The Girl of his Dreams

by Donna Leon

  Vianello glanced at Brunetti, giving him the opportunity to say something if he chose; when he still remained silent, the Inspector went on. ‘I told you, I don't feel any active dislike towards them; I simply feel no active sympathy.'

  'There are wiser ways to express your lack of feeling’ Brunetti suggested.

  His words might have been ironic, but the tone was not, as Vianello clearly heard. 'You're right’ the Inspector answered, 'that's what I should say: it's the acceptable way to talk. But I think I'm tired, tired to death, of always having to be careful to express the right sympathies, of always having to make sheep's eyes and say pious things whenever I'm confronted with one of life's victims.' Vianello considered this and then added, 'It's almost as if we were living in one of those Eastern European countries, years ago, where you had one way to speak publicly and a different way to speak honestly.'

  'I'm not sure I follow.'

  Vianello looked up and met Brunetti's eyes. ‘I think you do.' When Brunetti looked away, the Inspector continued, 'You've listened to enough people, the way they say all those things about how we can't have bad feelings and have to accept minorities and respect their rights and be tolerant. But as soon as they've finished saying it, if they trust you, they say what they're really thinking.'

  'Which is?' Brunetti enquired mildly.

  'That they're fed up with watching this country turn into a place where they don't feel safe and where they lock their doors when they run next door to a neighbour's to borrow a cup of sugar, and whenever the prisons are full the government says some noble words about giving people another chance to insert themselves into society and tosses the doors open to let the killers out.' Vianello stopped as suddenly as he had started.

  After what seemed like a long time had passed, Brunetti asked, 'Will you say the same things tomorrow?'

  Vianello shrugged and finally looked across at him and said, 'Probably not.' He smiled and gave a different kind of shrug. 'It's hard, never to say these things. I think I'd feel less guilty about thinking them if I could admit to them once in a while.'

  Brunetti nodded.

  Vianello gave himself a shake, much in the manner of a large dog getting to its feet. Then, his voice steady with friendship, he asked, 'What do you think's going to happen?' He sounded entirely normal, and Brunetti had the strange sensation that he had just watched Vianello's spirit slip back into his body.

  ‘I have no idea,' Brunetti said. 'Rocich is a ticking bomb. The only way he knows how to deal with anything is by hitting at it. The boss or the leader, or whatever he is, is too powerful for him to try going up against. That leaves the woman and the children.' He hesitated an instant, but then decided that he would say what he was thinking, 'and he'd be violent even if he weren't a Gypsy.'

  ‘I agree,' Vianello said.

  ‘I don't want to call attention to the woman. Can't call her in here for questioning, can't go back there and try to talk to her.'

  'And so?'

  'And so I wait for this doctor to call me. And after he does or I get tired of waiting for him to call, I go back and talk to the Fornaris again and have another look at their apartment.'

  26

  Brunetti did not have long to wait for Dottor Calfi to return his call: the phone rang only minutes after Vianello had gone back down to the squad room. Brunetti lifted the phone and gave his name.

  'Commissario, this is Edoardo Calfi. You asked me to call’ The voice was a light tenor, the accent Lombard: perhaps Milano.

  'Thank you for calling, Dottore. As I told you in my message, I'd like to ask you some questions about patients of yours.'

  'What patients are those?'

  'Members of a family known as Rocich,' Brunetti said. 'They are nomads living in the camp near Dolo’

  ‘I know who they are,' the doctor said sharply, and Brunetti began to think the call was going to be a failure. This impression grew stronger when Calfi added, 'And they are not "known as" Rocich, Commissario: it is their name’

  'Good’ Brunetti said, working to keep his voice calm and pleasant. 'Could you tell me which of the family members are patients of yours?'

  'Before I do, I'd like to know why you're asking this question, Commissario.'

  'I'm asking you, Dottore’ Brunetti said, 'in order to save time.'

  'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

  'With a judge's order, I could perhaps get the information from the central records in that district, but since these are questions I'd like to address to their doctor personally, I'm trying to save time by establishing that they are your patients.'

  'They are’

  'Thank you, Dottore. Could you tell me which members of the family you've treated?' 'All of them.' 'And that would be?'

  'The father and mother, and the three children’ the doctor answered, and Brunetti fought down the impulse to say he made it sound just like the three little bears.

  'It's about the younger daughter I'd like to ask information, Dottore.'

  'Yes?' The doctor's voice was cautious.

  'I'd like to know if you've ever treated her for a venereal disease’ Brunetti said, as if she were still alive.

  That was quickly put paid to by the doctor, who said, 'I do read the newspapers, Commissario, so I know Ariana is dead. Why do you want to know if I treated her' - he asked, placing great emphasis on the past tense - 'for this sort of disease?'

  'Because signs of gonorrhoeal infection were found during the autopsy’ Brunetti said in a neutral voice.

  'Yes, I knew about the disease’ the doctor said. 'She was under treatment for the problem.' Brunetti forbore to ask whether, as a doctor, he had thought it proper to report this 'problem' to someone at the social services.

  'Could you tell me how long she had been under treatment?'

  ‘I don't see how this is relevant’ the doctor said.

  Brunetti doubted that but answered only, 'It might help us in our investigation of her death, Dottore.'

  'Some months’ Calfi acquiesced by saying.

  'Thank you’ Brunetti said, deciding not to ask for clarification but to settle for what he could get.

  'I'd like to say something if I may’ the doctor began.

  'Of course, Dottore.'

  'This family has been in my care for almost a year. And during that time I've come to take a great interest in them and in the troubles they meet with here.' At this point, Brunetti could pretty well predict what he was going to hear. Dottor Calfi was a crusader, and he knew he could do nothing more with crusaders than listen to them, agree with them entirely, and then try to get out of them what he wanted.

  'I'm sure many doctors come to feel a strong concern for their patients’ Brunetti said in a voice he washed clean of any sentiments save warmth and admiration.

  'Life's not easy for them’ Calfi said. 'It's never been easy for them.'

  Brunetti made a noise of assent.

  For the next few minutes, Calfi catalogued the misfortunes of the Rocich family, at least the version he had been given of those misfortunes. All of them had, at one time or another, been the victims of brutality. Even the wife had been beaten by the police in Mestre, one eye blackened and her neck badly bruised on both sides. The children had suffered persecution in school and were afraid to return. Rocich himself was unable to find work.

  When the doctor stopped speaking, Brunetti asked, voice warm with concern and fellow feeling, 'How did the child contract the disease, Dottore?'

  'She was raped,' Calf! said indignantly, almost as if Brunetti had tried to deny this or had perhaps been involved in some way in the deed. 'Her father told me that she was walking back to the camp late one afternoon and was offered a ride by a man in a big car. At least that's what she told him.'

  ‘I see,' said a very concerned Brunetti.

  'The man pulled off the road on the way to the camp and raped her’ Calfi said, voice rising with anger.

  'Did they report it to the police?' asked an equally angry Brunetti.


  'Who'd believe them?' Calfi asked in a tone now of indignant disgust.

  Not many, thought Brunetti, but what he said was, 'Yes, you're probably right, Dottore’ Using the same tone, Brunetti asked, 'Did they bring her to you?'

  'Not until some months later’ the doctor explained, then before Brunetti could ask about this, added, 'She was ashamed about what had happened, so she wouldn't let them bring her to me until there were symptoms they couldn't ignore.'

  'I see, I see’ Brunetti said, then allowed himself to mutter an audible, 'Terrible.'

  'I'm glad you see it that way’ the doctor said, and Brunetti had to admit that he did indeed think the whole thing was terrible but not, perhaps, in the same way the doctor did.

  'Did anything similar ever happen to. any of the other children?' he asked.

  'What do you mean, "similar"?' the doctor asked in a sharp voice.

  Brunetti shied away from the idea of sexually transmitted disease and said, 'Violence from the people in the area.' He decided to risk it and added, 'or from the police?'

  He could almost feel Calfi calming down when he heard this.

  'Occasionally, but the police seem to prefer exercising their violence against women,' Calfi said, quite as if he had forgotten he was talking to a policeman.

  Brunetti decided to get out while the going was good and so expressed his thanks to the doctor for his help and for the information he had given.

  With a mutual exchange of courtesies, the men hung up. 'Their violence against women,' Brunetti repeated, the phone in his hand. He replaced the receiver.

  That left him the Fornaris. It would be advisable, he knew, to let Patta decide on the wisdom of going to speak to them again, or perhaps it would be better to leave that decision to the examining magistrate, but Brunetti chose to see his visit not as an investigative one so much as an attempt better to clarify the likelihood that the child had died in a fall from their roof. Signor Fornari should have returned from Russia by now: Brunetti wondered if he shared his wife's lack of curiosity about the Gypsy girl, found dead so close to their home.

  Brunetti walked along the Riva degli Schiavoni, filtering through the people walking in his direction or coming towards him, and as he walked, he had the sensation of being observed. He paused occasionally to study the wares on offer in the ever-increasing number of waterside stalls: football-team flags, gondolieri boaters, thick velvet court jester hats, ashtrays - one from Capri - and the omnipresent plastic gondolas. He stood in front of each horror in turn, his attention radiating out to both sides. He replaced the gondola on the counter and swung around, studying the people behind him, but he saw no sudden motion. He thought for a moment of taking a vaporetto: this would force anyone who was following him to abandon the pursuit. But curiosity overcame him and he continued to walk, even slowing his pace to allow whoever it was, if anyone, to keep up with him.

  He continued across the Piazza and down Via XXII Marzo, then turned right and past Antico Martini and in front of the Fenice. The sensation of being watched kept pace with him, though the one time he stopped and turned to study the facade of the theatre he saw no one he had seen behind him before. He walked in front of the Ateneo and down towards the Fornari house.

  He rang, gave his name, and was told to come up. When Brunetti reached the top floor, Orsola Vivarini stood at the open door, and as he drew closer he thought for a moment that she had sent an older version of herself to speak to him.

  'Good morning, Signora’ he said. ‘I’ve come back to ask you a few more things. If you don't mind, that is.'

  'Of course not’ she said, voice too loud.

  Brunetti's easy smile gave no indication that he had noticed the change in her appearance. He followed her into the apartment. The flowers that had stood on a table to the right of the door were still there, but the water had evaporated, and Brunetti could smell the first faint scent of rot.

  'Is your husband back from his trip?' he asked, following her into the room where they had spoken the last time.

  'Yes. He got home yesterday,' she said and, turning to him, asked, 'Can I offer you anything, Commissario?'

  'No, Signora, you're too kind. I just had a coffee. But thank you for asking.' She waved him to a chair. He crossed the room to it, but when she remained standing, Brunetti did as well.

  'Please sit down, Commissario,' she said. 'I'll call my husband.'

  He gave a low half-bow and rested one hand on the back of the chair. And thought again of his mother and her rule that a man did not sit when a woman was standing.

  She turned away and left the room. Brunetti went to the far wall to look at a painting. Primo Potenza, he thought, one of that crop of fine painters who had flourished in the city in the fifties. Where had all the painters gone? he wondered. All he seemed to see in the galleries were video installations and political statements expressed in papier maché. Two large groupings of what must be family photos flanked the painting; Brunetti studied them. The star of the photos was the daughter. There she was with far shorter hair, on a horse, on water skis, then standing in front of a Christmas tree next to her mother. Years passed and summer returned in the next photo. Her hair had grown to the length it was now, and she stood on a dock, her arm around a tall, gangly boy, both of them wearing bathing suits and enormous smiles. The boy had thick hair almost as blond as hers, though with a decidedly reddish cast. In the fashion of the day, he had tattoos of what looked like South Sea Island tribal patterns encircling biceps and calves. He looked vaguely familiar to Brunetti, who assumed it was her brother and what he saw was a family resemblance. The girl was absent from the next two: in one, a photo taken from the back, Signora Vivarini stood in front of an enormous abstract painting that Brunetti did not recognize, her back to the camera, her arm draped over the shoulder of what might have been the same boy. In the last photo, she faced the camera with a full smile, her hand in that of a man with kind eyes and a soft mouth.

  'Buon giorno.' Brunetti straightened up, backed away from the photos, and turned towards the voice. Dressed in a suit and tie both of which looked as though they were being worn for the first time, the man - the same one in the photo - managed to look faintly rumpled. As he approached, Brunetti studied him and realized the cause lay in his eyes, darkly circled underneath, and in his chin, on the underside of which he saw a small patch of white bristles the man had overlooked while shaving. His hair, too, though it was well cut and clean, managed to look tired, as if all it had the strength to do was hang limply across his head.

  The man smiled and extended his hand: the grip was firmer than the smile. They exchanged names.

  Fornari led Brunetti over to the same chair, and this time Brunetti lowered himself into it. 'My wife tells me’ he said when he was sitting opposite Brunetti, 'that you'd like to speak to me about this robbery.' His eyes were the same clear blue as his daughter's, and Brunetti saw in his face the source of her beauty. The straight, thin nose was the same, as were the perfect teeth and dark lips. The angles of her jaw were softer, but their strength came from his.

  'Yes,' Brunetti said. 'Your wife has identified the objects.'

  The man nodded.

  'We're curious about the circumstances of the theft,' Brunetti said. 'And about any information you or your wife might be able to give us.'

  Fornari gave a small smile that remained on his lips without reaching his eyes. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about it, Commissario.' Before Brunetti could question him, Fornari said, ‘I know only what my wife has told me, that someone managed to get into the apartment and take those things.' He smiled again, this time a bit more warmly. 'You've returned what was of greatest value to us,' he said with a gracious nod in Brunetti's direction. 'The other things, the ones still missing, they really don't matter.' In response to Brunetti's reaction, he clarified this by adding, 'They have no sentimental value, that is. And not much material value, either.' He smiled again and added, ‘I say that to try to explain our response to the ro
bbery. Or lack of response.'

  It seemed to Brunetti, as he listened to Fornari and watched the man exercise control over his features, that he was working very hard to make it appear that he had little interest in the crime. Brunetti had no idea how he himself would respond to the theft, however temporary, of his wedding ring: he doubted that he would accept it with lofty philosophical tranquillity, as Fornari seemed to do. The cost of the man's attempt to remain calm was increasingly evident to Brunetti in the rhythmic motion of his right forefinger on the velvet fabric of the arm of his chair. Back and forth, back and forth, and then a sudden rectangle, and then quickly back and forth again.

  ‘I can certainly understand that’ Brunetti said easily. 'Unless something really important is taken, most people

  well’ he said with a nervous smile to suggest that he really ought not to be telling this sort of thing to a civilian 'they won't even bother to report a break-in.' He shrugged at this evidence of human behaviour as if to demonstrate sympathy with it.

  ‘I think you're right, Commissario’ Fornari said, as if the idea were a new one to him. 'In our case, we never even noticed the things were missing, so I can't say what we would have done had we realized a robbery had taken place.'

  ‘I see’ Brunetti said and smiled. Then he said, 'Your wife told me that your daughter was here that night.' Fornari's finger stopped moving, and Brunetti watched it join the others in a tight grip on the arm of the chair.

  After a long pause, he said, 'Yes, that's what Orsola told me. She said she checked on her before she went to bed.' Fornari smiled tightly at Brunetti and asked, 'Do you have children, Commissario?'

  'Yes. Two teenagers. A boy and a girl.'

  'Then you know how hard it is to break the habit of checking on them at night, I suppose.' Fornari's tactic, however obvious, was clever, one Brunetti had often employed: find common ground with your subject and use it to lead the conversation where you want it to go.