by Donna Leon
Like an aged carp slowly swimming towards the light of day, a memory stirred in the recesses of Paola's mind, a memory that had to do with a truck and with women. She rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. And saw snow. And that small detail was enough to bring the memory to the surface.
'Guido, early this autumn - I think it was when you were in Rome for the conference - a truck ran off the highway, up near Udine, I think. I forget the details — I think it skidded on the ice and went off a cliff or something. Anyway, there were women in the back of the truck, and they were all killed, eight or ten of them. It was strange. The story was in the papers one day, but then it disappeared and I never saw anything else about it,' Paola felt his hand grip hers a bit more firmly. 'Was she talking about that, do you think?'
'I remember something about it, a reference to it in a report from Interpol about women who are being brought here as prostitutes,’ Brunetti said. 'The driver was killed, wasn't he?'
Paola nodded. 'I think so.'
The Udine police would have a report; he could call them tomorrow. He tried to remember more about the report from Interpol, or perhaps it had been from some other agency - God alone knew where it was filed. Time enough for all of this tomorrow.
Paola pulled gently on his hand 'Why do you use them?'
'Hum?' Brunetti asked not really paying attention.
'Why do you use whores?' Then, before he could misunderstand she clarified the question, 'Men, that is. Not you. Men.'
He picked up their joined hands and waved them in the air, a vague, aimless gesture. 'Guiltless sex, I guess. No strings, no obligations. No need to be polite.’
'Doesn't sound very appealing,' Paola said and then added 'But I suppose women always want to sentimentalize sex.’
‘Yes, you do,' Brunetti said
Paola freed her hand from his and got to her feet. She glanced down at her husband for a moment, then went into the kitchen to begin dinner.
23
Brunetti spent the first part of his work day hunting through his files for the Interpol report on prostitution and waiting for the operator to put his call through to the police in Udine. The operator was quicker than Brunetti, and he spent fifteen minutes listening to a captain of the carabinieri describe the accident, then ended the conversation with a request that they fax him all of the documents relevant to the case.
It took him twenty minutes to locate the report about the international traffic in prostitutes and a half-hour to read it. He found it a sobering experience, and he found the last line, It is estimated by various police and international organizations that there could be as many as half a million women involved in this traffic', almost impossible to believe. The report catalogued something that he,- like most police officials in Europe, knew was going on; the shocking part was the enormity and complexity of it.
The pattern wasn't far from what Mara said she had experienced: a young woman from a developing country was offered the promise of a new life in Europe — sometimes the reason was love, sweet love, but most often the promise was work as a domestic servant, sometimes as an entertainer. There, in Europe, she was told, she would have a chance at a decent life, could earn enough money to send back to her family, perhaps even some day bring her family to live with her in that earthly paradise.
Upon arrival, their various discoveries were much like Mara's, and they learned that the work contract they had signed before leaving was often an agreement to repay as much as $50,000 to the person responsible for bringing them to Europe. And so they found themselves in a foreign country, having given their passport to the person who brought them in, persuaded that they were breaking the law by their mere presence and thus subject to arrest and long sentences because of the debt they had incurred by signing the contract. Even at this, many objected and showed no fear of arrest. Gang rape usually subdued them. If not, greater violence often proved persuasive. Some died. Word travelled. There was little resistance.
And so the brothels of the developed world filled up with dark-haired, dark-skinned exotics: Thai women, whose gentle modesty was so flattering to a man's sense of superiority; those mixed-race Dominicans, and we all know how much those blacks love it; and not least the Brazilians, those hot-blooded Cariocas, born to be whores.
The report went on to state that, transportation costs being what they are, a new market opportunity was seen opening up in the East as thousands of blonde, blue-eyed women lost their jobs or saw their savings gobbled up by inflation. Seventy years of the physical privations of Communism had prepared them to rail easy prey to the blandishments of the West, and so they migrated in cars and trucks, on foot, and sometimes even on sleds, all seeking the great El Dorado that was their Western neighbour, but finding, instead, when they arrived, that they were without papers, without rights, and without hope.
Brunetti believed it all and was staggered by the final number: half a million. He flipped to the back pages and read through the names of the people and organizations that had compiled the report; they were enough to persuade him to believe the number, though it still remained intolerable. There were entire provinces of Italy that didn't have half a million women living in them. Their numbers could populate whole cities.
When he finished it, he set the report in the centre of his desk, then pushed it farther away from him, asif fearing its power of contamination. He opened his drawer and pulled out a pencil, took a piece of paper, and quickly made a list of three names: one was a Brazilian police major whom he had met while on a police seminar in Paris some years ago; one was the owner of an import-export firm with offices in Bangkok; and the third was Pia, a prostitute. All of them, for one reason or another, were in Brunetti's debt, and he could think of no better way of calling in those debts than by asking them for information.
He spent the next two hours on the phone, running up a bill that was later made to evaporate by a few key strokes on the central computer at the SIP offices. At the end of that time, he knew little more than he had already read in the report, but he knew it more fully, more personally.
Major de Vedia in Rio was unable to share Brunetti's concern and incapable of understanding his indignation. After all, seven of his officers had that week been arrested for working as an execution squad for Rio merchants, who paid them to kill the street children who blocked access to their shops. 'The lucky ones are the ones who go to Europe, Guido,' he said before he hung up. His contact in Bangkok was just as uncomprehending. 'Commissario, more than half of the whores here have Aids. The girls who get out of Thailand are the lucky ones.'
The most valuable source was Pia, whom he found at home, kept there by her golden retriever, Luna, who was about to give birth to her first Utter. She knew all about the business, was surprised that the police were bothering with it. When she learned that Brunetti's interest had been provoked by the death of three businessmen, she laughed long and loud. The girls, she explained after she caught her breath, came in from all over; some worked the streets, but many were kept in houses, where better control could be kept over them. Yes, they got banged around a fair bit, if not by the men who ran them, then by some of the men who used them. Complain? To whom? They had no papers, they were persuaded that their there presence in Italy was a crime; some never even learned to speak Italian. After all, it's not as if they were engaged in a profession where sparkling conversation counted for very much.
Pia felt no particular animus towards them, though she didn't hide the fact that she minded the competition. She and her friends, none of whom had a pimp, at least had some sort of economic stability — an apartment, a car, some even had their own homes— but these foreign women had none, and so they could not afford to reject a client, no matter what he demanded. They and the women who were addicts were the worst off, would accept anything, could be forced to do anything. Powerless, they became the targets of brutality and, worse, the vectors of disease.
He asked her how many there were in the Veneto area an
d, with a laugh, she told him he didn't know how to count that high. But then Luna gave a bark so loud that even Brunetti could hear it, and Pia said she had to go.
'Who's in charge, Pia?' he asked, hoping to get one more answer from her before she hung up.
'It's big business, dottore,' she said, using the English words. 'You might as well ask who runs the banks or the stock market. It's the same men with the good haircuts and the custom-made suits. Church on Sunday, go to the office every day, and when no one's looking, count up how much they've made from the women who work on their backs. We're just another commodity, dottore. Writ long enough, well be listed on the futures market.' Pia laughed, made a rude suggestion about what the futures could be named, Luna howled, and Pia hung up.
On the same piece of paper, Brunetti began to do some simple sums. He decided to estimate the average price of a trick at 50,000 lire, then had to admit that he had no idea how many a day there might be. He decided that selecting ten would simplify his multiplication, so he made it ten. Even with the weekend off, which he doubted was a luxury these women were permitted, it came to 2.5 million lire a week, 10 million lire a month. He decided to simplify things and settled on 100 million lire a year, then cut it in half to make up, however roughly, for any errors he might have made in his previous calculations. After that, when he tried to multiply by half a million, he ceased having a name for the sum and had to settle for counting the zeros: there were, he thought, fifteen of them. Pia was right: this was indeed big business.
Instinct and experience told him that there was no more information to be had from either Mara or her pimp. He called down to Vianello and asked whether they'd located the optician who had sold the glasses found in the Padua restaurant. Vianello covered the phone with his hand, sound disappeared, and then the sergeant's voice came back, tight with what sounded like anger or even something stronger. 'I'll be up in a minute, dottore,' he said and put the phone down.
When the sergeant came in, his face was still red with what Brunetti knew from long experience was the aftermath of rage. Vianello closed the door softly behind him, and came over to Brunetti's desk. 'Riverre,' he said by way of explanation, naming the black nemesis of his life, indeed, of the entire staff of the Questura.
'What's he done?'
'He found the optician yesterday, made a note of it, but left it on his own desk until just now when I asked about it' Had he been in a better mood, Brunetti would have quipped that at least Riverre had bothered to make a note this time, but he found himself without either patience or good humour. And long experience had taught them both that, in the issue of Riverre's incompetence, comment was unnecessary. ‘Which one?'
'Carraro, in Calle della Mandora.' 'Did he get a name?'
Vianello bit at his lower lip, his hands tightened into involuntary fists. 'No, he was content merely to discover that the glasses had been sold, with that prescription. That's all he was told to do, he said, so that's what he did'
Brunetti pulled out the phone book, and quickly found the number. The optician, when he answered, said that he had been expecting another call from the police and immediately gave Brunetti the name and address of the woman who had bought those glasses. From the way he spoke, it seemed that he believed the police were interested in no more than seeing that her glasses were returned to her. Brunetti did nothing to disabuse him of this idea.
'But I don't think you'll find her at home,' Dr Carraro volunteered. 'I think she’ll be at work.'
'And where is that dottore?' Brunetti asked, voice warm with concern.
‘She has a travel agency over near the university, halfway between it and the shop that sells carpets.’
'Ah, yes, I know it,' Brunetti said, recalling a poster-filled window he had passed countless times. Thank you, dottore, I’ll see that the glasses are returned to her.'
Brunetti put down the phone, looked up at Vianello, and said, 'Regina Ceroni. Name mean anything to you?'
Vianello shook his head.
'She runs that travel agency over by the university: 'Do you want me to come with you, sir?' Vianello asked.
'No, I mink I’ll go over before lunch and return Signora Ceroni's glasses to her.'
Brunetti stood in the late-afternoon drizzle of mid-November and looked at the sun-swept beach. A hammock stretched between two enormous palm trees, and in it lay a young woman wearing, so far as he could make out, only the bottom of her bikini. Beyond her, soft waves broke on the sandy beach, while a lapis sea stretched out to the horizon. All this could be his for a week for a there 1,800,000 lire, double occupancy, air fare included.
He pushed open the door to the agency and went in. An attractive young woman with dark hair sat at a computer. She glanced up at him and smiled pleasandy.
'Buon giorno!’ he said, returning her smile. 'Is Signora Ceroni here?'
'And who may I say is calling?'
'Signor Brunetti.'
She held up a hand in a waiting gesture, pushed a few more keys, and men stood up. To her left, the printer chattered into life, and what appeared to be an airline ticket began to emerge.
‘I’ll tell her you're here, Signor Brunetti,' she said, turning towards the back of the office, where there was a single door, closed now. She knocked and entered without waiting. A few moments later, she came out and held the door for Brunetti, signalling him to enter.
The inner office was far smaller than the outer, but what it lacked in space it more than made up for in style. The desk was, he thought, teak, polished to a glassy sheen, its absence of drawers proclaiming that it needed no excuse of utility to explain its presence. The carpet was a pale gold Isfahan silk, similar to one lying on the floor of Brunetti's father-in-law's study.
The woman who sat behind both of these had light hair pulled back on bom sides and held in place by a carved ivory comb. The simplicity of the style contrasted with both the fabric and the cut of her suit, dark-grey raw silk with heavily padded shoulders and very narrow sleeves. She appeared to be in her thirties, but because of her skill with make-up and the general elegance of her bearing, it was difficult to tell which end she was closer to. She wore a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. The left lens had a small semi-circular chip in the lower corner, little wider than a pea.
She looked up as he came in, smiled without opening her mouth, removed her glasses and placed them on the papers in front of her, but said nothing. The colour of her eyes, he noticed,, was so exactly that of her suit that it could not have been coincidental. Looking at her, Brunetti found himself thinking of the description
Figaro gives of the woman with whom Count Almaviva is in love: light hair, rosy cheeks, eyes that speak.
'Si?' she asked.
‘Signora Ceroni?'
‘Yes.'
‘I’ve brought you your glasses,’ Brunetti said, taking them from his pocket but not looking away from her.
Her face filled with instant pleasure that made her even lovelier. 'Oh, wonderful,' she said and got to her feet. "Wherever did you find them?’ Brunetti heard a slight accent, perhaps Slavic, certainly Eastern European.
Without saying anything, he passed them across the desk to her. She accepted the leather case and set it on top of the desk without looking inside.
'Aren't you going to check that they're yours?’ he asked.
'No, I recognize the case,' she said. Then, smiling again, 'But how did you know they were mine?’
‘We called the opticians in the city.'
‘We?' she asked. But then she remembered her manners and said, 'But please, sit down. I'm afraid I'm being very impolite.’
'Thank you,' Brunetti said and sat in one of the three chairs that stood in front of her desk.
‘I'm sorry’ she said, 'but Roberta didn't tell me your name.’
'Brunetti, Guido Brunetti.’
Thank you, Signor Brunetti, for going to all of this trouble. You certainly could have called me, and I would have been very glad to go and pick them up.
There
's no need for you to have come all the way across the city to give them to me.'
'Across the city?' Brunetti repeated.
His question surprised her, but for only a moment. She dismissed it, and her own surprise at it, with a wave of her hand, 'Just an expression. The agency is sort of out of the way over here.’
‘Yes, of course,' he said.
‘I don't know how to thank you.'
'You could tell me where you lost them.'
She smiled again. 'Why, if I knew where I lost them, then they wouldn't have been lost, would they?'
Brunetti said nothing.
She gazed across the desk at him, but he said nothing. She looked down at the glasses case and pulled it towards her. She took the glasses out and, just as had Brunetti in the restaurant, wiggled one earpiece, then pulled them both sharply to the sides; again, the glasses bent but did not break.
'Remarkable, isn't it?' she asked without looking at him.
Brunetti remained silent
In the same entirely casual voice, she said, 'I didn't want to get involved.'
'With us?' Bruhetti asked, assuming that if she knew that he had to cross the city to get to her, then she knew where he had come from.
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'He was a married man.'
‘In a few years, well be in me twenty-first century, signora.’
"What do you mean?’ she asked, looking up at him in real confusion.
That married or not married hardly means much anymore.’
'It did to his wife,' she said fiercely. She folded the glasses and slipped them back into the leather case.
'Not even when he was found dead?'
'Especially not then. I didn't want there to be any suspicion that I had anything to do with it’
'Did you?'
'Commissario Brunetti,’ she said, managing to surprise him by the use of his title, 'it took me five years to become a citizen of this country and, even now, I have no doubt that my citizenship could very easily be taken away from me at the first moment I came to the attention of the authorities. Became of that, I want to do nothing that will bring me to their attention.’
