by Donna Leon
'Yes. That was right after he started saying he couldn't smell anything any more. He always complained about smoking - he was worse than an American about that - but then he said he couldn't even smell smoke’ Her own nose twitched in response to the absurdity of this. 'So he decided to go to some specialist’
'What did the doctor say?'
'That there was nothing wrong with him’ She paused a moment after that, then added, 'Except for diarrhoea, but the doctor gave him something for that’
'And?' Brunetti asked. ‘I suppose it stopped’ she said dismissively. 'But did he continue to be tired, the way you've described?'
'Yes. He kept saying he was sick, and the doctors kept saying that there was nothing wrong with him.'
‘Doctors? Did he go to more than one?'
‘I think so. He talked about a specialist in Padova. That's the one who finally told him he was anaemic and gave him some pills to take. But soon after that, it happened, and he was gone’
'Do you think he was sick?' Brunetti asked.
'Oh, I don't know’ she answered. She crossed her legs, displaying even more thigh. 'He liked to have attention.'
Brunetti attempted to phrase it delicately. ‘Did he give you reason to believe he really was sick or anaemic?'
'What do you mean, did he give me reason?'
'Was he less, er, energetic than usual?'
She looked across at him, as though Brunetti had just walked into the room from some other century. 'Oh, you mean sex?' He nodded. ‘Yes, he lost interest in it; that's another reason I wanted it to end.'
'Did he know this, that you wanted things to end between you?'
‘I never got a chance to tell him.'
Brunetti considered that and then asked, 'Why were you going to the villa that night?'
'We'd been to a party in Treviso, and Roberto didn't want to have to drive all the way back to Venice. So we were going to spend the night at the villa and go back in the morning.'
‘I see’ Brunetti said and then asked, 'Aside from being tired, was his behaviour different in any way in the weeks before it happened?' 'What do you mean?'
‘Had he seemed especially nervous?'
'No, not that I could say. He was short tempered with me, but he was short tempered with everyone. He had an argument with his father, and he had one with Maurizio.'
'What was the argument about?'
'I don't know. He never told me things like that. And if s not that I was very interested.'
'Why were you interested in him, Signora?'
Brunetti asked and, catching her glance, added, ‘If I might ask’
'Oh, he was good company. At least at the beginning he was. And he always had a lot of money’ Brunetti thought the order of importance of those two remarks might better be reversed, but he said nothing.
'I see. Do you know his cousin?'
'Maurizio?' she asked, Brunetti thought rather unnecessarily.
‘Yes’
'I met him a couple of times. At Roberto's house. And once at a party.' 'Did you like him?'
She looked across at one of the etchings and, as if its violence had somehow inspired her, said, 'No’ why?'
She shrugged dismissively at a memory from so long ago. 'I don't know. He seemed arrogant to me’ Hearing this, she added, 'Not that Roberto couldn't be like that sometimes, but Maurizio was just... well, he always has to tell everyone what to do. Or that's how it seemed to me.'
'Have you seen him since Roberto disappeared?'
'Of course,' she answered, surprised at the question. 'Just after it happened, he was there with Roberto's parents. All the time, when the notes came. So I saw him’
‘I mean after that, after the notes stopped’
'No, not to talk to, if that’ s what you mean. I see him on the street sometimes, but we don't have anything to say to one another’
'And Roberto's parents?'
'No, not them, either’ Brunetti doubted if the parents of the kidnapped boy would remain in contact with his former girlfriend, especially after her marriage to another man.
Brunetti had nothing else to ask her, but he wanted her to remain open to the possibility of answering more questions, should they arise. ‘I don't want to keep you from your baby, Signora’ he said, glancing down at his watch.
'Oh, that’s all right, I don't mind’ she answered, and Brunetti was surprised at how much he believed her and at how much that fact made him dislike her.
He got to his feet quickly. 'Thank you very much, Signora. I think that will be all for now.' 'For now?'
'If it does turn out to be Roberto's body, then the investigation will have to be reopened, Signora, and I suspect that everyone who had any knowledge of the original kidnapping will be questioned again.'
She pulled her lips together in a tight grimace of irritation at how much all of this was intruding on her time.
He went towards the door so as not to give her the chance to complain. 'Again, thank you, Signora’ he said.
She got up from the sofa and came towards him. Her face fell back into the curious immobility he had noticed when he first met her, and the beauty she'd shown disappeared.
She saw him to the door, and as she opened it, the baby wailed out from somewhere at the back of the apartment. Ignoring it, she said, 'Would you let me know if it really is Roberto?'
'Of course, Signora’ Brunetti answered. He started down the steps. The baby's cry was cut off by the closing of the door.
8
Brunetti glanced at his watch as he left the Salviati house. It was twenty to one. He took the traghetto again, and when he came out at San Leonardo, he crossed the campo and took the first left A few empty tables stood in the shade in front of the restaurant.
Inside, a counter stood to his left, a few demijohns of wine on a shelf in back of it, long.rubber tubes flowing from their tops. To the right, two arched doors opened into another room, and there, at a table against the wall, he saw his father-in-law, Count Orazio Falier. The Count sat, a glass of what looked like prosecco in front of him, reading the local paper, Il Gazzettino. Brunetti was surprised to see him with such a newspaper, which meant either that his opinion of the Count was higher than he realized, or of the local newspaper, lower.
'Buon di’ Brunetti said as he approached the table.
The Count peered over the top of his paper and got to his feet, leaving the pages spread before him.
'Ciao, Guido’ the Count said, extending his hand and clasping Brunetti's. ‘I’m glad you could come’
‘I asked to talk to you, remember’ Brunetti answered.
Reminded, the Count said, 'The Lorenzonis, eh?'
Brunetti pulled out the chair opposite the Count and sat He looked down at the paper, and, although the body was still unidentified, he found himself wondering if the story could somehow already be printed.
The Count interpreted his glance. 'Not yet’ He took the time to fold the paper neatly in two, and then in two again. ‘It’s become so bad, hasn't it?' he asked, holding the paper up between them.
'Not if you like cannibalism, incest, and infanticide’ Brunetti answered.
Did you read it today?' When Brunetti shook his head, the Count explained. There was a story this morning about a woman in Tehran who killed her husband, ground up his heart, and ate it in something called ab goosht' Before Brunetti could register either surprise or disgust, the Count went on, 'But then they opened a parenthesis and gave the recipe for ab goosht: tomatoes, onions, and chopped meat’ He shook his head. 'Who are they writing for? Who wants to know that sort of thing?'
Brunetti had long ago abandoned any faith he had ever had in the taste of the general public, and so he answered, 'The readers of II Gazzettino, I'd say
The Count looked across at him and nodded. "I suppose you're right’ He tossed the paper on to the next table. 'What is it you want to know about the Lorenzonis?'
'This morning, you said that the boy had none of the father's talent. I'd lik
e to know what that talent is?’
'Ciappar schei’ the Count answered, slipping into dialect
Immediately at ease at the sound of Veneziano, Brunetti asked, 'Making money how?'
'In any way he can: steel, cement, shipping. If it can be moved, the Lorenzonis can take it there for you. If it can be built, the Lorenzonis can sell you the materials to build it.' The Count thought about what he had just said and added, 'Be a good slogan for them, wouldn't it?' When Brunetti nodded, the Count added, 'Not that the Lorenzonis need to advertise. At least not anywhere in the Veneto’
'Do you have dealings with them? The firm, that is.'
'In the past, I used their trucks to take textiles to Poland and to bring back - I'm not sure about this; it was at least four years ago - but I think it was vodka. But with the loosening of border controls and customs regulations, I'm finding it cheaper to move things by rail, so I don't have any business with them any more/
'Do you know them socially?'
'No more than I know a few hundred people in the city’ the Count said and looked up as the waitress approached their table.
She wore a man's shirt tucked into crisply pressed jeans and had hair cut as short as a boy's.
Though she wore no make-up, the impression she gave was anything but boyish, for the jeans curved over her hips, and the open top three buttons of the shirt suggested that she wore no bra but might have been well advised to do so.' Count Orazio’ she said in a deep contralto full of warmth and promise, 'if s a pleasure to see you here again.' She turned to Brunetti and included him in the warmth of her smile.
Brunetti remembered that the Count had told him the daughter of a friend ran this place, so perhaps it was as an old family friend that the Count asked, 'Come stai, Valeria?' His use of the familiar 'tu', however, sounded anything but avuncular, and Brunetti watched the young woman to see how she responded.
'Molto bene, Signor Conte. E Lei?' she answered, the formality of the words wildly at odds with her tone.
'Fine, thank you, my dear.' He waved an open hand towards Brunetti. This is my son-in-law’
'Piacere,' he said to the young woman, and she returned the same word, adding only a smile..
'What do you recommend for us today, Valeria?' the Count asked.
'To start with, we've got sarde in saor’ she said, 'or latte di seppie. We made the sarde last night, and the seppie came from Rialto this morning’
Probably frozen if they did, Brunetti thought. It was too early for fresh cuttlefish roe, but the sardines would be fresh. Paola seemed never to have time to clean the sardines and marinate them in onions and raisins, so they would be a treat.
'What do you think, Guido?'
'Sarde,'he said without hesitation. 'Yes. For me too.'
'Spaghetti alle vongole’ the young woman said, not so much recommending as giving their order. Both men nodded.
'And after,' Valeria said, 'I'd recommend the rombo or perhaps the coda di rospo. Both are fresh.'
'How are they cooked?' the Count asked.
'The rombo's grilled, and the coda's baked with white wine, zucchini, and rosemary.'
‘Is it good, the coda?' the Count asked.
Instead of answering, she put the knuckle of the first finger of her right hand into her cheek and turned it, smacking her lips as she did.
That settles is, then,' the Count said, smiling up at her.'How about you, Guido?'
'No, I'll take the rombo’ Brunetti said, thinking the other dish sounded too fussy, the sort of thing that would share a plate with a piece of carrot carved to look like a rose, or a sprig of mint arranged at a clever angle.
'Wine?' she asked.
'Do you have that Chardonnay your father makes?'
'If s what we drink ourselves, Conte, but we usually don't serve it.' She saw his disappointment, so she added, 'I can bring you a carafe’
'Thank you, Valeria. I've had it at your father's. If s excellent’
She nodded in acknowledgement of this truth, then added, as though it were a joke, 'Just don't say anything about it if the Finanza comes in’
Before the Count could comment, a shout rang out from the other room. She turned and was gone.
'No wonder this country is an economic cripple’ the Count said with sudden fury. 'Best wine they make, and they can't serve it, probably because of some legal nonsense about the alcoholic content, or because some idiot in Brussels has decided if s too similar to another kind of wine made in Portugal. God, we're ruled by morons.'
Brunetti, who had always considered his father-in-law one of those rulers, found this a strange position for him to be taking. Before he could ask him about it, however, Valeria was back with a litre carafe of pale white wine and, though she hadn't been asked to bring it, a bottle of mineral water.
The Count poured two glasses of wine and pushed one towards Brunetti. 'Tell me what you think.'
Brunetti took it and sipped. He'd always hated remarks about wine and its taste, all the chatter about 'woody richness', the 'scent of crushed raspberries', so all he said was, 'Very good.' He set the glass down on the table. 'Tell me more about the boy. You said you didn't like him.'
The Count had had twenty years to grow accustomed to his son-in-law and his techniques, so he took a sip of his wine and answered, 'As I said, he was dull and full of himself, a very tedious combination.'
'What sort of work did he do for the company?'
‘I think he was given the title of "cansulente", though I haven't an idea of what he would consult about. When they needed to take a client to dinner, Roberto would come along. I suppose Ludovico hoped that his exposure to clients and talk of business would make him more serious or at least take the business more seriously’
Brunetti, who had worked all of the summers of his university years, asked, 'But surely he didn't just go to dinner and call that his job?'
'Sometimes, if there were important deliveries or pick-ups to be made, they'd send Roberto. You know, if contracts had to get to Paris or a new book of samples for the textile factories had to be delivered in a hurry, Roberto would take them, and then he'd get to spend a weekend in Paris or Prague or wherever it was’
'Nice work,' Brunetti said. 'What about the university?'
'Too lazy. Or too dumb’ was the Count's dismissive explanation.
Brunetti was about to remark that, from what Paola had said about the students at the university, neither of those served as much of an impediment, but he stopped when Valeria came towards their table, carrying two plates loaded with the small sardines, oil and vinegar glistening on their skins.
'Buon appetite’ she wished them and moved away to answer a wave from someone at another table.
Neither man bothered to bone the tiny fish, but forked them up, dripping oil, sliced onions, and raisins, and ate them whole.
'Bon’ the Count said. Brunetti nodded but said nothing, delighted with the fish and the sharp tang of vinegar. He'd once been told that, centuries ago, Venetian fishermen had been forced to eat the fish this way, chopping them up and pickling them to keep them from rotting, just as he'd been told that the vinegar was poured in against scurvy. He had no idea if either story was true, but if it was, he thanked the fishermen.
When the sardines were gone, Brunetti took a piece of bread and wiped his plate clean with it. 'Did he do anything else, Roberto?'
'You mean in the business?'
‘Yes.'
The Count poured them each another half glass of wine. 'No. I think that's all he was either capable of doing or interested in doing.' He took another sip. 'He wasn't a bad boy, just dull. The last time I saw him, in fact, I felt sorry for him.'
'When was that? And why?'
'It must have been a few days before he was kidnapped. His parents were having a party for their thirtieth anniversary and invited me and Donatella. Roberto was there.' The Count paused after he said this and after a time, added, 'But it was almost as if he weren't there.'
'I don't unde
rstand,' Brunetti said.
'He seemed invisible. No, that’s not what I mean. He looked thinner, and he had already begun to lose his hair. It was summer, but he looked like he hadn't been out of the house since winter. And he's the one who was always on the beach or playing tennis’ The Count looked off, recalling the evening. 1 didn't speak to him, and I didn't want to say anything to his parents. But he looked strange’
'Sick?'
'No, not that, well, not really. Just very pale and thin, like he'd been on a diet and stayed on it too long.'
As if called on to put an end to all talk of diet,
Valeria arrived just at that moment with two heaped plates of spaghetti topped with scores of tiny clams still in their shells. The perfume of the oil and garlic wafted ahead of her.
Brunetti dug his fork into the spaghetti and began to twirl up the interwoven strands. When he had what he thought a sufficient forkful, he raised it to his hps, encouraged by the warmth and the pervasive scent of garlic. Mouth full, he nodded at the Count, who smiled in return and began to eat his own.
It wasn't until Brunetti's pasta was almost gone and he had begun to break open the clams, that he asked the Count, 'What about the nephew?'
‘I’m told he's a natural for the business. He's got the charm to work with the customers and the brains to calculate estimates and hire the right people.'
'How old is he?' Brunetti asked.
'He's two years older than Roberto, so that would make him about twenty-five.'
'Do you know anything else about him?'
'What sort of thing?'
'Anything you can think of.'
'That's very broad.' Before Brunetti could explain, the Count asked, 'To know if he could have done this? Assuming that if s been done?'
Brunetti nodded and continued with his clams.
'His father, Ludovico's younger brother, died when Maurizio was about eight. The parents were already divorced, and the mother apparently wanted nothing to do with the boy, so when she saw the chance, she gave him to Ludovico and Cornelia, and they raised him: he might just as well have been Roberto's brother’