by Donna Leon
‘My wife told me there’s something you wanted to discuss with me,’ he said when he realized she was leaving it for him to speak.
‘Yes, sir.’ Her gaze was direct, patient.
‘She said you were curious about the possibility of a pardon for something that happened a long time ago and for which, unless I misunderstood what my wife told me, a man was convicted.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she repeated, her glance so unwavering as to make Brunetti wonder if she were waiting for him to resume patronizing her and was curious only as to what new form it would take.
‘She also said that he was sent to San Servolo and died there.’
‘That’s right.’ There was no sign of emotion or eagerness on the girl’s face.
Sensing that there would be no warming her with these questions, he said, ‘She also told me you were reading the Mack Smith biography of Mussolini.’
Her smile revealed two rows of immaculate teeth and seemed to open her eyes wider, until the dark brown irises were completely surrounded with brilliant, healthy white. ‘Have you read it?’ she asked, her voice charged with eager curiosity.
‘Some years ago,’ Brunetti answered, then added, ‘I usually don’t read much modern history, but I had a conversation at dinner one night with someone who started telling us all about how much better it would be if only he were here again, how much better it would be for all of us if he could .. .’
‘Instil some discipline into young people,’ she seamlessly completed his phrase, ‘and restore order to society.’ Claudia had somehow managed a perfect echo of the orotund voice of the man who had spoken in favour of Il Duce and the discipline he had managed to instil into the Italian character. Brunetti threw back his head and laughed, delighted and encouraged by the way her imitation dismissed with contempt the man and his claims. ‘I don’t remember seeing you there,’ he said when he stopped laughing, ‘but it certainly sounds like you were at the table and heard him talking.’
‘Oh, God, I hear it all the time, even at school,’ she said with exasperation. ‘It’s fine for people to complain about the present. It’s one of the staples of conversation, after all. But once you start to mention the things in the past that made the present the way it is, then people begin to criticize you for having no respect for the country or for tradition. No one wants to go to the trouble of thinking about the past, really thinking about it, and what a terrible man he was.’
‘I didn’t know young people even knew who Il Duce was,’ Brunetti said, exaggerating, but not by much, and mindful of the almost total amnesia he had discovered in the minds of anyone, of whatever age, with whom he had attempted to discuss the war or its causes. Or worse, the sort of cock-eyed, retouched history that portrayed the friendly, generously disposed Italians led astray by their wicked Teutonic neighbours to the north.
The girl’s voice drew him back from these reflections. ‘Most of them don’t. This is old people I’m talking about. You’d think they’d know or remember what things were like then, what he was like.’ She shook her head in another sign of exasperation. ‘But no, all I hear is that nonsense about the trains being on time and no trouble from the Mafia and how happy the Ethiopians were to see our brave soldiers.’ She paused as if assessing just how far to go with this conservatively dressed man with the kind eyes; whatever she saw seemed to reassure her, for she continued, ‘Our brave soldiers come with their poison gas and machine-guns to show them the wonders of Fascism.’
So young and yet so cynical, he thought, and how tired she must be already of having people point this out to her. ‘I’m surprised you aren’t enrolled in the history faculty,’ he said.
‘Oh, I was, for a year. But I couldn’t stand it, all the lies and the dishonest books and the refusal to take a stand about anything that’s happened in the last hundred years.’
‘And so?’
‘I changed to English Literature. The worst they can do is make us listen to all their idiotic theories about the meaning of literature or whether the text exists or not.’ Hearing her, Brunetti had the strange sensation of listening to Paola in one of her wilder moments. ‘But they can’t change the texts themselves. It’s not like what the people in power do when they remove embarrassing documents from the State Archives. They can’t do that to Dante or Manzoni, can they?’ she asked speculatively, a question that really asked for an answer.
‘No,’ Brunetti agreed. ‘But I suspect that’s only because there are standard editions of the basic texts. Otherwise, I’m sure they’d try, if they thought they could get away with it.’ He saw that he had her interest, so he added, ‘I’ve always been afraid of people in possession of what they believe is the truth. They’ll do anything to see that the facts are changed and whipped into shape to agree with it.’
‘Did you study history, Commissario?’ she asked.
Brunetti took this as a compliment. ‘If I had, I doubt I would have lasted the course, either.’ He stopped and they exchanged a smile, both struck by how immediate and democratic was the union of people who sought and found intellectual solace within the pages of books. He went on, giving no thought to the propriety of saying this to someone who was not a member of the forces of order: ‘I still spend most of my time listening to lies, but at least some of the people who tell them to me are presumed to be lying because they’re criminals. It’s not like having to listen to a lie from someone who holds the chair in history at the university.’ He almost added, ‘Or the Minister of Justice,’ but stopped himself in time.
‘That makes the lies they tell all the more dangerous, doesn’t it?’ she asked instantly.
‘Absolutely,’ he agreed, pleased that she so immediately saw the consequences. Almost reluctantly, he took the conversation back to where it had been before becoming an examination of historical truth. ‘But what is it you wanted to ask me?’ When she didn’t answer, he continued, ‘I think my wife told you that I can’t give you any information until I know the details.’
‘You won’t tell anyone?’ she blurted out. The tone in which she asked this reminded Brunetti that the girl was not much older than his own children and that her intellectual sophistication didn’t necessarily imply any other sort of maturity.
‘No, not if there’s no sign of ongoing criminal activity. If what you want to ask about happened far enough in the past, then it’s likely that the statute of limitations has run out or a general amnesty has been granted.’ Because the information Paola had given him was so vague, he decided to leave it to the girl to tell him more if she chose to do so.
There followed a pause in which Brunetti had no idea what the girl might be thinking. It went on so long that he looked away from her, and his eyes were automatically drawn to the printed words on the paper on his desk. He found himself, in the silence, beginning to read, almost against his will.
More time passed. Finally, she said, ‘As I told your wife, it’s about an old woman I’ve always thought of as my third grandmother. I need the information for her. She’s Austrian, but she lived with my grandfather during the war. My father’s father, that is.’ She looked across at Brunetti, checking to see if this explanation would suffice; he met her glance, looking interested but certainly not eager.
‘After the war, my grandfather was arrested. There was a trial, and during it the prosecution presented copies of articles he had written for newspapers and journals where he condemned “alien art forms and practices”. Brunetti recognized this as the Fascist code for Jewish art or art by anyone who was Jewish. ‘Despite the Amnesty, they were still admitted as evidence.’
She stopped. When it became evident that she was not going to say more unless he prodded, he asked, ‘What happened at the trial?’
‘Because of the Togliatti Amnesty he couldn’t be prosecuted for political crimes, so he was charged with extortion. For other things that happened during the war,’ she explained. ‘At least, this is what my grandmother has told me,’ she continued. ‘When it looked as if he was likely
to be convicted, he had a sort of breakdown, and his lawyer decided to plead insanity.’ Anticipating Brunetti’s question, she added, ‘I wondered about that, but my grandmother said it was a real breakdown, not a fake one like they have today.’
‘I see.’
‘And the judges believed it, too, so when they sentenced him, they sent him to San Servolo.’
It would have been better to have gone to prison, Brunetti found himself thinking, though this was an idea he decided to spare the girl. San Servolo had been closed decades ago, and it was perhaps best to forget the horrors of what had gone on there for so many years. What had happened, had happened, not only to the other inmates, but probably to her grandfather, and there was no changing it. A pardon, however, if such a thing were possible, might change the way people thought about him. If - he found a cynical voice saying - anyone bothered to think about such things any more or if anyone cared about what had happened during the war.
‘And what is it you want to obtain for him? Or your grandmother wants to obtain,’ he added, seeking this way to encourage her to be more forthcoming about the source of her request.
‘Anything that would exonerate him and clear his name.’ Then, lowering both her voice and her head, she added, ‘It’s the only thing I could give her.’ Then, more softly, ‘It’s the only thing she wants.’
This was an area of the law with which Brunetti was not familiar, so he could consider her request only in terms of legal principles. He lacked the courage, however, to tell the girl that the law as it was enacted was not always the result of those principles. ‘I think, in legal terms, what might apply here is a legal reversal or overturning of the original judgment. Once it was determined that the verdict was incorrect, your grandfather would, in effect, be declared innocent.’
‘Publicly?’ she asked. ‘Would there be some official document that I could show my grandmother?’
‘If the courts issued a judgment, then there would have to be official notice of it,’ was the best answer he could supply.
She considered this for so long that Brunetti finally broke into her silence and asked, ‘Was his name the same as yours?’
‘No. Mine is Leonardo.’
‘But he was your father’s father?’
She said simply, ‘My parents weren’t married. My father didn’t acknowledge my paternity immediately, so I kept my mother’s name,’
Thinking it best not to comment on this, Brunetti asked only, ‘What was his name?’
‘Guzzardi. Luca.’
At the sound of the name, the faintest of faint bells sounded in the back reaches of Brunetti’s memory. ‘Was he Venetian?’ he asked.
‘No, the family was from Ferrara. But they were here during the war.’
The name of the city brought the memory no closer. While seeming to consider her answer, Brunetti was busy trying to think of whom he could ask about events in Venice during the war. Two candidates sprang instantly to mind: his friend Lele Bortoluzzi, the painter, and his father-in-law, Count Orazio Falier, both men of an age to have lived through the war and both possessed of excellent memories.
‘But I still don’t understand,’ Brunetti said, thinking that a display of confusion would be a better means of obtaining information than open curiosity, ‘what the purpose of legal action now would be. The original case should have been passed to the Court of Appeals.’
‘That was done at the time, and the conviction was upheld; so was the decision to send him to San Servolo.’
Brunetti assumed a befuddled expression. ‘Then I don’t understand, not at all, how a reversal of judgment would be possible or why anyone would want one.’
She gave him such a penetrating glance that he wiped the country bumpkin expression from his face and felt distinct embarrassment at having attempted to trick her into revealing the name of this grandmother who wanted to obtain the pardon, a desire he knew was motivated by nothing more than curiosity.
She started to speak, stopped, studied him as if remembering his attempt to appear less intelligent than he was, then finally said, with an asperity far in advance of her years, ‘I’m sorry but I’m not at liberty to tell you that. All I’ve asked you to do,’ she went on, and he was struck by the dignity with which she spoke, claiming equality with him and basing that claim on the brotherhood they’d established in their talk about books, ‘is to tell me if it’s possible to clear his name.’ Even before he could ask, she cut him off and added, ‘Nothing more.’
‘I see,’ he said, getting to his feet, uncertain that he could be of much help to her but sufficiently charmed by her youth and sincerity to want to try.
She stood up as well. He came around the desk to approach her, but it was she who was the first to extend a hand. They shook hands. Quickly she went to the door and let herself out of the office, leaving Brunetti with the nagging sense that he had behaved foolishly but also with the desire to discover what the memory was that had awakened at the name Guzzardi.
* * * *
6
When she was gone, Brunetti pulled the pile of papers that remained on his desk towards him, scribbled his initials on each of them without bothering to read a word, and moved them to his left, whence they would continue to meander through the offices of the Questura. It bothered him not at all to dismiss them thus; he thought it might be an intelligent policy to adopt from now on, or perhaps he could make a deal with one of the other commissari to trade off weeks reading them. He contemplated for a moment the possibility of making the same deal with all of the colleagues he trusted, to diminish this stupid waste of time, but was brought up short by how few names he could put on any such list: Vianello, Signorina Elettra, Pucetti, and one of the new commissari, Sara Marino.
The fact that Marino was Sicilian had at first made Brunetti wary of her, and then the revelation that her father, a judge, had been murdered by the Mafia had made him fear she might be a zealot. But then he had seen her honesty and enthusiasm for work; moreover, Patta and Lieutenant Scarpa both disapproved of her and so Brunetti had come to trust her. Aside from those four - and Sara’s name was there only because his gut impulse told him she was an honourable person - there was no one else at the Questura in whom he could place blind trust. Rather than put his security in the hands of colleagues, all sworn to protect and uphold the law, how much sooner would he trust his life, career and fortunes to someone like Marco Erizzo, a man he had just advised to commit a crime.
He decided not to waste any more time sitting and making stupid lists. Instead he would go and talk to his father-in-law, another man he had come to trust, though it was a trust that never failed to make him uneasy. He sometimes thought of Count Orazio Falier as Orazio the Oracle, for he was certain that the myriad connections the Count had spent a lifetime forming could lead to the answer to any question Brunetti might ask about the people or workings of the city. In the past, the Count had passed on to Brunetti intimate secrets about the great and good, information which more often than not called into question both of those adjectives. The one thing he had never revealed, however, was a source, though Brunetti had come to believe implicitly in whatever the Count told him.
He called the Count in his office and asked if he could have a word with him. Explaining that he had an appointment for lunch and was leaving the city immediately afterwards, the Count suggested that Brunetti come over to Campo San Barnaba right then, where they could talk undisturbed about whatever it was Brunetti wanted to know. When he set the phone down, Brunetti realized that the Count’s intuition made him nervous. He had assumed that Brunetti would have no other reason to ask to see him than to extract information, though he had mentioned it so casually as to make it impossible for Brunetti to take legitimate offence.
Brunetti left a note on his door, saying he had gone to question someone and would be back after lunch. The day had grown darker and colder, so he decided to take the vaporetto rather than walk. The Number One from San Zaccaria was jammed with an immense tourist gro
up surrounded by a rampart of luggage, no doubt headed for the train station or Piazzale Roma and the airport. He stepped on board and made for the doors of the cabin, only to find his way blocked by an enormous backpack suspended from the shoulders of an even more enormous woman. It seemed to him that in the last few years American tourists had doubled in size. They had always been big, but big in the way the Scandinavians were big: tall and muscular. But now they were lumpish and soft as well as big, agglomerations of sausage-like limbs that left him with the sensation that his hand would come away slick if he touched them.
He knew it was impossible for human physiology to change at less than glacial speed, but he suspected that some shocking transformation had nevertheless taken place in what was required to sustain human life: these people seemed incapable of survival without frequent infusions of water or carbonated drinks, for they all clutched at their litre-and-a-half-bottles as though they alone offered the possibility of continued life.
