by Donna Leon
Thinking of Cain and Abel, Brunetti asked, 'Do you know this or have you been told this?'
'Both’ was the Count's terse answer. 'I'd say if s unlikely that Maurizio was involved in any way.'
Brunetti shrugged and tossed his last clam shell onto the pile that had accumulated on his plate. 'I don't even know if it's the Lorenzoni boy.'
'Then why all the questions?'
‘I told you: two people thought it was a joke or a stunt. And the stone that was blocking the gate was placed there from inside.'
'They could have climbed the wall’ the Count suggested.
Brunetti nodded. 'Perhaps. I just don't like the feel of the whole thing.'
The Count gave him a curious glance, as if he found the conjunction of Brunetti and intuitive feelings a strange one. 'Aside from what you've just told me, what else is it that you don't like?'
'That no one followed up on the remark that they thought it was a joke. That there is no interview with his cousin in the file. And the rock: no one asked about that.'
The Count placed his fork on top of the uneaten spaghetti that still lay in the bottom of his plate, and just as he did so, Valeria arrived to clear the table. 'Didn't you like the spaghetti, Count?'
‘It was delicious, my dear, but I need to save some room for the coda’
She nodded and removed his plate, then Brunetti's. The Count was adding wine to their glasses when she returned. Brunetti was satisfied to see that he had been right about the coda. It was decorated with sprigs of rosemary, and a radish.
‘Why do they do that to food?' he asked, pointing with his chin to the Count's plate.
'Is that a real question or a criticism of the service?' the Count asked.
'Just a question,' Brunetti answered.
The Count picked up knife and fork and separated the fish to see if it was cooked all through. Seeing that it was, he said, 'I remember when, for a few thousand lire, you could get a good meal at any trattoria or osteria in the city. Risotto, fish, a salad, and good wine. Nothing fancy, just the good food that owners probably ate at their own table. But that.was when Venice was a city that was alive, that had industry and artisans. Now all we have is tourists, and the rich ones are accustomed to fancy stuff like this. So to appeal to their tastes, we get food that's been made to look pretty.' He took a bite of the fish. 'At least this is good, as well as pretty. How's yours?'
'Very good,' Brunetti answered. He placed a small bone to the side of his dish and said, 'You wanted to talk to me about something?'
His head bent over the fish, the Count said, 'It's about Paola.'
'Paola?'
‘Yes, Paola. My daughter. Your wife.'
Brunetti was swept with a sudden wave of anger at the Count's dismissive tone, but contained it and replied, his own voice distant with mirrored sarcasm, 'And the mother of my children. Your grandchildren. Don't forget that.'
Placing his knife and fork on his plate, the Count pushed it away from him. 'Guido, I don't mean to offend...'
Brunetti cut him off. 'Then don't patronize me.'
The Count picked up the wine carafe and poured half of the remainder into Brunetti's glass, the rest into his own. 'She's not happy.' He looked across at Brunetti to see how he took this, paused, and when Brunetti said nothing, said, 'She's my only child, and she's not happy.'
‘Why?'
The Count lifted the hand that wore the ring with the Falier crest. Seeing it, Brunetti thought immediately of the body in the field and whether it would turn out to be the Lorenzoni boy. If so, who should he speak to next, the father, the nephew, perhaps the mother? How could he intrude on a grief that would be resurrected by the discovery of the body?
'Are you listening?'
'Of course I'm listening,' answered Brunetti, who had not been. 'You said Paola's not happy, and I asked you why.'
'And I've been telling you, Guido, but you've been off somewhere with the Lorenzoni family and the body that's been found, wondering how you can arrive at justice.' He paused and waited for Brunetti to say something. 'One of the reasons I've been trying to explain to you is just that, that your pursuit of what you construe as justice takes up .. .' here he paused and moved his empty wine glass back and forth on the table, holding it between the knuckles of his first and second finger. He looked up at Brunetti and smiled, though the sight of his smile made Brunetti sad. It takes up too much of your spirit, Guido, and I think Paola suffers from that’
'You mean it takes up too much of my time?'
'No. I mean what I said. You get involved in these crimes and with the people who commit them or suffer them, and you forget about Paola and the children’
'That's not true. I'm seldom gone from them when I should be there. We do things together’
'Please, Guido,' the Count said in a softer voice. ‘You're too intelligent a man to believe, or to expect me to believe, that just being in a place or with a person means all of you is mere. Remember, I've been around you when you've been working on something, and I know what you're like. Your spirit disappears. You talk and listen, go places with the children, but you're not really there.' The Count poured some mineral water into his glass and drank it. 'In a way, you're like the Lorenzoni boy was that last time I saw him: distracted and distant and not really there’
‘Did Paola tell you this?'
The Count looked almost surprised. 'Guido, I have no reason to expect you to believe me, but Paola would never speak a word against you, not to me and not to anyone else’
'Then why are you so sure she's unhappy?' Brunetti struggled to keep the anger from his voice as he asked the question.
Absently, the Count's fingers reached out for a small piece of bread that lay to the left of his plate and began to crumble it into smaller pieces. 'When Paola was born, Donatella had a very bad time and was sick for a long while after the birth, so much of the care of the baby fell to me’ He saw Brunetti's surprise and laughed out loud. 'I know, I know. It must be hard to picture me feeding a baby or changing her nappy, but that's what I did for the first few months, and then when Donatella was home again, well, it had become a habit, so I continued to do it. If you've changed a baby's nappy for a year, and fed her, and sung her to sleep, then you know when she's happy or sad’ Before Brunetti could object, the Count continued, 'And it makes no difference whether the baby is four months or forty years old or if the cause is colic or an uneasy marriage. You know. So I know she's not happy.'
Brunetti's protestations of innocence or ignorance died there. He'd change nappies himself and spent many nights holding the children in his lap, reading to them, while they cried or fell off to sleep, and he'd always believed it was those nights, more than anything else, that had given him a land of radar that responded to the state of their - he had to use the Count's word here - spirits.
'I don't know how else to do what I do’ he finally said in a tone which held no anger.
The Count went on. 'I've always wanted to ask you: Why is it so important to you?'
'Why is what so important to me? That I arrest the person who committed a crime?'
The Count waved this away. 'No, I don't think that's what’s important to you. Why do you have to see that justice is done?'
Valeria chose this moment to appear at their table, but neither man was interested in dessert.
The Count ordered two grappas and turned his attention back to Brunetti.
'You've read the Greeks, haven't you?' Brunetti finally asked.
'Some of them, yes.'
'Critias?'
'So long ago as to have only the vaguest of memories of what he wrote. Why?'
Valeria appeared, set the glasses in front of them, and left silently.
Brunetti picked up his and took a small sip. 'I'm probably quoting him badly, but somewhere he says that the laws of the state will take care of public crimes, and that's why we need religion, so that we can believe divine justice will take care of private crime.' He paused and took another sip. 'B
ut we don't have religion any more, do we, not really?' The Count shook his head. 'So maybe that's what I'm after, not that I've ever talked about it or, for that fact, much thought about it. If divine justice won't take care of private crime any more, then it's important that it be seen to, by someone.'
'What do you mean, private crime? As distinct from public crime, that is.'
'Giving someone bad advice so that you can later profit from their error. Lying. Betraying a confidence’
'None of those things is necessarily illegal’ the Count said.
Brunerti shook his head. That's not the point. That’ s why they came to mind.' He paused for a moment and then continued. 'Maybe the politicians provide better examples: giving contracts to their friends, basing government decisions on personal desires, giving jobs to members of their family’
The Count cut him -off. 'Business as usual in Italian politics, you mean?'
Brunetti gave a weary nod.
'But you can't decide those things are illegal and start punishing people, can you?' the Count asked.
'No. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I get caught up in trying to find tike people responsible for bad things, not just for illegal things, or I keep thinking about the difference and believing both are wrong.'
'And your wife suffers. Which gets us back to my original remark.' The Count reached across the table and placed his hand on Brunetti's arm. ‘I know how offensive you must find this. But she's my baby and always will be, so I wanted to say something to you. Before she does.'
‘I’m not sure I can thank you for this’ Brunetti confessed.
'That hardly matters. My only concern is Paola's happiness.' The Count paused and considered what to say next. 'And though you may find this hard to believe, Guido, your own.'.
Brunetti nodded, finding himself suddenly too moved to speak. Seeing this, the Count waved towards Valeria and made motions of writing a bill. When he turned his attention back to Brunetti, he asked in an entirely normal voice, 'Well, what do you think of the food?'
Matching his tone, Brunetti answered. 'Excellent. Your friend can be proud of his daughter. And you can be proud of yours.'
‘I am’ the Count said simply. He paused, looked across at Brunetti, and said, 'And though there's no reason you should believe this, I'm also proud of you.'
'Thank you. I had no idea’ Before he spoke, Brunetti had thought it would be difficult to say, but the words had come easily and painlessly.
'No, I didn't think you did’
9
Brunetti didn't get back to the Questura until after three. As he came in, Pucetti emerged from the office near the door, but he did not come to give Brunetti his overcoat, which was nowhere in evidence.
'One of them steal it?' Brunetti asked with a smile, nodding in the direction of the door to the Ufficio Stranieri, in front of which the line no longer stood, it having closed at 12:30.
'No, sir. But the Vice-Questore called down to tell us that he wanted to see you when you got back from lunch.' Even the transmission of someone as well-disposed towards Brunetti as Pucetti failed to disguise the anger in Patta's message.
'Is he back from lunch himself?'
'Yes, sir. About ten minutes ago. He asked where you were.' A person did not have to be a cryptographer to break the code used at the Questura: Patta's question bespoke something stronger than his normal dissatisfaction with Brunetti.
‘I’ll go and see him now’ Brunetti said, heading towards the front steps.
'Your overcoat's in the cupboard of your office,
sir’ Pucetti called after him, and Brunetti raised a hand in acknowledgement.
Signorina Elettra was at her desk outside Vice- Questore Patta's office. When he came in, she looked up from the newspaper on her desk and said, 'The report from the autopsy's on your desk’ Though he was curious, he didn't ask her what it contained, sure that she would have read it. If he didn't know the results, there would be no reason for him to mention the autopsy to Patta.
He recognized the pale orange pages of Sole Ventiquattro Ore, the financial newspaper. 'Working on your portfolio?' he asked.
'In a manner of speaking, I suppose’
'Meaning?'
'A company I've invested in has decided to open a pharmaceutical factory in Tadzhikistan. There's an article in the paper about opening markets in what used to be the Soviet Union, and I wanted to get an idea of whether I should stay with them or pull my money out.'
'And?'
'I think it all stinks is what I think’ she answered, closing the paper with a sweeping gesture, Why?'
'Because these people seem to have jumped from the Middle-Ages into advanced capitalism Five years ago, they were bartering hammers for potatoes, and now they've all become businessmen with telefonini and BMWs. From what I've read, they have the morals of pit vipers, and I think I don't want to have anything to do with them.' 'Too risky?'
'No, quite the contrary’ she said quite calmly. ‘I think it's probably going to be a very profitable investment, but I prefer not to have my money used by people who will deal in anything, buy and sell anything, do anything in order to profit'
'Like the bank?' Brunetti asked. She'd come to the Questura some years ago, leaving her job as secretary to the president of the Banca d'ltalia, because she'd refused to take dictation of a letter going to a bank in Johannesburg. The UN obviously didn't believe in its own sanctions, but Signorina Elettra had thought it necessary to uphold them, even at the cost of her job.
She looked up, eyes brightening, a cavalry horse who had just heard the trumpets sound the charge. 'Exactly.' But if he expected her to expand upon this, or make the comparison between the two cases, he was disappointed.
She looked significantly at Patta's door. 'He's waiting for you.'
'Any idea?'
'None,' she said.
Brunetti had a sudden vision of a painting he'd seen reproduced in his fifth grade history book, of a Roman gladiator turning to salute the Emperor before turning to join in battle with an enemy who had both a larger sword and a ten kilo edge. 'Ave atque vale,' he said, smiling.
'Morituri te salutant,' she responded, as casually as if she were reading out the times on a train schedule.
Inside, the Latinate theme continued, with Patta poised in profile and showing off his truly imperial nose. When he turned to face Brunetti, the imperial evaporated and was replaced by something faintly porcine, caused by the tendency of Patta's dark brown eyes to sink ever deeper into the eternally tanned flesh of his face.
'You wanted to see me, Vice-Questore?' Brunetti asked in a neutral voice.
'Are you out of your mind, Brunetti?' Patta asked with no introduction.
'Should I learn that something is troubling my wife and fail to do anything about it, I surely would be,' he said, but only to himself. To Patta he answered, instead, 'About what particular subject, sir?'
'About these recommendations for promotion and commendation,' Patta said, bringing his outspread palm down heavily on a folder that lay closed in front of him. 'I've never seen a worse case of prejudice and favouritism in my life.'
As Patta was a Sicilian, he must have seen more than his fair share of both, Brunetti reflected, but said only, 'I'm not sure I understand, sir.'
'Of course you understand. You've recommended only Venetians: Vianello, Pucetti, and what's his name?' he said, looking down and pulling back the covers of the folder. He ran his eyes down the first page, flipped it over, and started to read the second. Suddenly he stabbed at the page with a blunt forefinger. 'Here. Bonsuan.
How can we promote a boat pilot, for God's sake?'
'The way we'd promote any other officer, I believe, by raising him one grade and giving him the higher salary that goes with it'
'For what?' Patta asked rhetorically and looked down at the page again. "Tor conspicuous bravery in the pursuit of a fleeing criminal'',he read with the emphasis of sarcasm. 'You want to promote him because he chased after someone
in his boat?' Patta paused and when Brunetti failed to answer, he added, sarcasm even more pronounced, 'And they didn't even catch the men they were chasing, did they?'
Brunetti paused a few seconds before he answered, and when he did, his voice was as calm as Patta's had not been. 'No, sir, not because Bonsuan chased after someone in his boat. But because he stopped the boat while he was under fire from the men in the other boat and went into the water to rescue another officer who had been shot and had fallen into the water.'
'It wasn't a serious wound,' Patta said.
I'm not sure Officer Bonsuan paused to reflect upon that, sir, when he saw the other man in the water.'
'Well, it's impossible. We can't promote someone who is only a pilot.' Brunetti said nothing.
'As to Vianello, perhaps we can allow that,' Patta conceded with a singular lack of enthusiasm. Vianello had been in Standa early one Saturday afternoon when a man armed with a knife came in, waved the cashier away from her place, and began to pull money from the cash register nearest the door. The sergeant who had gone into the store to buy a pair of sunglasses, ducked down behind the counter and, when the man made towards the door, tackled him, disarmed him, and arrested him.
'And don't even talk about Pucetti,' Patta said angrily. Six weeks ago, Pucetti, a dedicated cyclist, had been in the mountains north of Vicenza when he'd almost been run off the road by a car driven by what turned out to be a drunken man. A few minutes later, he'd come upon the same car, crashed into a tree at the side of the road and already in flames. He'd dragged the driver from the car, burning his hands seriously in the process. ‘It happened out of our jurisdiction, so there can be no thought of a commendation,' Patta added by way of clarification.
He flipped the folder to the side and looked up at Brunetti. 'But that's not why I want to see you, Brunetti,' he said.
If it was his other recommendations that Patta had been reading, then Brunetti knew what was coming.
'You've not only failed to recommend Lieutenant Scarpa for promotion, but you've suggested that he be transferred,' Patta said, barely containing his rage. Patta had brought the Lieutenant with him when he was transferred to Venice some years before; since then, the Lieutenant had served as the Vice-Questore's assistant, and spy.