by Donna Leon
As he stood under the water, he told himself that he would have to say something to Paola before he left the house, but he had no idea what that would be. He decided to let it depend upon how she behaved when he went back into the bedroom, but when he did she was no longer there. He heard her in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of water, coffee pot, a chair scraping on the floor. Knotting his tie, he went along there and, as he saw her sitting at her regular place, noticed that two large cups were placed at their normal places on the table. He finished with his tie, bent and kissed the top of her head.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked, reaching backwards with her right arm and wrapping it around his thigh. She pulled him towards her.
He leaned against her, but he did not touch her with his hand. ‘Habit, I suppose.’
‘Habit?’ she asked, already on the way to being offended.
‘The habit of loving you.’
‘Ah,’ she said, but anything further was cut off by the hiss of the coffee pot. She poured coffee, added steaming milk and stirred sugar into both cups. He didn’t sit, drank his standing.
‘What will happen?’ she asked after the first sip.
‘As it’s your first offence, I suppose there will be a fine.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s enough,’ Brunetti said.
‘And what about you?’
‘That depends on how the papers play it. There are a few journalists who have waited years for something like this.’
Before he could list the possible headlines she said, ‘I know. I know,’ and so he spared them both that.
‘But there’s an equal chance that you’ll be turned into a heroine, the Rosa Luxemburg of the sex industry.’
Both of them smiled, but there was no attempt at sarcasm.
‘That’s not what I’m after, Guido. You know that.’ Before he could ask her what it was she was after she said, ‘I just want them to stop it. I want them to be so shamed by what they do that they’ll stop it.’
‘Who, the travel agents?’
‘Them, yes,’ she said and returned to her coffee for a while. When it was almost gone she set down the cup and said, ‘But I’d like them all to be shamed by what they do.’
‘The men who go as sex-tourists?’
‘Yes, all of them.’
‘That’s not going to happen, Paola, no matter what you do.’
‘I know.’ She finished her coffee and got up to make some more.
‘No,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’ll stop at a bar and get some on the way.’
‘It’s early.’
‘There’s always a bar,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
There was, and he stopped for more coffee, lingering over it so as to delay his arrival at the Questura. He bought the Gazzettino, even though he knew it was impossible that anything could appear until the next day. Still he looked at the first page of the first section, then at the second, the part dedicated to local news, but there was nothing.
There was a different officer at the front door of the Questura: because it was still before eight he had to unlock the door for Brunetti and saluted him as he walked past.
‘Is Vianello here yet?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No, sir. I haven’t seen him.’
‘Tell him I’d like him to come up to my office when he gets in, would you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said and saluted again.
Brunetti took the back steps. Marinoni, the woman just returned from maternity leave, greeted him on the steps, but said only that she’d heard about the man in Treviso and was sorry.
In his office, he hung up his coat, sat at his desk, and opened the Gazzettino. There was the usual: magistrates investigating other magistrates, former ministers making accusations against other former ministers, riots in the capital of Albania, the Minister of Health asking for an investigation of the illegal manufacture of false pharmaceuticals for the Third World.
He turned to the second section and, on the third page, found the story about the death of Signora Iacovantuono. ‘Casalinga muore cadendo per le scale (Housewife dies by falling down the stairs).’ Sure.
He’d heard it all the day before: she fell, the neighbour found her at the foot of the steps, the paramedics declared her dead. The funeral would take place tomorrow.
He had just finished reading the article when Vianello knocked on his door and came in. All Brunetti needed was a glance at his face. He asked, ‘What are they saying?’
‘Landi started talking about it as soon as people began to come in, but Ruberti and Bellini haven’t said a word. And the papers haven’t called.’
‘Scarpa?’ Brunetti asked.
‘He’s not in yet.’
‘What’s Landi saying?’
‘That he brought your wife down here last night after she broke a window in the travel agency in Campo Manin. And that you came down and took her home without filling out the paperwork. He’s turning into a jailhouse lawyer, saying she’s technically a fugitive from justice.’
Brunetti folded the paper in half, then in half again. He recalled telling Pucetti that he would bring his wife with him that morning, but he hardly thought her absence was sufficient to turn her into a fugitive from justice. ‘I see,’ he said. He paused for a long time and finally asked, ‘How many people know about the last time?’
Vianello considered the question for a moment and answered, ‘Officially, no one knows. Officially, nothing happened.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I don’t think anyone knows who shouldn’t know,’ Vianello said, obviously unwilling to explain more than that.
Brunetti didn’t know whether he should thank the sergeant, or thank Ruberti and Bellini. Instead, he asked, ‘Has there been anything from the Treviso police this morning?’
‘Iacovantuono went to their office to say he couldn’t be certain about the identification he made last week. He thinks he was mistaken. Because he was so afraid. And now he’s sure the robber had red hair. It seems he remembered that a few days ago, but never got around to telling the police.’
‘Until his wife died?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello didn’t answer at first. After a while, he asked, ‘What would you do, sir?’
‘If what?’
‘If you were in his place.’
‘I’d probably remember the red hair, too.’
Vianello stuffed his hands into the pockets of his uniform jacket and nodded. ‘I suppose we all would, wouldn’t we, especially if we had a family?’
Brunetti’s intercom rang. ‘Yes,’ he said when he’d picked it up. He listened for a moment, then put the phone down and got to his feet. ‘It’s the Vice-Questore. He wants to see me.’
Vianello pushed back his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Quarter past nine. I suppose that explains what Lieutenant Scarpa’s been doing.’
Brunetti carefully centred the newspaper on his desk before he left the office. Outside Patta’s door, Signorina Elettra sat at her computer, but the screen was blank. She looked up when Brunetti came in, caught her lower lip between her teeth and raised her eyebrows. It could have been surprise, but it could just as easily have been the sort of encouragement one student gives another who has been called to see the principal.
Brunetti closed his eyes for a moment and felt his lips pulling together. He didn’t say anything to the secretary, but knocked at the door and opened it at the shouted, ‘Avanti’.
Brunetti had expected to find only the Vice-Questore in the office, so he failed to hide his surprise when he saw four persons: Vice-Questore Patta; Lieutenant Scarpa, seated to the left of his superior, the same as the seat always given to Judas in paintings of the Last Supper; and two men, one in his late fifties, the other about ten years younger. Brunetti had no time to study them, save to get the sense that the older man was somehow in command, though the younger was more attentive.
Patta began without preamble. ‘Commissario Brunetti, this is Dottor P
aolo Mitri.’ He indicated the older man with a graceful wave of his hand. ‘And his lawyer, Awocato Giuliano Zambino. We’ve called you here to discuss the events of last night.’
There was a fifth chair, a bit to the left of the lawyer, but no one suggested Brunetti take it. He nodded to the two men.
‘Perhaps the Commissario could join us?’ suggested Dottor Mitri, motioning to the empty chair with his hand.
Patta nodded and Brunetti sat.
‘You know why you’re here, I suppose,’ Patta said.
‘I’d like to hear it stated clearly,’ Brunetti answered.
Patta waved to his lieutenant, who began. ‘Last night, at about midnight, I received a call from one of my men that the window of the travel agency in Campo Manin - the travel agency owned by Dottor Mitri,’ he added, with a small inclination of his head in his direction, ‘had again been destroyed by vandals. He told me that a suspect had been taken to the Questura and that the suspect was the wife of Commissario Brunetti.’
‘Is this true?’ Patta interrupted, speaking to Brunetti.
‘I have no idea what Officer Landi said to the lieutenant last night,’ was Brunetti’s calm response.
‘That’s not what I mean,’ Patta interrupted before the lieutenant could say anything. ‘Was it your wife?’
‘In the report which I read last night,’ Brunetti began, his voice still calm, ‘Officer Landi gave her name and address, and said she admitted breaking the window.’
‘What about the other time?’ Scarpa asked.
Brunetti didn’t bother to ask what other time he meant. ‘What about it?’
‘Was it your wife?’
‘You’ll have to ask my wife that, Lieutenant.’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘You can be sure I will.’
Dottor Mitri coughed once, hiding the sound behind a raised hand. ‘Perhaps I could interrupt here, Pippo,’ he said to Patta. The Vice-Questore, apparently honoured by the intimacy of address, nodded.
Mitri turned his attention to Brunetti. ‘Commissario, I think it would be helpful if we could come to an understanding about this matter.’ Brunetti turned towards him but said nothing. ‘The damages to the agency have been considerable: the first window cost me almost four million lire to replace, and I assume this time it will be the same. There is also the matter of lost business during the time the agency was closed while we waited for the glass to be replaced.’
He paused, as if waiting for Brunetti to say or ask something, but when he did not, Mitri continued. ‘Because no one was apprehended for the first crime, I assume my insurance company will pay for the original damages and perhaps even for some of the lost business. It will take a considerable time for this to be achieved, of course, but I’m certain we’ll reach a settlement. In fact, I’ve already spoken to my agent and he assures me this is the case.’
Brunetti watched him as he spoke, listened to the confidence in his voice. This was a man accustomed to the full attention of the people he dealt with; his assurance and sense of self radiated from him in waves that were almost tangible. The rest of him gave the same impression: razor-cut hair worn shorter than was then the fashion, a light tan, skin and nails that were taken care of by someone else. He had light-brown eyes, almost the colour of amber, and a voice so pleasing as to be almost seductive. Because he was seated, Brunetti wasn’t sure of his height, but he looked as if he’d be tall, with the long arms and legs of a runner.
During all this the lawyer sat silent, attentive, listening to his client, but he said nothing.
‘Do I have your attention, Commissario?’ Mitri asked, aware of Brunetti’s scrutiny and perhaps hot liking it.
‘Yes.’
‘The second case is, and will be, different. Since your wife has apparently admitted to breaking the window, it seems only just that she should pay for it. That’s why I asked to speak to you.’
‘Yes?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I thought you and I might come to an agreement about this.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Brunetti said, wondering how far he could push this man and what would happen when he overdid it.
‘What is it you don’t understand, Commissario?’
‘What it is you called me in here to talk about.’
Mitri’s voice tightened, but it remained light. ‘I want to resolve this matter. Between gentlemen.’ He nodded in the direction of Patta. ‘I have the honour of being a friend of the Vice-Questore, and I would prefer not to cause the police any embarrassment in this matter.’
That, Brunetti thought, could explain the silence of the press.
‘And so I thought we might settle this matter quietly, without causing unnecessary complications.’
Brunetti turned to Scarpa. ‘Last night, did my wife say anything to Landi about why she did it?’
Scarpa was caught off guard by the question and glanced quickly at Mitri, who spoke before the lieutenant did. ‘I’m sure that’s of no consequence now. What’s important is that she admitted the crime.’ He turned his attention to Patta. ‘I think it is in the best interests of us all that we settle this while we can. I’m sure you agree, Pippo.’
Patta permitted himself a sharp ‘Of course’.
Mitri returned his attention to Brunetti. ‘If you agree with me, then we can proceed. If not, then I’m afraid I’m wasting my time.’
‘I’m still not sure what it is you want me to agree to, Dottor Mitri.’
‘I want you to agree that your wife will pay me for the damage to my window and for the business lost by the agency while it’s being repaired.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Brunetti said.
‘And why not?’ Mitri demanded, not much patience left.
‘It’s none of my business. If you’d like to discuss the matter with my wife, you are certainly free to do so. But I can’t make any decision, much less one like this, for her.’ Brunetti thought his voice sounded as reasonable as what he had to say.
‘What sort of man are you?’ Mitri asked angrily.
Brunetti turned his attention to Patta. ‘Is there any other way I can be helpful to you, Vice-Questore?’ Patta seemed too surprised, or too angry, to answer, so Brunetti got to his feet and let himself quickly out of the office.
* * * *
8
In response to Signorina Elettra’s raised eyebrows and pursed mouth, Brunetti gave nothing more than a quick, inconclusive shake of his head signalling to her that he’d explain later. He went back up the stairs to his office, considering the real meaning of what had just happened.
Mitri, who boasted of his friendship with Patta, no doubt had sufficient influence to keep a story as potentially explosive as this out of the papers. It was a natural, had everything a reporter could want: sex, violence, police involvement. And if they managed to discover the way in which Paola’s first attack had been covered up, that would provide their readers with even headier delights - police corruption and the abuse of power.
What editor would renounce a possibility like this? What newspaper could deny itself the pleasure of printing such an item? Paola, as well, was the daughter of Conte Orazio Falier, one of the most famous and certainly one of the wealthiest men in the city. It was all such remarkably good press that the newspaper which would deny itself such a coup did not exist.
That meant there had to be some greater recompense to the editor or editors who did not use it. Or, he added after a moment’s reflection, to the authorities who managed to prevent the story from getting to the papers. There also existed the possibility that the story had been put off limits, dressed up in reasons of state and thus prohibited to the press. Mitri had not seemed a man to possess that much power, but that kind, Brunetti had to remind himself, was often invisible. He had but to think of a former politician, currently on trial for association with the Mafia, a man whose appearance had been the butt of cartoon humour for decades. One did not normally associate great power with a man who looked so thoroughly innocuous, yet
Brunetti had no doubt that one wink of those pale-green eyes could bring about the destruction of anyone who opposed him in even the most insignificant way.
There had been as much bravado as truth in Brunetti’s disclaimer that he could not make a decision for Paola, but on sober reflection he realized that he meant it.
Mitri had appeared at Patta’s office with a lawyer, one known to Brunetti, at least by reputation. Brunetti had a vague memory that Zambino usually concerned himself with business law, normally for large companies out on the mainland. He thought he might live in the city, but so few companies remained here that Zambino, at least professionally, had been forced to follow the exodus to the mainland in search of work.
