by Donna Leon
Signorina Elettra reached forward and touched something on her computer. It made a sudden droning noise, and then the screen went blank. ‘I thought I’d stop now and go and have un’ ombra before lunch. Would you like to join me, sir?’ She smiled at her own flagrant boldness: a married man, her boss, and she was inviting him for a drink.
Brunetti, moved by the charity of it, said, ‘Yes, I’d like that, Signorina.’
He made the call a little after two. A woman answered the phone, and Brunetti asked to speak to Signor Landi. He breathed silent, directionless thanks when she displayed no curiosity and said she’d get her husband.
‘Landi,’ a deep voice answered.
‘Signor Landi,’ Brunetti said, ‘this is Commissario Guido Brunetti. I’m calling from the Questura of Venice.’
Before he could go on, Landi cut him off, his own voice suddenly tight and loud. ‘Is it Marco?’
‘Yes, Signor Landi, it is.’
‘How bad is it?’ Landi asked in a softer voice.
‘I’m afraid it couldn’t be worse, Signor Landi.’
Silence drifted across the line. Brunetti imagined the man, the newspaper in his hand, standing at the phone and looking back toward the kitchen, where his wife was clearing up after the last peaceful meal she would ever have.
Landi’s voice grew almost inaudible, but there was only one thing he could have asked, so Brunetti filled in the missing sounds. ‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry to tell you, he is.’
There was another pause, this one even longer, and then Landi asked, ‘When?’
‘We found him today.’
‘Who did?’
‘The police. A neighbour called.’ Brunetti could not bring himself to give the details or to talk about the time that had passed since Marco died. ‘He said he hadn’t seen Marco recently and called us to check on the apartment. When we did, we found him.’
‘Was it drugs?’
No autopsy had been performed. The mechanism of the state had not yet considered the evidence surrounding the boy’s death, had not weighed and considered it and brought judgement as to the cause of his death; thus it would be rash and so irresponsible as to merit official reprimand for an officer of the law to venture his own opinion in this matter. ‘Yes,’ Brunetti said.
The man on the other end of the line was crying. Brunetti heard the long, deep gasps as he choked on his grief and fought for air. A minute passed. Brunetti held the phone away from him and looked off to the left, where a plaque on the wall gave the names of police officers who had died in the First World War. He started to read their names, the dates of their birth and the dates of their death. One had been only twenty, the same age as Marco.
From the receiver, he heard the dim sound of a higher voice, raised in curiosity or fear, but then the sound was cut off as Landi covered the phone with his hand. Another minute passed. Then he could hear Landi’s voice. Brunetti pulled the phone to his ear, but all he heard was Landi saying, ‘I’ll call you back,’ and the connection was broken.
While he sat and waited, Brunetti considered the nature of this crime. If Guerriero was right and Marco had died because his body had grown unaccustomed to the terrible shock of heroin during the time he hadn’t been using it, then what crime had been committed other than the sale of a prohibited substance? And what sort of crime was that, to sell heroin to an addict, and where existed the judge to treat it as more than a misdemeanour? If, instead, the heroin that killed him had been laced with something dangerous or lethal, how to determine at what point along the trail that stretched from the poppy fields of the East to the veins of the West that that substance had been added, and by whom?
No matter how he considered it, there was no way Brunetti could see that this crime would have serious legal consequences. Nor could he see much likelihood that the identity of the person responsible would ever be discovered. And yet the young student who drew the whimsical rabbits and had the wit to hide them in different places in each of his drawings was no less dead for that.
He got up from his desk and stood at the window. The sun beat down on Campo San Lorenzo. All of the men who lived in the old-age home had answered the summons to sleep, leaving the campo to the cats and the people who crossed it at this hour. Brunetti leaned forward, resting his hands on the sill, and watched the campo as if in search of an omen. After half an hour, Landi called to say that he and his wife would arrive in Venice at seven that evening and asked how they could get to the Questura.
When Landi answered that, yes, they would be coming by train, Brunetti said he would meet them and take them to the hospital by boat.
‘The hospital?’ Landi asked, hopeless hope springing into his voice.
‘I’m sorry, Signor Landi. It’s where they’re taken.’
‘Ah,’ was Landi’s only answer, and again he broke the connection.
Later that afternoon, Brunetti called a friend who ran a hotel in Campo Santa Marina and asked if he had a double room available that he would hold for some people who might stay the night. People called somewhere by disaster forgot about things like eating and sleeping and all those intrusive details showing that life continued.
He asked Vianello to come with him, telling himself it would be easier for the Landis to recognize the police if someone in uniform met their train, though part of him knew that Vianello was the best person to take along, for himself as much as for the Landis.
The train was on time, and Marco’s parents were easy to spot as they came down the platform. She was a tall, spare woman in a grey dress that had been badly wrinkled by the trip: she wore her hair in a small bun at the back of her head, a fashion that was decades out of date. Her husband held her arm, and anyone who saw them could see that it was not a gesture of courtesy or habit: she walked unsteadily, as if in the grip of drink or illness. Landi was short and muscular, with an iron-hard body that spoke of a lifetime spent at work, hard work. In other circumstances, Brunetti might have seen the contrast between them as comic, but not now. Landi’s face was to the darkness of leather; his pale hair provided thin protection to his scalp, which was tanned the same colour as his face. He had the look of a man who spent all of his days outside, and Brunetti remembered the mother’s letter about spring planting.
They saw Vianello’s uniform, and Landi led his wife toward it. Brunetti introduced himself and his sergeant and explained that they had a boat waiting. Only Landi shook hands; only he was capable of speech. His wife could do no more than nod toward them and wipe at her eyes with her left hand.
It was quickly done. At the hospital, Brunetti suggested that Signor Landi alone identify Marco, but they both insisted on going into the room to see their son. Brunetti and Vianello waited outside, neither speaking. When the Landis emerged, some minutes later, both were sobbing openly. Procedure demanded that some formal identification be made, that the person who identified the body do so in speech or writing to the accompanying official.
When they had calmed down, the only thing Brunetti said was, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of reserving you a room for the night, if you’d prefer to stay.’
Landi turned to his wife, but she shook her head.
‘No. We’ll go back, sir. I think it’s better. There’s a train at eight thirty. We checked before we came.’
He was right: it was better this way, Brunetti knew. Tomorrow would be the autopsy, and any parent should be spared that or the knowledge of that. He led them out the emergency entrance of the hospital and back to the police boat at the dock. Montisi saw them coming and had the boat unmoored even before they reached it. Vianello took Signora Landi’s arm and helped her on board and then down into the cabin. Brunetti took Landi’s arm as they stepped aboard but with gentle pressure stopped him from following his wife down the steps into the cabin.
As accustomed to boats as to breathing, Montisi moved them smoothly away from the dock, running the motor at a low speed so that their passage was virtually silent. Landi kept
his eyes lowered toward the water, unwilling to look at this city that had taken his son’s life.
‘Can you tell me something about Marco?’ Brunetti asked.
‘What do you want to know?’ Landi asked, his eyes still lowered.
‘You knew about the drugs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had he stopped?’
‘I thought so. He came home to us late last year. He said he had stopped and wanted to spend time at home before coming back here. He was healthy, and he did a man’s work this winter. Together we put a new roof on the barn. You can’t do that kind of work if you’re taking those things or your body is sick with them.’ Landi kept his eyes on the water as the boat glided across it.
‘Did he ever talk about it?’
‘The drugs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only once. He knew I couldn’t stand hearing about it.’
‘Did he tell you why he did it or where he got them?’
Landi looked up at Brunetti. His eyes were the blue of glaciers, his face curiously unlined, though roughened by sun and wind. ‘Who can understand why they do that to their bodies?’ He shook his head and returned his gaze to the water.
Brunetti quelled the impulse to apologize for his questions and asked, ‘Did you know about his life here? His friends? What he did?’
Landi answered a different question. ‘He always wanted to be an architect. Ever since he was a little boy, all he was ever interested in was buildings and how to make them. I don’t understand that. I’m just a farmer. That’s all I know about, farming.’ As the boat moved out into the waters of the laguna, a wave lurched against them, but Landi kept his balance as though he’d felt nothing. ‘There’s no future in the land, not any more, and there’s no living to be made from it. We all know that, but we don’t know what else to do.’ He sighed.
Still not looking up, he went on. ‘Marco came here to study. Two years ago. And when he came home at the end of the first year, we knew something was wrong, but we didn’t know what.’ He looked up at Brunetti. ‘We’re simple people: we don’t know about things like that, about drugs.’ He looked away, saw the buildings that faced the laguna, and looked down at the water again.
The wind freshened, and Brunetti had to lean down to hear what he said. ‘He came back at Christmas last year, and he was very troubled. So I talked to him, and he told me. He said he had stopped and didn’t want to do it any more, that he knew it would kill him.’ Brunetti shifted his weight and he saw Landi’s work-hardened hands clenched to the railing of the boat.
‘He couldn’t explain why he did it or what it was like, but I know he meant it when he said he didn’t want to do it any more. We didn’t tell his mother.’ Landi stopped.
Brunetti finally asked, ‘What happened?’
‘He stayed with us for the rest of the winter, and we worked together on the barn. That’s why I know he was all right. Then, two months ago, he said he wanted to come back to school and start to study again, that there wasn’t any danger any more. I believed him. So he came back here to Venice, and it seemed that he was all right. And then you called.’
The boat swung out of the Canale di Cannaregio and into the Grand Canal. Brunetti asked, ‘Did he ever mention friends? A girlfriend?’
The question seemed to trouble Landi. ‘He has a girlfriend at home.’ He paused, his answer obviously unfinished. ‘But there was someone here, I think. Marco called here in the winter, three or four times, and a girl called a few times and asked to talk to him. But he never told us anything.’
The motor slipped into reverse for a second, and the boat glided to a stop in front of the station. Montisi stopped the motor and came out of the cabin. Silently, he tossed the rope around a stanchion and stepped ashore, then pulled the boat up parallel with the landing. Landi and Brunetti turned, and the farmer helped his wife up the last step from the cabinHolding her arm, he helped her from the boat.
Brunetti asked Landi for his tickets and, when he handed them to him, gave them to Vianello, who walked quickly ahead to stamp them and find the correct platform. By the time the three of them reached the top of the stairs, Vianello was back. He led them to platform five, where the train for Verona was waiting. In silence, they walked along until Vianello, glancing up through the windows of the waiting train, saw an empty compartment. He walked to the door at the head of the carriage, stood to one side, and offered his arm to Signora Landi. She took it and pulled herself wearily up into the train. Landi followed her, then turned and reached down and extended his hand, first to Vianello, then to Brunetti. He nodded once but had no more words to give them. He turned and followed his wife down the corridor toward the empty compartment.
Brunetti and Vianello waited by the door until the conductor blew his whistle and waved a green cloth in the air before stepping up into the now-moving train; the door slammed shut automatically and the train started on its way toward the bridge and the world that lay beyond Venice. As the compartment moved slowly past them, Brunetti saw that the Landis sat together, his arm around her shoulder. Both stared at the seat opposite them and did not turn to look out the window as the train pulled past the two policemen.
14
FROM A PHONE in front of the station, surprised at himself for remembering to do it, Brunetti called and cancelled the hotel reservation. After that, the only thing he had the energy to do was to go home. He and Vianello boarded the number 82 but found little to say to one another as the boat took them to Rialto. Their farewell was subdued, and Brunetti took his misery with him across the bridge, down through the now-closed market, and toward home. Even the explosion of orchids in Biancat’s window did nothing to lift his spirits, nor did the smell of rich cooking on the second-floor landing of his building.
The smells were richer still inside his own home: someone had taken a shower or bath and had used the rosemary-scented shampoo Paola had brought home last week; and she had prepared sausages and peppers. He hoped that she had gone to the trouble of making fresh pasta to put under them.
He hung his jacket in the closet. As soon as he walked into the kitchen, Chiara, who was sitting at the table doing what looked like some sort of geography project – the surface of the table was covered with maps, a ruler, and a protractor – launched herself at him and wrapped herself around him. He thought of the smell from Marco’s apartment and by a conscious act of will did not move away from her.
‘Papà,’ she said, even before he had time to kiss her or say hello, ‘could I take sailing lessons this summer?’
Brunetti looked, but looked in vain, for Paola, who might have been able to give him some explanation.
‘Sailing lessons?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, Papà,’ she said, looking up and smiling. ‘I’ve got a book and I’m trying to teach myself navigation, but I think someone else will have to teach me how to sail a boat.’ She took his hand and pulled him toward the kitchen table, which, he saw, was indeed covered with maps of all sorts, but maps of shoals and coastlines, only the edges where countries and continents kissed the water.
She moved away from him and stood over the table, looking down at the book that lay open below her, another book propping it open. ‘Look, Papà,’ she said, jabbing a finger down at a list of numbers, ‘if they don’t have any clouds, and they have an accurate set of charts and a chronometer, they can tell just about where they are, anywhere in the world.’
‘Who can, angel?’ he asked, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of Tokai.
‘Captain Aubrey and his crew,’ she said, in a voice that suggested the answer should have been obvious.
‘And who is Captain Aubrey?’ he asked.
‘He’s the captain of the Surprise,’ she said, looking at him as if he’d just admitted not knowing his own address.
‘The Surprise?’ he asked, no closer to illumination.
‘In the books, Papà, the ones about the war with the French.’ Before he could admit his ignorance, she added, ‘
They’re wicked, aren’t they, the French?’
Brunetti, who thought they were, said nothing, still having no idea of what they were talking about. He poured himself a small glass of wine and took a large sip, then another. Again, he glanced down at the maps and noticed that the blue parts contained many ships, but old-fashioned ones, surmounted by billowing clouds of white sails, and what he took to be tritons in the maps’ corners, rising up from the waters with conch shells raised to their lips.
He gave in. ‘What books, Chiara?’
‘The ones Mamma gave me, in English, about the English sea captain and his friend and the war against Napoleon.’
Ah, those books. He took another sip of his wine. ‘And do you like them as much as Mamma does?’
‘Oh,’ Chiara said, looking up at him with a serious expression, ‘I don’t think anyone could like them as much as she does.’
Four years ago, Brunetti had been abandoned by his wife of almost twenty years for a period of more than a month while she systematically read her way through, at his count, eighteen sea novels dealing with the unending years of war between the British and the French. The time had seemed no less long to him, for it was a time when he, too, ate hasty meals, half-cooked meat, dry bread, and was often driven to seek relief in excessive quantities of grog. Because she seemed to have no other interest, he had taken a look at one of the books, if only to have something to talk about at their thrown-together meals. But he had found it discursive, filled with strange facts and stranger animals, and had abandoned the attempt after only a few pages and before making the acquaintance of Captain Aubrey. Fortunately, Paola was a fast reader, and she had returned to the twentieth century after finishing the last one, apparently none the worse for the shipwreck, battle, and scurvy that had menaced her during those weeks.
Thus the maps. ‘I’ll have to talk to your mother about it,’ he said.
‘About what?’ Chiara asked, head again bent over the maps, her left hand busy with her calculator, a device Brunetti thought Captain Aubrey might have envied her.
