by Donna Leon
‘The sailing lessons.’
‘Ah yes,’ Chiara said, slipping into English with eel-like ease, ‘I long to sail a ship.’
Brunetti left her to it, refilled his glass and poured out another, then went towards Paola’s study. The door was open, and she lay on the sofa, only her forehead visible over the top of her book.
‘Captain Aubrey, I presume,’ he said in English.
She put the book down on her stomach and smiled at him. Without a word, she reached up and took the glass he offered. She took a sip, pulled her legs up toward her to give him room to sit and, when he did, asked, ‘Bad day?’
He sighed, leaning back in the sofa and placing his right hand on her ankles. ‘Overdose. He was only twenty, an architectural student at the university.’
Neither spoke for a long time, and then Paola said, ‘How lucky we were to be born when we were.’
He glanced at her and she went on. ‘Before drugs. Well, before everyone used drugs.’ She sipped at her wine, then added, ‘I think I might have smoked marijuana twice in my whole life. And thank God it never did anything to me.’
‘Why, “Thank God”?’
‘Because if I had liked it or if it had done for me what it’s supposed to do for people, I might have liked it enough to use it again. Or to move on to something stronger.’
He thought of his similar good fortune.
‘What killed him?’ she asked.
‘Heroin.’
She shook her head.
‘I was with his parents until just now.’ Brunetti sipped again at his wine. ‘His father’s a farmer. They came down from the Trentino to identify him and then went back.’
‘Do they have other children?’
‘There’s one younger sister; I don’t know if there are others.’
‘I hope so,’ Paola said. She stretched out her legs and stuck her feet under his thigh. ‘Do you want to eat?’
‘Yes, but I want to take a shower first.’
‘All right,’ she said, pulling her feet out and setting them on the floor. ‘I’ve made the sauce with peppers and sausage.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll send Chiara to get you when it’s ready.’ She got to her feet and set her own glass, still more than half full, on the table in front of the sofa. Leaving him there in her study, she went back to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.
By the time they all sat down, Raffi having returned home just as Paola was serving the pasta, Brunetti’s spirits had lifted a bit. The sight of his two children swirling the freshly made pappardelle around their forks filled him with an animal sense of security and well-being, and he began to eat his own with gusto. Paola had gone to the trouble of scorching and removing the skins of the red peppers, so they were soft and sweet, just as he liked them. The sausages contained large flecks of red and white peppercorns which lay inside the tender filling like depth charges of taste, ready to burst open at the first bite, and Gianni the butcher had used a lot of garlic when making them.
Everyone had second helpings, embarrassingly similar in size to the first. Afterwards, no one had room for anything except green salad, but when that was gone, each of them discovered a tiny space capable of holding just the smallest serving of fresh strawberries flavoured with a drop of balsamic vinegar.
During all of this, Chiara continued in her role as Ancient Mariner, endlessly cataloguing the flora and fauna of far-off lands, presenting them with the shocking information that most eighteenth-century sailors could not swim, and, until Paola reminded her they were eating, describing the symptoms of scurvy.
The children disappeared, Raffi to the Greek aorist and Chiara, if Brunetti understood her aright, to shipwreck in the South Atlantic.
‘Is she going to read all of those books?’ he asked, sipping at his grappa and keeping Paola company as she did the dishes.
‘I certainly hope so,’ Paola answered, attention on the serving platter.
‘Is she reading them because you liked them so much or because she likes them herself?’
Her back to him as she scoured at the bottom of a pot, Paola asked, ‘How old is she?’
‘Fifteen,’ Brunetti answered.
‘Can you name one living fifteen-year-old, indeed, one fifteen-year-old who has ever existed, who does what her mother wants her to do?’
‘Does that mean adolescence has struck?’ he asked. They’d gone through it with Raffi, about twenty years of it, if he remembered correctly, so he did not relish the idea of experiencing it again with Chiara.
‘It’s different with girls,’ Paola said, turning around and wiping her hands on a towel. She poured herself a whisper of grappa and leaned back against the sink.
‘Different how?’
‘They just oppose their mothers, not their fathers, too.’
He considered this. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s in the genes or in the culture, so there’s no way we can get around it, whether it’s good or bad. We can just hope it doesn’t last a long time.’
‘How long would that be?’
‘Until she’s eighteen.’ Paola took another sip, and together they considered the prospect.
‘Would the Carmelites take her until then?’
‘Probably not,’ Paola said, voice rich with winsome regret.
‘Do you think this is why the Arabs let their daughters marry so young, to avoid all of this?’
Paola remembered the heated defence Chiara had made that morning of her need to have her own telephone. ‘I’m certain of it.’
‘No wonder people speak of the Wisdom of the East.’
She turned and set her glass in the bottom of the sink. ‘I’ve still got some papers to grade. Want to come and sit with me and see how your Greeks are doing on their trip home while I do it?’
Gratefully Brunetti got to his feet and followed her down the hall to her study.
15
THE NEXT MORNING, and with considerable reluctance, Brunetti did something he seldom did: he involved one of his children in his work. Raffi didn’t have to get to school until eleven and had a date to meet Sara Paganuzzi before then, so he appeared at breakfast looking bright and cheerful, qualities which seldom accompanied him at that hour. Paola was still asleep, and Chiara was in the bathroom, so they sat alone in the kitchen, eating the fresh brioche that Raffi had gone downstairs to get at the local pastry shop.
‘Raffi,’ Brunetti began, as they ate their first brioche, ‘do you know anything about who sells drugs here?’
Raffi paused with the remaining piece of brioche halfway to his mouth. ‘Here?’
‘In Venice.’
‘Drugs like hard drugs or light stuff like marijuana?’
Though he was faintly troubled by the distinction Raffi made and would have liked to know more about the reason for Raffi’s casual dismissal of ‘light stuff like marijuana’, he didn’t ask. ‘Hard drugs: heroin specifically.’
‘Is this about that student who OD’d?’ he asked, and when Brunetti looked surprised his son opened the Gazzettino and showed him the article. A postage-stamp-sized photo of a young man looked up at him: it could have been any young man with dark hair and two eyes. It could easily have been Raffi.
‘Yes.’
Raffi broke the remainder of his brioche in two pieces and dipped one into his coffee. After some time he said, ‘There’s talk that there are people at the university who can get it for you.’
‘People?’
‘Students. At least I think so. Well,’ he said after a moment’s reflection, ‘people who are enrolled for classes there.’ He picked up his cup and sat with his elbows propped on the table, the cup encircled in both hands, a gesture he must surely have picked up from Paola. ‘You want me to ask around?’
‘No.’ Brunetti’s answer was immediate. Before his son could respond to the sharpness of his voice, Brunetti added, ‘I’m just curious in general, wondered what people were saying.’ He fi
nished his brioche and sipped at his coffee.
‘Sara’s brother’s there, in the Department of Economics. I could ask him what he knows.’
The temptation was strong, but Brunetti dismissed it with a bored, ‘No, don’t bother. It was just an idea.’
Raffi lowered his cup to the table. ‘I’m not interested in them, you know, Papà.’
Brunetti was struck by how deep his voice had become. Soon he’d be a man. Or maybe his need to comfort his father meant that he already was one.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Brunetti said. He reached across the table and patted his son’s arm. Once, twice, and then he got up and went over to the stove. ‘Shall I make some more?’ he asked, carrying the coffee pot to the sink and opening it.
Raffi glanced down at his watch. ‘No. Thanks, Papà, but I’ve got to go.’ He pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and left the kitchen. A few minutes later, as Brunetti waited for the coffee, he heard the front door close. He listened to Raffi’s footsteps thundering down the first flight, but the sudden eruption of coffee wiped them out.
Because it was still early enough for the boats not to be crowded, Brunetti took the 82 and got off at San Zaccaria. He bought two newspapers there and took them to his office. No further mention was made of Rossi’s death, and the article about Marco Landi gave little more than his name and age. Above it there was the by now routine story about a car full of young people that had splattered itself, and their lives, against a plane tree at the side of one of the state highways leading to Treviso.
He’d read the same grim story so many times during the last few years that he hardly had to bother to look at this one to know what had happened. The youths – in this case, two boys and two girls – had left a disco after three in the morning and had driven off in a car belonging to the father of the driver. Some time later, the driver had been struck by what the newspapers ritually referred to as, un colpo di sonno, and the car had gone off the road and into a tree. It was still too early to know the cause of the attack of sleepiness, but it generally turned out to be alcohol or drugs. Usually, though, that wasn’t determined until the autopsy was performed on the driver and on however many others he had killed along with himself. And by that time the story had dropped off the front pages and been forgotten, replaced by the photos of other young people, victims of their youth and its many desires.
He left the newspaper on the desk and went down to Patta’s office. Signorina Elettra was nowhere in sight, so he knocked at the door and, when he heard Patta’s shouted response, went in.
It was a different man who sat behind the desk, at least different from the one who had sat behind it the last time Brunetti was there. Patta was back: tall, handsome, dressed in a lightweight suit that caressed his broad shoulders with respectful, gossamer fingers. His skin glowed with health, his eyes with serenity.
‘Yes, what is it, Commissario?’ he asked, looking up from the single sheet of paper which lay on the desk in front of him.
‘I’d like a word with you, Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said, coming to stand next to the chair in front of Patta’s desk, waiting to be told to sit down.
Patta flicked back a starched cuff and glanced down at the golden wafer on his wrist. ‘I have a few minutes. What is it?’
‘It’s about Jesolo, sir. And your son. I wondered if you’d come to any decision.’
Patta pushed himself back in his chair. Seeing that Brunetti could easily look down at the paper in front of him, he turned it over and folded his hands on its blank back. ‘I’m not sure that there’s any decision to be made, Commissario,’ he said, sounding puzzled that Brunetti should think of asking such a question.
‘I wanted to know if your son was willing to talk about the people from whom he got the drugs.’ With habitual caution, Brunetti restrained himself from saying, bought the drugs.
‘If he knew who they were, I’m sure he would be more than willing to tell the police whatever he could.’ In Patta’s voice he heard the same injured confusion he’d heard in the voice of a generation of unwilling witnesses and suspects, and on his face he saw that same patently innocent, faintly bewildered, smile. His tone invited no contradiction.
‘If he knew who they were?’ Brunetti repeated, turning it into a question.
‘Exactly. As you know, he has no idea of how these drugs came into his possession, nor of who might have planted them.’ Patta’s voice was as calm as his eyes were steady.
Ah, that’s how it’s going to be played, Brunetti thought. ‘And his fingerprints, sir?’
Patta’s smile was broad, and it appeared to be genuine. ‘I know. I know how that must have appeared when he was first questioned. But he told me, and he’s told the police, that he found the envelope in his pocket when he came back from dancing and reached into his pocket to get a cigarette. He had no idea of what it was, so, as anyone would do, he opened the envelope to see what was inside, and when he did that, he must have touched some of the packages.’
‘Some?’ Brunetti asked, his voice deliberately free of all scepticism.
‘Some,’ Patta repeated with a finality that put an end to discussion.
‘Have you seen today’s paper, sir?’ Brunetti asked, surprising himself as much as his superior with the question.
‘No,’ Patta answered, then added, Brunetti thought gratuitously, ‘I’ve been too busy since I got here to have time to read the paper.’
‘Four teenagers were involved in an accident near Treviso last night. Coming back from a disco, their car went off the road and into a tree. One boy’s dead, a university student, and the others are badly injured.’ Brunetti stopped, an entirely diplomatic pause.
‘No, I haven’t seen it.’ Patta said. He too paused for a moment, but this was the pause of an artillery commander, deciding how heavy to make the next salvo. ‘Why do you mention it?’
‘He’s dead, sir, one of the passengers. The paper said their car was going about a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour when they hit the tree.’
‘That’s certainly unfortunate, Commissario,’ Patta observed with much the same involvement one might devote to a remark about the decline of the banded nuthatch. He returned his attention to his desk, turned the paper over and studied it, then glanced up at Brunetti. ‘If it happened in Treviso, then I imagine the case belongs to them, not to us.’ He looked studiedly down at the paper, read a few lines, then looked back up at Brunetti, as if surprised to see him still there. ‘Was that all, Commissario?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. That’s all.’
Outside the office, Brunetti found that his heart was pounding so hard he had to lean against the wall, glad that Signorina Elettra was not at her desk. He stood still until his breathing quieted, and when he was again in control of himself, he went back up to his office.
He did what he knew he had to do: routine would direct his mind away from the rage he felt toward Patta. He pushed papers around on his desk until he found the number that had been in Rossi’s wallet. He dialled the Ferrara number. This time, the phone was picked up on the third ring. ‘Gavini and Cappelli,’ a woman’s voice answered.
‘Good morning, Signora. This is Commissario Guido Brunetti of the Venice police.’
‘One moment, please,’ she said, as though she’d been waiting for his call. ‘I’ll put you through.’
The line went dead as she transferred the call, then a man’s voice said, ‘Gavini. I’m glad someone finally answered our call. I hope you can tell us something.’ The voice was deep and rich and gave every sign of eagerness to hear Brunetti’s news, whatever it should be.
It took a moment for Brunetti to respond. ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, Signor Gavini. I haven’t received any message from you.’ When Gavini said nothing, he added, ‘But I’d like to know what you’re expecting the Venice police to call you about.’
‘About Sandro,’ Gavini said. ‘I called there after his death. His wife told me he’d said he’d found someone in Veni
ce who might be willing to talk.’
Brunetti was on the point of interrupting him when Gavini paused and asked, ‘Are you sure no one there got my message?’
‘I don’t know, Signore. Whom did you speak to?’
‘I spoke to one of the officers; I don’t remember his name.’
‘And could you repeat to me what you told him?’ Brunetti asked, pulling a sheet of paper toward him.
‘I told you: I called after Sandro’s death,’ Gavini said, and then asked, ‘Do you know about that?’
‘No.’
‘Sandro Cappelli,’ Gavini said, as if the name would explain everything. It did strike a faint chord in Brunetti’s memory: he couldn’t remember why he knew the name, but he was sure that whatever he knew of it was bad. ‘He was my partner in the practice here,’ Gavini added.
‘What sort of practice, Signor Gavini?’
‘Legal. We’re lawyers. Don’t you know anything about this?’ For the first time, a note of exasperation slipped into his voice, the note that inevitably came into the voice of anyone who spent enough time dealing on the phone with an unresponsive bureaucracy.
Gavini’s saying that they were lawyers jogged Brunetti’s memory. He remembered Cappelli’s murder, almost a month ago. ‘Yes, I know the name. He was shot, wasn’t he?’
‘Standing at the window of his office, a client sitting behind him, at eleven in the morning. Someone shot him through the window with a hunting rifle.’ As he rapped out the details of his partner’s death, Gavini’s voice took on the staccato rhythm of real anger.
Brunetti had read the newspaper accounts of the murder, but he knew no facts. ‘Is there a suspect?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ Gavini shot back, making no attempt to stop his anger from boiling over. ‘But we all know who did it.’
Brunetti waited for Gavini to spell it out for him. ‘The moneylenders. Sandro’d been after them for years. He had four cases running against them when he died.’
The policeman in Brunetti caused him to ask, ‘Is there any evidence of this, Signor Gavini?’
