Suffer the Little Children cgb-16

by Donna Leon

  'No, Captain, you didn't.'

  The documents I was given before the operation referred to an anonymous phone call.'

  'An anonymous phone call? You mean someone can call and make an accusation, and the Carabinieri... they will respond?'

  'I think I know what you stopped yourself from saying, Commissario: that the Carabinieri will break into a person's home in response to an anonymous phone call?... Are you still there, Commissario?'

  'Yes, I am. Captain. Let me repeat my question, if I may.'

  'Of course.'

  'Could you tell me why you chose to respond to this particular call in the way you did?'

  'Even with your graceful rephrasing, Cornmissario, I'm not sure I should answer that question, especially now that it looks as if very little, if anything, will come of the whole thing.'

  'I'd be very grateful if you would. Captain. More to satisfy my personal curiosity than anything else. If the charges have been dropped, then.. ‘

  'You sound like you mean that, Commissario, about your personal curiosity.' 'I do’

  'Then I can tell you that the person who made the call - at least according to the report I read - provided certain information that added credibility to his claim that the Pedrolli adoption was illegal.'

  '"His?"

  The report I read referred to a man.'

  ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted you, Captain.'

  ‘It's nothing... Apparently, he gave the name of the woman, the name of the hospital where the child was born, and the probable date of birth. He also mentioned that money had changed hands.'

  'And was this enough?'

  'Enough for what, Commissario?'

  'To convince you that the caller was telling the truth?'

  'My guess, Commissario - and it is only a guess - is that the fact that he knew the woman's name and the other details was enough to convince my colleagues to investigate the accusation or at least to see if this woman's name was on the birth certificate of Dottor Pedrolli's child and if it was, to go and question her about the circumstances.'

  'How long did it take them to do that?'

  'Do what, Commissario?'

  'Question her.'

  'I don't remember exactly, but I think the call came in about a week before we ... before we went to Dottor Pedrolli's. As it turned out, the Verona command was working on similar cases at the same time. It seems they aren't related; that is, Pedrolli's isn't related to the others.'

  'So it was just bad luck for Pedrolli?'

  'Yes, I suppose you could say that, Commissario.'

  'And convenient for you, as well?'

  'If you'll allow me to say this, Commissario, you sound as if you think we'd do something like that without being sure.'

  'I'm afraid you're right. Captain.'

  'We don't do these things rashly, Commissario. And for what it’s worth, I have a child, a girl. She's only one.'

  'Mine are older.'

  'I don't think that changes anything.' 'No, probably not. Is there any news of him?' 'Dottor Pedrolli?' 'The baby.'

  'No, there isn't. And there can't be: you must know that. Once a child is in the care of the social services, we're not given any further information.'

  I see ... Tell me one last thing. Captain, if you will.' If I can.'

  'Is there any way that Dottor Pedrolli could ever ... ?'

  'See the baby?' ‘Yes.'

  'It’s not likely. I'd say impossible. The boy isn't his, you see.'

  'How do you know that, Captain? If I might ask.'

  'May I say something without risk of offending you, Commissario?' 'Yes. Certainly.'

  'We're not a gang of jackbooted thugs here, you know.'

  'I hardly meant to suggest...'

  ‘I’m sure you didn't, Commissario. I simply, wanted to make this clear, first.' 'And second?'

  To tell you that, before the operation was authorized, the mother of the baby testified that the child was her husband's and not that of the man whose name was on the birth certificate.'

  'So she could get her child back?'

  'You have a very idealised vision of motherhood, Commissario, if I might make that observation. The woman made it clear that she did not want the baby back. In fact, this is one of the reasons my colleagues in Cosenza believed her.'

  'Will it affect her chances of being allowed to stay here?'

  'Probably not, no.'

  'Ah.'

  '"Ah", indeed, Commissario. Believe me, the baby's not his. We knew that before we went in there that night.'

  ‘I see. Well, then ... thank you very much, Captain. You've been very helpful.'

  ‘I’m glad to learn you think so, Commissario. If it would put your mind at rest, I could send you a copy of our report. Shall I email it to you there?'

  It would be a great kindness.' 'I'll do it now, Commissario.' 'Thank you. Captain.' 'You're welcome. Arrivederci.' 'Arrivederci, Capitano’

  * * *

  A copy of the deposition arrived less than an hour later. It had been made by the Albanian woman whose name was on the birth certificate of Pedrolli's son. It had been signed four days before the Carabinieri raid and had been compiled over two days of testimony. She had been located by a simple computer search, in Cosenza, where she had, two days after registering the birth of her child to an Italian father, been granted a permesso di soggiorno. When questioned, she originally maintained that her child had been sent back to Albania to live with his grandparents. It was, she insisted, sheer coincidence that her husband, also Albanian and illegally resident in Italy, had bought a car two days after she was released from the hospital: he had been working as a mason, she explained, and had been saving money for months in order to buy the car. Nor was there any connection between her son's disappearance and the three months' deposit her husband had paid on an apartment the same day he bought the car.

  Later in the questioning, she began to insist that the Italian man, whose name she could not remember and whom she had a certain difficulty in describing, was the father of the child, but when she was threatened with arrest and deportation unless she told the truth, she changed her story and claimed that an Italian man who said his wife was unable to have a child had contacted her in the weeks just before she gave birth. Her first version suggested that the man had found her on his own; no one had introduced him to her. But when the possibility of extradition was mentioned to her again, she said that he had been introduced to her by one of the doctors in the hospital - she could not remember which - who said that the man who wanted to talk to her was also a doctor. After the child was born, she had agreed to let the doctor's name be on the birth certificate because she believed her son would have a better chance at a decent life if he were raised as an Italian, in an Italian family. She finally admitted that the man had given her some money, but as a gift, not a payment. No, she could not remember how much it had been.

  The woman and her husband were now under house arrest, though the husband was allowed to continue to work: the question of her permesso di soggiorno was being examined by a magistrate. When he finished reading, Brunetti was left wondering why whoever had questioned her had so easily accepted her explanation of how Pedrolli had contacted her: he might just as easily have descended from a cloud. 'Had been introduced to her by one of the doctors in the hospital’ the woman had stated. But which one? And for what reason?

  At a certain point, Brunetti realized that - in a manner frighteningly reminiscent of Bianca Marcolini - the woman had expressed no interest in the child or in what had happened to him. He slipped the papers into his desk drawer and went home.

  * * *

  Before dinner Brunetti managed to return to the travels of the Marquis de Custine. With the French aristocrat as guide and companion, he found himself in St Petersburg, contemplating the Russian soul, which de Custine observed was 'intoxicated with slavery'. Brunetti let the open book fall to his lap as he considered these words and was brought out of his reverie by Paola, who sat down bes
ide him.

  ‘I forgot to tell you,' she said.

  Brunetti dragged himself back from the Nevsky Prospekt and said. Tell me what?'

  'About Bianca Marcolini.'

  'Ah, thank you,' he said.

  ‘I asked around, but not a lot. Most people know the name because of the father, of course.'

  Brunetti nodded.

  ‘I asked my father about him. I told you he knew him, didn't I?'

  Brunetti nodded again. 'And?' he asked.

  'And he said Marcolini is a man to be reckoned with. He made his fortune himself, you know.' She paused, then added, 'Some people still find that an intoxicating idea.' Her voice was rich with a disdain that only those born into great wealth can experience.

  'My father says he has friends everywhere: in local government, in regional government, even in Rome. In the last few years, he's come to control an enormous number of votes.'

  'Suppressing a news story would be easy for him, men?' Brunetti asked.

  'Child's play’ she said, a phrase that struck Brunetti with an odd resonance. 'And the marriage?'

  '"Chiesa dei Miracoli garlanded with flowers": the usual. She works as a financial adviser for a bank; he's the assistant primario in pediatria at the Ospedale Civile.'

  None of these statements seemed to have merited the excitement Brunetti thought he heard in her voice, something experience told him came from revelations still unspoken. 'And the non-official news?'he asked.

  'The baby, of course’ she said, and he registered that she was finally in her stride.

  'Of course,' he repeated and smiled.

  'The gossip among their friends was that he had had a short affair with a woman - not even an affair: just a few days - when he was in Cosenza for a medical conference. I've asked a number of people who know them, and that's the story I was told every time.'

  'Was it your father who told you about this?'

  'No’ she answered instantly, surprised that he would think her father capable of gossip. Then, in explanation, she offered, 'I saw my mother this afternoon and asked her about them.' Paola had come by her inquisitiveness about other people's lives honestly: similarly, the Contessa's emeralds would some day be hers.

  'So this is the official story?' he asked.

  She had to think for a while before she answered. It sounds true and people seem to believe it is. After all, if s the sort of thing they want to believe, isn't it? If s the stuff of film, cheap fiction. The erring husband returns to the hearth and the long-suffering wife forgives him. Not only forgives him, but agrees to take the little cuckoo into the nest and raise it as their own. Heart-warming reunion, the rebirth of love: Rhett and Scarlett together again for ever.' She paused a moment and then added, It certainly plays better than saying that they went down to the market, bought a baby, and brought it home.'

  'You sound more mordantly cynical than usual, my dove’ Brunetti said, picking up her hand and kissing the tips of her fingers.

  She pulled her hand away, but with a smile, and said, 'Thank you, Guido' Then, in a more serious tone, she continued, 'As I said, people seemed to believe it, or at least wanted to. The Gamberinis know them, and Gabi told me that they went to dinner there about six months after they brought the baby home. Well... he brought the baby home, but she said the reunion might not have continued so happily.'

  ‘You really love gossip, don't you?' he asked, wishing she had brought him a glass of wine.

  'Yes, I suppose I do’ she answered, sounding surprised at the realization. "You think that's why I love reading novels so much?'

  ‘Probably’ he said, then asked, 'In what way not a happy reunion?'

  'Gabi didn't actually say. People usually don't. But it was pretty clear from what she said, well, more from the way she said it. You know how people are.'

  How he wished that were true, Brunetti thought. 'Did she speculate about the reason?'

  Paola closed her eyes, and he watched her replay the conversation. 'No, not really.'

  'Would you like a glass of wine?' he asked.

  'Yes. And then we can have dinner.'

  He took her hand and kissed it again by way of thanks. 'White or red?' he asked.

  She chose white, probably because of the risotto with leeks, which started the meal. The children had recently gone back to school, so they spent much of the meal reporting on what their classmates had done during the summer. One girl in Chiara's class had spent two months in Australia and returned disgruntled that she had traded summer for winter and then returned to autumn. Another had worked at an ice-cream shop on the island of Santorini and came back with a passable knowledge of spoken German. Raffi's best friend had backpacked from Newfoundland to Vancouver, though the quotation marks with which Raffi pronounced 'back-packed' was rich with a suggestion of trains and aeroplanes.

  Brunetti did his best to follow the talk that swirled above the table, but he found himself constantly distracted by the sight of them, assailed by an overwhehrting sense of possession: these were his children. Part of him was in them, the part that would go on into their children, and then into the next generation. Try as he might, however, he could recognize little of his physical self in them: only Paola seemed to have been copied. There was her nose, there the texture of her hair and that unruly curl just behind her left ear. As she spoke, Chiara waved a hand to dismiss something that had been said to her, and the gesture was Paola's.

  The next course was orata with lemon, further reason to justify the choice of white wine. Brunetti began eating, but halfway through his portion, his attention was drawn again to Chiara, who was now in full denunciation of her English teacher.

  'The subjunctive? Do you know what she told me when I asked about it?' Chiara demanded, voice rich with remembered astonishment as she glanced round the table to see that the others were prepared to respond in similar vein. When she had their attention, she said, 'That we'd get to it next year.' The noise with which she set down her fork gave ample expression of her disapproval.

  Paola shook her head in sympathy. 'Next year,' she repeated, the conversation somehow having crossed over into English. Unbelievable.'

  Chiara turned to her father, hoping perhaps that he would express similar amazement. But she stopped and studied his unresponsive face. She tilted her head to one side, then to the other. Finally she said in an entirely conversational voice, as if in response to a question he had posed. 'I left it in school, Papa’ When he said nothing, she said, 'No, I didn't bring it home with me today.'

  As if emerging from a trance, Brunetti said,

  ‘I’m sorry, Chiara. What didn't you bring home today?' 'My second head.'

  Utterly at a loss as to what might have occurred at the table while he was staring at his children, Brunetti said, ‘I don't understand. What second head?'

  'The one you've been looking for all night, Papa. I just wanted to tell you I didn't bring it home: that’s why you don't see it.' To emphasize this, she raised her hands to either side of her head and waved the fingers in the empty air on either side of it.

  Raffi guffawed, and when he looked at Paola, she was smiling.

  'Ah, yes’ Brunetti said with some chagrin, returning his attention to his fish. ‘I hope you left it in a safe place.'

  There were pears for dessert.

  19

  It was late the following afternoon when Vianello came into Brunetti's office, his expression rich with the delight that comes of having been right when others have thought you wrong.

  'It's taken a long time, but it was worth it,' the Inspector said. He came over to Brunetti's desk and placed some papers on it.

  Brunetti narrowed his eyes and raised his chin by way of enquiry.

  'Signorina Elettra's friend’ Vianello explained.

  She had many friends, Brunetti knew, and he could not recall which one was at the moment contributing to her extra-legal activities. 'Which friend?' 'The hacker’ Vianello explained, surprising Brunetti by the ease with which he pronounce
d the ’h'. 'The one we gave the hard disc to.' Before Brunetti could ask, Vianello added, 'Yes, I got it back to Dottor Franchi the next day, but not before her friend had made a copy of everything that was on it.'

  'Ah, that friend’ Brunetti said and reached for the papers. 'What's Franchi been up to on his computer?'

  "'No kiddie porn and no Internet shopping: I can tell you that right now’ Vianello answered, though his tiger shark smile did not lessen.

  'But?' Brunetti asked.

  'But it seems he's found his way into the ULSS computer system.'

  'Isn't that how he makes the appointments?' Brunetti asked. 'How the other pharmacists do, too?'

  'Yes’ Vianello agreed and pulled up a chair. 'He does, and they do’ he said, prodding at Brunetti with a tone that forced him to ask another question.

  Which he did. 'And what else does he do when he's in there?'

  'According to what Signorina Elettra's friend told us, it would seem that he's found a way to bypass their log-in.'

  'Which means what?'

  'It gives him access to other parts of their system’ Vianello said and waited for Brunetti's reaction, as though he thought Brunetti should leap to his feet and cry 'Eureka!'

  He feared his confession would lower him in Vianello's estimation, but Brunetti knew he couldn't bluff his way through this one, so he said, 'I think you'd better explain it to me, Lorenzo.'

  The little Spartan boy with the fox eating away at his vitals could have kept no straighter a face than did Vianello. ‘It means he can access the central computer and examine the medical files of anyone for whom he has the ULSS number.'

  'His clients?'

  'Exactly.'

  Brunetti put his elbow on his desk and rubbed his hand across his mouth a few times as he considered the implications of this. Access to those files meant access to all information about medication, hospitalization, diseases cured or under treatment. It meant that an unauthorized person would have access to potentially secret parts of another person's life.

  'AIDS,' Brunetti said. After a long pause, he added, 'Drug rehabilitation. Methadone.'

  'Venereal diseases,' contributed Vianello.