Earthly Remains

by Donna Leon

  ‘What he said about Davide is true: he’s one of the best,’ Gianni said to Brunetti, looking in the direction of the bar, ‘but the wind last night was bad, and he’s not a young man.’ The men near him nodded at this.

  Brunetti thanked them and went over to the bar, where he paid the bill for the table and said he’d go back to the villa and see if there had been any news.

  13

  In deference to the sudden rise in temperature that had taken place while he was inside, Brunetti pedalled slowly back towards the villa, regretting that he had forgotten his sunglasses and the baseball cap. Life inside a city was life within the shadow of walls; out here, the sun was unrelenting and cruel.

  When the bucket banged against the frame of the bike, he recalled the apricots, reached in and tested them by squeezing, pulled out a soft one and took a bite. It exploded in his mouth, filling it with sweetness such as he had not tasted since – yes – since he and his friends had come out here to steal the same fruit. He finished it with another bite and tossed the pit to the side of the road, then wiped his chin with the back of his hand. And then he ate another and another and another until he told himself to stop. Up ahead he saw water running from a public fountain. He slowed and veered over, stopped but didn’t bother to get down from the bike. He rinsed his hand, wiped his mouth and chin clean, then rinsed his hand again and wiped it dry on his jeans.

  He pushed off and, consciously ignoring the ripe fruit, continued back towards the villa. From his left, he heard the approach of a powerful boat, moving fast. He turned and read the words on the side: ‘Capitaneria di Porto’. There appeared to be four men on board. He increased his speed, though the boat left him behind very quickly.

  He pedalled furiously for the remaining distance and arrived at the villa to see the boat bobbing in the water near the steps. A uniformed man stood at the wheel, another one next to him. A third was tying the boat to the metal ring in the sea wall, while a fourth was just starting towards the villa.

  Brunetti braked when he reached them and got off the bike. He propped it against the wall surrounding the villa. ‘Capitano Dantone?’ he called to the man walking towards the villa, recognizing the two bars on the shoulders of his uniform jacket.

  ‘Sì,’ the man responded, turning towards Brunetti. He gave Brunetti a careful look and did not seem suspicious, though he might well have been of a man in jeans and faded shirt, wearing a pair of shabby old tennis shoes and holding a bucket of ripe apricots. Dantone was, Brunetti thought, at least ten years younger than he and seemed both confident and calm. He had close-cropped light brown hair, light-coloured eyes, and a nose so thin and fine that it might well have been a woman’s, had not his heavy brow and sharply angled jaw laughed at that suggestion.

  Extending his hand, Brunetti introduced himself and explained that he was the man who had called.

  ‘Do you have identification?’ Dantone asked in a normal voice. Brunetti failed to identify his accent.

  ‘Yes, it’s in my room. Would you like me to get it?’ At Dantone’s nod, Brunetti went upstairs. He brought back the plasticized card and passed it to Dantone, who looked at it closely, then flipped it over and studied the back.

  ‘Thank you, Commissario,’ he said as he handed it to Brunetti. ‘Could you tell me why you’re here?’

  ‘My wife’s aunt owns this villa, and I’ve come out for a while to row,’ he explained.

  ‘I see,’ Dantone said. ‘You know Signor Casati?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been rowing with him since I’ve been here.’

  ‘How long has that been?’ Dantone asked.

  ‘Ten days.’

  ‘And all you did was row together?’ When Brunetti nodded, the Captain asked, ‘How good a rower is he?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Even in a storm?’ Dantone asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, Capitano, but I’m no judge of that. I’m only an amateur. You’d have to ask someone who’s had more experience and who knows Signor Casati better than I do.’

  Dantone nodded and was about to speak when they were interrupted by a squawky noise from the boat. Dantone walked over, stepped back on board, and picked up what looked like the receiver of a telephone. He spoke briefly, then turned to ask the pilot something. The sailor who had been standing beside him went down into the cabin.

  Dantone spoke into the phone for a longer time, listened to the other voice, and hung up. He called over to Brunetti. ‘Would you like to join the search, Commissario?’

  Brunetti agreed immediately, then asked, ‘May I get some things from my room?’

  ‘Of course,’ Dantone said, then continued talking to the pilot, who moved to the left of the wheel and pointed to a screen on the shelf in front of them. The man who had moored the boat reached to untie the rope.

  Brunetti hurried up to his room, grabbed his sunglasses and sweater, then stuffed the baseball cap into his pocket. He was at the door when he remembered to go back and take his telefonino from the table beside the bed.

  He heard the engine roar to life, ran down the stairs and outside, slamming the door behind him. He stepped on to the boat and remained on deck next to the pilot. The water appeared to be lower than it had been that morning.

  The pilot took them up the same canal that Brunetti and Casati had used the first two days. Each time they passed what appeared to be a smaller canal, the pilot slowed the boat, and the two sailors studied the tributary through binoculars. Brunetti moved around the pilot and Dantone and looked at the screen on the shelf in front of them. He recognized the map of the Laguna Nord that showed a red dot moving to the north-east; it took him only a moment to realize that they were the dot.

  The pilot tapped a few keys, and horizontal and vertical red lines divided the entire area into square segments. Small dark rectangles appeared on the right of the screen, and when Brunetti looked to the shore on the right, he saw the corresponding buildings.

  To Casati, the mudflats and canals were as familiar as the calli of Venice were to Brunetti. Casati had seemed automatically to factor in tidal patterns and their twice-daily elimination and subsequent recreation of canals and canaletti; just so would Brunetti move about the city during acqua alta, adjusting his choice of calli to the rising and lowering of tides.

  Brunetti pulled himself free of his reverie and saw that they were moving north. Reeds and tall grass were visible on both sides of the canal; as they proceeded, the grasses seemed to creep towards them from the sides of the narrowing canal. Finally the pilot slowed and then stopped the boat. ‘No more, Capitano,’ he said, ‘or we’ll run aground.’

  Dantone, who was speaking on the phone, nodded and pointed back the way they had come. He kept talking while the pilot reversed and began the slow retreat from the canal. The grasses backed away from the moving boat until the pilot found a side canal wide enough to reverse into and emerge heading back towards Sant’Erasmo.

  Brunetti had eavesdropped all along: Dantone was in contact with two other boats, represented on the screen as two more red dots. One was somewhere between Torcello and Burano, while the other was in the Canale di Treporti. All he heard was Dantone’s telling them which canal they were to enter and then giving them permission to retreat when the water grew too shallow.

  To cut the glare, rather than to protect himself from the sun, Brunetti put on the baseball cap and was glad to have brought it.

  After an hour, none of the smaller canals could be entered. Listening to Dantone’s conversations, Brunetti understood that the same was true of the areas the other boats were patrolling.

  Dantone, after telling the other boats to go west and have a look, if they could, at Canale Silone and Canale Dese, pulled out his telefonino and punched in a number.

  ‘Ciao, Toni,’ he said, and Brunetti assumed it was a personal call. ‘The tide’s on the way out, so we’re not going to be able to do anything for the next few hours. I’d like you to send out the helicopter, all right?’ Dantone listened for a while and
then said, ‘I don’t care what the procedure is. It doesn’t matter who I call: Vigili del Fuoco, Guardia Costiera. No boats will be able to go into the canals for hours. You saw the moon last night: the tide’s low. So do me a favour, would you, and just send it up?’ Again, a long silence, and then he said, no longer bothering to disguise his irritation, ‘Maybe in a kayak, but not in the boats we have.’ There elapsed another long silence, and then Dantone said in a much more conciliating voice, ‘I know, Toni: we’ve got the accountants screaming at us all the time, too. But this guy might be hurt and lying in his boat somewhere. And we aren’t going to find him this way, not from the boats.’ His voice grew more friendly and he said, ‘Do it and I’ll buy you a drink the next time I see you.’

  Dantone said nothing for some time, and Brunetti began to think they’d have to wait until the tide made it possible for them to resume, but then the Captain said, ‘Thanks, Toni. Just pray it works.’

  He put his phone in his pocket and turned to Brunetti. ‘I think there’s nothing for to us to do but have lunch.’

  They went to a place Brunetti knew on Burano, though he had not been there for years. Inside, the décor – or what passed for décor – was the same and, mercifully, so was the food. The service was as he remembered it: brusque to the point of rudeness and no one encouraged to linger over the meal. Perhaps this is what’s kept the tourists at bay, Brunetti thought. Pity more restaurants don’t emulate them.

  Dantone said little during the meal save to remark that the storm had been tanto fumo e poco arrosto, much smoke and little roast. ‘It must have looked frightening out here,’ he conceded when Brunetti protested, ‘but most of it was heat lightning, and the rain didn’t last very long at all.’

  Then, before Brunetti could contradict him, Dantone said, ‘I know, I know, but I talked to our meteorologist before we came out here, and she said that’s what the radar showed.’ Then he added, as though to put an end to any doubts Brunetti might have about his competence, ‘I’ve been here twenty years, and I’ve spent most of my time in the laguna.’

  Their waiter appeared and set down three plates of chicken roulade with carrot and onion, went back and returned with two more, saying nothing and apparently not very pleased to be serving them. Conversation ceased as they started to eat. How could something as banal as chicken breast taste so good, so sweet? Maybe it was the addition of the carrots that sweetened things.

  They all heard it at the same time and raised their heads simultaneously, as if they could see through the ceiling and the roof of the building to what was approaching above them. The noise put an end to their lunch, and all of them stuffed the last bites into their mouths before getting to their feet. Dantone put fifty Euros on the table, finished his glass of mineral water, and turned towards the door. Brunetti reached for his wallet, but the Captain waved his hand at him, saying, ‘That’s more than enough.’

  Thinking it impolite to resist, Brunetti thanked him and followed them back to the boat. Above their heads, a helicopter headed towards the north-east. The men walked to the boat, their sense of urgency quelled by the tides, which knew little of urgency and came and went in their own methodical fashion. They stepped on board, the lowest ranker cast off from the dock, and they headed straight north.

  Dantone picked up the boat’s phone and pressed some numbers, waited, pressed again. Suddenly, all of them heard the sound of the rotors and a man’s voice giving their location. Dantone looked at the map of the laguna on the screen and said, ‘I’d like you to go up the Canale di Sant’Antonio and over to Valle La Cura and l’Isola di Santa Cristina.’

  The voice from the helicopter said something Brunetti could not understand, though Dantone apparently did, for he answered, ‘All right. Good. Follow Canale Gaggian back down.’ He touched the shoulder of the pilot, and the boat slowed and pulled over to the right side of the canal and stopped.

  Dantone turned to Brunetti and shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. From ahead of them, the motor of the helicopter drifted into audibility, and then they saw it, perhaps ten metres above the ground, coming slowly towards them, though still at some distance.

  Dantone looked down at the map on the screen and spoke into the phone again, tracing a course with his right hand. ‘We got as far as where you are now, so start up San Felice, up to the top of Canale Cenesa and then back down Canale Balolli.’ There was a pause and then Dantone said, making no attempt to disguise his irritation, ‘Do what I tell you. I know the tides.’

  Only Dantone could hear the pilot’s answer, but they could all see the helicopter swing around to the right and move off to the north-east. It maintained its height above the grass fields, growing smaller as it moved away from them.

  ‘What now?’ Brunetti asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

  ‘We wait for them to call in.’

  ‘And if they don’t find anything?’

  Dantone gave a small smile. He pointed to the screen that showed a detailed map of the laguna. ‘I’ve read the meteorological reports and looked at the tide charts. There are very few places in the Laguna Nord where he could have gone. Or been driven.’ He spoke with the assurance with which men of the sea referred to winds and tides, the same assurance with which Casati had spoken, and Brunetti believed him.

  He noticed that the noise of the helicopter had vanished, or at least diminished to the point where it was difficult to tell if what they heard was the engine or the dim hum of wind. Dantone’s phone rang, and the Captain answered immediately. He listened for a moment, then asked, ‘What? Who? Who is he?’ He was silent for a long time: there was no sound of the helicopter.

  ‘Is he sure? But who is he?’ Another silence, and then he asked, ‘On the back side, where they’re building? What was he doing there?’ Dantone bent to look at the map in front of him, and said, ‘We’ll go and have a look,’ broke the connection and put the phone back in his pocket. He put his hand on the pilot’s arm to capture his attention and said, ‘That was Minniti. They’ve had a call. Some guy from Murano was out rowing and just called to say he saw a capsized boat out behind the cemetery. I want to go and have a look.’

  Brunetti turned from gazing north at the vast expanse of water.

  ‘Behind San Michele, where they’re expanding the island,’ Dantone added.

  The pilot had already turned and was heading, at speed, back down Canale Scomenzera. As they approached Murano, the pilot hit the button on the dashboard that unleashed the siren. He veered around a small sailboat, dashed down Canale Ondello, and soon emerged into the wider canal in front of Murano.

  The Island of San Michele was just opposite them. A man stood in a sanpierota and waved his arm as they approached.

  ‘Can you get to him?’ Dantone asked the pilot.

  ‘I doubt it, Capitano. The water’s very low out here, and I don’t want to risk getting any closer.’

  ‘All right,’ Dantone said. He went over to the railing and with a sweeping gesture of his right arm summoned the man in the other boat to come nearer.

  Without acknowledging the signal, the man put his oar back in the fórcola. He came towards them with surprising speed, slid up beside them, and back-stroked neatly to bring the small boat to a stop.

  Not more than twenty, he had the sun-burnished look of a boatman; not that Brunetti, after a look at him, was in any doubt about this.

  Captain Dantone introduced himself.

  ‘Bartolomeo Penna,’ the young man said, adding, ‘At your service, Capitano.’ The smile with which he said it removed all hint of irony from the remark. He was a man of the sea, giving an officer the respect due to him.

  ‘Where’s the boat?’ Dantone asked.

  Penna turned around and looked back towards the piles of rubble visible at the edge of the island. It was obvious that construction was under way: boards and stones and the ripped shells of paper sacks that had once held cement were all heaped together, some held in place by crossed boards and wooden building panels.


  ‘Over there,’ Penna answered, pointing in front of the mound of refuse.

  ‘I don’t see anything,’ Dantone said.

  ‘The piles of junk hide it,’ Penna said. ‘You have to be closer.’

  ‘Can we get there?’ Dantone asked.

  ‘Not with this,’ Penna said, bending to give the side of the larger boat an affectionate pat, as if he were a polo pony giving a nuzzle to the neck of a Clydesdale.

  ‘Can you take us over?’ Dantone asked him.

  ‘Of course, Capitano,’ the young man said and moved to the back of the boat to clear a space for them.

  Dantone turned to Brunetti, said, ‘Come on,’ climbed over the railing and lowered himself to stand at the centre of the boat. Brunetti moved along the deck and lowered himself just behind him.

  Penna put his oar back into the water, and they started towards the cemetery.

  14

  Brunetti tried to fight the sense that this was going to turn out badly. Where else would Casati have gone than to the cemetery to talk to his wife? Who else could he tell about the death of his bees, his girls? Brunetti said nothing.

  Arrow-straight, they headed towards the largest pile of soil and stones. Ten metres before it, Brunetti felt the boat slide across something that resisted its progress. Penna instantly turned them back towards the deeper water, but after only a few strokes he curved to the right and moved them forward again. Four more strokes and he stopped, turned his oar sideways in the water and drew the small boat to a halt.

  Ahead of them Brunetti saw, capsized in the water, the bottom of a small boat.

  From behind him, Dantone asked, ‘His boat is a puparìn, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Penna,’ Dantone asked. ‘Can you get us any closer?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ the young man said eagerly, ‘but a lot of rubbish has been dumped into the water around here, and I don’t know what we’d run into.’ Then, in a voice he tried to make encouraging, Penna added, ‘It’s really not very deep here, sir, not much more than a metre.’ He hesitated for a moment and then continued, ‘But there’s been some dredging.’