by Donna Leon
Perhaps prompted by guilt, Brunetti phoned the Contessa the next day. She said she was glad to hear from him and, if the Commissario had time, would be very grateful if he could come and talk to her. It was she who suggested he join Claudia and Manuela for a light lunch on Wednesday, if he didn’t mind coming during the working week.
Having seen how adept Claudia was at handling Manuela, Brunetti had no doubt that she would find a way to leave him alone to talk to the Contessa and so agreed, saying he’d speak to Claudia and come along with them.
When he phoned Griffoni, she suggested that he meet them at one at Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio so that she could take Manuela on a different route. ‘She doesn’t like change, even simple things like which calle to take,’ Griffoni explained. ‘But if I tell her it’s because that’s where we have to pick you up, she’ll agree.’
Brunetti kept back a remark about how important the training of young ladies still seemed to be, but Griffoni must have interpreted his silence differently because she said, ‘She can’t learn to do multiplication and division, but she has learned to be considerate of other people’s convenience.’
‘I’ll see you there at one,’ Brunetti said and hung up.
Because he had promised to go to Rialto with Paola before lunch, Brunetti left the Questura well before lunchtime on Wednesday and met her there. Heavy dark clouds had appeared in the north in the late morning and got worse while Paola and Brunetti were still at Rialto, trying to decide what to have for dinner that night. Cristina, the fishmonger, suggested a rombo, but Paola didn’t like the look of it and so asked about the branzino, a variety of fish that had Cristina’s enthusiastic approval. ‘I thought I’d serve it with artichoke,’ Paola said tentatively. ‘And black rice with peas.’
‘The Findus primavera are very good,’ was Cristina’s sibylline reply as she selected a large fish and handed it to her assistant to clean.
By the time they were finished and stopped at Do Mori for a drink, the first rain had begun to fall. As they stepped out under the rain, Paola asked, ‘You still planning to go and see her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even in this rain?’ she asked, pulling her scarf over her hair and taking a collapsible umbrella from her shopping bag.
‘Yes. I said I would.’
‘Good.’ Paola handed him the umbrella. ‘Here, you’ll need this.’
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Run,’ she said and did just that, out of reach before he could react.
There were few people on the streets, so he was spared the usual jostle and umbrella-sparring as people tried to pass in the narrow calli. Venetians had had ages to develop the technique of tilting the top to the side of the calle and slipping along the walls past the oncoming walker. Tourists had two techniques: either they forged ahead in the face of all human obstacles or they stopped and cowered with their backs against the nearest building, the umbrella extended fully open above them, effectively forcing all traffic into the centre of the street.
It had never occurred to Brunetti to try to cancel the appointment with the Contessa. He did not want to have the conversation, but that was not sufficient reason not to have it. As he entered the campo, he saw Manuela and Griffoni sheltering together under the uncertain protection of the awning of a bar. Griffoni wore something that looked like a man’s fishing hat, dark blue and wide-brimmed, perfect to cover her head in the rain; the rest of her was enveloped in a voluminous raincoat that fell below her knees.
He slipped under the awning and gave his hand to Manuela and said hello to both of them. ‘Lovely day,’ he said, which comment sent Manuela off into delighted peals of laughter.
‘But it’s raining,’ she managed to say and broke out in fresh laughter. When she stopped, she turned to Griffoni and said, ‘Your friend is very funny, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is,’ Griffoni affirmed and patted Brunetti on the arm. Then as a gust of wind lashed at the awning above them, she said, ‘Let’s go. Your grandmother’s waiting.’
‘Will the real lovely day begin when we get there?’ Manuela asked.
Griffoni stamped her feet, which were protected by a pair of low rubber boots, and said, ‘As soon as the door closes behind us, it will.’
With that they set off, Brunetti taking the lead because he knew the way. He cut to the right without having to think about it, over the bridge, dodged a few tourists and turned back to be sure that the women were close behind him. A long, empty patch lay ahead of them, and he picked up speed, just as the rain picked up energy. Another bridge, another short stretch, quick right and then left, another bridge. To protect his back from the rain, he held his umbrella almost at the horizontal, the shaft resting on his shoulder. He heard an occasional whoop of laughter from behind him.
Two men wearing raincoats approached from the opposite direction. Their umbrellas were lowered against the fierce wind coming straight at them, so all he saw of them were their legs and large, thick shoes. The rain had already soaked the front of their trousers, as it had the backs of his own trousers below his raincoat.
Brunetti tilted his umbrella to the side and was quickly past them, when a perverse gust hit him in the face, soaking him and almost yanking the umbrella from his hands. From behind him, he heard a violent snap as an umbrella was torn inside out. There was a noise and then something slid into the back of his left foot. He turned and saw that an errant gust of him wind had blown an eviscerated umbrella into him. One of the men came back towards him to pick up his umbrella but, seeing it was broken, kicked it to the side of the street. The other saw his near his own feet and left it there. Both turned and continued on their way.
Brunetti shoved the umbrella out of the way with his foot, then heard a piercing scream like that of an animal in a trap. Manuela and Griffoni had been behind him. He dropped his umbrella at the sound, turned and started in their direction. He saw Manuela backed up against the window of a shop, hands thrust out in front, face mad with terror. ‘No,’ she screamed, turning the word into a siren. ‘No.’ She tried to move away, but all she could do was step up on the narrow stone ledge beneath the window of the grocery store and try to push herself flatter against the window.
And again, ‘No!’ Like the siren for acqua alta, the word grew higher with every second. Griffoni was beside her, holding on to her raised arms. Griffoni’s head whipped around and she saw the two men, motionless, hair soaked and their wet faces washed clean of emotion by shock.
‘Leave me alone. Don’t do that. Please.’ Again, Manuela’s voice grew shriller with every outburst. Brunetti manoeuvred hurriedly around the men and raised his hands to chest height, patting at them and backing them away from the two women.
‘Please. Gentlemen. Move back, please,’ he said. Only then did he look at their faces and recognize one as Sandro Vittori-Ricciardi, who stood looking at Manuela as if looking at a portrait of his own crucifixion. The second man seemed confused and pained, unable to make sense of anything. But Vittori-Ricciardi could not control the fear on his face as Manuela continued to scream, now past words and returned to her animal noises.
Brunetti put himself between the two men, taking the arm of each. He swivelled them round and started walking them away from the women. The rain continued to pound down; by now all three men were soaked and hardly noticed it.
Speaking to the man he did not recognize, Brunetti said, ‘Signore, I’m a police officer, and I’d like to see your identification.’ Brunetti pulled out his wallet and showed his warrant card, but it was hardly necessary: the other man was reaching for his own wallet.
‘Wait a minute,’ Vittori-Ricciardi said. ‘Neither of us has done anything. We don’t have to identify ourselves to anyone. If you want to do something useful, go back and deal with that crazy woman before she attacks someone.’ He turned and started to walk away.
His fr
iend, however, said, ‘Hold on, Sandro. There’s no reason to cause trouble.’ That said, he handed his carta d’identità to Brunetti, who took out his notebook and a pen and, hunched over to keep the page dry, wrote down the name. Gianluca Bembo. Born and still resident in Venice.
‘Grazie, Signor Bembo,’ Brunetti said as he handed back his card. ‘That’s all I need.’ Behind him, he could still hear frantic sobbing and turned towards it. The two men walked away.
When he got back to Griffoni, he found her holding the sobbing Manuela against her chest. Griffoni bent down and kissed Manuela on the head, saying, ‘That’s all right, Manuela. We’ll go to your grandmother’s now and have something hot to drink.’ When Manuela, who had stopped crying, did not move, Griffoni gave her a few gentle shakes and said, ‘Come on. It’s close by. We’ll be there in a few minutes.’
Manuela mumbled something, but her face was pressed against Griffoni’s shoulder so it was impossible for Brunetti or Griffoni to make out what she said. ‘I can’t understand you, Tesoro,’ Griffoni said, moving slightly away from her to give her space, though still keeping her arm around her shoulder. ‘What did you say?’
‘He’s a bad man,’ Manuela said. ‘He hurt me.’
Griffoni flashed a glance at Brunetti, who was looking away, seeing not the stout Sandro Vittori-Ricciardi but suddenly remembering the younger, slimmer version in the photo on the wall of Enrichetta degli Specchi’s place: the long-haired and clean-shaven young man who had reminded him of someone.
‘Do you have a plastic bag?’ he asked Griffoni.
She started to answer but thought better of it, opened her purse and pulled out one of the distinctive yellow bags from Mascari.
Not bothering to thank her, Brunetti went back and used his still-dry handkerchief to pick up the broken umbrella that Vittori-Ricciardi had abandoned. He carefully wrapped the handkerchief around the handle and stuffed the umbrella, handle first, inside the plastic bag then closed his hand over the top of the bag in order to keep more water from touching it. He went back to Griffoni, who was now talking to a calmer Manuela. ‘We’ll just go and see your grandmother now,’ he heard her say.
‘And the bad man?’ Manuela asked her.
Griffoni looked at Brunetti, who said, ‘Don’t worry, Manuela. He won’t bother you any more.’
25
When they reached the Contessa’s home, they gave their coats to the maid, who disappeared with them, then returned to lead them into the warmth of the sitting room, where the Contessa was shocked to see how soaked they were. All three of them had left damp footprints behind them on the floor. She held up her hands when Manuela tried to speak and told her and Griffoni to go and quickly find Gala and ask her to find dry clothing and warm slippers. She insisted that Brunetti remove his jacket, soaked through at the shoulders, and suggested he hang it on the back of a chair. He set the bag holding the umbrella beneath the chair and draped his jacket over the back. She stepped up beside him and moved the chair until the back of the jacket was close to the radiator.
Before she could ask him anything, he told the Contessa he had to make a phone call. Surprised by his brusqueness, she pointed to a door to a smaller room: Brunetti went in and closed the door. He retrieved his telefonino from his back pocket and called Bocchese, told him where he was, and asked him to send a man on a boat to pick up a piece of evidence in the Cavanis murder.
‘It can’t be the murder weapon,’ Bocchese observed drily.
‘It might have the same fingerprints,’ Brunetti said. ‘And the same DNA.’
‘My, my, my,’ said Bocchese, his admiration audible. ‘And just where did you find this piece of evidence?’
‘Lying in a puddle on Calle del Tintor.’
‘Of course,’ Bocchese exclaimed. ‘How silly of us not to have thought of going over to look for it there.’
‘It’s the handle of an umbrella that was lying in the rain,’ Brunetti said. ‘But I picked it up with my handkerchief – a fresh one – and put it in a plastic bag.’
‘When Patta finally fires you, Guido, you can come and work in the lab for me.’
‘Thanks,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘How long?’
‘Fingerprints by tomorrow: they’re easy. DNA not for some time. You know that.’
‘Fingerprints should be enough,’ Brunetti said.
‘I know lawyers,’ Bocchese said, ‘and his will say the rain changed them.’
‘Can it?’
Bocchese laughed, then said, ‘If they call me as an expert witness, I’ll eat them alive.’
‘Send the boat, all right?’
‘As soon as we’re off the phone.’
Brunetti hung up. When he returned to the other room, he found the Contessa sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs, her head resting against the back. She glanced at him without speaking, and in the dim light he saw how grey with tiredness she looked.
‘Someone’s coming to pick that up,’ he said, pointing to the destroyed umbrella in its yellow plastic bag.
‘If you give it to Gala, she’ll see that it’s handed over,’ she said. He picked up the bag, went out to the corridor and found the maid, small and friendly-looking. When she reached out to take the bag from him, he told her it was police evidence and should be touched only by the man who came to fetch it.
She gave Brunetti a strange look, the bag an even stranger one, then told him he could place it on the floor next to the door. She’d show the man who came for it where it was, she said, and told Brunetti not to worry. Then, from a small table next to her, she took a thick sweater and handed it to him, saying he might want to put it over his shoulders. Brunetti wanted.
He returned to the sitting room, where Griffoni and Manuela were now sitting at a large round table, each wearing an enormous woollen sweater instead of those they had been wearing when they arrived. Griffoni shot him a quick look. Manuela sat quietly, her eyes on her hands, which were clasped tightly together in her lap. She paid no attention to the people around the table or to what sat upon it.
This time, it was covered with mounds of crustless sandwiches, plum cake, biscuits, crème-filled eclairs, and an entire cream cake dappled with fresh strawberries.
The Contessa was sitting behind the cake, and so Brunetti took the last seat, beside her, where, he saw to his relief, there was a short crystal glass and, not far from it, an unopened bottle of the whisky he recalled.
Griffoni poured tea for the Contessa and herself, looked at Brunetti and, in response to his nod, for him as well. Something hot, something hot.
Brunetti turned to the Contessa and noticed how much shorter she seemed, sitting there next to him. Although little more than a month had passed, and her face looked the same, she had grown shorter, and smaller.
‘What may I give you, Contessa?’ he asked, indicating the food that lay before them.
Before she answered, the old woman looked to her left, where she saw Griffoni speaking to an unresponsive Manuela. ‘The truth,’ she said softly.
‘Let’s have something to eat and drink first,’ he said.
She reached for the bottle and removed the tax stamp and top.
They ate in relative silence, Griffoni making occasional remarks to the Contessa about the food, then encouraging Manuela to try the cream cake. When they were finished, Griffoni stood and reached to take Manuela’s hand. ‘Come on, Stella, let’s go and tell Gala how good everything was. It will make her happy.’ This idea seemed to please Manuela, and she got to her feet, leaving her Coca-Cola and part of her cake unfinished.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Brunetti said, ‘On the way here, Manuela met a man on the street and lost control of herself. She was terrified of him.’
‘What?’ the Contessa asked, voice sharp.
‘She screamed at him not to hurt her and backed away from him.’ Before th
e Contessa could question him, Brunetti said, ‘You know the man.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Alessandro Vittori-Ricciardi.’
She set her teacup back in the saucer with such force that a wave of tea spilled over the side and flooded the saucer. ‘That’s impossible. Manuela’s never met him.’
‘She was terrified of him,’ Brunetti repeated, ignoring her last remark, and then asked, ‘How did he come to work for you?’
‘A mutual friend recommended him.’
‘Who?’
‘Roberto Severino.’
Brunetti knew him. An architect. An honest man.
‘Alessandro has done very good work for us,’ she said. ‘He’s got style and imagination.’
And something to worry about, Brunetti thought.
The Contessa waited to see if he would continue. When he did not, she demanded, ‘How could she be terrified of someone she doesn’t know?’
‘Did Vittori submit a curriculum vitae when he applied for work with you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did it say anything about riding?’
‘Riding?’
‘Horse riding.’
‘I don’t think so. I would have remembered.’
‘Do you still have the curriculum ?’
‘We must have. In the foundation’s office,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘Why do you ask such a thing?’
‘A man looking very much like him appears in a photo at the stable where Manuela’s horse was kept.’
‘And who saw this photo?’ she asked, making no attempt to disguise her scepticism.
‘I did. When I went to the stable with Claudia.’
‘Are you sure it was he?’
‘I haven’t had time to speak to the woman who runs the stables.’
The Contessa said nothing.
‘Could you tell me how well you know him?’ Brunetti asked. When she failed to answer, he rephrased the question. ‘How often have you seen him?’ He thought of how familiar Vittori-Ricciardi had seemed with the Contessa.
