by Donna Leon
‘No, Signora, I must stay here.’
She pointed to Vianello, spoke to Brunetti. ‘Can I trust him?’
‘Yes, Signora, you can trust him.’
‘You swear?’
‘Yes, Signora. I swear.’
‘Va bene, we go in the boat.’
She started to walk away, led by Vianello, who had to bend down to keep his hand under her elbow. She took two steps, stopped, and turned back to Brunetti. ‘Dottore?’
‘Yes, Signora Concetta?’
‘The paintings are at my house.’ She turned away and continued towards the door with Vianello.
Later, Brunetti was to discover that, after twenty years in Venice, she had never been on a boat: like many people from the mountains of Sicily, she had a deadly fear of the water, and in twenty years, she had never overcome it. But before that he was to learn what she had done with the paintings. When the police got to her apartment that afternoon, they found the three paintings, the Monet, the Gauguin, and the Guardi, hacked to pieces with the same scissors with which she had tried to attack Brunetti, years ago. This time, there had been no Peppino to stop her, and she had destroyed them utterly, leaving only jagged tatters of canvas and colour in the wake of her grief. It came as no surprise to Brunetti to learn that many people considered this the sure proof of her madness: anyone could kill a man; only a madwoman would destroy a Guardi.
Two nights later, after dinner, Paola answered the ringing phone. He could tell from the warmth of her voice and the frequent laughter with which she greeted what she heard that it was her parents. After a long time, almost half an hour, she came out onto the terrace and said, ‘Guido, my father would like to speak to you for a moment.’
He went back into the living room and picked up the phone. ‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Good evening, Guido,’ the Count said. ‘I’ve got some news for you.’
‘About the dump?’
‘Dump?’ the Count repeated, managing to sound confused.
‘The dump by Lake Barcis.’
‘Ah, you mean the building site. A private hauling contractor was up there earlier this week. The whole site has been cleaned up, everything removed, earth bulldozed over it.’
‘Building site?’
‘Yes, the Army has decided to conduct tests on radon emissions in the area. So they’re going to close off the area and build some sort of testing facility there. Unmanned, of course.’
‘Whose army, theirs or ours?’
‘Why ours, of course.’
‘Where was the material taken?’
‘I believe the trucks went to Genoa. But the friend who told me about it wasn’t too clear.’
‘You knew Viscardi was involved in this, didn’t you?’
‘Guido, I don’t like your accusatory tone,’ the Count said sharply. Brunetti didn’t apologize and the Count continued, ‘I knew a great deal about Signor Viscardi, Guido, but he was beyond my reach.’
‘He’s beyond everyone’s reach now,’ Brunetti said, but he took no satisfaction in being able to say it.
‘I attempted to tell you.’
‘I didn’t realize he was so powerful.’
‘He was. And his uncle,’ the Count named a cabinet minister, ‘remains even more so. Do you understand?’
He understood more than he wanted to. ‘I have another favour.’
‘I’ve done a lot for you this week, Guido. Much of it has been against my own best interests.’
‘It’s not for me.’
‘Guido, favours are always for ourselves. Especially when we ask for things for other people.’
Brunetti said nothing for so long that the Count finally asked, ‘What is it?’
‘There’s a Carabiniere officer, Ambrogiani. He’s just been reassigned to Sicily. Can you see that nothing happens to him while he’s there?’
‘Ambrogiani?’ the Count asked, as if interested in knowing no more than the name.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Guido.’
‘I’d be very grateful.’
‘So, I imagine, will Maggiore Ambrogiani.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, Guido. We’ll be home next week.’
‘Good. Have a nice holiday.’
‘Yes, I shall. Good night, Guido.’
‘Goodnight.’
As he replaced the phone, a detail of the conversation came flashing into Brunetti’s mind, and he stood frozen in place, staring down at his hand, unable to pry it loose from the receiver. The Count had known Ambrogiani’s rank. He had called him an officer, but the Count had called him ‘Maggiore Ambrogiani’. The Count knew about Gamberetto. He had business dealings with Viscardi. And now he knew Ambrogiani’s rank. What else did the Count know? And in what else was he involved?
Paola had replaced him on the terrace. He opened the door and went out to stand beside her, putting his arm over her shoulder. ‘The sky in the West gave off the last glimmerings of light; it would soon be dark.’
‘The days are getting shorter, aren’t they?’ she asked.
He tightened his hold on her and nodded.
They stood together like that. The bells started to ring, first the light bells of San Polo and then, from across the city, the canals, the centuries, they heard the magisterial boom of San Marco.
‘Guido, I think Raffi’s in love,’ she said, hoping this was the right moment.
Brunetti stood beside the mother of his only son, thinking of parents and the way they love their children. He said nothing for so long that she turned and looked up at him. ‘Guido, why are you crying?’
FB2 document info
Document ID: ee49d20a-b77e-4d1e-9fbb-c49f49259b92
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 16.6.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.56, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Donna Leon
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