The Waters of Eternal Youth

by Donna Leon

  ‘This is Manuela,’ she said. ‘The only thing my husband ever said was that she was as good as she was beautiful and what happened to her was horrible.’ After a long pause, she added, ‘He cried about it once.’ Then, pointing to the photos, she said, ‘You can see why.’

  Brunetti and Griffoni joined her beside the table and looked at the photos, one in black and white and one in colour. It was the same girl he’d seen in the photo in the newspaper, looking just as young – or old. But here she sat on the fence where they had stood a ­half-­hour before, her face raised to the sun, eyes closed, apparently unaware of the camera.

  In the second, she was mounted, high boots and helmet, tight jeans, sweater and scarf. She was as radiant and as beautiful as in the other, her face a collection of perfections.

  The horse was a dark chestnut, quite as beautiful – at least to Brunetti’s ignorant eye – as the girl. The hair on its left flank gleamed, the light creating shadows among the muscles and tendons of the leg. From under the saddle peeped the edge of a red saddle blanket. The girl looked serious, and the horse looked happy.

  ‘Is that her horse?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Griffoni said. Brunetti somehow knew she was talking about the horse.

  ‘Yes. My husband always liked her because she was so ­sweet-­tempered, so when Manuela didn’t come back and the family said they didn’t want her any more, he kept her, and she became the beginners’ horse.’ Then, reflectively, she added, ‘She was here when I came, and she’s the only one left – horse or human – who was. Nobody much rides her now.’ In answer to their evident curiosity, she went on. ‘There’s not a lot of work for me today. I board a couple of horses, but the days are gone when people could afford lessons for their children. Or to keep a horse.’

  ‘But you still keep her?’ Griffoni asked.

  The woman smiled. ‘She knew my husband.’

  Griffoni nodded and said, ‘Of course.’ Then, ‘Could I ride her?’

  ‘Now?’ the woman asked, surprised.

  ‘No, some other time. If I came out.’

  ‘Of course. She’d love the company, I’m sure.’ Then, after a moment’s reflection, she added, ‘She’s a bit slow, I’m afraid, but it’s a joy to ride her. She’s not what she was.’

  ‘None of us is,’ Griffoni said, then laughed out loud. She got to her feet. ‘We have the number, so I’ll call, all right?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, she’ll be so happy.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Griffoni said and turned away to go back to the car.

  When they emerged into the sunlight they saw the driver standing on the first railing and scratching the space between the eyes of a dark brown horse.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Brunetti called over to him.

  The officer jumped down and came towards the car. Hector was still asleep and did not wake when the officer stepped over him. Brunetti and Griffoni gave their thanks to the woman and made their farewells. As they started to get into the car, Signora degli Specchi said, speaking to Griffoni, ‘You’ll really come back, won’t you?’

  ‘Is that her?’ Griffoni asked, pointing to the horse the driver had been scratching. Brunetti looked over at the horse, who was looking back at them. She was thinner than in her photo, her coat less glossy: he supposed this made horses look older, but he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Yes. Petunia.’ As if to prove it, she called over to the horse, ‘Petunia, who’s a pretty girl?’

  The horse gave an answering whinny.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ Griffoni said and got into the car.

  The return journey to Venice was subdued, but there was an atmosphere of satisfaction and complicity that made speech unnecessary. As they started across the bridge leading to Piazzale Roma, the driver said, ‘Petunia,’ and laughed at the memory. Neither of the people in the back said anything; the car pulled up in front of the landing, where the driver had ordered a boat to pick them up.

  Away from the freedom provided by a day in the country, back into routine, the driver came around to open Griffoni’s door. As she got out, he raised a hand in what might have been a salute but might have been the friendly wave of one colleague to another.

  She followed Brunetti down the steps and on to the police launch. When they were seated in the cabin, Brunetti said, ‘Do we bother to look for the people who were working there fifteen years ago?’

  Her answer was immediate. ‘The fact that you didn’t ask her for a list of names means you don’t think it’s worth it, I’d say,’ but she said it with a smile, then asked, ‘What’s left for us to do?’

  ‘Talk to the mother,’ he said, already dialling the number the Contessa had given him.

  ‘Pronto,’ a woman’s voice answered on the seventh ring, sounding anything but pronto.

  ‘Signora ­Magello-­Ronchi?’

  ‘Sì,’ she answered, as if she found this an interesting question and might like to discuss it further.

  ‘This is Commissario Guido Brunetti,’ he said. ‘I realize this must come as a surprise to you, but I’ve been asked by the Public Magistrate to examine the circumstances of your daughter’s accident in case something was overlooked in the original handling of the event.’ Brunetti decided that was sufficiently confusing to sound convin­cing. ‘And I wondered if you’d be kind enough to speak to me about it.’

  He thought of the way, as a child, he’d dropped stones down the ­still-­uncovered wells in the city and waited to hear the answering splash, often long delayed. Finally it came. ‘Ah, yes, the accident.’ A pause extended out from that last word, until she was back to ask, ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Brunetti.’

  ‘The Public Magistrate, you say?’

  ‘Yes, Signora.’

  ‘Then I suppose I should talk to you?’

  ‘It would be a great kindness.’

  She spent some time considering this before saying, ‘Then I suppose I must.’

  ‘Would it be convenient for us to come to see you now, by any chance?’ he asked. ‘My colleague, Commissario Claudia Griffoni, is with me.’

  ‘A woman?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ she said, then asked, ‘Where did you say you were?’

  He looked out of the window of the launch and saw the familiar façade. ‘At Ca’ d’Oro.’

  ‘Can you get to Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini from there?’ she asked.

  Entirely at a loss for words, Brunetti decided on a simple ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why don’t you come here? I never get to see anyone.’

  ‘We can be there in about fifteen minutes,’ Brunetti said, knowing they could be there sooner, but not wanting to frighten her by appearing too eager.

  ‘Oh, fine. I’ll expect you, then. It’s just to the left of the church. Top floor.’

  When the call was over, he turned to Griffoni and said, ‘She asked me if I could get to Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini from here.’

  ‘She’s Venetian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Brunetti told himself, but did not say aloud, that Manuela might not be the only one who was brain damaged.

  The pilot of the launch slowed down when Brunetti explained that they had fifteen minutes to get there, allowing them a slow passage up the Grand Canal: taxis passed them, a boat loaded with washing machines left them in its wake, until finally the pilot made a U-turn and went back to Rio delle Due Torri and proceeded slowly towards the Campo. While they moved, Brunetti used Google Earth to locate the house: he recognized it to the left of the church. How did tourists find things, with only street addresses to guide them? He didn’t like this new age, much preferred having someone tell him the address he was looking for was the house with the new shutters to the right of the g
reengrocer opposite the flower shop that had the cacti in the window. Any Venetian would understand that.

  The campo threw windows at them, as it always did: a Byzantine and a Gothic quadrifora competed with one another, and straight ahead two pentafore, one on top of the other, battled it out for public admiration. The lower, Gothic one always won Brunetti’s vote, even if two of the windows were bricked up.

  Just beyond the house was the church: poor little church, Brunetti always thought, to have such a lovely façade wasted in such a narrow calle. No one could stand back far enough to see it all from the proper perspective, but past builders knew nothing of zoning laws, and so it could be seen only from close up.

  He found ‘BMR’ on the top bell on the right and rang. After a full minute, he rang again, and this time the door snapped open.

  The staircase was surprisingly grand for a house with such a modest exterior: low marble steps rubbed smooth by centuries of climbing and descending feet. The marble balustrade had been worn down by the hands that had sought its help. The walls were unplastered brick, completely free of adornment or decoration. What he was seeing was the ancient, barefaced Venice of working merchants who had no desire that their wealth be seen beyond their homes.

  They continued to the top, where they saw an open door. Brunetti stopped in front of it and knocked a few times, calling out, ‘Signora? Signora?’

  A tall young woman emerged from a room on the left side of the corridor, turned and came towards them. She had ­shoulder-­length dark hair, pulled back by pink barrettes on both sides. She wore a grey sweater, dark blue jeans, and red tennis shoes above which peeped pink socks.

  Brunetti studied her face as she approached them and found the same perfections he’d seen in her photo, frozen into place as if carved on the face of a statue. Manuela – for this must be Manuela – approached them, her entire bearing showing confusion, though Brunetti wasn’t sure what made him think that.

  ‘Are you the policemen?’ she asked in a tentative voice. She managed to move her lips and tried to smile.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Brunetti said in as pleasant a voice as he could muster.

  ‘But you don’t have uniforms. And she’s not a man,’ she said, pointing an agitated finger at Griffoni.

  ‘But I do work for the police,’ Griffoni said calmly. ‘We’re called policewomen, and we don’t have to wear a uniform.’ She produced a smile, warm and large enough for a person to plunge into.

  Manuela nodded, but Brunetti wondered if her mental capacities had a category for policewomen.

  She turned to Brunetti and pointed at him, but spoke to Griffoni. ‘He isn’t wearing a uniform, either.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to wear one,’ Griffoni said smoothly. ‘We’re bosses, and bosses don’t have to wear them.’

  ‘But you can if you want?’

  ‘Of course.’ Then, with real interest, Griffoni asked, ‘Do you think it would be better if we wore them?’

  Manuela stopped to consider this. Brunetti watched her face as she tried to decide. First her lips tightened, and then her eyes. She brought her right hand to her forehead, the way a bad actor would, to show indecision. Then her face flushed, and her breathing quickened. A low humming noise came from her mouth.

  Griffoni intervened when she heard this. ‘Oh, who cares, anyway, Manuela, so long as we’re here and can talk to your mother. She said you’d answer the door and take us to her. Do you think you can do that now?’

  Manuela took a step towards Griffoni and latched her arm in hers. Her face cleared and her breathing returned to normal. ‘Oh, yes. She’s in the sitting room and told me to bring you there.’ She smiled and then lost her smile when she said, ‘But I forgot.’

  ‘Oh, I forget everything, too,’ Griffoni said. Then, to her new best friend, placing her hand on hers the better to anchor their arms together, she said, ‘Let’s go and see your mother.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Manuela said.

  Brunetti had watched all of this, marvelling at the woman’s beauty. No makeup, hair pulled back and hanging straight, but she’d cause heads to turn on the street. As she walked away, arm in arm with Griffoni, Brunetti noticed that her left foot did not rise as high as the right. She did not drag it, but it was evident that it did not make a matched pair with the other.

  He followed them down a corridor that led towards the back of the house. Manuela stopped abruptly outside a door, as though she had walked into something solid. Then she turned to the left and said, ‘In there,’ leaving it to Griffoni to open the door. They walked in, still arm in arm, and Brunetti followed fast upon them.

  A woman a bit taller than her daughter stood looking out of a window, her pose so studied and artificial that Brunetti had to stop himself from laughing at the sight of her. ‘Signora ­Magello-­Ronchi?’ he asked formally, as if uncertain who this woman might be.

  She turned slowly to face them but said nothing. Brunetti used her consciously dramatic pause to study her face. In it, he saw the eyes she had passed to her daughter: clear blue and ­almond-­shaped. Human intervention had thinned Barbara’s nose: either nature or her father’s genes had thinned that of her daughter. Her hair was artfully streaked with blonde, and she was careful to stand straight, shoulders back, as if she had been told she’d be punished if her hair touched her shoulders.

  Her mouth, a colour somewhere between strong pink and delicate red, was poised in a ­half-­smile as she formulated the proper greeting. ‘Buon giorno,’ she said, having found it.

  She looked at Brunetti and graced him with a smile, then nodded in Griffoni’s direction, leaving it to her to decipher if the nod were meant for her or for her daughter. Griffoni nodded in return, and Manuela said, ‘Mamma, these are the policemen, but they don’t have to wear uniforms to be policemen and they don’t have to be men, either.’ She turned to Griffoni for confirmation, and Griffoni smiled, patting Manuela’s arm as she did so, as if to praise her for having learned so much, so fast.

  Manuela laughed, a bright tinkle that filled the room with delight and caused Brunetti’s hands to curl into tight fists. He looked at his shoes until the moment passed and then returned his eyes to the mother.

  ‘That’s very interesting, Manuela,’ she said with enough interest to make it sound as though she believed it herself. ‘But aren’t you helping Alina in the kitchen?’ Before Manuela could answer, her mother went on. ‘Why don’t you go and ask her to make coffee for our guests?’

  Then, to Brunetti, ‘You’d both like some coffee, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ he said.

  Griffoni slipped her arm from Manuela’s and echoed, ‘Oh, yes, I’d love a coffee.’ She looked at her watch and added, ‘I always have one about this time of day.’ Then, after a silent exchange with Brunetti, she said, ‘Manuela, why don’t we both go and help Alina?’ When Manuela was slow to answer, Griffoni said, ‘You’ll have to show me where the cups and saucers are, you know. You’ll have to help me.’

  Manuela’s face glowed with delight. She took Griffoni’s arm and gave it a gentle pull, saying, ‘All right. Let’s go to the kitchen and I’ll show you. I’ll help.’

  Seeing that Manuela’s mother was at a loss for how to behave, Brunetti decided to take the initiative and said, ‘Shall we sit down, Signora? I have a number of things I’d like to ask you.’

  She walked to a chair that stood in front of the window. The light fell on the chair facing her, so Brunetti pulled it to one side and sat out of the direct light. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us, Signora.’

  Sitting closer to her now, Brunetti saw that she had applied a layer of ­flesh-­coloured makeup to her face but had not succeeded in applying it smoothly under her chin, so the colour simply ended, creating a colour change as evident as that on the fur of a Jack Russell. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ she said.

  ‘A
magistrate has initiated a ­re-­examination of the circumstances surrounding Manuela’s accident,’ he said, intentionally avoiding any reference to his own interest in the subject. Let her think he was merely a cop sent to do some unimportant job.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, prolonging the sound. When Brunetti made no comment, she said, ‘I didn’t know there had been an examination to begin with.’ Her tone caused Brunetti to do a sudden reassessment. Perhaps she was not drugged at all, merely leading them on.

  Brunetti gave an easy smile. ‘Perhaps it’s more correct to say that there was the usual police report of the incident. That’s what the magistrate wants us to look at again.’

  ‘After fifteen years?’ she asked, deadpan.

  ‘Yes,’ Brunetti answered but supplied no explanation.

  ‘Has my ­mother-­in-­law got anything to do with this?’ she asked.

  Brunetti narrowed his eyes in confusion, as if hearing for the first time that this woman had a ­mother-­in-­law. ‘I’m afraid only the Public Magistrate would know that, Signora. I was asked to speak to you.’ Then, with interest obviously aroused by her question, he asked, ‘Is there something your ­mother-­in-­law knows that we should hear about?’

  Her answer was immediate. ‘Not that I know of.’

  Brunetti indicated his acceptance of her remark. In a more serious voice, he began, ‘Signora, you must excuse me if I ask this, but can you tell me how much . . .’ Brunetti broke off, seeking a word less savage than ‘damage’ to use. ‘ . . . harm was done to Manuela?’

  ‘You’ve seen her,’ she said, suddenly fierce with the anger of someone who has nothing to lose. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think she has a very sweet character,’ Brunetti said in the girl’s defence.

  ‘Children usually do,’ the mother said bitterly, then clapped her hand over her mouth, as if surprised to hear herself say such a thing. She put her palms on her knees and leaned forward to take a few deep breaths. As Brunetti watched, she rocked back and forth a few times, eyes closed. Finally she said, voice calmer but not calm, ‘The doctors say she has a mental age of six or seven, and that’s what she’s going to be for ever.’