The Golden Egg

by Donna Leon

  ‘And she complained about that?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Renata said and grabbed the story back. ‘She said it would be all right, so Maria Pia went to the back and got Davide and told him to go with her, and they left.’ Though curious about how she could have ‘told’ him anything, Brunetti said nothing.

  ‘He came back, just the same as ever, so we forgot about it. Then, the next time she came in, she said he had frightened her.’

  ‘How?’ Brunetti asked.

  As with any old couple, the story passed between them and now Maria Pia continued. ‘She told me he carried the bags back to her house and up the stairs. They live on the fourth floor. She opened the door and pointed to the floor to tell him he could leave them there, but he pushed past her and found the kitchen and put them on the table. And then he took all of the things out of the bags and lined them up on the table. She came in and told him he could leave, that she’d do it herself, but she said he ignored her.’ She looked at Maria Pia, as if to ask whether a deaf person could do anything other than that.

  ‘When he was done, he folded the bags and put them on the counter, and when she tried to give him some money – this is what she told me, though I doubt she’d give anyone anything: it’s no accident those two are married – he ignored her and left.’

  When it seemed she had nothing more to add, Brunetti said, ‘But what did she complain about?’

  Renata made a huffing noise. ‘She said she was frightened when he went into the house, that she didn’t know what he’d do. I suppose she meant to her.’ She rolled her eyes to suggest the lunacy of this possibility or the woman’s fear.

  Brunetti limited himself to shaking his head in sage acknowledgement of humanity’s weaknesses. Turning to the proprietor, he said, making himself sound puzzled and not really curious, ‘I’m not sure I understand, Signora. If he was deaf, how did you make him understand that he was supposed to carry the bags home for her?’

  Maria Pia shrugged and answered, ‘I picked up the bags and handed them to him, and then I pointed to the woman and made walking movements with my fingers.’ She then did just that, walking her first two fingers halfway across the counter.

  ‘I’d done it before. Or he’d done it with other clients, so he understood. He took the bags and went and stood by the door, the way he always did.’

  ‘And then?’ prodded Brunetti.

  ‘He went out with her and came back, and I thought everything was all right. I should have known better. With her.’ Another huffing noise from Renata.

  ‘And what did you do, Signora?’ Brunetti asked, wondering if Signora Callegaro’s complaint had been enough to frighten her.

  ‘What could I do? I apologized to her and said he was perfectly harmless. She’d seen him here for years: she should have known that,’ she said with mounting anger.

  ‘Did you think about telling him not to work here any more?’ Brunetti asked before he realized how habitual it was to use that word: ‘tell’.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said, the anger now veering in his direction. ‘He’d been here a long time, and he was a good boy. He tried to help; he wanted to help.’ Brunetti saw Renata nod in agreement. ‘I couldn’t just toss him away because someone didn’t like the way he behaved. Let her take her husband’s jacket somewhere else to have it cleaned.’

  Brunetti smiled. ‘Good for you, Signora,’ he said without thinking.

  They both smiled: Renata’s nod of approval pleased him.

  ‘Did she ever come in again when he was here?’ he asked, again directing the question to both of them.

  ‘Only once,’ Maria Pia answered.

  ‘What happened?’

  Renata interrupted. ‘I saw her come in: I can see a lot from back there,’ she said, waving towards the curtain. ‘So when she came in, I grabbed Davide’s arm and told him to move back, out of sight.’ She raised her hands, palms inward, and made brushing motions that would cause anyone to move back from her.

  ‘Did he understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, surprised. ‘He understood a lot of things.’

  About sleeping pills? Brunetti wondered.

  He decided to risk a question about the mother. ‘That woman, Signora Callegaro, said something about Davide’s mother. It sounded like she knew her. And had a bad opinion of her.’

  ‘She has a bad opinion of everyone,’ Renata said angrily.

  Brunetti turned towards Maria Pia. This was enough to encourage her to say, ‘The mother, Ana, doesn’t have a very good reputation.’ Neither, it seemed, did Signora Callegaro, though Brunetti chose not to say this. His silence induced her to add, ‘Most of us around here have known her a long time, and once you know a little about her . . . well, then you have some sympathy for her.’

  ‘Why is that, Signora?’ Brunetti asked, unable to disguise his real curiosity.

  Maria Pia looked at her colleague, as if to ask her how it happened that she had already said this much.

  The opening of the door distracted them all and turned their attention to the new arrival. It was a young girl, no more than thirteen, pink slip in hand. ‘Ciao, Graziella,’ Maria Pia said, and turned to the long row of clothing. In a moment she was back with two silk dresses far too mature in style to be for the girl and a pair of black silk slacks equally unsuitable in size. The girl stood, looking around at the three adults, silent.

  When the parcel was wrapped, she handed the pink slip and a fifty Euro note to Maria Pia, took the change, nodded her thanks, picked up the parcel, and left.

  ‘What were you saying about the mother, Signora?’ Brunetti asked.

  The look Maria Pia gave him told Brunetti that time had run out, even before she said, ‘It’s just gossip, Commissario, and I don’t think it’s right to repeat it.’ She turned to Renata and asked, ‘Isn’t that right?’

  Renata looked at her employer, at Brunetti, and nodded. ‘Yes. People are saying he choked on something: that’s how he died. So she’s had enough, I’d say.’

  ‘Was he her only child?’ Brunetti managed to inject sufficient pathos into the question for Maria Pia to answer, ‘Yes.’ But nothing more.

  Brunetti accepted the futility of trying to learn anything else from the women: to continue to ask questions would only irritate them. ‘Thank you for your help, Signore,’ he said. Then, in a lighter tone, ‘I’m not going home now. I’ll ask my wife to send one of the kids over.’

  ‘Good,’ Renata said. ‘It’s always good to see them. Is your son still with that nice girl?’

  ‘Sara?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Years, it’s been,’ Renata said. ‘Good family. Good girl.’

  ‘I think so, too,’ Brunetti said, thanked them both again, and left.

  9

  As he walked towards the vaporetto stop at San Tomà, Brunetti considered what the three women had said about Ana Cavanella: Signora Callegaro had cast doubt on her love for her son; Renata had defended her; and Maria Pia had said anyone familiar with her story would feel sympathy for her. But what was the story?

  Maria Pia had also said that the people around there had known her for a long time. It should therefore be easy enough to find out about her: all he had to do was find someone who could begin to ask questions. But it had to be the right person, and they had to be the right questions. A woman, one who spoke Veneziano, not young and not flashy: a woman who looked and sounded like a lower middle-class housewife and mother, the sort of woman who would have stayed home to raise her children while her husband went out to work. Who more likely to feel sympathy with a woman who had lost her son? Who more likely to be honestly interested in the woman and her story?

  He stopped at the squad room and found Vianello, asked him to come up to his office for a moment. Pucetti started to get to his feet when he saw his superior, but Brunetti held up a hand and patted the air a few times, signalling that he would talk to him later.

  On the stairs, Brunetti asked, ‘You read the repo
rt on the man they found in Santa Croce yesterday?’

  ‘The suicide?’ Vianello asked.

  ‘He was a deaf mute,’ Brunetti said. Vianello paused in mid-step, then his foot hit the stair at an odd angle and he shifted off balance for a second.

  ‘You think it’s strange, too?’ Brunetti asked.

  On the landing, Vianello stopped again. ‘It’s not that it’s strange: it’s just that I’ve never heard of a deaf person killing himself.’ He gave this some thought, then added, ‘Maybe that’s because there are so few of them.’

  They went into the office, and when they were seated, Brunetti asked, as if posing a theoretical question, ‘Do you think Nadia would be willing to do a favour?’

  Vianello smiled and said, ‘You’re an evasive devil, aren’t you?’ When Brunetti made an interrogative face, Vianello laughed and said, ‘Aren’t favours usually done for someone?’

  Brunetti, found out, could do nothing but nod.

  ‘Who’s this one for?’ Vianello inquired. ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Me,’ Brunetti answered, then changed it to, ‘All of us.’

  ‘Justice in person, sort of?’ Vianello asked.

  ‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’

  ‘What’s the favour?’

  ‘I spoke to the women at the dry cleaner’s near my house. I’ve known them for years: it’s where I used to see the man who died. They let him help them there.’

  ‘And?’ Vianello asked.

  ‘His mother refused to talk to me. The women told me she’s lived in the neighbourhood a long time. And it

  seems she doesn’t have the best reputation.’

  ‘In a woman, that always means one thing,’ Vianello observed.

  ‘True enough,’ Brunetti agreed, then went on. ‘I must have pushed too hard with them because at a certain point they both stopped talking, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get anything more out of them.’

  ‘Which means?’ Vianello asked in the same level voice.

  ‘That we need someone else to ask them questions, someone less threatening.’

  ‘What makes you think they’d talk to Nadia?’ Vianello asked, not bothering to ask for confirmation that this was the favour Brunetti wanted. ‘She doesn’t live near there.’

  ‘I know. But she’s Venetian: anyone who listens to her knows that.’ Vianello looked doubtful, so Brunetti added, ‘And she’s simpatica. People trust her instinctively: I’ve seen it happen.’ Before Vianello could object, Brunetti added, ‘None of the female officers is old enough for people to trust them.’

  Vianello gazed away. Brunetti watched the Inspector consider the idea and its implications. Though she would be, in a sense, working for his own employers, even Vianello was not free of the citizen’s instinctive distrust of the state. Brunetti watched his friend as he contemplated the ways Nadia might be put in the public eye, how a record of what she heard and reported might somehow be used against her and, ultimately, against him.

  Brunetti thought he saw the instant when Vianello’s face registered the thought of Lieutenant Scarpa and the consequences of his learning of Nadia’s involvement – unauthorized involvement – in a police investigation. Immediately after – there was not even the beating of a heart – Vianello said, ‘I think I’d like to suggest an alternative candidate.’

  Brunetti ran through the list again, this time even considering his colleague, Claudia Griffoni, only to exclude her at once because she was Sicilian. ‘Who?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Just as you said, “una donna simpatica e veneziana”.’ With a smile, Vianello added, ‘And this one lives in the neighbourhood.’

  Baffled, Brunetti wondered if Vianello had some other branch of the service in mind. Was there a woman Carabiniere who could be enlisted to help them? He shook his head as a sign of his confusion and said, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Paola,’ Vianello said, and, as Brunetti’s face made it evident he still did not understand, the Inspector added, ‘Your wife.’

  The word ‘but’ formed itself in Brunetti’s mind. Luckily, he did not speak it, for he realized he would do so only in the sentence that insisted he could not ask his wife to do such a thing. Or would not. He looked away and then back at his friend. ‘I see,’ he said, admitting the truth.

  Brunetti was silent, as if to allow a sound, or a smell, to dissipate, and then he said, ‘There’s no record of Davide Cavanella’s birth.’

  ‘If he’s Venetian, that’s hard to believe,’ Vianello said.

  ‘He could have been born anywhere,’ Brunetti replied. ‘His mother’s from the neighbourhood and she speaks Veneziano, but that doesn’t mean he had to be born here.’

  ‘How long have you seen him around?’ Vianello asked.

  ‘Ten, fifteen years.’

  Vianello glanced away, taking this in, then asked, ‘Has she started looking in other places?’ He didn’t bother to name Signorina Elettra nor to suggest what the other places might be.

  ‘Pucetti’s working on it.’ Before Vianello could express his surprise, Brunetti explained: ‘Baptism records, health card, school records, pension for him and for his mother, hospital records,’ then added, ‘Simple things,’ thus acknowledging that he had left the extra-legal explorations to Signorina Elettra.

  ‘There’s no getting away from them, is there?’ Vianello said in a voice slowed by deep reflection. Before Brunetti could ask, the Inspector continued, ‘They can go into my bank account now and find out where I spend my money and what I spend it on. Or they can check my credit card and see what I’ve been buying.’

  Brunetti opened his mouth to speak, but Vianello held up his hand to stop him. ‘I know what you’re going to say: that we get and use the same information.’ He smiled at Brunetti, reached over to pat his arm, as if to persuade his friend that he was not about to begin raving.

  ‘Think of the chip in our telefonino,’ Vianello went on. ‘It leaves a record of where we go. Well, where it goes.’ Again, he held up his hand. ‘I know. We use that information, too. But who leaves his telefonino behind? Even that fool who killed his wife kept it in his pocket when he dumped her in the woods,’ he said, referring to a recent case they had solved in no time because of this very simple error on the part of the murderer.

  ‘Then what are you talking about?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘That the way we think about it has changed, and we don’t question it. We’ve come to think it’s normal that other people know what we’re buying or reading or where we’ve been.’ Vianello paused, giving Brunetti a chance to object.

  He did not, so Vianello added, ‘And the internet? Every time we look at something, we leave a permanent record behind: that we read it or glanced at it, or bought it or tried to buy it, or, for all I know, looked at the timetable for going there.’

  Brunetti was unsettled by the feeling that he had looked at another person but seen what he saw in the mirror every morning, heard a voice speaking and recognized it as his own. To the best of his knowledge, he had never left traces behind when breaking a law. He had, however, grown increasingly nervous about the red, howling trail of law-breaking that Signorina Elettra might have left behind her. It wouldn’t even have to be Lieutenant Scarpa who discovered it for her – and anyone connected with what she had done – to be ruined: a well-intentioned journalist could land them all in court, disgraced and unemployed, and without a future.

  He pushed this thought away, as he had so many times over the years. ‘This won’t get us anywhere,’ he said.

  Like the other partner in an old marriage who by now knew all the patterns, Vianello pursed his lips and gave a half-tilt of his head. ‘Let’s call Pucetti, then, and see what he’s found.’

  As it turned out, the young officer had found nothing. Like Dottor Rizzardi, Pucetti had failed to find evidence of the passage through life of Davide Cavanella: he seemed, as far as officialdom was concerned, to have sprung into life only by leaving it. Before his name was written on the form that accompanied
his body to the morgue at the Ospedale Civile, it had not been entered in any official register kept by the city of Venice. There was no birth certificate; the files of the Church had no registry of his baptism or first communion. He had not attended school in the city, neither the public grammar schools nor the special school in Santa Croce for deaf children. He had never been issued a carta d’identità; he had never been registered with the health service,

  nor had he ever been in hospital. He had never applied for a driver’s licence, passport, gun permit, or hunting licence.

  Knowing little about the dead man, Pucetti had

  also searched for evidence of his marriage or the birth

  of his children, and in those offices had found the same void.

  When Pucetti, sitting beside Vianello in front of Brunetti’s desk, had finished his list of non-information, the three men sat in silent amazement until Brunetti said, speaking to Vianello, ‘It seems some people can still slip through the net.’

  ‘But it’s impossible,’ said a scandalized Vianello. ‘We should be able to find him.’

  Brunetti refrained from comment, and Pucetti spoke. ‘I looked everywhere, Commissario, even in our arrest files, but he’s not there. Nothing. I even went down to the archives, but there’s no file on him.’ Then, hesitantly, as if afraid he might have gone too far, Pucetti continued, ‘I did find a Cavanella in the files, sir.’

  Vianello turned to face the young officer, and Brunetti said, ‘Good. Did you bring it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, taking a discoloured Manila folder from a larger one that lay on his lap and handing both across the desk to Brunetti. ‘Cavanella, Ana,’ was written on the file; handwritten, Brunetti was surprised to note. The Manila cover had once been light blue, but the years, exposure to light, and the penetrating humidity of the archive had turned it a sickly grey and rendered the cover unpleasant to the touch.

  ‘Have you looked in it?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Pucetti said. Then, risking a small smile, he confessed ‘But I’d like to.’