by Donna Leon
She had given him the number of her telefonino, but he’d left it in the office, and so short of calling her at home, he had no way of knowing what she was doing until Monday morning, when he would or would not see her at her desk at the Questura.
On Saturday evening, Pucetti called to tell him he was already on Pellestrina and already at work, though he had seen no sign of Signorina Elettra. His brother-in-law, Pucetti explained, after discovering that he and the owner of the restaurant in Pellestrina had many acquaintances in common, had secured Pucetti the chance to work at least until the owner could find out if Scarpa was coming back.
On Sunday afternoon Brunetti went into the room that had, over the course of years, been transformed from spare bedroom to junk room. On top of a wardrobe in one corner he found the hand-painted chest that had somehow come to him from his Uncle Claudio, the one who had always wanted to be a painter. Large enough to house a German Shepherd, the chest was entirely covered with brightly coloured flowers of confused species, assembled in gaudy promiscuity. For some reason it held maps, all thrown inside with much the same confusion as prevailed on the top and sides of the box.
Brunetti began by shifting them from one side to the other as he hunted for the map he wanted. Finally, when this proved futile, he began the slow, inescapable process of removing them one by one. The more he looked, the more it wasn’t there. At last, after he had shifted most of the nations and continents of the world, he found the map of the laguna he had used, years ago, when he and his schoolfriends spent weekends and holidays exploring the weaving channels that surrounded the city.
He dropped the other maps back into the box and took the map of the laguna out on to the terrace. Careful of the long-dried tape that held parts of it together, he opened it slowly and stretched it out on the table. How tiny the islands looked, surrounded by the vast expanse of palude. For kilometres in every direction, the capillaries and veins of the channels spread, pumping water in and out twice a day, as regular as the moon itself. For a thousand years, those few canals at Chioggia, Malamocco and San Nicolô had served as aortas, keeping the waters clean, even at the height of the Serenissima’s power, when hundreds of thousands of people had lived there, their waste added to the waters every day.
Brunetti caught himself before this thought could take its familiar course. He recalled what Paola had said two nights ago, of the disgruntled Roman, life blighted by displeasure with the present, ever longing for the better past he knew was lost, and he pulled his thoughts away from history and turned them to geography.
The immensity of the area depicted on the map reminded him how lost he was in it and how ignorant of how things were organized upon its waters, even in relation to the jurisdiction of crimes. If cases were given out, rather in the manner of party favours, to the first corner, then how could one expect to find consistent records of what had happened there?
He assumed that large fish were taken from the Adriatic; where then did the clams and shrimp come from? He had no idea what places in the laguna could legitimately be used for fishing, though he assumed that all of the shallow waters lying just off the coast of Marghera would be closed. Yet if what Montisi said, and Vianello believed, was true, then even that area was still fished.
He sometimes went to Rialto with Paola to buy fish and recalled the sign often placed on the gleaming skins of the fish on display: ‘Nostrani,’ as if the claim that the fish was ‘Ours’ somehow imbued it with health and goodness, washed it clean of even the thought of contamination. He’d seen the same sign on cherries, peaches, plums, and again, he realized, the same magic was meant to work: the fact that the fruit was Italian was enough to sweep it clean of all taint of chemical or pesticide and render it pure as mother’s milk.
He’d once read a book that traced the history of what people ate, and so he knew that his ancestors, far from having enjoyed an Edenic diet both safe and healthy, had ingested vast quantities of chemicals and poisons with every bite and had risked tuberculosis, and worse, with every sip of milk.
Dissatisfied by his own dissatisfaction, he folded the map and took it back into the apartment. ‘Paola,’ he called towards the back of the apartment, ‘let’s go get a drink.’
The first thing he learned on Monday morning was that, despite his plans, he was in charge while Patta was gone. Marotta, it turned out, had been summoned back to Turin for a week to testify in a case. He had not been directly involved, had merely been in charge of a squad of detectives when two of them had made the arrest of six suspects in an arms trafficking case. It was highly unlikely that he would be called to testify, he probably could have refused to go, but as it meant a trip home at government expense as well as a living allowance for the time he was there, he accepted, leaving a note for Brunetti explaining that his presence was essential to the successful prosecution of the case and that he was sure Vice-Questore Patta would approve of his decision to designate Brunetti as his own acting commander.
Repeatedly he called down to Signorina Elettra’s office during the course of the morning, but as it was her habit not to overburden the Questura with her presence when her superior was absent, he wasn’t certain whether she had decided to sleep until noon or to go out to Pellestrina. At eleven, his phone rang, and he was greatly relieved to hear her voice.
‘Where are you, Signorina?’ he asked, rather than demanded.
‘On the beach of Pellestrina, sir, the side that faces the sea. Did you know they’d removed the grounded ship?’ When he didn’t answer, she went on, ‘I was surprised not to see it there. My cousin said they hauled it off last year. I miss it.’
‘When did you get there, Signorina?’
‘I came out before lunch on Saturday because I wanted to have as much time here as possible.’
‘What did you tell your cousin?’
He heard the sharp cry of a seagull. ‘That I was sorry I hadn’t been out for so long but I wanted to get away from the city for a while,’ she said, then paused and the gull had something else to say. When it was finished, she went on, ‘I told Bruna I’d had “una storia” that ended badly and wanted to get away from anything that would remind me of him.’ In a softer voice, she added, ‘Well, that’s true enough,’ and Brunetti found himself immediately curious about who he was and why it had ended.
‘How long did you tell her you’d be there?’
‘Oh, I was vague about that; at least a week, probably more, depending on how I felt. But I already feel better; the sun’s wonderful, and the air is completely different from the city. I could stay here for ever.’
The bureaucrat in him spoke before he could help it. ‘I certainly hope you don’t mean that.’
‘Just a figure of speech, sir.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Walk on the beach and see who I meet. Go and have a coffee at the bar and see what’s new. Talk to people. Go fishing.’
‘Just a normal vacation on Pellestrina?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Exactly,’ she said, to which the gull made no comment. With the promise to call him again, she broke the connection.
14
AS SHE SLIPPED the telefonino back into the left pocket of her jacket, Elettra Zorzi was glad she’d thought to bring the suede, instead of the wool. The pockets were deeper and thus more securely held the tiny Nokia, little bigger than a pack of cigarettes. And it was a better match for the navy blue slacks, though she wasn’t really happy with the way it looked with the Topsiders she’d brought along to wear on the beach. She’d never liked the combination of leather and suede, wished now she’d bought that pair of fawn-coloured suede loafers she’d seen in the Fratelli Rossetti sale.
The gull called out again, but she ignored it. When it continued to squawk at her, she turned and walked directly at it until it took off and flew away down the beach in the direction of the Riserva of Ca’ Roman. Like most Venetians, she tolerated gulls but loathed pigeons, which she viewed as a source of constant trouble, their nests blocking dr
ainpipes and their constant droppings turning marble into meringue. She thought of the tourists she’d often seen in San Marco, pigeons hopping about on their heads and outstretched arms, and she shivered: flying rats.
She continued down the beach, away from the village, glad of the feel of the sun on her back, intent on nothing more than reaching San Pietro in Volta and having a coffee before turning back to Pellestrina. She lengthened her stride, aware at every step of how long she’d been sitting at a desk and how much her body rejoiced in this simple act of walking on the beach in the sun.
Her cousin Bruna, when she’d called last week, had not seemed at all surprised at her suggestion that she come out for a week or so. When she asked why Elettra was free at such short notice, she decided to tell at least part of the truth and explained that she and her boyfriend had planned for months to go to France for two weeks, but their sudden separation had ended those plans, leaving her with the impossibility of changing her request for vacation time. Bruna had shown no sign of taking offence at being only second choice and had insisted she come out immediately, to leave all thought of him behind in the city.
Though she’d been on Pellestrina only two days, it had pretty much worked. Her ex-boyfriend was a doctor, one of her sister’s friends, and she’d probably known for months that he was wrong: too serious, too ambitious, and, she had to admit even this, too greedy. She had feared that being on her own again would be painful; instead, she had begun to realize, she felt rather like that gull: it hadn’t liked the way it was treated, so it had taken flight and soared away.
She walked down to the water’s edge and stooped to pull off her shoes and roll up the bottoms of her slacks. She could stand the water only for seconds before she danced back on to the sand, then flopped down and rubbed at one, then the other, foot. When they felt like feet again, she hooked two fingers into the backs of her shoes and walked along, barefoot, free, remembering what it was like to be happy.
Soon enough she ran out of sand and had to climb the steps to the top of the sea wall. Boats went about their boaty business to her right, and soon the small village of San Pietro in Volta appeared on her left.
At the bar, which occupied the ground floor of someone’s house, she asked for a mineral water and a coffee, drank the water greedily, and sipped at her coffee. The man behind the bar, who was in his sixties, remembered her from other visits and asked when she had arrived. They fell into easy conversation, and soon he was talking about the recent murders, events in which she appeared to take little interest.
‘Cut open, gutted like a fish,’ he said. ‘Pity. He was a nice boy. Amazing, really, when you think about his father.’ Not enough time had passed for people to start to tell the whole truth about Bottin, she realized: he was still close enough to life to make people cautious about what they had to say of him.
‘I didn’t know them,’ she said and glanced idly at the front page of Il Gazzettino that lay folded on the top of the counter.
‘Marco went to school with my granddaughter,’ he said.
Elettra paid for the water and the coffee, said how wonderful it was to be out here again, and left. She used the sea wall to walk the entire way back to Pellestrina, and by the time she got there she was thirsty again, so she went into the front part of the restaurant for a glass of prosecco. And who should serve her but Pucetti himself, who paid her no more attention than he would any other attractive woman a few years older than he.
As she drank it, she listened to the men clustered at the bar. They too paid little attention to her, having slotted her into place as Bruna’s cousin, the one who came out every summer, and thus a sort of honorary native.
The murders were mentioned, but only in passing, as just another example of the bad luck that afflicts all fishermen. More important, they discussed what to do about those bastards from Chioggia who were coming over into their waters at night and ripping up the clam beds. One man suggested they tell the police; no one bothered to respond to a suggestion so patently stupid.
She went to the cash register and paid. The owner also remembered her as Bruna’s cousin and welcomed her back. They chatted idly for a while, and when he too mentioned the recent murders, she said she was on vacation and didn’t want to hear about such things, suggesting by her tone that people from the big city didn’t really take much interest in the doings of provincials, however sanguinary they might be.
The rest of the day, and the next, passed quietly enough. She heard nothing new but was still careful to call Brunetti again and tell him that much, or that little. Remaining strong in her refusal to discuss the recent murders, she quickly adapted to the rhythm of Pellestrina, a village that led life at its own pace. The bulk of the population sailed off to work while it was still dark and returned only in the late morning or early afternoon. Many people went to bed not long after nightfall. She soon fell into a routine. Bruna took care of her grandchildren every day, while their mother taught in the local elementary school. To avoid the confusion brought into the house by the presence of two young children, Elettra spent most of her days outside, walking on the beach, occasionally taking the boat over to Chioggia for a few hours. But she always ended up having a coffee in the bar of the restaurant just at the time the men from the boats began to drift in.
Within days, she was an attractive fixture, and one that responded to any mention of the Bottins or their murder with silence. She realized from the first that they all disliked Giulio; only as time passed did she begin to sense that the objection to him went far beyond his penchant for violence. After all, these were men who made their living by killing, and though their victims were only fish, the job had rendered many of them casual about blood and gore and the taking of life. The savagery of Giulio’s disposal seemed not to trouble them in the least; in fact, if they mentioned it at all, it was with something like grudging admiration. What they seemed to object to was his refusal to put the good of the hunting pack of Pellestrinotti ahead of all else. Any act of aggression or betrayal, so long as it was directed against the fishermen of Chioggia was completely justified, even praiseworthy. Giulio Bottin, however, had seemed capable of behaving in the same way towards his own kind, if it would work to his advantage, and this was something they would not forgive, not even after death, and not even after a death as horrible as his had been.
On the Wednesday afternoon, as she sat at a table in the front part of the bar, reading through Il Gazzettino and paying no attention, none at all, to the conversations around her, she was conscious of the arrival of someone new. She didn’t look up until she had read a few more pages, and when she did, she saw a man a few years older than herself, the casual elegance of whose appearance made him stand out among the fishermen at the bar. He wore a pair of dark grey slacks and a pale yellow V-neck sweater over a shirt that went with his slacks perfectly. She was immediately intrigued by the colour of his sweater and by the fact that he appeared to be completely at ease with and accepted by these men. Most of them, she was sure, would die before they would wear yellow on anything other than a rain slicker.
He had dark hair and, from what she could see of his profile, dark eyes and brows. His skin was tanned or naturally bronzed; she couldn’t tell which. He was taller than most of the other men, an impression heightened by the grace with which he carried himself. Any traditional idea of masculinity, especially in the company of these wind-hardened fishermen, would have been compromised, if not by the sweater, then by the way he inclined his head to listen to the men around him. In him, however, the total effect was of a masculinity so certain of itself as not to be bothered by such trifles of dress or behaviour.
Elettra consciously returned her eyes to the newspaper and her attention to the man. He was, it turned out, somehow related to one of the fishermen. More drinks were ordered, and Elettra found herself approaching the sports pages, something not even her devotion to duty could cause her to read. She closed the paper and got to her feet. As she walked towards the cash register, one
of the men, a relative – she had no idea how – of Bruna’s husband, called her over to meet the new arrival.
‘Elettra, this is Carlo; he’s a fisherman, one of us.’ With two thick fingers, the man plucked at the fine wool of Carlo’s sweater and asked, ‘He doesn’t look it, does he?’ The general laughter which greeted this was easy and comfortable, and Carlo joined in with good grace.
Carlo turned to her and smiled, held out his hand and took hers.
‘Another stranger?’ he asked.
She smiled at the idea. ‘If you’re not born here, I suppose you’re always a stranger,’ she answered.
His chin tilted to one side and he glanced at her more closely. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ she answered, momentarily confused into thinking that perhaps she knew him, as well. But she was sure she would have remembered him.
‘No, I haven’t met you,’ he said with a smile that was even warmer than the one he’d given on taking her hand. ‘I would have remembered.’
This echo of her own thought disconcerted her. She nodded to him and then to the other men at the bar, muttered something about going back to her cousin’s, paid for her coffee, and escaped into the sunlight.
Her doctor had been handsome; as she walked home, she confessed to herself that she had a weakness for male beauty. This Carlo was not only handsome, but, from the little she had seen of him, simpatico as well. She told herself sternly that she was out here on police business. Though he didn’t live on Pellestrina, there was nothing that excluded Carlo from possible connection with the murder of Giulio and Marco Bottin. She smiled at that; soon she’d be like the members of the uniformed branch, seeing everyone, everywhere, as a probable suspect, even before there was any evidence that a crime had been committed.
She put all thought of the handsome Carlo behind her and went back towards Bruna’s home. On the way, she used her telefonino to call Commissario Brunetti at the Questura and tell him that she had nothing to report save that it was the general opinion among the fishermen that, with the change of moon, the anchovies would start to run.
