by Donna Leon
Lowering his voice and moving away from the thought of sinners going to Hell, Brunetti asked, ‘The man who spoke? Who is he?’
Before she replied, Contessa Falier picked up her napkin and wiped at her lips, replaced it and took a sip of water. Both of them glanced at the man near the end of the table and saw that he was now speaking across the table to the historian, who appeared to be taking notes on a small piece of paper as she listened to him. Contessa Lando-Continui and the English lord were engaged in amiable conversation, he speaking in loud, heavily accented Italian.
Apparently feeling protected by the deep boom of his voice, his mother-in-law leaned towards Brunetti and said, ‘Sandro Vittori-Ricciardi. He’s a protégé of Demetriana’s.’
‘And he does what?’
‘He’s an interior designer and a restorer of stone and marble; he works for her foundation.’
‘So he’s involved in the things she’s doing for the city?’ Brunetti asked.
Her tone sharpened. ‘These things save the city about three million euros a year, please remember, Guido. As well as the money to restore the apartments that are rented to young families.’ Then, to emphasize the importance, she added, ‘It replaces money the government won’t give any more.’
Brunetti sensed a presence behind him and sat up straighter to allow a waiter to remove his plate. He paused until the Contessa’s had been removed, and said in a conciliatory voice, ‘Of course, you’re right.’
He knew that tonight’s dinner was meant to bring together potential foreign donors and native Venetians – he was one of those on offer. Come to the zoo and meet the animals that your donations help survive in their native habitat. Come at feeding time. Brunetti was not fond of the part of himself that entertained such thoughts, but he knew too much to stifle them.
Contessa Lando-Continui had been trying for years, he knew, to get her hand into Count Falier’s pocket. He had been both gracious and adamant in deflecting her every attempt. ‘If so much weren’t stolen, Demetriana, the city could pay for restorations, and if politicians’ families and friends didn’t get public housing, you wouldn’t have to ask people to help you restore the apartments,’ Brunetti had once heard the Conte tell her.
Unrebuffed by Count Falier’s remarks, she continued to invite him to her dinners – she had even invited him to this one in his own home – and each time she did, the Conte remembered a last-minute meeting in Cairo or a dinner in Milano; once he had begged off by mentioning the Prime Minister; tonight, for all Brunetti knew, it had been an appointment with a Russian arms dealer. Brunetti thought the Conte didn’t much care how believable his excuses were, so long as he could amuse himself by inventing stories that would agitate the Contessa.
So there they were in his absence, he and Paola and his mother-in-law, offered as a sop to the insistence of the Contessa and, perhaps, as a treat to the visitors: not only Contessa Lando-Continui but Contessa Falier, two real aristocrats for the price of one. And the next generation tossed in as lagniappe.
The dessert came, a ciambella con zucca e uvetta that delighted Brunetti, as did the sweet wine served with it. When the maid came around again to offer a second helping, Paola caught her husband’s eye. He smiled back and shook his head at the maid’s offer as if he had meant to do it, failing to persuade Paola but managing to convince himself.
That done, he felt entirely justified in accepting a small glass of grappa. He pushed his chair back a bit, stretched out his legs, and lifted his glass.
Contessa Falier, as if there had been no interruption, returned to their former subject and asked, ‘Are you curious because he works for her?’ She moved to one side the glass of grappa the waiter had left in front of her.
‘I’m curious about why he thinks it necessary to flatter her so,’ was the best answer Brunetti could provide.
The Contessa smiled and asked, ‘Is it being a policeman that makes you suspicious of human motives?’ She spoke naturally now that the conversation was more general and individual voices were covered by the others.
Before Brunetti could answer, Contessa Lando-Continui set down her spoon and, glancing at her friend at the other end of the table as if for permission, announced, ‘I think coffee will be served in the salone.’ Sandro Vittori-Ricciardi got immediately to his feet and moved around behind her chair to pull it back for her. The Contessa stood and nodded her thanks, allowed him to take her arm, and moved off towards the salone. She passed through the door that led from the dining room towards the front of the palazzo, the guests falling into a disorderly line behind her.
Palazzo Falier provided a view of what in Venice were considered not particularly distinguished palazzi on the other side of the Grand Canal. Some of the guests, unaware of their mediocrity, exclaimed at their beauty.
Brunetti took his mother-in-law’s arm as they walked to the other room, where they went to stand next to Paola. Brunetti saw the coffee, sitting on an inlaid onyx table. Sugar, he noted, but no milk, which might explain why only the Italians were drinking it.
Seeing that Vittori-Ricciardi was deep in conversation with the banker and his companion, Brunetti moved slowly over to one of the windows and stood just within hearing distance of them.
‘It’s another part of our heritage that’s being destroyed by time,’ the Venetian was saying.
‘If it’s such a small island, why’s it so important?’ the banker asked.
‘Because it’s one of the first places where people lived and built: the earliest ruins are from the seventh century. The church – the one with the mosaics – is older than most of the churches in Venice.’ From the energy with which Vittori-Ricciardi spoke, he could have been talking about events that had taken place last year, or last week.
‘And that’s what you’re asking us to restore?’ The banker sounded less than fully persuaded that this was a good idea.
‘To help restore; yes.’ The Venetian reached aside to set down his cup, turned back to the others and told them, ‘There’s a mosaic of the Last Judgement, and we’re afraid there’s water coming in somewhere behind it. We need to find the source of the water and stop it.’
‘What’s so special about it?’ the Englishman inquired.
The answer was a long time coming, and Brunetti read the pause as a sign of Vittori-Ricciardi’s exasperation with the question. No sign of that was audible, however, when he answered, ‘If we don’t intervene, it could be destroyed.’
‘You aren’t sure?’
Brunetti took a step away from them and set his cup and saucer down on a table, then turned back to the window to give his undivided attention to the study of the opposite façades.
‘Yes, we’re sure. But to prove it, we need to get behind the mosaic, into the structure of the wall, and it takes a long time to get permission for something like that. It has to come from Rome,’ Brunetti heard Vittori-Ricciardi say. A note of pained resignation slipped into his voice. ‘We’ve been waiting five years for an answer from Rome.’
‘Why does it take so long?’ the banker asked, making Brunetti wonder if this were his first visit to Italy.
‘There’s a commission – the Belle Arti – that has to approve restorations. You need their permission before you can touch anything as precious as this.’ Vittori-Ricciardi’s explanation made it sound like a sane system, Brunetti had to admit.
‘You’re not going to damage it: they ought to know that,’ the banker insisted. His tone demonstrated that he was struggling to understand.
‘Their job is to keep unauthorized people from damaging art objects,’ Vittori-Ricciardi told him.
‘Or stealing them?’ the woman asked, leading Brunetti to suspect she had spent more time in Italy than her companion.
Brunetti glanced aside just in time to see the thin moustache turn up at both ends as
Vittori-Ricciardi gave a stiff smile. ‘It’s rather hard to steal a mosaic.’
‘So when will we be able to take a look at it?’ This from the banker.
‘If you’ll tell me when you’re free, we could go out this week.’
‘When can work begin?’ the Englishman asked, ignoring the previous exchange. Brunetti was curious about the expression with which the law professor’s face would greet her partner’s question, but he kept his attention directed across the Canal, quite as if these other people were speaking a language he did not understand.
‘As soon as we have the permission. We’re hoping to have it in a few months,’ Vittori-Ricciardi answered. The Englishman, Brunetti reflected, would hear ‘few months’ and not ‘we’re hoping’ and have no idea how much closer to the truth the second was than the first.
A silence fell. Vittori-Ricciardi linked his arm with the other man’s, trying but, Brunetti thought, failing to make it seem a spontaneous gesture and succeeding only in startling the other man, who pulled his arm free. They disappeared, followed slowly by the woman, through a door that led to the salone that held the painted beams, one of the architectural details for which the palazzo was known.
Paola and her mother surprised him by appearing almost immediately through the same door, Paola bringing with her the promise of escape. As she came towards him, she extended her right hand in a gesture rich in supplication. ‘Get us out of here, please, Guido. Tell Demetriana you have to go and arrest someone.’
‘I live to serve,’ said a modest Brunetti, and led them into the other room to say their farewells to Contessa Lando-Continui, whom they found standing alone in the middle of her friend’s salone as comfortably as if it had been her own. There followed an exchange of kisses; Paola and her mother left the room, leaving Brunetti alone with Contessa Lando-Continui.
Before he could thank her for the invitation, she placed a hand on his arm. ‘Donatella’s spoken to you?’
‘Yes, she has.’
‘I’d like to talk to you as a policeman and as a member of her family,’ she said, speaking slowly, as if to convey some special message.
‘I’ll try to do my best,’ Brunetti said. He thought she’d ask him which was more important, but she merely added pressure to his arm and asked, ‘Can you come to see me tomorrow?’ A contessa did not take the vaporetto and then walk along to the Questura.
‘Tomorrow afternoon?’ he suggested.
‘I’ll be at home.’
‘About five?’
She nodded, shook his hand, and turned to the lord, who had come to take his leave.
A few minutes later, Brunetti and Paola were at the bottom of the bridge in front of the university. ‘It’s good to walk after a meal,’ Brunetti said, hoping to deflect any discussion of the evening. He said nothing about his last conversation. They paused briefly at the top of the bridge to see what the firemen were up to. Nothing.
Summer had given way to autumn a few days before, and the flocks of tourists had begun their autumn migration. There was no one in Campo San Polo; all the bars were already shuttered; even the pizzeria over at the far end was closed.
‘What did the banker have to say?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Quite a lot,’ Paola answered. ‘After a time, I stopped listening and tried to nod when I thought it was necessary.’
‘Did he notice?’
‘Oh, no,’ Paola said simply. ‘They never do.’
‘They?’
‘Men who know everything. There’s quite a few of them. All a woman who has to listen to them needs to do is look interested and nod now and again. I use the time trying to remember poetry.’
‘Am I one of them?’ Brunetti asked.
Paola studied his face. ‘You know me all these years and you can still ask that question?’ When Brunetti did not answer, she said, ‘No, you are not one of them. You know a lot, but you never act like you know everything.’
‘And if I did?’
‘Oh,’ she said and started walking again. ‘Divorce is so troublesome, I’d probably look interested and nod at you all the time.’
‘And try to remember poetry?’
‘Exactly.’
They reached the calle that led to their home. For some reason, he thought of how Venice had been when they were children, when few people locked their doors: certainly his family never had. But then, he realized, his family had never had anything worth stealing. In front of the door he took out his keys. But before he opened the door, he put an arm around Paola’s shoulders and bent to kiss the top of her head.
2
The next morning, when Brunetti and Vianello went down to the bar at Ponte dei Greci for a coffee, Brunetti found himself telling the Inspector about some of the people at the dinner, first among them Contessa Lando-Continui herself. Brunetti recounted her comments about the sad changes to the city and then told Vianello how she had been struck silent by the flattery of one of her guests.
‘No one objects to the person who’s telling them how wonderful they are,’ Vianello observed, a sentiment to which the barman Bambola assented with a deep nod. After a moment’s thought, Vianello asked, ‘What’s between them? Is he a relative? An employee?’ The Inspector sipped at his coffee, having finished his brioche some time before, then continued. ‘Only someone who wants something would dare that sort of flattery. But he’d have to know her well.’
Brunetti had already considered this. Only someone who knows us well knows how best to flatter us, knows which virtues we’d like to have attributed to us and which not. Paola was deaf to compliments about her appearance but was a sucker for anyone who praised her for being quick-witted. And he knew that he himself was impervious to comments about the quality of his work, while praise of his understanding of history or taste in books was sure to please him.
‘He praised her generosity,’ Brunetti explained. ‘Her largesse,’ he added, putting the second word in audible quotation marks. He had no idea of the truth of this praise, for he knew little or nothing about the activities of the Contessa other than what had been said the night before. In fact, he knew very little about her at all. Largesse, however, was a quality seldom attributed to Venetians, noble or commoner.
‘You know anything about her, or the family?’ he asked Vianello.
‘Lando-Continui,’ Vianello repeated, leaning back against the bar to study the people going past towards the bridge that led to the Greek church. ‘There’s a notary in Mestre: a cousin of mine went to him when he sold his apartment.’ People crossed the bridge, either disappearing deeper into Castello or heading the opposite way, towards the bacino or San Marco.
‘There’s something else, but I can’t remember it,’ Vianello added, disappointed at his failure to recall the past. ‘If it’s important, you could ask Signorina Elettra.’ Her talents would surely surpass his memory. ‘It was something unpleasant, years ago, but I can’t remember what.’
‘I’ve known her for a long time,’ Brunetti said, ‘but I’ve never had more than a superficial conversation with her. Last night was the first time I had any real sense of her. She’s not as stiff as I thought she was.’ But then he added, ‘She does grumble, though.’
‘About?’
‘The way our fair city has been turned into a kasbah,’ Brunetti said in a sing-song voice. ‘No longer the city in which I played as a child.’ Then, returning to his normal voice, ‘Things like that.’
‘Doesn’t sound much different from what we say ourselves, does it?’ Vianello suggested. Bambola turned away, but not before Brunetti saw his smile.
After quelling his initial resentment at the comment, Brunetti said, ‘Maybe.’ Was it the unconscious recognition of his own lamentations that had made him not like the Contessa’s?
He reached into his pocket and put two euros on the counter. Bambola’s employe
r, Sergio, the owner of the bar, had raised the price of coffee to one euro, ten, but not for anyone who worked at the Questura. They would continue to pay one euro, ‘until’, as Sergio was wont to say, ‘they do away with the euro and we can go back to lire, when things will cost less’. No one at the Questura had the courage to dispute this with Sergio and all were happy to pay only one euro for coffee.
Back in his office, he found a sealed manila envelope on his desk, the signature of his colleague, Claudia Griffoni, scrawled across the flap.
He opened it and pulled from it six plastic folders containing the latest reports from those officers who were permitted to hire and pay informers. Brunetti knew that other officers had informal, sometimes not very licit, relationships with criminals, and would pay their contacts with favours or cigarettes or, he feared, confiscated drugs, should any be kept back when they fell into the hands of the police. The six officers, five men and one woman, whose reports he read every two months, however, passed to their contacts money from the Ministry of the Interior, receipts for which were clipped to their reports, every euro carefully recorded, though there was no way the sums on them could be verified.
Consider the first, a receipt from a restaurant for 63.40 euro, at the bottom of which was carefully penned in, ‘6.40 euro: tip’. Seventy euros was what it cost to learn, according to what was written in the report, that Afghan refugees were being carried into the country on trucks coming from Greece, information that could be picked up for free on any street corner in Mestre or, for that matter, read at least once a week in the pages of Il Gazzettino. The same officer reported that he had been told by a friend who owned a tobacco kiosk in Mogliano that a client, whose name was given, had offered to sell him some jewellery: the only condition of purchase was that he not reveal the source. This had cost twenty euros.
The other officers had little better to offer, though few of them had spent more than fifty euros. Brunetti was left uncomfortable at the thought that betrayal could be had for so little.
