The Golden Egg

by Donna Leon

  The rain had intensified while he was inside, and his shoes were soon soaked at the toe and then along the sides. The rain had cleaned the pavement and had cleared the streets: although he saw few people on the way to the hospital, inside there was the usual back and forth of visitors, doctors and nurses, and bathrobed and slippered patients.

  The automatic doors slid open as he approached them, and he walked into the waiting area of the Pronto Soccorso. He walked past the reception window and into the first corridor, intent on finding either Rizzardi or Pucetti.

  ‘Signore,’ a voice behind him called out. ‘You have to register.’ He took out his warrant card and went back to the door of the small cubicle where the receptionist sat behind his computer. He was an owl-like man with sparse hair who looked perfectly at home inside his glass-fronted box.

  Brunetti held up his warrant card and said, ‘I’m looking for Dottor Rizzardi.’

  Disgruntled, needing to score even this small point, the man behind the desk said, ‘You have to show me before you go in.’

  Brunetti was about to snap back at him when he recalled the mantra Paola had been beating into his head for two decades: ‘This is the only power this man has, and it is the only power he will ever have in his life. Either you show him that you respect it, or he will cause you more trouble than it’s worth.’

  ‘Ah, sorry,’ Brunetti said, putting his card back in his wallet. ‘I forgot.’

  The man nodded, apparently mollified. ‘She’s in the third room on the left.’

  ‘One of our men in uniform should be here soon. Would you send him down to us?’ Brunetti asked and then, invoking the wisdom of Paola, added, ‘Please.’

  The man raised his hand, glad now to help. ‘Of course, Signore.’

  Brunetti knocked at the door, waited a few seconds, and went in. Rizzardi was standing at the foot of the bed, reading a form attached to a thick plastic clipboard. How strange, Brunetti thought, to see Rizzardi with a live patient; but then he remembered that he was, after all, a doctor.

  Rizzardi glanced at Brunetti and used the clipboard to wave him forward.

  Brunetti approached. Rizzardi held up the clipboard to indicate it was the source of whatever he could tell

  him. Speaking softly, the doctor said, ‘She might have a concussion, but very slight, a lot of bruising on her face, a cut over her left eye. Two fingers on her left hand are crushed, and there’s a hairline fracture to one of her ribs.’

  Brunetti looked at the woman in the bed and was shocked to see how much smaller she had grown. She hardly seemed as long as she had been tall; the sheet dipped down at her shrunken waist. She was asleep; her eyes were curiously deep-set, a reddish-grey halo already in place around the left one. Her cheeks seemed to have collapsed into her mouth, or perhaps it was a trick of light that played the clear skin of her cheeks against the darker skin around and under her eyes. He recognized her chiefly by her hair, the only thing that had not changed.

  Her left hand lay outside the covers, two fingers splinted and taped.

  ‘What happened?’ Brunetti asked.

  Rizzardi lowered the clipboard and returned it to its place at the foot of the bed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All I’ve seen is this.’ He tapped the paper. Taking Brunetti by the arm, he moved him away from the bed.

  ‘Favaro said it looked as if she had been beaten. Her injuries are consistent with that idea.’ His voice was soft, cool, instructive.

  Brunetti glanced across the room and took another look at the woman’s face and hand. ‘And if I said it, too?’ he asked, having seen the results of many beatings in his career.

  Rizzardi gave a relaxed shrug and said, voice warming in response to Brunetti’s question, ‘I’d agree with you.’

  Before Brunetti could add anything, the door opened and Pucetti came in. He looked at the two men, at the woman, then back at Rizzardi. The doctor nodded to him, reminding Brunetti they had met that morning, when Pucetti had accompanied Signora Cavanella to the morgue.

  ‘What happened, Dottore?’ the young officer asked, voice lowered. ‘Is she all right?’ His concern could not have been more audible.

  ‘The ambulance crew brought her in three hours ago. She might have a concussion: she hit her head. You see her fingers: they’ve been crushed. And she hit her face,’ Rizzardi said. ‘She might have fallen.’ Brunetti was interested in the description he gave, which was utterly devoid of reference to human agency of any sort.

  ‘Oddio,’ Pucetti said. He remained motionless, just inside the door. Then, with a shake, as if bringing himself back to normal, he asked Brunetti, ‘Should I go and talk to the crew?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Brunetti said, then to Rizzardi, ‘Is she all right alone?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rizzardi said, with that complete confidence with which doctors comment on uncertain things.

  Realizing it would be difficult to talk in the same room as the woman, Brunetti said, ‘Let’s get a coffee,’ then, to Pucetti, ‘Come and find us in the bar after you talk to them, all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Pucetti said and, with one more glance in the woman’s direction, was gone as hurriedly as he had entered.

  Both men left the room very quietly, as people always do when they are in a hospital. As they went along the hallway, back towards the bar in the entrance corridor, Brunetti asked, his voice returned to normal volume, ‘What do you think happened?’ Rizzardi said nothing for a while until Brunetti added, ‘Between us, that is.’

  Rizzardi smiled and answered, ‘I don’t mind telling you. I’m thinking about the possibilities, not about the risk of giving an opinion.’ He paused when they reached the courtyard, where the rain had grown even heavier.

  The trees were still fully leaved; the rain had not succeeded in bringing down many of them. It occurred to Brunetti that the leaves should all be on the ground by this time of year.

  ‘I suppose you’ve seen similar cases,’ Rizzardi said, standing with his hands in his pockets and watching two cats sleeping on the low stone wall. ‘They could be defence wounds, or perhaps she hurt her fingers trying to break her fall. There’s the blow to the head, but it could be that her head hit the wall, or a step, when she fell. There are the wounds on her face: on the left side, which means they came from a right-handed person – if someone did hit her – but that sort of bruising is common in a fall.’

  One of the cats opened its eyes, stood, and arched its back before lying down again and lapsing instantly into profound sleep. ‘There might be some other explanation. The ambulance crew might know something, or she might tell us when she wakes up.’ Turning to Brunetti, he asked, ‘What’s it look like to you?’

  Brunetti ran his right hand through his hair and found it still damp. He wiped his hand on his trousers and continued towards the bar. ‘I’ve seen enough of them, usually women who get beaten by their boyfriends or husbands. This could be one of scores of cases. It’s got all the signs: the head, the face, the fingers.’

  In the bar he ordered two coffees without having to ask Rizzardi what he wanted.

  When the coffee came, Rizzardi took a sip, then said, ‘I hit a man once. Once in my life. But I can’t imagine hitting a woman.’

  ‘Why’d you hit him?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Oh, it was just a thing,’ Rizzardi said.

  Brunetti turned and stared at him. ‘Everything’s a thing, Ettore. Why’d you hit him?’

  ‘I was on a vaporetto,’ Rizzardi began. He picked up his coffee, studied what was left in the cup, swirled it around a few times, and finished it. ‘There was a man standing to my left. And in front of him was a little girl. Well, maybe not so little. She was maybe thirteen, so, yes, she was still a little girl. When he thought no one was looking, he leaned sideways and put his hand on her ass and squeezed it. And he left his hand there. I watched her, pretty little girl, wearing a dress. It was summer, so it was a light dress.’

  Rizzardi set his cup back in the saucer and turned to look at
Brunetti. ‘The girl looked at him, but he kept his hand there and smiled at her. She was terrified, embarrassed, ashamed.’ He turned to the barman and asked for a glass of mineral water, then turned back to Brunetti. ‘So I hit him. Made a fist and hit him in the stomach. I’m a doctor, so I didn’t want to risk hitting his head or his face: didn’t want to break anything, or my hand, so I guess I didn’t hit him very hard. But hard enough.’

  The water came. Rizzardi picked it up and drank half. ‘He doubled over, and when his head was about the level of my knees, I bent down and said, “You ever do that again, I’ll kill you.”’ He sighed. ‘I never did anything like that in my life, let myself lose control.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘He got off at the next stop. I never saw him again.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  Rizzardi’s face lit up. ‘She said, “Thank you, Signore” and smiled at me.’ Rizzardi’s face was transformed by a smile. ‘I’ve never been so proud of myself in my entire life.’ He waited a few seconds before adding, ‘I know I should be ashamed, but I’m not.’

  ‘Would you do it again?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘In a heartbeat,’ Rizzardi answered and laughed.

  Pucetti arrived just then and stood amazed: like Brunetti, in all these years, he had never heard Rizzardi laugh.

  Glad of the chance to move away from what Rizzardi had told him, Brunetti asked, ‘What did they say?’

  ‘The call came from a man who passed her on the street, over near the Zattere. He said there was a woman sitting on the steps of a building, with blood on her face. He tried to talk to her, but she didn’t seem to understand him, so he called for the ambulance.’

  ‘Do they have his name?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He stayed there until they came.’

  ‘Did he tell them anything else?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that he was on his way home, and he saw this woman.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘She told them she fell down.’

  ‘If I had ten Euros for every time I’ve heard that one, I could retire,’ Rizzardi interrupted to say and asked Pucetti if he’d like a coffee.

  Pucetti stared at Rizzardi and did not answer, then said he didn’t want a coffee.

  Brunetti paid and they left the bar, walked past the courtyard, and back to Pronto Soccorso. This time, Brunetti raised his hand to the man behind the window, who waved back and smiled.

  Brunetti opened the door to the room and saw that the woman’s eyes were open. But by the time the three men were near the bed, they were closed again.

  ‘Signora,’ Brunetti said. There was no response.

  Rizzardi, obviously deciding to stay out of this, said nothing.

  Pucetti leaned down and said softly, ‘Signora Ana. It’s me, Roberto.’ He placed his right hand on her upper arm. ‘Signora, can you hear me?’

  Slowly, she opened her eyes and, seeing his face so close to hers, smiled.

  ‘Don’t try to talk, Signora. Everything’s all right, everything’s going to be all right.’

  ‘Could you ask her . . .’ Brunetti began.

  Pucetti stood upright and turned to Brunetti. ‘I think she’s had enough, Commissario. Don’t you?’ Then, including Rizzardi, he said, ‘I think we all ought to get out of here and let her rest.’

  Brunetti backed away from him and raised his hands, palms open; in the voice of a man struggling to save face or reputation, he added, ‘She’s had too much. You’re right.’ He turned and headed for the door. As he passed Rizzardi, he said, ‘Come on, Ettore. Pucetti’s right.’

  The two men went and stood by the door. Pucetti bent down and placed his hand on the woman’s arm again. ‘Try to get some sleep now, Signora. I’ll come back when I can.’ When she started to speak, he held up one finger, as if he wanted to place it gently on her lips, and said, ‘No, not now. Everything can wait. Just sleep now. And get better.’ He gave her arm the gentlest of squeezes and moved away from the bed, very slowly, turning at the door as if to see that she was still all right.

  The three men left the room; Pucetti was careful to pull the door closed very quietly.

  17

  Brunetti didn’t know whether to laugh or to turn away from the young man. He had certainly deceived witnesses during his own career, but he had seldom been this good at it, though he wasn’t sure that was the adjective to describe what he had seen Pucetti do. The young man had a genius for deceit, the way another person had a gift for music or golf or knitting. The comparisons left him uncomfortable, if only because those other pursuits were neutral, whereas deceit was not. If this deceit led to an understanding of the circumstances of Signora Cavanella’s son’s death, it would surely help, and thus it was good. Oh, how very Jesuitical he had become.

  He looked at the unlined face of the young officer and wondered where Dante would put him. Among the Evil Counsellors? The Evil Impersonators? Was Pucetti to be enveloped in a tongue of flame or preyed upon and rent to pieces by others like him?

  Rizzardi saved him from the need to comment by saying, ‘You had me convinced.’ Then he added, ‘I saw you together this morning, and you were very good to her then.’

  Pucetti looked at the floor, pressed his lips together, and said, ‘I’m not sure I like being able to do it, Dottore.’ He raised his eyes to watch a white-coated woman doctor approach and pass them by, then looked at Rizzardi. ‘Most people want so much to believe in what others say that it makes it too easy.’ Then, earnestly, ‘I’m not just saying this, you know. I really don’t like that it’s so easy.’ He paused, then added, ‘And it’s not easy to do it with her. He was her only child.’

  Listening to Pucetti say this, Brunetti realized how much he wanted to believe him. His thoughts turned to Paola, as deceitful and duplicitous a person as one could hope to find, yet who remained one of the only truly honest people he had ever known.

  Rizzardi interrupted. ‘I’ve got to get back. I’ll let you pick over this poor woman’s bones.’ Leaving them with that, he turned and walked away.

  Brunetti and Pucetti continued towards the exit. Pucetti took this opportunity to tell Brunetti that the parocco had told him he had been at the parish only six months and had never heard of Signora Cavanella. At the front door, they looked out across the campo. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing, so Brunetti would not need the umbrella. He realized then that he had left it somewhere, either at the entrance to Pronto Soccorso or in Signora Cavanella’s room, or in the bar. Where did they go, he wondered, all of those umbrellas he had forgotten on trains, in boats, in offices and stores during all of these decades?

  He walked out into the cooler air: autumn had arrived. ‘Tell me what happened this morning,’ he asked Pucetti. Standing there, feeling the refreshed air, seeing the clouds scuttle west, he had no desire to return to the Questura. He started towards the bridge, heading for home and pulling Pucetti in his wake.

  As they walked in front of the school, Pucetti caught up with him and began to explain what had happened. He had arrived on time at Signora Cavanella’s home and been careful to be formal and polite, nothing more. But at the second bridge, when she paused before starting up it, he slipped his arm under hers, careful to release it when they reached the other side. Because she had decided to walk, there were many more bridges, and by the time they got to the last one, the one in front of the hospital that he and Brunetti had just crossed, the habit was established that he would help her cross them.

  It was she who asked Rizzardi if the young officer could come into the morgue with her, and it was Pucetti who held her arm and kept her from falling when Rizzardi pulled back the sheet that covered her son’s face.

  Later, he had helped her fill in the forms and had all but sequestered an ambulance to take her home. Brunetti was curious about the reasons for Pucetti’s behaviour, but he didn’t know how to phrase the question. Without being asked, the young man said, just as they came out into Campo San Bortolo, �
��At first, I thought it would be a good idea to win her confidence any way I could, but I ended up feeling sorry for her, Commissario. His death’s destroyed her. No one can fake that.’

  Brunetti stopped beneath the statue of the ever-dapper Goldoni; he resisted the impulse to point out to Pucetti that he himself had faked a strong emotion, and quite convincingly. Instead, he told the young man he had done well and could call it a day if he wished. But Pucetti decided he’d go back to the Questura. Brunetti raised a hand in an informal farewell and turned right towards home.

  *

  The next morning, Brunetti made a special point of arriving at the Questura on time, not that anyone paid any particular attention to when he got there. He had called the hospital from home just after eight and spoken to the nurse in charge of Ana Cavanella’s ward. The signora had passed a quiet night; the doctor who examined her had decided to keep her one more day and night before sending her home. The nurse did not know if she had had any visitors, only that another woman had been moved into her room.

  Signorina Elettra was in her office, standing at the cabinet beside the door, slipping a file back into place. Seeing her wearing cashmere – a rusty orange cardigan – after the long pause of the summer, Brunetti had confirmation that autumn had arrived.

  ‘Ah, Commissario, come and I shall tell you mysterious things.’

  He followed her back to her desk. Instead of turning on her computer, she pulled out the small chiavetta protruding from the side. ‘Shall we use your computer, Signore?’ she asked. A quick glance showed him that Patta’s door was open, suggesting that he had not yet arrived. Yes, better that Patta’s day should not begin with the sight of him in confabulation with Signorina Elettra and her computer.

  Upstairs, he left it to her to insert the chiavetta and turn on the computer while he hung his raincoat and scarf in the cupboard. ‘Please,’ he called over to her; she sat in his chair and ran an affectionate hand over the keys of the computer she had procured for him a year ago. He did not want to know what she had done in order to achieve that, nor how many police offices in Bari were without basic equipment because he had this top-of-the-line computer that was the envy of the younger staff and a source of witless pride to himself. To have somehow had the Ministry of the Interior buy him a Maserati would have been no greater example of conspicuous, and wasted, consumption.