by Donna Leon
‘The other name I gave you, Leonardo Mascari, is the name of the man who was found in the field in Mestre on Monday.’
‘The transvestite?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘And what’s the connection here?’
‘The young man, Santomauro’s client, denied recognizing Mascari. But he knew him.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You’ll have to believe me here, Damiano. I know. I’ve seen it too many times not to know. He recognized his picture and then pretended he didn’t.’
‘What was the young man’s name?’ Padovani asked.
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ Silence fell.
‘Guido,’ Padovani finally said, leaning forward, ‘I know a number of those boys in Mestre. In the past, I knew a large number of them. If I’m to serve as your gay consultant in this’ - he said it entirely without irony or rancour - ‘then I’m going to have to know his name. I assure you that nothing you tell me will be repeated, but I can’t make any connection unless I know his name.’ Brunetti still said nothing. ‘Guido, you called me. I didn’t call you.’ Padovani got to his feet. ‘I’ll just put the pasta in. Fifteen minutes?’
While he waited for Padovani to come back from the kitchen, Brunetti looked at the books that filled one wall. He pulled down one on Chinese archaeology and took it back to the sofa, glanced through it until he heard the door open and looked up to see Padovani come back into the room.
‘ A tavola, tutti a tavola. Mangiamo,, Padovani called. Brunetti closed the book, set it aside, and went over to take his place at the table. ‘You sit there, on the left,’ Padovani said. He set the bowl down and started immediately to heap pasta on to the plate in front of Brunetti.
Brunetti looked down, waited until Padovani had served himself, and began to eat. Tomato, onion, cubes ofpancetta, and perhaps a touch of pepperoncino, all poured overpenne rigate, his favourite dried pasta.
‘It’s good,’ he said, meaning it. ‘I like the pepperoncino.’
‘Oh, good. I never know if people are going to think it’s too hot.’
‘No, it’s perfect,’ Brunetti said and continued to eat. When he had finished his helping and Padovani was putting more on to his plate, Brunetti said, ‘His name’s Francesco Crespo.’
‘I should have known,’ said Padovani with a tired sigh. Then, sounding far more interested, he asked, ‘You sure there’s not too much pepperoncino?’
Brunetti shook his head and finished his second portion, then held out his hands to cover his plate when Padovani reached for the serving spoon.
‘You better. There’s hardly anything else,’ Padovani insisted.
‘No, really, Damiano.’
‘Suit yourself, but Paola’s not to blame me if you starve to death while she’s away.’ He picked up their two plates, set them inside the serving bowl, and went back into the kitchen.
He was to emerge twice before he sat down again. The first time, he carried a small roast of ground turkey breast wrapped in pancetta and surrounded by potatoes, and the second a plate of grilled peppers soaked in olive oil and a large bowl of mixed salad greens. ‘That’s all there is,’ he said when he sat down, and Brunetti suspected that he was meant to read it as an apology.
Brunetti helped himself to the roast meat and potatoes and began to eat.
Padovani filled their glasses and helped himself to both turkey and potatoes. ‘Crespo came originally from, I think, Mantova. He moved to Padova about four years ago, to study pharmacy. But he quickly learned that life was far more interesting if he followed his natural inclination and set himself up as a whore, and he soon discovered that, the best way to do that was to find himself an older man who would support him. The usual stuff: an apartment, a car, plenty of money for clothes, and in return all he had to do was be there when the man who paid the bills was able to get away from the bank, or the city council meeting, or his wife. I think he was only about eighteen at the time. And very, very pretty.’ Padovani paused with his fork in the air. ‘In fact, he reminded me then of the Bacchus of Caravaggio: beautiful, but too knowing and just on the edge of corruption.’
Padovani offered some peppers to Brunetti and took some himself. ‘The last thing I know about him at first hand was that he was mixed up with an accountant from Treviso. But Franco could never keep himself from straying, and the accountant threw him out. Beat him up, I think, and threw him out. I don’t know when he started with the transvestism; that sort of thing has never interested me in the least. In fact, I suppose I don’t understand it. If you want a woman, then have a woman.’
‘Maybe it’s a way to deceive yourself that it is a woman,’ Brunetti suggested, using Paola’s theory and thinking, now, that it made sense.
‘Perhaps. But how sad, eh?’ Padovani moved his plate to the side and sat back. ‘I mean, we deceive ourselves all the time, about whether we love someone, or why we do, or why we tell the lies we do. But you’d think we could at least be honest with ourselves about who we want to go to bed with. It seems little enough, that.’ He picked up the salad and sprinkled salt on it, poured olive oil liberally over the leaves, then added a large splash of vinegar.
Brunetti handed him his plate and accepted the clean salad plate he was given in its place. Padovani pushed the bowl towards him. ‘Help yourself. There’s no dessert. Only fruit.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t have to go to any trouble,’ Brunetti said, and Padovani laughed.
‘Well, I really did have all of this in the house. Except for the fruit.’
Brunetti took a very small portion of salad; Padovani took even less.
‘What else do you know about Crespo?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I heard that he was dressing up, calling himself Francesca. But I didn’t know he’d finished on Via Cappuccina. Or is it the public parks in Mestre?’ he asked.
‘Both,’ Brunetti answered. ‘And I don’t know that he has finished there. The address he gave is a very nice one, and his name is outside the door.’
‘Anyone’s name can be on the door. Depends on who pays the rent,’ Padovani said, apparently more practised in these things.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Brunetti said.
‘I don’t know much more about him. He’s not a bad person, at least he wasn’t when I knew him. But sneaky and easily led. Things like that don’t change, so he’s likely to lie to you if he sees any advantage in doing so.’
‘Like most of the people I deal with,’ Brunetti said.
Padovani smiled and added, ‘Like most of the people we all deal with all of the time.’
Brunetti had to laugh at the grim truth of this.
‘I’ll get the fruit,’ Padovani said, stacking their salad plates and taking them from the table. He was back quickly with a pale-blue ceramic bowl that held six perfect peaches. He passed Brunetti another of the small plates and set the bowl in front of him. Brunetti took one of the peaches and began to peel it with his knife and fork.
‘What can you tell me about Santomauro?’ he asked as he peeled the peach, keeping his eyes on that.
‘You mean the president, or whatever he calls himself, of the Lega della Moralità?’ Padovani asked, making his voice richly sombre as he pronounced the last words.
‘Yes.’
‘I know enough about him to assure you that, in certain circles, the announcement of the Lega and its purpose was met with the same sort of peals of delight with which we used to watch Rock Hudson make his assault upon the virtue of Doris Day or with which we now watch some of the more belligerent film appearances of certain living actors, both our own and American.’
‘You mean it’s common knowledge?’
‘Well, it is and it isn’t. To most of us, it is, but we still respect the rules of gentlemen, unlike the politicians, and we do not tell tales out of school about one another. If we did, there’d be no one left to run the government or, for that fact, the Vatican.’
Brunetti was glad to see the
real Padovani resurfacing, well, the airy chatterer that he had been led to believe was the real Padovani.
‘But something like the Lega? Could he get away with something as blatant as that?’
‘That’s an excellent question. But, if you look back into the history of the Lega, I believe you will find that, in the days of its infancy, Santomauro was no more than the eminence grise of the movement. In fact, I don’t think his name was associated with it, not in any official capacity, until two years ago, and he didn’t become prominent until last year, when he was elected hostess or governess, or whatever their leader is called. Gran priore? Something pretentious like that.’
‘But why didn’t anyone say something then?’
‘I think it’s because most prefer to treat the Lega as a joke. I think that’s a very serious mistake.’ There was a note of uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I think the political wave of the future is groups like the Lega, groups which aim at fragmenting larger groups, breaking larger units into smaller. Just look at Eastern Europe and Yugoslavia. Look at our own political leghe, wanting to chop Italy back up into a lot of smaller, independent units.’
‘Could you be making too much of this, Damiano?’
‘Of course, I could be. The Lega della Moralità could just as easily be a bunch of harmless old ladies who like to meet together and talk about how good the old times were. But who has an idea of how many members they have? What their real goal is?’
In Italy, conspiracy theories are sucked in with mother’s milk, and no Italian is ever free of the impulse to see conspiracy everywhere. Consequently, any group that is in any way hesitant to reveal itself is immediately suspected of all manner of things, as had been the Jesuits, as are the Jehovah’s Witnesses. As the Jesuits still are, Brunetti corrected himself. Conspiracy certainly bred secrecy, but Brunetti was not willing to buy the proposition that it worked the other way, and secrecy necessitated conspiracy.
‘Well?’ Padovani prodded him.
‘Well what?’
‘How much do you know about the Lega?’
‘Very little,’ Brunetti admitted. ‘But if I had to be suspicious of them, I wouldn’t look to their goals; I’d look to their finances.’ During twenty years of police work, Brunetti had come to form few rules, but one of them was surely that high principles or political ideals seldom motivated people as strongly as did the desire for money.
‘I doubt that Santomauro would be interested in anything as prosaic as money.’
‘Dami, everyone is interested in money, and most people are motivated by it.’
‘Regardless of motive or goal, you can be sure that if Giancarlo Santomauro is interested in running it, it stinks. That’s little enough, but it’s certain.’
‘What do you know about his private life?’ Brunetti asked, thinking of how much more subtle ‘private’ sounded than ‘sexual’, which is what it meant.
‘All I know is what has been suggested, what has been implied in remarks and comments. You know the way it is.’ Brunetti nodded. He certainly did. ‘Then what I know, which, I repeat, I don’t really know - though I know - is that he likes little boys, the younger the better. If you check his past, you’ll see that he used to go to Bangkok at least once a year. Without the ineffable Signora Santomauro, I hasten to add. But for the last few years, he has not done so. I have no explanation for this, but I do know that tastes such as his do not change, they do not disappear, and they cannot be satisfied in any way other than by what they desire.’
‘How much of that is, um, available here?’ Why was it so easy to talk to Paola about some things, so difficult with other people?
‘A fair bit, though the real centres are Rome and Milano.’
Brunetti had read about this in police reports. ‘Films?’
‘Films, certainly, but the real thing, as well, for those who are prepared to pay. I was about to add, and who are willing to take the risk, but there really cannot be said to be any risk, not today.’
Brunetti looked down at his plate and saw that his peach lay there, peeled but untouched. He didn’t want it. ‘Damiano, when you say, “little boys”, is there an age you have in mind?’
Padovani suddenly smiled. ‘You know, Guido, I have the strangest sensation that you are finding all of this terribly embarrassing.’ Brunetti said nothing.’ “Little” can be twelve, but it can also be ten.’
‘Oh.’ There was a long pause, and then Brunetti asked, ‘Are you sure about Santomauro?’
‘I’m sure that’s his reputation, and it’s not likely to be wrong. But I have no proof, no witnesses, no one who would ever swear to it.’
Padovani got up from the table and went across the room to a low sideboard with bottles crowded together on one side of its surface. ‘Grappa?’ he asked.
‘Please.’
‘I’ve got some lovely pear-flavoured. Want to try it?’
‘Yes.’
Brunetti joined him on that side of the room, took the glass Padovani offered him, and went to sit again on the sofa. Padovani went back to his chair, taking the bottle with him.
Brunetti tasted it. Not pears: nectar.
‘It’s too weak,’ Brunetti said.
‘The grappa?’ Padovani asked, confused.
‘No, no, the connection between Crespo and Santomauro. If Santomauro likes little boys, then Crespo could just be his client and nothing more.’
‘Entirely possible,’ Padovani said in a voice that said he thought it wasn’t.
‘Do you know anyone who could give you more information about either of them?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Santomauro and Crespo?’
‘Yes. And Leonardo Mascari, as well, if there’s some connection between them.’
Padovani looked down at his watch. ‘It’s too late to call the people I know.’ Brunetti looked at his watch and saw that it was only ten-fifteen. Nuns?
Padovani had noticed his glance and laughed. ‘No, Guido, they’ll all have gone out for the evening, the night. But I’ll call them from Rome tomorrow and see what they know or can find out.’
‘I’d prefer that neither of the men know that questions are being asked about them.’ It was polite, but it was stiff and awkward.
‘Guido, it will be as if gossamer had been floated in the air. Everyone who knows Santomauro will be delighted to spread whatever they know or have heard about him, and you can be equally certain that none of this will get back to him. The very thought that he might be mixed up in something nasty will be a source of tingly delight to the people I’m thinking of.’
‘That’s just it, Damiano. I don’t want there to be any talk, especially that he might be mixed up in anything, especially something nasty.’ He knew he sounded severe when he said it, so he smiled and held out his glass for another grappa.
The fop disappeared and the journalist took his place. ‘All right, Guido. I won’t play around with it, and perhaps I’ll call different people, but I ought to be able to have some information about him by Tuesday or Wednesday.’
Padovani poured himself another glass of grappa and sipped at it. ‘You should look into the Lega, Guido, at least into its membership.’
‘You’re really worried about it, aren’t you?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I’m worried about any group that assumes its own superiority, in any way, to other people.’
‘The police?’ Brunetti asked with a smile, trying to lighten the other man’s mood.
‘No, not the police, Guido. No one believes they’re superior, and I suspect that most of your boys don’t believe it, either.’ He finished his drink but poured himself no more. Instead, he put both glass and bottle on the floor beside his chair. ‘I always think of Savonarola,’ he said. ‘He started by wanting to make things better, but the only way he could think of to do that was to destroy anything he disapproved of In the end, I suspect zealots are all like him, even the ecologisti and the femminist
i. They start out wanting a better world, but they end up wanting to get it by removing anything in the world around them that doesn’t correspond to their idea of what the world should be. Like Savonarola, they’ll all end up on the pyre.’
‘And then what?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Oh, I guess the rest of us will somehow manage to muddle through.’
It wasn’t much in the way of philosophical affirmation, but Brunetti took it as a sufficiently optimistic note on which to end the evening. He got to his feet, said the necessary things to his host, and went home to his solitary bed.
* * * *
Chapter Fifteen
Another reason Brunetti had been reluctant to go to the mountains was that this was his Sunday to visit his mother: he and his brother Sergio alternated weekends or went in the other’s place when necessary. But this weekend, Sergio and his family were in Sardinia, so there was no one but Brunetti to go. It made no difference, of course, whether he went or not, but still he went, or Sergio went. Because she was in Mira, about ten kilometres from Venice, he had to take a bus and then either a taxi or a long walk to get to the Casa di Riposo.
