by Donna Leon
'Calling us?'
The Count nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. But then you were here.'
'How did you and your wife get back upstairs?'
The Count shook his head.’I don't remember. Really, I don't remember much between when I saw her at the door and when you came in.'
Brunetti looked at the man, saw him for the first time stripped of all the trappings of wealth and position, and what he saw was a tall, gaunt old man, face covered with tears and mucus, his shirt damp with human blood.
'If you want to clean yourself,' Brunetti suggested, the only thing he could think of to say. Even as he said it, he knew it was entirely unprofessional and that the Count should be made to keep those clothes on until the crime squad had photographed him in them. But the idea revolted Brunetti, and so he said again, 'Perhaps you'd like to change.'
At first, the Count appeared confused by Brunetti's remarks, but then he looked down at himself, and Brunetti watched his mourn twist with disgust at what he saw. 'Oh, my God’ he muttered and got to his feet, pushing himself up by the arms of the chair. He stood awkwardly, arms held clear of his body, as if afraid for his hands to come into contact with his soiled clothing.
He saw Brunetti watching him and turned away. Brunetti followed him out of the room and saw him stop once and tilt wildly towards the wall, but before Brunetti could move towards him, he had braced himself against it with an outstretched hand. The Count pushed himself away from the wall and, at the end of the hallway, went into a room on the right, not bothering to close the door after him. Brunetti followed down the hallway and paused at the door. At the sudden sound of rushing water, he looked in and saw the trail the Count's abandoned doming had made across the floor as he made towards the door of what must be a guest bathroom.
Brunetti waited for at least five minutes, but the sound of the water continued to be the only thing he heard. He was still listening, undecided about whether to go and see if the Count was all right, when it stopped. It was then, in the silence that expanded towards him, that he heard the other sounds from below, the familiar thumps and clangs that told him the crime squad had arrived. Abandoning his role as protector of the Count, Brunetti went downstairs, back towards the room where the second heir of the Lorenzonis had met his grim death.
23
Brunetti passed through the next few hours in much the same way as the survivor of an accident remembers the arrival of the ambulance, being wheeled into the emergency room, perhaps even the descent of the mask bringing blessed anaesthesia. He stood in the room where Maurizio had died, he told people what to do, he answered questions and asked his own, but all the while he had the strange sensation of not being fully present.
He remembered the photographers, even remembered the vicious obscenity one of them muttered when his tripod collapsed, crashing the camera to the floor. And he remembered thinking, even then, how ridiculous it was to be offended by his language, in that place, in the midst of what was being photographed. He recalled the arrival of the Lorenzoni lawyer and then of a private nurse to take care of the Countess. He spoke to the lawyer, whom he had known for years, and explained that Maurizio's body would not be released for days, not until an autopsy could be performed.
And, as he explained this, he found himself thinking how absurd it was. The evidence of what had happened was all there, all over one side of the room: on the curtains, on the rugs, seeped already between the thin strips of parquet, just as it had been on the sordid clothes the Count had shed on his way to the shower. Brunetti had led the lab men to those clothes, told them to gather and label them, just as he had told them to test the Count's hands for any traces of graphite that might remain. And Maurizio's.
He had spoken to the Countess, or had tried to speak to her, but she responded to his every question by calling out the name of one of the mysteries of the rosary. He asked if she had heard anything, and she answered, 'Christ accepts his cross’ He asked if she had spoken to Maurizio, and she answered, 'Jesus is laid in his tomb’ He abandoned the attempt, left her to the nurse, and to her god.
Someone had thought to bring a tape recorder, and he used it as he led the Count slowly through the events of the previous day and of this afternoon. The Count had washed away only the physical signs of what had happened; his eyes still registered the moral cost of what he had done, of what Maurizio had tried to do. He told the story once, haltingly and with many long pauses during which he seemed to lose the thread of the story he was telling. Each time, Brunetti gently reminded him of where they were, asked what had happened next.
By nine, they were finished, and there was no longer a reason to remain in the palazzo. Brunetti sent the lab and camera crews back to the Questura and himself took his leave. The Count said goodbye but didn't seem able to remember that people shook hands upon leaving one another.
Vianello trailed along beside Brunetti, and together they went into the first bar they found. Each of them ordered a large glass of mineral water and then another. Neither of them wanted alcohol, and both of them turned their eyes away from the tired sandwiches lying in a glass case at one side of the bar.
'Go home, Lorenzo,' Brunetti finally said. "There's nothing else we can do. Not tonight.'
The poor man,' Vianello said, reaching into his pocket for a few thousand lire bills to put on the bar. 'And the woman. How old can she be? Not much past fifty. She looks like she's seventy. More. This will kill her’
Brunetti nodded in sad agreement. 'Maybe he'll be able to do something.'
'Who? Lorenzoni?'
Brunetti nodded but said nothing.
Together they left the bar, neither of them bothering to answer the barman's farewell. At Rialto, Vianello said good-bye and went to get the boat that would take him towards Castello and home. The traghetto had stopped running at seven, thus leaving Brunetti no choice but to cross the bridge and then walk back up the other side of the Grand Canal towards his home.
The sight of Maurizio's body and the terrible evidence of the manner of his death that spread out on the wall behind him followed Brunetti down the calle that led to his house and up the stairs to his door. Inside, he heard the sound of the television: his family was gathered in front of a police series they watched every week, usually in company with him in his usual chair, pointing out the howlers and inaccuracies.
'Ciao Papa' rang out twice, and he forced himself to answer with a friendly greeting.
Chiara's head appeared in the doorway to the living room. Did you eat, Papa?'
'Yes, angel,' he lied, hanging up his jacket, careful to keep his back to her.
She paused there for a moment, then ducked back into the room. An instant later Paola appeared in the doorway, a hand stretched out towards him. 'What’s wrong, Guido?' she asked, voice raw with fear.
He stayed near his jacket, fumbling at his pocket, as if looking for something. She put an arm around his waist.
'What did Chiara say?' he managed to ask.
That something terrible's happened to you.' She pulled his busy hands from their useless hunt through the pockets of the jacket. 'What is it?' she asked, bringing one of his hands to her lips and kissing it.
‘I can't talk about it now,' he said.
She nodded. Still holding his hands, she led him towards the back of the apartment and their room. 'Come to bed, Guido. Get into bed and I'll bring you a tisane.'
1 can't talk about it Paola’ he insisted.
Her face remained solemn. ‘I don't want you to, Guido. I just want you to get into bed and drink something hot and go to sleep.'
'Yes’ he said, and he lapsed again into the strange sense of unreality. Later, undressed and under the covers, he drank the tisane - linden with honey - and held Paola's hand, or she held his, until he fell asleep.
He had a peaceful night, waking only twice and then to find himself wrapped in Paola's arms, his head on her shoulder. Both times, he didn't manage to come fully awake and was soothed back to sleep by the kisses she placed on
his forehead and the sense that she was there, keeping him safe.
In the morning, after the children left for school, he told her part of what had happened. She let him tell his edited version of it, asking nothing, drinking her coffee and watching his face as he spoke.
When he finished, she asked, 'Is that the end of it, then?'
Brunetti shook his head. ‘I don't know. There are still the kidnappers.'
'But if the nephew sent them, then he's the one really responsible.'
'That's just it’ Brunetti said.
'What is?' Paola asked, not following him.
'If he sent them.'
She knew him too well to waste words or time asking him what he meant. 'Hmm’ she said and nodded, then sipped at her coffee, waiting for him to say something more.
‘It doesn't feel right’ Brunetti finally said. 'The nephew, he didn't seem capable of it.'
'"A man can smile and smile yet be a villain’" Paola said in the voice she used for quotations, but Brunetti was too distracted to ask what it was.
'He seemed genuinely fond of Roberto, almost protective of him’ Brunetti shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced’
'Then who?' Paola asked. ‘People don't kill their children like that; men don't kill their only sons.'
‘I know, I know,' Brunetti said, acknowledging the unthinkable.
'Then who?'
'That's what's wrong. There's no other possibility.'
'Could you be wrong about the nephew?' she asked.
'Of course’ Brunetti admitted. ‘I could be wrong about it all. I have no idea what happened. Or why.'
To get money. Isn't that the reason for most kidnappings?' she asked.
‘I don't know that it was a kidnapping, not any more’ Brunetti said.
'But you just spoke of the kidnappers.'
'Oh, yes, he was taken. And someone sent the ransom notes. But I don't think there was ever any intention to get money’ He told her about the offer of money that had been made to Count Lorenzoni.
'How did you learn of that?' she asked.
'Your father told me’
She smiled for the first time. ‘I like it that you keep all this in the family: When did you speak to him?'
'A week ago. And then yesterday’ 'About this?'
'Yes, and about other things’ 'What other things?' she asked, suddenly suspicious.
'He said you weren't happy.'
Brunetti waited to see how Paola would respond to this; it seemed the most honest way to get her to talk about whatever was wrong.
Paola said nothing for a long time, got up and poured them both more coffee, added hot milk and sugar, then sat back opposite him. 'Psychobabblers,' she said, 'call this projection’
Brunetti sipped at his coffee, added more sugar, then looked at her.
'You know how people are always seeing their own problems in those around them’
'What’s he unhappy about?' he asked.
'What did he say I was unhappy about?'
'Our marriage.'
'Well, there you are,' she said simply. 'Has your mother said anything?' She shook her head.
'You don't seem surprised,' Brunetti said.
'He's getting old, Guido, and he's beginning to realize it. So I think he's beginning to examine what is important to him, and what isn't’
'And isn't his marriage?'
'Quite the opposite. I think he's beginning to see just how important it is to him, and how he's ignored that for years. Decades.'
They had never discussed her parents' marriage, though Brunetti had for years heard rumours of the Count's fondness for pretty women. Though it would have been easy for him to discover whatever truth lay behind those rumours, he had never asked the right questions.
Italian to the core, he did not for an instant doubt that a man could be passionately devoted to the wife he betrayed with other women. There was no question in his mind that the Count was in love with the Countess, and leaping from one title to the next, Brunetti realized that the same was blazingly true of Count Lorenzoni: the one thing that seemed fully human about him was his love of the Countess.
‘I don't know,' he said, letting that profession of confusion serve for both Counts.
She leaned across the table and kissed his cheeks. 'So long as I'm with you, I could never be unhappy.'
Brunetti lowered his head and blushed.
24
Brunetti could have written the script. Patta was bound to speak that morning, putting in the sombre remarks about the double tragedy to strike this noble family, the terrible disregard for the most sacred bonds of humanity, the weakening of the fabric of Christian society, and so on endlessly, ringing the changes on home, hearth, and family. He could have captured the flatulent pomposity of Patta's every word, the carefully timed naturalness of his every gesture, even noted within small parentheses the places where he would pause and cover his eyes with his hand while speaking of this crime that dared not speak its name.
Just as easily could he have written the headlines that were sure to scream from every newsstand in the city: Delitto in Famiglia; Caino e Abele; Figlio Addotivo-Assassino. To avoid both, he called the Questura and said he would not be in until after lunch and refused to look at the papers that Paola - had brought back to the house while he was still sleeping. Sensing that Brunetti had said all that he wanted to about the Lorenzonis, Paola abandoned the subject and left him alone while she went to Rialto to buy fish. Brunetti, finding himself with nothing to do for the first time in what seemed like weeks, decided to impose upon his books the order he was obviously incapable of imposing upon events and so went into the living room and stood in front of the ceiling-high bookcase. Years ago, there had been some distinction made according to language, but when that fell apart, he had attempted to impose the order of chronology. But the curiosity of the children had soon put an end to that, and so Petronius now stood next to St John Chrysostom, and Abelard sidled up to Emily Dickinson. He studied the ranked bindings, pulled down first one and then two more, and then another pair. But then just as suddenly, he lost all interest in the job, took all five books and jammed them indiscriminately in a space on the bottom shelf.
He pulled down his copy of Cicero's On the Good Life and turned to the section on duties, where Cicero writes of the divisions of moral goodness. 'The first is the ability to distinguish truth from falsity, and to understand the relationship between one phenomenon and another and the causes and consequences of each one. The second category is the ability to restrain the passions. And the third is to behave considerately and understanding in our associations with other people.'
He closed the book and slid it back into the place the vagaries and whims of the Brunetti family had assigned it John Donne to the right, Karl Marx to the left. To understand the relationship between one phenomenon and another and the causes and consequences of each one’ he said aloud, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. He went into the kitchen, wrote a note for Paola, and left the apartment, heading towards the Questura.
By the time he got there, well after eleven, the press had come, feasted, and gone, and so he was at least spared the necessity of listening to Patta's remarks. He took the back steps to his office, closed the door behind him, and sat at his desk. He opened the Lorenzoni folder and read through it all, page by page. Starting with the kidnapping two years ago, he listed a complete chronology of those things he knew. It took him four sheets of paper to list everything, ending with Maurizio's death.
He spread the four sheets in front of him, tarot cards filled with death. To distinguish the truth from falsity. To understand the relationship between one phenomenon and another and the causes and consequences of each one.' If Maurizio had been the organizer of the kidnapping, then all phenomena were explained, all relationships and consequences clear. Desire for wealth and power, perhaps even jealousy, would have led to the kidnapping. And that would lead to the attempted attack on his uncle. And thus to his own violen
t death, the blood on the jacket, the brain matter on the Fortuny curtains.
But if Maurizio were not the guilty person, there was no connection between the phenomena. Uncles might well kill their nephews, but fathers do not kill theirs sons, not in that peculiarly coldblooded manner.
Brunetti raised his eyes and stared from the window of his office. On one side of the scale was his vague feeling that Maurizio did not have the makings of a killer, nor of the sender of killers. On the other, then, was a scenario in which Count Ludovico gunned down his nephew and, if that were true, then it would also contain the Count as his own son's murderer.
Brunetti had been wrong before in his assessment of people and their motives. Hadn't he just been misled by and about his father-in-law? So easily had he been willing to admit to his own wife's unhappiness, so quickly had he believed that it was his own marriage that was at risk, while the real solution had been but a question away, the truth to be found in Paola's simple protestation of love.
No matter how he shifted facts and possibilities from one side to the other on these terrible scales, the weight of the evidence always came down heavily on the side of Maurizio's guilt. Yet still Brunetti doubted.
He thought of the way Paola had kidded him for years about his intense reluctance ever to discard a piece of clothing - jacket, sweater, even a pair of socks - that he found especially comfortable. It had nothing to do with money or with the expense of replacing the old garment, but with his certainty that nothing new could ever be as comfortable, as comforting, as the old. And his present situation, he realized, was caused by the same sort of reluctance to dismiss the comfortable in favour of the new.
He picked up his notes and went down to Patta's office for one last try, but that turned out to be exactly as he would have written it in the script, with Patta rejecting out of hand the 'offensive delusional suggestion' that the Count could in any way be involved in what had happened. Patta did not go as far as ordering Brunetti to apologize to the Count; after all, Brunetti had done no more than, speculate, but even the speculation offended something profound and atavistic in Patta, and it was with difficulty that he restrained his rage at Brunetti, though he did not restrain himself from ordering Brunetti out of his office.