by Donna Leon
The service cost two or three thousand Euros and had probably, until detected, managed to put hundreds of unqualified drivers behind the wheel, not only of automobiles, but of long-distance trucks and articulated vehicles.
Given that Brunetti could think of no one who had not already seen the file, he decided to keep it on his desk, like a car that could not escape a traffic jam unless its driver had the courage to slip into the emergency lane until it reached the next exit.
He sometimes thought he kept it there to remind himself of how clever people could be, at least in inventing ways to make money.
His phone rang. ‘The Vice-Questore has arrived, Commissario,’ Signorina Elettra told him in the voice she used when Patta stood near her desk.
‘I’ll be there immediately,’ Brunetti answered and got to his feet.
He found the autumnally tanned Patta in front of Signorina Elettra’s desk, speaking with her about his schedule for the afternoon. Today, Patta wore a dark grey suit Brunetti had never seen before; while he waited for them to finish, Brunetti directed his attention to it. He studied the silent caress the jacket gave to Patta’s broad shoulders, the gentle fall of the cloth of the single pleat. His glance ran down the sleeves of the jacket and fell upon the buttonholes at the cuffs. Yes, they were hand-sewn, a detail that always won Brunetti’s sartorial admiration.
Patta’s black shoes, as well, had obviously been made for him, the tiny holes decorating the toes serving only to accent the smoothness of the leather. The laces had tassels. It was difficult for Brunetti to admit how much he admired those shoes.
‘Ah, good morning, Commissario,’ Patta said amiably. ‘Do come into my office.’ Over the years, Brunetti had come to believe that Patta adjusted his pronunciation to the importance of the person with whom he spoke. With the Questore, Patta spoke an Italian of impeccable purity, more Tuscan than any Tuscan was capable of. It was the same voice he used with Signorina Elettra. His Palermitano accent thickened in direct proportion to the diminishing importance of the person with whom he spoke. Odd vowel sounds began to appear, ‘i’ landed on the end of feminine nouns; double ‘ll’s’ were transmuted into double ‘dd’s’; the ‘Madonna’ became the ‘Maronna’, and ‘bello’ became ‘beddu’. Sometimes the initial ‘i’ in words disappeared, only to scamper back into place at the sight of a person of higher station. From the clear Italian of Patta’s greeting, Brunetti judged himself to have been promoted a few rungs, a promotion good sense told him would be temporary.
Patta entered the office first and left it to Brunetti to close the door behind them. The Vice-Questore turned towards his desk but then changed direction and sat in one of the chairs in front of it, leaving Brunetti to choose one of the others.
When they were seated, Patta began: ‘I’d like to speak to you frankly, Commissario.’ Brunetti ignored the chance this remark gave him to ask how Patta had spoken to him in the past and, instead, adopted a pleasant, interested expression. At least Patta had wasted no time with preliminaries.
‘It’s about a leak,’ Patta said.
‘Leak?’ Brunetti asked, resisting the urge to look at the ceiling.
‘From the Questura,’ Patta continued.
Ah, that kind of leak, Brunetti told himself and wondered what Patta had in mind. Nothing embarrassing had appeared in either Il Gazzettino or La Nuova di Venezia for some time, so Brunetti was without advance warning about the information leaking from the Questura.
Uncertain how to respond to Patta’s remark, Brunetti returned his glance to his superior’s jacket and the hand-stitched buttonholes. Beauty was where you found it, and it was always comforting to see.
‘What is it, Commissario?’ Patta asked with a return to his normal inquisitorial tone.
Without hesitation, and perhaps for the first time in years, Brunetti answered honestly. ‘The buttonholes on your jacket, Signore.’
Startled, Patta pulled his right arm close to himself and stared at the cuff, almost as if he feared Brunetti intended to steal the buttons. After examining them, Patta asked, ‘Yes?’
Brunetti’s smile was easy and natural. ‘I admire them, Vice-Questore.’
‘Buttonholes?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can see the difference?’
‘I think it’s obvious,’ Brunetti said. ‘It’s such a fine thing to see hand stitching of that quality. Like the foam on a coffee: it’s not always there, and to most people it doesn’t matter, but when it’s there, and you see it, it makes the coffee taste better somehow.’
Patta’s expression softened, and Brunetti had the strange sensation that the Vice-Questore was relieved, as at the sudden appearance of a friend in a room where he expected to see only unfamiliar faces.
‘I’ve found a tailor in Mogliano,’ Patta revealed. He glanced across to Brunetti and said, ‘I can give you his name if you like.’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’
Patta straightened his arm and pulled at the cuff of his shirt, then sat back in the chair.
Brunetti realized this was the first personal conversation they’d ever had – two men speaking as equals – and they were talking about buttonholes.
‘These leaks, sir: could you tell me more about them?’
‘I wanted to speak to you, Brunetti, because you know people here,’ Patta said, reminding Brunetti that this was still the old Patta, for whom any information about the inner workings of the Questura was part of the Delphic Mysteries.
Brunetti waved a hand in the air, to dismiss those hidden truths Patta believed he knew or perhaps to summon them from the vasty deep.
‘They talk to you,’ Patta insinuated. Hearing Patta’s suspicion relaxed Brunetti and told him that, though the subject might be new, the old, adversarial order had been restored. He tossed away his momentary warming towards Patta and returned to his native good sense.
‘What is it you think they’ve been talking about, Vice-Questore?’
Patta cleared his throat with a small noise. ‘I’ve heard rumours that some people are displeased with Lieutenant Scarpa,’ Patta said, struggling, it seemed, to keep indignation from his voice. Then, more calmly, as though he considered it of lesser importance, he added, ‘It also seems that someone has been talking about a person brought in for questioning.’
Get a grip here, Brunetti told himself, considering the remark about Scarpa. He despised and distrusted the Lieutenant and made little attempt to hide it, yet Patta seemed oblivious to this, as he was to so much else at the Questura. Best to demonstrate surprise; outrage would be too much. Perhaps with a bit of curiosity? But what about the leaks?
‘Are you at liberty to say where you got this information, sir?’
‘Both were reported to me by the Lieutenant himself,’ Patta replied.
‘Did the Lieutenant reveal his source?’
Patta hesitated a moment but then said, ‘He told me it was one of his informants.’
Brunetti rubbed at his lower lip with the fingers of his left hand. He allowed a long time to pass before he said, ‘I find it strange that an informant would learn something about the Questura that no one here seems to know about.’ After a brief pause, he suggested, ‘You might ask Signorina Elettra.’
‘I wanted to speak to you first,’ Patta said without explanation.
Brunetti nodded, as if he understood Patta’s reasoning. He probably did: Patta would be hesitant to bother Signorina Elettra with a suspicion that might be groundless. ‘Is this informant a reliable source?’ Brunetti asked.
‘How would I know a thing like that?’ Patta demanded. ‘It’s not my business to deal with informants.’ The instinct to institutional survival stilled Brunetti’s tongue. He waved his hand and nodded in agreement, then said, ‘Someone might have invented this rumour to create friction between the Lieutenant and his colleagues. There’s no doubt that the Lieutenant has won a place in the opinion of his fellow workers.’ Brunetti paused minimally and then added, while Patta was worki
ng out his precise meaning, ‘I’d discount the reports, sir. That is, if you’re asking my opinion.’
Did Patta stir uneasily in his chair? Brunetti wondered. He waited for what he considered a respectful period of time, then got to his feet. ‘If there’s nothing else, Vice-Questore, I’ll go back to my office.’
3
Brunetti closed the door behind him and turned to Signorina Elettra, hoping she might be able to tell him more. He was surprised to see Vianello standing beside her, leaning down and pointing to something on her computer screen. ‘Ah, I see,’ the Inspector said in a reverent voice. ‘It’s so easy.’ He nodded in private satisfaction and moved away from the computer. ‘I tried to do it twice, but I kept ignoring the obvious.’
Signorina Elettra moved her attention from the screen to Brunetti and raised her eyebrows in silent interrogation. He smiled and shook his head. ‘There’s always something to be learned from the Vice-Questore.’ Then, sure of their attention, he continued. ‘Dottor Patta’s current suspicion is that information has leaked from the Questura.’ He was curious to see how Vianello would respond. When Vianello remained silent, Brunetti added, ‘He’s probably been watching spy movies, or the Lieutenant has. He’s the one who reported the rumour.’
Signorina Elettra, who had turned away when Brunetti spoke, pushed a key and cleared her screen, then keyed in the front page of Il Gazzettino, which Brunetti had been reading on the boat. She read a few lines, glanced at Brunetti, but returned her eyes to the screen without comment. Brunetti wondered why the subject didn’t interest her: gossip usually did. Perhaps her curiosity did not extend to Lieutenant Scarpa.
Vianello expelled a puff of audible disbelief. ‘As if what we do here is a secret.’
Idly, eyes still on the screen, Signorina Elettra asked, ‘Did he say what the leaks were about?’
Brunetti glanced at Patta’s door and held up both hands, palms towards her. ‘Only the suggestion that Lieutenant Scarpa is not the most popular person here.’ He didn’t bother to mention the other supposed leak, considering it inconsequential.
Scarpa’s name had caught Signorina Elettra’s attention. Suddenly smiling, she looked at Brunetti and said, ‘Impossible to believe.’
Brunetti laughed and replied, ‘That’s exactly what I told the Vice-Questore.’
‘Don’t we have anything better to do than worry about the Lieutenant and phantom leaks about him?’ Vianello asked.
Brunetti was about to leave, but his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, ‘What were you two solving when I came in?’
Vianello and Signorina Elettra exchanged a glance, and the Inspector said, ‘Go ahead. Tell him. I can take it. I’m a man.’
‘It was one of his son’s homework problems,’ Signorina Elettra explained.
‘Luca’s in an advanced class in computer technology,’ Vianello explained. ‘The teacher gave a problem to the students, and Luca had trouble with it, so I thought I’d work on it because the computers here are much more sophisticated. I thought I might be able to figure it out.’
‘And?’ Brunetti asked, although he suspected he already knew.
‘It was still impossible for me,’ Vianello said with a shrug.
Signorina Elettra interrupted him. ‘I had to work on it for a long time before I understood what to do.’ She turned to Vianello. ‘Did Luca find the solution?’
Vianello laughed. ‘I asked him at breakfast, and he said it came to him in the night, so he got up and worked on it until he solved it.’ He smiled, then sighed.
‘Did he get the same answer we did?’ she asked. Brunetti noted the kindness of her use of the plural.
‘I don’t know,’ Vianello said. ‘He was in a hurry. Said he’d tell me at dinner.’
They were interrupted by Alvise’s arrival at the door. ‘Oh, there you are, Commissario,’ he said and saluted, then leaned against the door jamb, hand on his heart, panting, to show he had run up the stairs. Alvise was the shortest man on the force: were the stairs higher for him?
‘There’s a woman downstairs who says she wants to talk to you, Commissario,’ he said with some effort.
‘It might have been easier to phone me, Alvise,’ Brunetti suggested.
Alvise’s face froze, his hand fell from his heart, and he stopped panting. He stood there, in the spotlight of common sense, for a few seconds before he blurted, ‘I know that, Dottore. But I wanted to show her that I knew it was important.’
In the face of that, Brunetti had no choice but to reply, ‘Then go and get her and take her to my office if you would.’ Alvise, who had resumed panting and could do no more than nod, backed away and disappeared.
None of them said anything until the sound of Alvise’s footsteps on the stairs disappeared. ‘Why are you always so kind to him, Signore?’ Signorina Elettra asked.
Brunetti had to consider this: he had never given conscious thought to how to respond to Alvise. ‘Because he needs it,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ was all that Signorina Elettra offered.
‘I’ll be in my office,’ Brunetti said.
Once he reached it, he stood at the window for a while, studying the vine on the wall of the villa on the other side of the canal. Occasionally, a few leaves fell into the canal below. The tide was ebbing, Brunetti noticed. Ah, how poets had loved this as an image of departure, things carried off by the inexorable tide.
He turned towards the sound of footsteps and saw Alvise at the doorway, behind him the top of the head of a woman at least ten centimetres taller than the officer. ‘Commissario,’ Alvise began, tossing off an impressive salute and stepping aside to reveal the other person, ‘this is Signora Crosera. She’d like to speak to you.’
‘Thank you, Alvise,’ Brunetti said. As he moved towards them, he recognized the woman, although at first he failed to remember where he had seen her. But then it came to him: she taught at the university, and though she was in a different faculty, she was an acquaintance of Paola, who seemed to hold her in high regard. Paola had introduced Brunetti to the woman years before, and then, as happened in Venice, they had bumped into her on the street a number of times; on several occasions she’d been in the company of a tall man with greying hair so straight and thick that Brunetti, conscious of the coin-sized patch of thinning hair at the back of his own head, envied him.
‘Ah, Professoressa Crosera,’ Brunetti said, taking her hand and hoping to sound as if he had immediately recognized her. She was almost as tall as he, with dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders and dark eyes to match. Her mouth was full: she tried to smile but failed to do more than hoist her lips upwards at the sides.
‘Please, come and have a seat,’ Brunetti said. He waited until she sat and then decided to go around the desk and sit in his chair, if only to acknowledge that she was consulting him because he was a police officer, not as the husband of a colleague.
She sat on the edge of the chair, knees pressed together, and took quick glances around the office. She wore black trousers and a dark green jacket and looked as though she had not slept well for some time. She bent to place her handbag on the floor beside her chair; when she sat up, she had gained greater control of her expression.
‘How can I help you, Professoressa?’ Brunetti asked calmly, as though it were quite ordinary for a university professor to sit nervously in front of a commissario di polizia.
When Brunetti remained silent, she said, ‘I thought it would be easier if I spoke to someone I know.’ Immediately she corrected herself: ‘Not that I know you personally, Commissario. Paola has never spoken of you, well, not of your profession. Your work, that is. Never. For all she says about what you do, you might as well be a notary or an electrician.’
Brunetti smiled. ‘It’s probably because she wants to save us both time and trouble.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, unable to disguise her confusion.
‘If she told her colleagues I’m a policeman, they’d be coming to our apartment at all hours to
tell us a neighbour was putting in a new bathroom without getting a permit or calling us at three in the morning to report that the students living upstairs were having a wild party.’ He smiled, and saw her relax a bit.
‘Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,’ she said and bent down to move her handbag back a few centimetres. ‘It’s about something serious.’ She crossed and then uncrossed her legs, then turned slightly in her chair. The light from the windows fell on the right side of her face, exaggerating the hollow under her temple. She joined her hands together and studied them for a moment. ‘I know you and Paola have children,’ she said, glancing up momentarily.
‘Yes, two.’
‘Teenagers, aren’t they?’
‘Still, but barely,’ Brunetti said easily.
Her eyes returned to her hands. ‘So do we,’ she said. ‘Two. A boy and a girl.’
‘We, too,’ he said. ‘A boy and a girl,’ he added, although she might know this already. ‘And in a few years,’ Brunetti continued easily, ‘they’ll be a man and a woman.’ He smiled, as if offering a second handshake with this gift of a personal confidence. ‘It’s a sobering thought.’
‘They’re good kids, aren’t they?’ Professoressa Crosera asked. Brunetti had expected her to say something about her own children, but some people took a long time to relax and accept the fact that they were talking to a policeman of their own volition. They needed the assurance that conversation could be inconsequential, even friendly, before they would be able to loosen themselves sufficiently to start talking about whatever had brought them there.