by Donna Leon
‘Then let’s,’ Brunetti said and opened it. He discovered an outdated form with the elaborate seal of the Ministry of the Interior stamped on the top, taking up almost a quarter of the page, and below it two typewritten paragraphs. ‘Mirabile visu,’ Brunetti said and held up the page to show them.
‘Wow!’ Pucetti said in the English that had now become international.
‘Never seen typing before?’ Vianello asked, smiling, but not joking.
‘Of course I’ve seen it,’ said an embarrassed Pucetti.
Brunetti, reading the report, barely heard them. ‘6/9/68,’ he read aloud. ‘Suspect apprehended in Standa, carrying four unopened parcels of women’s stockings, two unused lipsticks, and brassiere (size 3) with price tag still attached, in her bag. At the police station at San Marcuola, she presented her carta d’identità, which stated that she was born in 1952.
‘Her employer, with whom she lives, sent her secretary. This woman identified her as Ana Cavanella, showed a copy of a contract of employment signed by the girl’s mother, and took the girl home. Because of her age, no charges will be brought, though a report of this incident has been sent to the social services.’
He looked at the others, who had become a silent audience.
‘Nice touch, the size of the bra,’ Vianello said.
‘Nineteen sixty-eight,’ Pucetti said, speaking of it as though it were light years away, as in many ways it was, at least for him.
‘And Davide bore her name, not his father’s,’ Brunetti said, putting the paper inside and closing the file. He opened the file and looked for the name of the woman who took her away, but it was not given. An address in Dorsoduro was, however.
He slid the paper across the table to Pucetti, saying, ‘This is the address given for them. Have a look at the Anagrafe files and see who lived there.’
‘You think they’ve put things on line?’ Pucetti asked. ‘That far back, I mean.’
Though Brunetti was only a child then, he hardly thought of it as ‘far back’, but he did not pass on this observation to Pucetti. Instead, he said, ‘I don’t know. If you call them, they should be able to tell you. If not, go over and see if they still have paper files.’
‘Why do you want to know?’ Vianello took the liberty of asking.
Brunetti thought about his very brief meeting with the woman. In his experience, the motive that most often drove people to distance themselves from horror or tragedy was guilt. Were they her pills, the pills that Davide had swallowed? Had she made him hot chocolate and given him some biscuits, and had he, stomach full and a ring of chocolate around his mouth, found her sleeping pills and taken them, perhaps having seen her take them before bed and thinking that he should, too?
Guilt made sense; it fitted with what he had observed of her behaviour. How better to keep it at bay than by refusing to discuss or even accept what had happened?
‘Well?’ Vianello asked. Pucetti watched his two superiors, silent.
‘Let’s go and talk to her,’ Brunetti said and got to his feet.
10
Brunetti decided it would be better for all three of them to go. He and Vianello represented, he thought, the serious aspect of the law: men of a certain age and sobriety of bearing. Pucetti, looking more like a student, with the fresh-faced eagerness of a boy just in from the countryside, might clothe the law in less fearful garb. Pucetti had – rare in a man so young – the uncanny ability to induce people to confide in him. He had not learned it or studied it, any more than a cat studies how to make people scratch its neck. He smiled, he looked them in the eye, curious to know about them, and they spoke to him.
Foa, who was idling in the cabin of the police launch, took them over to San Polo, commenting on the freshening wind as they went up the Grand Canal, convinced that this was a sign of approaching rain, and lots of it. Brunetti was glad to hear it: it had been an unusually dry summer, a fact that Chiara had drummed into their heads with relentless frequency; the arrival of rain, especially heavy rain, would put an end to her sermons about Armageddon, at least for a while.
When they were still two bridges from the Cavanella address, Brunetti told Foa to stop and let them out. The arrival of three men, one of them an officer in uniform, would be sufficiently unsettling for Signora Cavanella: no need to pull up in a police launch and attract the attention of the entire neighbourhood.
Seeing that it was almost six, he sent Foa back to the Questura. The three of them could go home directly after the visit.
He rang the bell, and after a full minute he heard the window above him open. Ana Cavanella stood there. ‘You again?’ she said. ‘What do you want now?’
‘There are some things I’d like to tell you, Signora. About your son. And there’s some information we have to get. For our files.’ This was certainly true. Behind him, he heard the sound of a window being opened, but when he turned to look at the house opposite he saw no one, nor any sign of motion at the windows.
When he looked back at Signora Cavanella, her attention had moved to the house opposite and to the windows on the floor above hers. She said something, but Brunetti heard only the last word, ‘ . . . cow’. Then, looking down at them, she said, ‘I’m coming.’ Almost as an afterthought, she added, ‘But only one of you can come in.’
The men moved closer to the door. Brunetti told Pucetti to position himself so that he would be the first person she saw when she opened it. Without consultation, Vianello moved behind them, allowing most of his bulk to be hidden by Brunetti’s body.
The door opened. Just as she became visible, Pucetti raised his hand to his head and removed his uniform hat in a gesture he turned into one of great deference. He did not bow his head, but he did lower his eyes before her gaze. Chiara had once shown Brunetti a book about dog behaviour, and what he sensed of Pucetti’s made him want to shout out, ‘Beta Dog, Beta Dog!’
Remaining a careful distance from the door, Pucetti said. ‘Excuse me, Signora’, his nervousness audible in his voice and evident in the way he moved his hat around in his hands. His glance was fleeting and he pulled his eyes away as soon as hers met them. And then, as though unable to contain his desire to speak, he asked, ‘Did your son play soccer in San Polo?’
Her eyes grew sharp. ‘What?’
‘Did he play soccer? In San Polo?’
‘How do you know that?’ the woman demanded, as though he had told in public some shameful family secret.
He locked his eyes on his hat while he answered. ‘My friends and I try to play there in the afternoons, Signora. When we’re free. And I thought I remembered your son playing with us a couple of times.’ His grasp grew more nervous, and suddenly he was crushing the fabric of the hat, bending the stiff brim until it made a creaking noise they all could hear. Then, pointlessly, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You play there?’ she demanded.
‘When I can, Signora,’ Pucetti said, not looking at her.
When Brunetti’s eyes moved back to her face, he saw that it had softened in a way that was all but miraculous. Her mouth had relaxed and her lips grown much larger and softer. The hand of ease had smoothed the lines on either side of her eyes, which were directed at Pucetti’s. Seeing her face in repose for the first time, Brunetti could reconstruct how attractive she must once have been.
‘Sì,’ she said to the younger man. ‘It made him happy.’
Brunetti remained as motionless as a snake on a stone, leaving the next move to her. She stepped back and, using the plural, invited them in. Brunetti stepped inside and stopped, turning to the other two men, only to discover that Vianello had evaporated. He had barely time to register this before Pucetti, muttering ‘Permesso’, stepped in beside him.
Signora Cavanella turned and walked towards a dimly lit flight of stairs. They followed, rigorously avoiding any spoken or glanced communication, Pucetti careful to remain two steps behind Brunetti.
At the top of the stairs, she used her key to open the door to her apartment,
but even that strange cautiousness did not cause Brunetti and Pucetti to exchange a glance. Inside, she moved along a very narrow corridor that led to what must be the back of the building. Along one windowless wall was a low, glass-fronted cabinet, similar to one Brunetti’s grandmother had had in her home. He could see small cardboard boxes stacked inside, or rather stuffed in randomly, for none of the piles were straight, and no concession was made to size. The top was covered by dolls, the sort of cheap souvenirs picked up at kiosks in any city of the world: he saw a flamenco dancer, an Eskimo, a basket-carrying Nubian woman, a man in a large hat who could as easily have been an American Pilgrim as a Dutch farmer. They stood or lay on top of a shabby lace runner that was no longer white, no longer smooth.
She led them into a small sitting room, and again Brunetti had the feeling that a time machine had taken him back to his grandmother’s home. There was the same over-plump sofa, covered in green velvet corduroy, the top of all three back cushions protected by small, greying antimacassars. Though neither of the lamps was illuminated, Brunetti noticed that they had faded onion-coloured lampshades, both with woven tassels. A small television with rounded corners was placed directly in front of an overstuffed chair. Over the arm hung a small dark green blanket in some material that made a bad attempt to look like wool. Lodged between the cushion and the side of the chair, were a few decades of a rosary, the crucifix trapped out of sight.
Brunetti glanced out of the single window at the wall of the house on the other side of the calle, little more than two metres distant.
The Signora grabbed the chair by both arms and turned it to face the sofa, to which she pointed, and then sat in the chair. Brunetti sat at the right end, Pucetti at the left, as if hoping to give physical evidence of the abyss in sentiment that lay between them.
Brunetti unbuttoned his jacket; Pucetti sat upright, his hat on his thighs, hands carefully folded on top of it. ‘Thank you for letting us come in, Signora. I’ll try to be as brief as I can,’ Brunetti said. He did not waste a smile, letting his face show interest and amiability and nothing else: leave the charm to Pucetti.
‘I’d like to ask a few questions about your son,’ he said and paused, but she did not ask about that. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you the law requires that someone identify him. It is usually a member of his family, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be. His doctor or someone who knew him well can also do this.’
‘I’ll do it,’ she said in an even voice.
‘He’s at the Ospedale Civile. You can go there any time from eight until five: Dottor Rizzardi or his assistant will be there. The assistant will help you with the paperwork, I’m sure.’
‘What paperwork?’ she asked. The softness had disappeared from her face, and the lines were back where they had been the first time Brunetti spoke to her.
‘They need to notify the Ufficio Anagrafe of any death in the city: the usual process is to take the information from his documents. This way, they can cancel his health card and have his name removed from the various registers in the city.’ Brunetti decided not to mention his allowance, which would stop at his death, as would hers for taking care of a handicapped person.
He raised his hands in what he hoped would appear to be a calming gesture. ‘It’s more or less routine, Signora. All they need is some information and your signature, and they should take care of dealing with the various offices.’ This, he knew, was a lie: the bureaucratic clean-up after the death of a family member could sometimes be as bad as the long road to death itself. Death consigned the family to grief and then to the seemingly endless chasing from office to office. Arrange for the Mass and the funeral, the plot in the cemetery, close bank accounts, stop the allowance payments, cancel subscription payments for the television, stop the phone service, close the water, close the gas, stop the postal delivery. Each transaction usually required at least one trip to the appropriate office: many were at the Commune, but others were up at Piazzale Roma or at other far-flung bastions of officialdom in the city. Officials spread misinformation with cavalier disregard for the time it would take the person they were advising to go and find out they were in the wrong office and asking for the wrong certificate or form. Mistaken addresses were dispensed like chocolates to greedy children.
She would learn all of this, if the death of a parent had not already taught her. How many millions of hours were sacrificed every day to the gods of laziness and incompetence? How much was sacrificed each working day on the altar of Eris, goddess of chaos? He thought the Indians, whose bureaucracy, he had heard, made Naples seem like Helsinki, had Kali to stir things round for them.
Pucetti’s voice called him back. The young officer was saying, ‘. . . teams of only four or five players, Signora, so we were all very happy to have him’.
‘He knew the rules?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Pucetti answered. He lowered his head, as if preparing for confession. ‘None of us likes much to be goalie, to be honest. But Davide was very good at stopping the ball and tossing it back to us.’ He smiled here and raised his hands, as if imitating the catches her son had made. Then, voice suddenly serious, he said, ‘I’m really sorry, Signora. We all liked him. And we’ll miss him.’
The compliments worked the same transformation and smoothed away some of the traces of age. Signora Cavanelli’s lips moved, and Brunetti was curious to see how a smile would transform her, but she did not smile, only spoke. ‘I’ll come tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you, Signora,’ Brunetti said. ‘And it would save a lot of trouble for everyone if you could bring his papers.’
‘I can’t,’ she said suddenly, as if she had just realized the impossibility.
‘Why is that, Signora?’ Brunetti inquired.
‘They were stolen, all of them.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ was the only thing Brunetti could think of to say.
‘Someone broke in here a few months ago and took them.’
Brunetti pulled his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, flipped it open, and took out his pen.
‘That won’t help,’ she said brusquely.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Writing down the date. It won’t help. I never told the police.’
Brunetti let his hands fall to his lap and asked, ‘Why is that, Signora?’
‘No one trusts them,’ she said, unaware or unconcerned that he was a member of the police.
That, Brunetti was willing to admit, was probably the truth, but he didn’t want to admit it to this woman. Instead, he picked up the notebook and asked, ‘What was taken?’
‘Everything.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said and then, rather than asking her to supply a list, asked: ‘Carta d’identità?’
‘Yes.’
‘Birth certificate and baptismal certificate?’
Here she moved back in her chair and crossed her legs. She was wearing a dark dress, and the motion pulled the hem to mid-calf; Brunetti could not help noticing that they were shapely and long. ‘Oh, I lost those a long time ago. When we moved.’ In response to his glance, she said, ‘You know how it is.’
Brunetti, who did not know how it was, said, ‘Of course,’ and made a note of it.
‘Where was your son born?’ he inquired mildly. ‘And when?’
Even though it might have been obvious that his questions had been leading to this one, she seemed surprised. ‘In France,’ she said. ‘I was working there. We were, my husband and I.’
‘I see. And the name of the town?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice calm, even in the face of Brunetti’s quizzical stare.
‘How is that, Signora?’ he asked, lowering the notebook, the better to attend to her answer.
‘We were working in a small village near Poitiers, and the doctor told us there were complications with the pregnancy and I should try to have the baby there, in the hospital. Because it was so much better equipped. So when the pains began, my husband and I started to
go there. By car. A friend had loaned us his car. But my husband didn’t know the way, and we ended up in a small town and the best he could do was find a doctor’s office, and I had the baby there.’
‘Then the name of that place should have been on the birth certificate, no?’ Brunetti asked with an easy smile.
She nodded. ‘Yes, but things didn’t go well, and I was very sick and in the hospital in Poitiers for a month, and when they let me out, we decided we had had enough of France, so we took Davide and came back to Italy. And that’s when we lost the papers.’
‘Did you move to Venice?’
She hesitated a long time before she answered. ‘No, we went to stay with his family.’
Picking up the notebook again, Brunetti asked, ‘And where was that, Signora?’
Voice suddenly obstinate, she demanded, ‘Why do you want to know all this?’
‘Because it’s what they need, Signora. It’s not that I’m particularly interested,’ he said easily, making it sound as though he actually meant it, ‘but the people at the hospital are going to need this information for their system to be able to function.’ He smiled and shook his head, as if to suggest that he found this quite as absurd as she must.
‘Then I’ll tell them,’ she said with the same note of truculence he had heard the first time she spoke to him.
As though the words could not remain unspoken, Pucetti said, ‘I think the Signora should have to give this information only once, sir.’ The tone was meekness itself, yet one sensed the steely resolve that animated him: leave this poor creature alone with her grief. There was nothing of insubordination in what he said, but his manner made it clear that he had declared himself the paladin of this unfortunate mother in her loss and would do his best to protect her from the cold insensitivity of his superior.
‘All right,’ Brunetti said, pocketed his notebook and got to his feet. ‘Then we’ll leave the Signora in peace,’ he said, managing to suggest that this was not the end of the matter for his inferior officer. He nodded to Signora Cavanella and gave Pucetti a hard look not absent of reprimand and warning.
