anyone willing to approach her desk to check, far less to seek a way to insert their hand into the side of her computer to verify the presence or absence of the hard disk; and of course there were those like Brunetti who would not have recognized it had it appeared in a vision and spoken to them. The investigation, handed over entirely to experts from the Art Fraud squad in Rome, continued; it did not advance.
The third week was to bring death, but apparently not crime. Usually, at least in fiction, death comes in the middle of the night, waking people from sleep that is always heavy or troubled or deep. The news of the death of Gonzalo Rodríguez de Tejeda reached Brunetti on his telefonino at eleven-fifteen in the morning of the last day of Signorina Elettra’s vacation. Like everyone else at the Questura, he had taken to marking dates by how long it was until her return, and so it was in this manner that he would in future recall and refer to it.
It was his father-in-law who relayed the news to Brunetti, having received it from Gonzalo’s sister, Elena, who ‘… called me this morning. He was there to visit, and they were on their way to the Thyssen, when he fell forward on to the pavement. Just like that, she said. One second he was walking beside her, saying how much he wanted to see the Goyas again, and the next he was on the pavement, dead.’
‘She’s the retired doctor, isn’t she?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes,’ his father-in-law answered. ‘By the time she understood what had happened and knelt down to try to do CPR, there was nothing to do. In seconds,’ il Conte said, voice trailing off, as if he’d just then realized how short those seconds were, and how close they could be. ‘She thinks it was a cerebral haemorrhage.’
‘This morning?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes. She called me a half-hour ago.’
‘What’s going to happen?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Will they do an autopsy? And the funeral?’ He was trying to think of those things one never thought of during an emergency, shock still spinning through the brain, the veins, the heart.
‘She didn’t say anything,’ il Conte said. ‘She was still at the hospital.’
‘Poor woman,’ Brunetti whispered, meaning it.
‘She said she’d call me, but I have no idea when that will be.’
‘Will you go?’ Brunetti asked.
Il Conte made no answer; Brunetti said nothing, determined to wait him out. ‘That depends on Elena, I suppose,’ he finally answered.
‘If she invites you?’ Brunetti asked in confusion.
‘No, I’m waiting to hear whether she thinks Gonzalo would have wanted me to come.’
Without thinking, Brunetti asked, ‘Was it that bad?’
‘Was what so bad?’ il Conte asked angrily. ‘He fell down and died.’ Brunetti heard the other man take in a heavy breath, forcing himself to calm down.
‘I wasn’t clear, Orazio,’ Brunetti said. ‘I meant your last meeting with him. You told me he left you in the restaurant.’
‘Ah,’ il Conte said, extending the exhalation for what seemed a long time. ‘I forgot I told you that.’ Brunetti listened to the other man breathing for some time, and then il Conte finally said, ‘No, it wasn’t so bad. We’d had arguments before, far worse ones, but I was a
fraid of what he might have said to her about me while he was there, that I was spying on him.’
‘She called you, didn’t she?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Certainly that means a lot.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ il Conte said, then was silent. He finally continued, a certain tightness gone from his voice. ‘She must still think of me as his best friend.’
‘Well, you were, weren’t you?’ Brunetti asked.
Instead of answering him, il Conte said, ‘I’ll go, then.’
‘And Donatella?’
‘She’ll come. Gonzalo was her friend as much as mine.’
Brunetti and his father-in-law exchanged some further remarks, then Brunetti ended the call by suggesting that il Conte keep his line free to receive any information Gonzalo’s sister might want to give him.
After they hung up, Brunetti went to the window and glanced down at the Canale di San Lorenzo: it would be too symmetrical if the tide were going out. He saw a red plastic bag floating on the surface and watched it until he saw that it was going to the left, past the old people’s home. The tide was coming in. So much for symmetry.
He called Paola, who was at the university, and told her. ‘Ah, the poor man,’ was her response, then she asked how her father had taken the news.
‘Badly. They’ll go to the funeral.’
‘Ah,’ was all she found to say.
‘Will you be back for lunch?’ he asked, knowing this was her day to spend an hour in her office, seeing students.
‘I’ll put a sign on the door.’
‘Good. I’ll see you at home, then,’ Brunetti said and replaced the phone. For no reason he could understand, he was swept with the desire to read the final scenes of The Trojan Women. Gonzalo’s life had been put a stop to, like a door slammed in his face: the people who loved him had had no time to prepare themselves for loss. Brunetti thought he remembered what was going to happen to those women and hoped that advance warning would make learning their fates easier to bear. Not bothering to tell anyone where he was going, he left his office, left the Questura, left it all and went home.