by Donna Leon
The nurse on duty looked up at him in surprise when he appeared on her left with no warning, but Carraro must have told her to expect someone, for she got to her feet, saying, ‘He’s with Dottore Carraro.’ She pointed to the door to the main treatment room. ‘In there.’
Without knocking, Brunetti opened the door and went in. A white-jacketed Carraro stood over a tall man lying on his back on the examining table. His shirt and sweater lay across the back of a chair, and Carraro was listening to his heart with his stethoscope. Because he had the earpieces in place, Carraro was not aware of Brunetti’s arrival. But the man on the table was, and when his heart quickened at the sight of Brunetti, Carraro looked up to see what had caused his patient’s reaction.
He saw Brunetti but said nothing.
The man on the table lay still, though Brunetti saw the stiffening of his body and the quick flush of emotion on his face. He also saw the inflamed mark on the outer edge of his right forearm: oval, its two edges stamped out with zipperlike precision.
He chose to say nothing. The man on the examining table closed his eyes and lay back, letting his arms fall limply to his sides. Brunetti noticed that Carraro was wearing a pair of transparent rubber gloves. If he’d come in now and seen the man lying like that, he would have thought him asleep. His own heartbeat quieted. Carraro moved away from the table and went over to his desk, laid the stethoscope down, and then left the room without speaking.
Brunetti moved a step closer to the table but was careful to stay more than an arm’s length away. He saw now just how strong the man must be: the muscles of his chest and shoulders were rounded and taut, the result of decades of heavy work. His hands were enormous; one hand lay palm up, and Brunetti was struck by the flatness of the tips of those broad, spatulate fingers.
In repose, the man’s face had a quality about it that spoke of absence. Even when he had first seen Brunetti and perhaps realized who he was, little expression had been visible on his features. His ears were very small; indeed, his curiously cylindrical head seemed a size or two too small for the rest of that heavy body.
‘Signore,’ Brunetti finally said.
The man’s eyes opened, and he looked up at Brunetti. His eyes were a deep brown and made Brunetti think of bears, but that might be because of his general thickness. ‘She told me not to come,’ he said. ‘She said it was a trap.’ He blinked, keeping his eyes closed for a long time, then opened them, and said, ‘But I was afraid. I heard people talking about the story, and I was afraid.’ Again, that long, timeless closing of the eyes, so long it seemed that during it the man went off to some other place while they were closed, like a diver beneath the waters of the sea, happier to remain amidst that greater beauty and reluctant to return.
His eyes opened. ‘But she was right. She always is.’ Saying that, he sat up. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said to Brunetti. ‘I won’t hurt you. I need the doctor to give me the cure, and then I’ll come with you. But first I have to have the cure.’
Brunetti nodded, understanding his need. ‘I’ll get the doctor,’ he said, and went out to the nurses’ station, where Carraro stood, talking on the phone. There was no sign of the nurse.
When he saw Brunetti, he hung up and turned to him. ‘Well?’ The anger was back, but Brunetti suspected it had nothing to do with any violation of the Hippocratic Oath.
‘I’d like you to give him a tetanus shot, and then I’ll take him to the Questura.’
‘You leave me alone in a room with a murderer, and now you expect me to go back in there and give him a tetanus shot? You’ve got to be out of your mind,’ Carraro said, crossing his arms in front of him as a visual sign of his refusal.
‘I don’t think there’s any risk, Dottore. He could need one, anyway, for that bite. It looks infected to me.’
‘Oh, so you’re a doctor now, too, huh?’
‘Dottore,’ Brunetti said, looking down at his shoes and taking a long breath, ‘I’m asking you to put your rubber gloves back on and come into the next room and give your patient a tetanus shot.’
‘And if I refuse?’ Carraro asked with empty belligerence, wafting a breath in Brunetti’s direction that smelled of mint and alcohol, the sort of thing real drinkers make their breakfast of.
‘If you refuse, Dottore,’ Brunetti said in a lethally calm voice and reaching toward him with one hand, ‘I will pull you back into that room and tell him you refuse to give him the injection that will cure him. And then I’ll leave you alone with him.’
He watched Carraro as he spoke, saw that the doctor believed him, which was enough for his purposes. Carraro’s arms fell to his side, though he muttered something under his breath, something that Brunetti pretended not to hear.
He held the door for Carraro and went back into the room. The man sat now on the side of the examining table, long legs dangling toward the floor, buttoning his shirt over his barrel-shaped chest.
Silently, Carraro went to a glass-doored cabinet at the far side of the room, opened it, and pulled out a syringe. He stooped down and searched noisily through the boxes of medicine stored there until he found the box he wanted. He took a small, rubber-capped glass vial from it and went back to his desk. Carefully, he pulled on a new pair of rubber gloves, opened the plastic package and took out the syringe, and stuck its point through the rubber seal on the top of the small bottle. He sucked all of the liquid up into the needle, and turned back to the man on the table, who sat, his shirt now tucked into his trousers, one sleeve rolled up almost to his shoulder.
As Brunetti watched, he held his arm out toward the doctor, turned his face away, and squeezed his eyes closed much in the way children do when they receive inoculations. Carraro set the full needle down on the table next to the man, took his arm and shoved his sleeve up above the biceps. With unnecessary force, he jabbed the needle into the muscle and plunged the liquid into the man’s arm. He yanked the needle out, pushed the man’s arm roughly upright so the pressure would stop the bleeding, and went back to the desk.
‘Thank you, Dottore,’ the man said. ‘Is that the cure?’
Carraro refused to speak, so Brunetti said, ‘Yes, that’s it. You don’t have anything to worry about now.’
‘It didn’t even hurt. Much,’ the man said and looked toward Brunetti. ‘Do we have to go now?’
Brunetti nodded. The man lowered his arm and looked down at the place where Carraro had stuck the needle. Blood welled up from it.
‘I think your patient needs a bandage, Dottore,’ Brunetti said, though he knew Carraro would do nothing. The doctor pulled the gloves from his hands and tossed them toward a table, not at all troubled to see them land on the floor far short of it. Brunetti stepped over to the cabinet and looked at the boxes on the top shelf. One of them held standard-sized plasters. He took one and went back to the man. He unwrapped the sterile paper covering and was about to put the plaster on the bleeding spot when the man raised his other hand and made a gesture telling Brunetti to stop.
‘I might not be cured yet, Signore, so you better let me do that.’ He took the plaster and, left hand clumsy, placed it over the wound, then smoothed the sticky sides to his skin. He rolled down his sleeve, got to his feet, and leaned down to get his sweater.
When they got to the door of the examining room, the man stopped and looked down at Brunetti from his greater height. ‘It would be terrible if I got it, you see,’ he said, ‘terrible for the family.’ He nodded in silent affirmation of his own truth and stepped back to allow Brunetti to go through the door first. Behind them, Carraro slammed the door of the medicine cabinet shut, but government issue furniture is durable, and the glass did not break.
In the main corridor stood the two uniformed officers Brunetti had ordered to be sent to the hospital, and at the dock waited the police launch, the ever-taciturn Bonsuan at the tiller. They emerged from the side entrance and walked the few metres to the tethered boat, the man keeping his head lowered and his shoulders hunched, a posture he had adopted from the inst
ant he saw the uniforms.
His walk was heavy and rough, absolutely lacking the fluid motion of a normal pace, as though there were static on the line between his brain and his feet. When they stepped on to the boat, one of the officers on either side, the man turned to Brunetti and asked, ‘Can I sit downstairs, Signore?’
Brunetti pointed to the four steps that led downwards and the man went and sat on one of the long padded seats that lined both sides of the cabin. He folded his hands between his knees and bent his head over them, staring at the floor.
When they pulled into the dock in front of the Questura, the officers jumped out and tied the boat to the dock, and Brunetti went to the stairs and called, ‘We’re there now.’
The man looked up and got to his feet.
On the trip back, Brunetti had considered taking the man to his office to question him, but he had decided against it, thinking that one of the windowless, ugly questioning rooms, with their scuffed walls and bright lighting, would be better suited to what he had to do.
With officers leading the way, they went to the first floor and down the corridor, stopping outside the third door on the right. Brunetti opened it and held it for the man, who walked silently inside and stopped, looking back at Brunetti, who indicated one of the chairs that stood around a scarred table.
The man sat down. Brunetti closed the door and came to sit on the opposite side of the table.
‘My name is Guido Brunetti. I’m a commissario of police,’ he began, ‘and there is a microphone in this room that is recording everything we say.’ He gave the date and the time and then turned to the man.
‘I’ve brought you here to ask questions about three deaths: the death of a young man called Franco Rossi, the death of another young man called Gino Zecchino, and the death of a young woman whose name we don’t yet know. Two of them died in or near a building near Angelo Raffaele, and one died after a fall from the same building.’ He stopped here, then continued, ‘Before we go any further, I must ask you your name and ask you to give me some identification.’ When the man did not respond, Brunetti said, ‘Would you tell me your name, Signore?’
He looked up and asked with infinite sadness, ‘Do I have to?’
Brunetti said with resignation, ‘I’m afraid so.’
The man lowered his head and looked down at the table. ‘She’s going to be so angry,’ he whispered. He looked up at Brunetti and in the same soft voice said, ‘Giovanni Dolfin.’
* * * *
24
Brunetti searched for some sort of familial resemblance between this awkward giant and the thin, hunched woman he had seen in dal Carlo’s office. Seeing none, he did not dare to ask how they were related, knowing it was better to let the man talk on, while he himself played the role of one who already knew everything that could be said and was there to do no more than ask questions about minor points and details of chronology.
Silence spread. Brunetti let it do so until the room was filled with it, the only sound Dolfin’s laboured breathing.
He finally turned toward Brunetti and gave him a pained look. ‘I’m a count, you see. We’re the last ones; there’s no one after us because Loredana, well, she never married, and . . .’ Again, he looked down at the surface of the table, but it still refused to tell him how to explain all of this. He sighed and started again, ‘I won’t marry. I’m not interested in all of, all of that’, he said with a vague motion of his hand, as though pushing ‘all of that’ away.
‘So we’re the last, and that makes it important that nothing happens to the family name or to our honour.’ Keeping his eyes on Brunetti’s, he asked, ‘Do you understand?’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti said. He had no idea of what ‘honour’ meant, especially to a member of a family that had carried a name for more than eight hundred years. ‘We have to live with honour,’ was all he could think of to say.
Dolfin nodded repeatedly. ‘That’s what Loredana tells me. She’s always told me that. She says it doesn’t matter that we’re not rich, not at all. We still have the name.’ He spoke with the emphasis people often give to the repetition of phrases or ideas they don’t really understand, conviction taking the place of reason. Some sort of mechanism seemed to have been triggered in Dolfin’s mind, for he lowered his head again and started to recite the history of his famous ancestor, Doge Giovanni Dolfin. Brunetti listened, strangely comforted by the sound, carried back by it to a period of time in his childhood when the women of the neighbourhood had come to their house to recite the rosary together and he found himself caught up in the murmured repetition of the same prayers. He let himself be carried back to those other whisperings, and he stayed there until he heard Dolfin say, ‘... of the Plague in 1361’.
Dolfin looked up then, and Brunetti nodded his approval. ‘It’s important, a name like that,’ he agreed, thinking that this would be the way to lead him on. ‘A person would have to be very careful to protect it.’
‘That’s what Loredana told me, just the very same thing.’ Dolfin gave Brunetti a look filled with dawning respect: here was another man who could understand the obligations under which the two of them lived. ‘She told me, especially this time, that we had to do anything we could to maintain and protect it.’ His tongue stumbled over the last words.
‘Of course,’ Brunetti prompted,’ “especially this time.” ‘
Dolfin went on: ‘She said that man at the office had always been jealous of her because of her position.’ When he saw Brunetti’s confusion, he explained, ‘In society.’
Brunetti nodded.
‘She never understood why he hated her so much. But then he did something with papers. She tried to explain it to me, but I didn’t understand. But he made up false papers that said Loredana was doing bad things in the office, taking money to do things.’ He put his palms flat on the desk and pushed himself half out of the chair. Voice raised to an alarming volume, he said, ‘Dolfins do not do things for money. Money means nothing to the Dolfins.’
Brunetti raised a calming hand, and Dolfin lowered himself back into his chair. ‘We do not do things for money,’ he said forcefully. ‘The whole city knows that. Not for money.’
He continued: ‘She said everyone would believe the papers and there would be a scandal. The name would be ruined. She told me . . .’ he began and then corrected himself, ‘No, I knew that myself; no one had to tell me that. No one can lie about the Dolfins and not be punished.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti agreed. ‘Does that mean you’d take him to the police?’
Dolfin flicked a hand to one side, with it flicking aside the idea of the police. ‘No, it was our honour, and so we had the right to take our own justice.’
‘I see.’
‘I knew who he was. I’d been there sometimes, to help Loredana when she did the shopping in the morning and had things to carry home. I’d go and help her.’ He said this last with unconscious pride, the man of the family announcing his prowess.
‘She knew where he was going that day, and she told me that I should follow him there and try to talk to him. But when I did, he pretended not to understand what I was saying and said it had nothing to do with Loredana. He said it was that other man. She warned me that he’d lie and try to make me believe it was someone else in the office, but I was ready for him. I knew he was really out to get Loredana because he was jealous of her.’ He put on his face the expression he’d seen people use when they said things he was later told had been clever, and Brunetti again had the impression he’d been taught to recite this lesson, as well.
‘And?’
‘He called me a liar and then he tried to push past me. He told me to get out of the way. We were in that building.’ His eyes grew wide with what Brunetti thought was the memory of what had happened but which turned out to be the scandal of what he was about to say. ‘And he used tu when he talked to me. He knew I was a count, and he still called me tu.’ Dolfin glanced over at Brunetti, as if to ask if he had ever heard of such a thing.<
br />
Brunetti, who never had, shook his head as if in silent astonishment.
When Dolfin seemed disposed to say nothing more, Brunetti asked, his real curiosity audible in the question, ‘What did you do?’
‘I told him he was lying to me and wanted to hurt Loredana because he was jealous of her. He pushed me again. No one’s ever done that to me.’ From the way he spoke, Brunetti was convinced Dolfin thought the physical respect people must have shown him was a response to his title rather than to his size. ‘When he pushed me, I stepped back and my foot hit a pipe that was there, on the floor. It twisted and I fell down. When I got up, the pipe was in my hand. I wanted to hit him, but a Dolfin would never hit a man from behind, so I called him, and he turned around. He raised his hand then, to hit me.’ Dolfin stopped talking here, but his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap as though they’d suddenly taken on an existence independent of his own.
