by Donna Leon
When Brunetti remarked on the generosity of the fishermen they met, Casati said fishermen were always generous, far more so than farmers. To Brunetti’s question, he explained that fishermen knew their catch would last no more than a day, so it was easy for them to give it away: give it away or watch it rot. Farmers, however, could store what they reaped and so had a tendency to keep it or even hoard it.
When they returned to the villa in the afternoon, they stored the oars, fórcole and grating and then Brunetti went to the villa and sometimes read for an hour or so. Or else he walked down to the more inhabited parts of the island, where he was perfectly happy to say hello to the people he passed on the street, and nothing more. He did not phone Lucia Zanotto; not for any reason he could think of, but only because he was out there to be alone, and alone he wanted to be. Somehow, Casati didn’t count.
Casati had told him there was a bicycle in the shed and suggested he ride down to the trattoria at the other end of the island, where he could eat fish that was fresh and vegetables from the island. He called Paola every night and told her where they had been in the laguna – even though he usually didn’t have even the name of a location to give her – and what he had eaten for lunch and dinner. When she asked him about books, he confessed that he had little time to read during the day and at night was so tired he turned out his light after ten minutes and had no memory in the morning of what he had read. He invited her to come out for the weekend, even offered to come in the puparìn and get her at the boat stop, but she said she wanted him to do his full two weeks of solitude and reflection.
After she said this, they spoke for a few minutes, and when he hung up, Brunetti realized his feelings were hurt. It did not occur to him that it had been his decision to come out here and to live separated from his family because he suddenly didn’t like his job, nor did he consider the fact that his decision was the result of his own heedless behaviour. No, it was his feelings that were hurt when his wife said she did not want to come out to an isolated house at the end of an island to spend her weekend either being rowed around the laguna under a fierce July sun or, if she chose not to go with him, sitting alone in a house that was not her own, waiting for her husband to come home.
On the second Friday, ten days into Brunetti’s stay, when they docked in front of the house in the late afternoon, Casati said that he would not be going out on Saturday or Sunday because he had remembered something he had to do. He seemed embarrassed to be telling Brunetti this, so Brunetti did not remind him that he had said the day before that they’d go out both days. Making the best of it and aware of how much he owed Casati for the days he had spent with him, Brunetti said he wouldn’t mind two days of resting and then remarked awkwardly that they had the advantage of deciding when they wanted a weekend off.
Casati smiled and said he’d see him at the usual time on Monday. They’d had a relatively easy day and had stopped on Burano for a long lunch, and Brunetti was restless when he got back. After Casati was gone, he took the bicycle from the shed and rode around the island for a long time, stopped at the bar for a coffee and a glass of water, and then went back to the villa to lie on the sofa and read. Later, as the light was fading, he rode back to the trattoria to have salmon trout with butter and almonds, then went slowly back to the house in the darkness, glad of the lights at the front and back of the bike. How he wished Paola could see the red sky fade to pink and then transform itself into this strange darkness, so different from the over-lit streets of the city.
Saturday passed quietly. Instead of rowing, Brunetti contented himself with going into the water just in front of the house, although he chose to walk in from the steps rather than dive. Once in the water, he did dive down and look around. He saw countless small fish he thought were baby rombo, and an unsettling number of what looked like jellyfish. He swam for an hour in the morning and another in the afternoon, and by dinnertime he was exhausted. When Federica came by in the late afternoon to ask if he’d like her to prepare dinner for him, he told her there was no need; he’d take care of himself. That meant he made himself pasta and salad and read while eating.
Sunday started out in glory; the sun launched itself into the sky and shot down bolts of heat, intent on driving all life – human or animal – into the shade or into shelter. The humans managed, and the goats huddled under trees, following the slow course of the shade as the sun rose ever higher. The dogs simply disappeared. After making himself a large portion of spaghetti with aglio, olio e peperoncino for lunch, Brunetti decided to go to the bar for a coffee. He pedalled past two mules lying stiff-legged under a fig tree and feared they were dead of the heat until one of them waved a languid tail. Though he wore the baseball cap and long sleeves and had slathered on sunscreen that Paola seemed to have hidden in his suitcase, by the time he reached the bar at the other end of the island, he felt as though he was himself a single tight-skinned blister.
Inside, he asked for a coffee and sat down at a table to read Il Gazzettino, which he had not seen for more than a week. The city, it appeared, was surviving his absence. He read the paper from front to back, even the ads, and found no mention of Ruggieri; not that he had expected to. The passarelle for acqua alta at Rialto had finally been replaced, and it seemed that this time they fitted properly. No work was being done on the MOSE tide barrier other than maintenance and repair; how many years had he been reading this headline? The new mayor had made another dismissive remark about culture in general and, this time, ‘professors’ in particular. Brunetti wondered what it was His Honour objected to. That they could read and write?
Brunetti suddenly realized his head had been moving closer and closer to the page as he read and wondered if his glasses had ceased to work, but when he looked up, he saw that it was because the windows behind him had ceased to provide any light. He folded the paper closed and went to the door. It faced in the general direction of Venice, somewhere there beyond the horizon, no doubt still washed in the golden sunlight of late afternoon. He stepped outside and was surprised to find it had grown cool. After a few paces he turned to face the sea, visible through the Porto del Lido. It had shrunk, or so it seemed. At some incalculable distance offshore, an immense dark curtain had been pulled down from heaven to water, slamming a door in sight’s face. He stood and watched the wall of clouds that seemed to be rolling closer. He was distracted by the sound of an approaching boat, heard it boom as it slammed against the dock with unnecessary force – sloppy pilot. But when he looked towards the dock, there was no boat; then the booming came again, louder this time and coming from the direction of that cloud curtain. Another boom and a sudden excess of light.
Brunetti saw that the curtain had moved closer during the few moments he had turned away from it. Another boom, and this time he saw the flash of lightning, straight out of the cloud, pounding down on the surface of the sea. Instinct drove him to take a step backward, and his right hand rose to his eyes, as though it wanted to fend off the lightning.
Brunetti calculated the time it would take him to get back to the villa, hurried inside, put a Euro on the counter, and waved to the owner. Outside, he yanked the bicycle away from the wall and pushed off in the direction of the house. The wind from his right was powerful, forcing him to pull the handlebars constantly to fight it. After a few minutes, he started to calculate his speed in relation to the wind that was driving the cloud towards him: who would get to the villa first? Who would win? He put his head down and pedalled, but even this expense of energy could not keep him warm in face of the plummeting temperature. A flash of lightning to his right drove away all thought as he waited for the crash of sound.
After four seconds it came, blasting across him with a shock he could feel, thudding into his ears. He moved forward, chilled with the temperature or with fear.
The next bolt of lightning shut his eyes for him. His grip on the handlebars tightened, but the road was straight and smooth and he managed to fight the wind that tried to force him off to the side. When
he opened his eyes, he saw he was still heading down the middle of the road. A clap of thunder and a cascade of rain descended at the same instant, causing him briefly to lose control of the bike. He swerved to the left, unable to see through the rain. He squeezed the brakes and came to a stop, and what seemed like a wave washed across him. Soaked, he started again and pedalled madly, guided only by the intermittent white stripes on the road, hoping that any of the rare motorists who might be approaching from the other direction would see him.
He swerved through the gates and up to the front of the house. He dropped the bicycle, pounded up the steps and inside. Like a character in a horror film, he slammed the door behind him and leaned his body against it, eyes closed, pulling in rasping breaths of panic and relief. Behind him, as though following the same script, the monster banged on the sky three times, each thud followed by a long, low growl.
When his heart calmed, Brunetti went up to his bedroom and changed into dry clothing, took the sweater from his bag and pulled it on. He rubbed some warmth back into his feet, pulled on socks and shoes, and went over to close the window, though no rain was coming in. Then he walked around the top floor, checking the rest of the windows. On the side facing the sea, the rain pounded almost horizontally at the glass, making it impossible to see anything.
Back downstairs, he turned on the lights in both sitting rooms, found his phone, and dialled Paola at home. Surely, with a storm like this, she’d be safely inside.
It rang unanswered for a long time. He disconnected and dialled her telefonino. Even before she could speak, he asked, ‘Where are you?’
‘At my parents’,’ she said.
‘Is it raining?’
‘Here?’ Paola asked.
‘Yes.’ As he spoke, another enormous clap of thunder rang out, followed by the long tail of deep sound.
‘What was that?’ she asked, startled.
‘Thunder,’ Brunetti said calmly, speaking easily now that he was inside and safe from the lightning.
When the noise had ebbed away, he went on. ‘We’re having a terrific storm here. If it turns, it’ll be over the city soon.’
‘Good,’ Paola said.
‘What?’
‘Good,’ she repeated, this time a bit more loudly. ‘You should see the streets, Guido. They’re disgusting. It hasn’t rained for weeks, so God knows what we’re tracking into the house every day.’ She paused and then added, ‘I never thought I’d wish acqua alta on the city, but at least it would clean them.’
‘If this storm makes it there, the streets will be clean enough, my dear,’ he said. Then, ‘How are your parents?’
‘Fine, both of them. My father is going to Mongolia on Wednesday.’
‘To buy it?’ Brunetti inquired lightly.
‘Ha ha ha,’ Paola answered, utterly without humour. ‘Well, he is going to buy a little bit of it.’
Brunetti waited.
‘Copper. It seems they have masses of it, still in the ground. And the people who own the mine don’t want to sell it to the Chinese, so they’ve asked my father if he’d be interested.’
Then, casting off the subject, she asked, ‘How are you?’
Sensing that it was not a pro forma question, Brunetti said, ‘I’m busy all day with rowing or riding the bike so I don’t have much time to think. Well, to think seriously about anything, that is. And I like it.’
‘Stay another week, and you’ll come back a mindless fool,’ Paola said, laughing.
‘But with muscles like steel and the sparkle of rude peasant health in my eyes.’
‘I’m glad I‘m sitting down, Guido. You make my knees go all wobbly.’
‘I do feel better, though,’ Brunetti said, suddenly serious. ‘I’m hardly drinking at all, get eight hours of sleep, and I’m moving and busy all day.’
‘Will I recognize you?’ Paola asked.
‘It would break my heart if you didn’t,’ he said, unaware until he said it how true it was.
When they hung up, Brunetti realized it was no longer raining and the thunder had moved away from the island. He looked out the front windows and saw fat white clouds reflecting the glow of evening light. He walked to the corner of the property, still glad of the sweater, and looked to the south-west, but there was no sign of the storm, only the same soft evening light coming from the direction of the far-off city. How could a storm that fierce simply have disappeared without a trace? He’d have to ask Casati tomorrow.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was after seven, and yet the day was still with him, vibrant with life. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked to the riva and stood for a while, watching the light on the fat clouds pass from red to rose and then fade away entirely. After a long time, he went back into the house to prepare his solitary dinner; well, solitary save for the company of Gaius Plinius Secundus, dead for nearly two millennia but very much present to Brunetti.
11
Brunetti awoke in Paradise. Birds chirped, the sun prised with rosy fingers at his eyelids, an invisible cow mooed in the distance, the heat was bearable, and his cotton bedspread welcome in the early morning. He lay still and listened to the silence, didn’t bother to tease himself, as he had every morning since he’d arrived, with looking to the left side of the bed to see if Paola had slipped in during the night.
Instead, he went downstairs and into the brick-floored kitchen to make coffee, surprised by how cold the floor felt under his feet. He noticed that Federica hadn’t brought the bread. He glanced at the clock above the sink and saw that it was still not yet seven: surely he had enough time to make coffee and have a shower before meeting Casati.
He drank the coffee standing at the counter, set the empty cup in the sink, and went back upstairs, where he shaved carefully. The job the days of rowing had done on his muscles relieved him of the need to represent his manliness with a few days’ stubble; besides, he felt better with a shaved face.
The morning chill was still present, so he put a sweater over his shoulders before he went downstairs. Still no sign of Federica. Friday afternoon she had brought him his washed and ironed clothing, insisting that Signor Emilio had asked her to see to this. It made him uncomfortable, and that made him wonder why it didn’t bother him in the least to receive the same treatment in his own home. Clean, ironed shirts, he knew, did not float into his closet every night while he slept, neither here nor at home, yet they might as well have done so, for all the attention he paid to them.
As he left the house, he saw Federica turn into the walkway that led to the front door. ‘Buon dì,’ he said as she drew closer.
Ignoring his greeting, she asked, ‘Have you seen my father?’ She looked behind Brunetti, as if she suspected him of hiding her father in the house.
‘No. Isn’t he at the boat?’
She shook her head. ‘He didn’t come down for coffee this morning, and when I went upstairs, he wasn’t in his room. I saw him in the morning yesterday, but not since then. He wasn’t at dinner.’ Then, after a pause, ‘And he didn’t sleep at home last night.’ She was puzzled, not worried, so it sounded to Brunetti as though it was not such an unusual event. This made sense, he supposed. Casati was still a very handsome man, his age impossible to judge, but his vigour evident. As though she’d read his mind, Federica added, ‘In the past, he’s always called when he wasn’t going to come home.’ Aware of this comic reversal of roles, she gave an embarrassed smile.
‘And the boat?’ Surely, Casati must have moved it to a safer place yesterday: no boat owner would ever have left one tied to a stone wall, fender or no fender, with a storm coming right at it.
‘There’s a small marina where a lot of us put our boats when there’s bad weather. But I haven’t had time to check.’
‘Where is it?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Come with me,’ she said, already moving back the way she had come.
He caught up with her and they walked along side by side, silent. They followed the pavement until, up ahead,
Brunetti saw a large L-shaped cement molo sticking out into the water, boats docked at the inner sides. They studied the boats as they moved closer, but the familiar puparìn was not there. These boats floated in full tranquillity. Only one, its tarpaulin sagging in places under the weight of rainwater that had not been bailed from it, showed signs of the passing of the storm.
‘That’s very strange,’ Federica said, running her fingers through her unkempt hair. ‘A boat can’t disappear.’
‘Did he take it out yesterday?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I told him not to, not with a storm coming this way,’ she answered, trying to disguise her anger. Then her face relaxed. ‘But maybe he did and had to sleep in the boat because he couldn’t get back.’
It was when Brunetti heard her grasping at this straw that he began to worry. Didn’t Casati have a telefonino? The storm had stopped twelve hours before: surely a man as familiar with the laguna as Casati would have found his way home, even in the dark. Without thinking, he turned back towards the villa, the only place he could think of going. After a moment, Federica caught up and fell into step with him.
‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’ Brunetti asked.
Federica kept her eyes on the ground as they walked, although she must have been as familiar with the route as with the floors of her own home; then she slowed and stopped. She said, ‘My father …’ then paused and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. She cleared her throat to make it easier and said, ‘My father goes to see my mother every week, usually on Sunday.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said in what he tried to make an encouraging voice.
‘He goes to talk to her, to tell her what’s happening and to ask her what she thinks.’ She looked at Brunetti, as if she were a student pausing during an exam to see how things were going.
