Earthly Remains

by Donna Leon

  ‘Ciao, Ettore,’ Brunetti said, knowing he was going to have to ask his friend for a favour but not certain how abrupt to be. ‘How are you?’ he temporized.

  ‘At home at the end of a long and frustrating day, about to have a drink with my fair wife and then have dinner with some friends. Are you calling because you’d like to join us?’

  ‘No, Ettore,’ Brunetti said, incapable for once of falling into easy patter with Rizzardi. ‘It’s a friend. He died last night. Drowned. I’m asking you to do it.’

  There was a long pause. Brunetti could hear the sound of other voices in the room.‘Where are you?’ Rizzardi asked.

  ‘On a boat, bringing him in.’ Brunetti looked out of the window and said, ‘In fact, we’re just arriving.’

  ‘Where was he?’ Rizzardi asked.

  ‘At the cemetery.’

  The doctor drew in a deep breath, then heaved a sigh that came down the line and wrapped itself around Brunetti. ‘I’ll leave now,’ Rizzardi said, all joking fled from his voice. ‘Twenty minutes at the most. I’ll call and tell them you’re coming and to reserve a place for him.’

  ‘Thanks, Ettore,’ Brunetti said and broke the connection.

  He took three deep breaths and dialled his home number. Paola answered on the second ring, asking, ‘How are you, Guido?’

  ‘Not good. I’m on my way back to the city.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she broke in before he could say more.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘but Casati’s dead.’

  ‘Oddio,’ she sighed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was out in the storm last night. We found him an hour ago, trapped under his boat. Drowned.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On a boat. Taking him to the hospital.’

  ‘But you’re all right.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Will you come home?’ she asked, then added, ‘After.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, not having given it a thought until now. Home. Of course. ‘I don’t know when, but I’ll be home,’ he said and ended the call.

  Rizzardi must have called to give the order: three white-jacketed porters waited at the landing with a high-wheeled stretcher for the body. The boat glided up to the dock and slowed to a stop. The porters stepped on to the boat, bent to lift Casati over the side, and placed him on the stretcher. One of them straightened the blanket, making sure the face remained covered.

  They nodded to Dantone – or to his uniform – and wheeled the body away. ‘You can go back,’ Dantone told the crew. ‘I’ll stay here until …’ He finished with a shrug, no more clear than was Brunetti about what would happen or how long they would be there.

  Brunetti knew the way and set off towards the morgue. Dantone caught up with him and walked at his side. ‘What do you think?’ the Captain asked as they crossed one of the inner courtyards. Heads turned to look at these two filthy men, no doubt to wonder what on earth they could be doing in a hospital.

  Brunetti raised a hand. ‘It looks like he drowned.’

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ Dantone said in a casual voice.

  Brunetti stopped, then moved to one of the brick paths that crossed the courtyard at the diagonal. ‘You saw the rope,’ he said to the Captain.

  ‘Yes.’

  Dantone studied Brunetti’s face and looked away from him. ‘I think we need a coffee,’ he said.

  While they drank it, pretending not to notice the stares they received from the barman and the other clients, they concentrated on getting caffeine and sugar into their bodies. Brunetti, after a full day under the sun, was beginning to feel feverish and didn’t like the look of the back of his hands, which were the colour of bricks. He couldn’t very well ask Dantone if his face was sunburned, but he felt as though he had a high fever.

  After the coffee, he drank two glasses of mineral water, asked for a tramezzino, said he didn’t care what kind, and drank a third glass of water with it.

  Dantone insisted on paying, and Brunetti let him.

  People who passed them in the corridors tried not to stare, but some of them couldn’t resist. Dantone was a mess – his trousers looked like something he’d picked from the garbage; stained grey and brown, they had pieces of dirt and mud still clinging to them. His boots squished when he walked. Brunetti knew he looked no better, but at least his canvas shoes had dried out somewhat and no longer made any noise.

  Brunetti knocked on the door of the morgue. An attendant he did not know opened it; when he saw the two men standing outside, he automatically made to shut the door in their faces, even though a closer look would have revealed that Dantone was wearing some sort of uniform. Brunetti stuck his arm out and stopped the door with his palm.

  ‘Police,’ he said.

  The man, he noticed now, was tall and well-muscled, not the sort of person to be intimidated easily. ‘May I see some identification?’ the man asked. It was not a question, not really.

  ‘Go and talk to Dottor Rizzardi and tell him Commissario Brunetti and Capitano Dantone are here.’ Then, in a more reasonable voice, taking a step backward, Brunetti added, ‘We’ll wait for him out here in the corridor if you like.’

  It must have been the willingness not to cause trouble that convinced the man, for he took his hands from the door and said, ‘Please come in, gentlemen. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Brunetti said. He looked at the raggedy Dantone, who nodded.

  ‘Have they brought in the man who died in the laguna?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Yes. Dottor Rizzardi is with him now. It usually takes an hour, sir.’ He pushed up his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Not before seven-thirty, I’d say.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Brunetti replied.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ the man asked, addressing them both.

  Brunetti allowed himself to smile and said, ‘We both could do with new clothing, but that’s not important any longer. We’ll wait for the doctor and see what he has to say, and then we’ll leave.’

  The attendant gave Brunetti a strange look, perhaps sensing the exhaustion in the two men. He turned and led them down the corridor. The waiting room was so cool that at first Brunetti thought there was air conditioning, but then he realized it was only because the walls of the building were so thick and because they were on the north side.

  Brunetti and Dantone again told the attendant they wanted nothing and sat, leaving a chair empty between them. The attendant went away, closing the door after him.

  For some minutes, neither of them said anything, and then Dantone asked, ‘You know the pathologist well?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve worked together for a long time.’

  ‘Must be a lousy job,’ the Captain said, careful to keep his face and voice neutral as he spoke.

  Brunetti turned to look at him as he answered. ‘He once told me he thinks it’s miraculous.’

  ‘What?’ Dantone’s shock was audible. ‘What he does?’

  ‘The body, not the autopsy,’ Brunetti said. ‘At least that’s what he told me. He said it’s perfect, the way it works and what it can do.’

  Brunetti felt a debt to Rizzardi, who had come here on his free evening only because he had asked him to, and so he explained, ‘He told me once that he sees how strong we are and how perfectly designed the body is for survival: that’s what he thinks is miraculous.’

  Dantone clasped his hands together and leaned forward to put them between his knees. He looked at the floor for a long time until he finally glanced sideways at Brunetti and said, ‘Oh, I see. Yes.’

  After that, the men sat in silence for some time until Dantone, driven by the growing cold, got up and began to pace the room. Brunetti crossed his legs, wrapped his arms around his body, and waited. There was a knock at the door and the attendant came in.

  ‘Dottor Rizzardi said he’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘Is he finished?’ Brunetti asked in a voice he hoped would cover his reluctance to have the
next conversation.

  ‘Yes, he’s back in his office. Do you know the way?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brunetti said with a sigh.

  16

  Brunetti led the way down the corridor to Rizzardi’s office, where they found the door open. He stuck his head inside and saw Rizzardi, sitting in one of the chairs against the wall, bent over, tying his shoes.

  ‘Ah, Guido,’ Rizzardi said, getting to his feet. The doctor noticed Dantone, came over and shook hands with Brunetti and then with the other man while they exchanged names. He stepped back and looked at both of them. ‘Was it you who pulled him out of the water?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brunetti answered for both of them.

  ‘When?’

  Brunetti looked at Dantone, who said, ‘It was about four, I think, four-thirty. Does it make a difference?’

  Rizzardi shook his head, put both hands on his tie to check the knot, and said, ‘No, not really; I was simply curious. It was the only thing I wasn’t sure of.’

  ‘What are you sure of?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘That he drowned,’ Rizzardi answered. ‘And in salt water. Some time last night.’ He went back to his desk and leaned against it, as if he didn’t want to sit in a chair and thus commit himself to staying there a long time. ‘You said he was a friend of yours?’

  ‘Yes, I think he was,’ Brunetti said. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why only think it?’

  ‘I’ve known him only a short time,’ Brunetti answered. ‘A bit more than a week.’ Rizzardi grunted to acknowledge this. ‘But he knew my father,’ Brunetti added, aware of how much this had warmed him to Casati. He waited a moment and asked Rizzardi, ‘Anything else?’

  Rizzardi nodded. ‘There was water in his lungs as I told you. He was alive when he went into the water.’ When neither man spoke, Rizzardi added, ‘He had a rough time in the storm, I’d say: there were marks on his arms and on the left side of his forehead that would have become bruises.’ Seeing Dantone’s confusion, he explained. ‘Blood stops circulating when a person dies, so bruising doesn’t happen.’ Rizzardi bowed his head to study his shoes, and added, ‘I don’t think the blows were very hard: just the usual things that happen on a boat in rough weather.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Brunetti asked.

  Looking up at them again, Rizzardi said, ‘It looks like he had a rough life, too, at least when he was younger. There are scars and traces of fat in his liver: most alcoholics have them, no matter how long ago they stopped drinking. Same with cigarettes: he was once a heavy smoker, but he stopped.’

  Brunetti was astonished to learn this. Who had he been, this mild, temperate man? His body had given up secrets that his tranquil life had not even hinted at. Brunetti noticed that the pathologist was gripping and releasing his hands from the edge of the table behind him, and Dantone was turning his head back and forth as he and Rizzardi talked.

  Rizzardi reached back across his desk to take his jacket from where it was draped over his chair. He put it on and asked, ‘Do you have any other questions, Guido?’

  ‘What about the scars?’

  Rizzardi must have been waiting for the question, for he said, ‘The injuries happened years ago, perhaps twenty, even more. They’re not involved in his death.’ Then, before Brunetti could ask about their cause, Rizzardi said, ‘They’re not the sort I’m used to seeing.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘They’re chemical burns. Or acid. Something that causes the skin to melt. Flame leaves different scars.’

  ‘The rope?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Yes, the rope,’ Rizzardi said, running the fingers of both hands through his hair, something he did when preparing to end a conversation. ‘It was tangled around his upper calf and then again around his ankle. The rubbing damaged the tissue in both places.’

  That would have happened after Casati died, Brunetti thought, as his body was pulled about by the moving water, and would have caused him no pain. There was no consolation in that thought.

  ‘I closed his eyes,’ Rizzardi said.

  Brunetti nodded his thanks but could not speak for a moment. Finally he said, ‘I took some photos out there. I’ll send them to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the doctor answered. When neither Brunetti nor Dantone spoke, Rizzardi suggested, ‘Shall we leave, then, Signori?’ and Brunetti liked him for not mentioning the dinner he had abandoned. The doctor led them into the corridor and turned to lock the door to his office.

  Brunetti, remembering his promise to Federica, said, ‘I told his daughter I’d meet her here.’

  Rizzardi was startled into saying, ‘Ah, I forgot; I’m sorry, Guido. Her husband called and said she’s in no shape to come here. She collapsed after you told her. He’ll bring her in the morning.’

  Brunetti felt a wave of relief and then an even stronger wave of shame at his own cowardice. ‘Did he say when they’d come?’ he asked, hoping he could make amends if he was here when they arrived.

  ‘Ten,’ the doctor told him.

  They walked towards the main exit together, all of them aware of how the temperature increased as they moved closer to the door. By the time they got to the campo, their bodies, like those of surfacing divers, had adjusted to the new conditions. The heat wrapped itself around them, and Brunetti thought he could smell his own clothing.

  They shook hands just outside the main door to the campo, and Rizzardi went off in the direction of Strada Nuova and the vaporetto that would take him home. Dantone said something about going back to the Capitaneria and added that he and his men were available if and when Brunetti wanted to go into the laguna again.

  ‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said as they lingered in front of the hospital.

  ‘Thanks for hauling me out of the water.’

  Brunetti patted Dantone on the arm and said, ‘Same to you.’ The two men stepped down into the campo and went their separate ways.

  Brunetti stopped when he got to the bottom of the bridge in front of the hospital and stared in front of him. How strange and closed-in it looked, this small calle lined with buildings on both sides. His view ahead slammed into a bridge and then another one, and then buildings, more buildings on both sides. Raising his eyes, he saw even more buildings and then rooftops, but there was no long, unobstructed view of anything. This is what it means to be in a city, he thought. This is what living with views to the open sea has done to me.

  As he continued on the familiar way home, however, the strange sensation left him, and by the time he turned into his calle his sight had adjusted to a city perspective. He didn’t have his keys, so he phoned Paola to ask her to open the main door. A few seconds later, the large door clicked open. Brunetti, covered with sweat and very conscious of the smell coming from his clothing, started up the stairs to the apartment. When he reached the third floor, he heard the door open above him and Paola’s voice calling, ‘Ciao, Guido. Bentornato.’

  Yes, it was good to return to his home, to this safe place they had created over the years. He paused on the last turning and looked up. She stood upright in the doorway, looking down at him, smiling.

  ‘I’m a bit bedraggled,’ was all Brunetti could think of to say.

  ‘More than a bit,’ she observed with a smile that failed to hide her surprise.

  ‘Comes of being away from you for so long,’ he said, starting up the last flight. Without Paola, his life was not only bedraggled, but dull, humourless, cool, joyless. He wanted to tell her this, but instead he said, ‘I need a drink and a shower.’

  He arrived on the landing and bent over to give her a kiss, careful to keep his filthy clothing from touching her.

  She stepped back and looked him up and down. ‘Could you reverse the order?’

  When a scrubbed Brunetti, his clothing stuffed in a plastic bag to go out with the morning’s garbage, came to dinner, only Raffi and Paola were there. Paola explained that Chiara had gone to spend three days at the home of a friend whose parents had a summer place on the Lido and hadn’t retu
rned yet. Brunetti’s first thought was that she’d be in that water, but then it came to him that she’d be kilometres from the place where he had found Casati.

  Raffi was happy to see him and spent most of the meal talking about what he’d done, he and his friends, while Brunetti had been away. One of them had been given a topetta for his eighteenth birthday, and he was letting Raffi come along for the lessons his father was giving him.

  ‘The motor’s tiny, only five horsepower, but it’s great to be out there and go where you want,’ he said, his enthusiasm so high that he forgot to eat for a few minutes, something that did not go unnoticed by his parents.

  ‘You don’t need a licence for a motor that small, do you?’ Brunetti asked, spearing a piece of roast duck and using it to wipe up the rest of the orange sauce on his plate.

  ‘No, so there’s nothing illegal about it if they let me take the tiller,’ Raffi said with obvious pride in his casual use of the term. ‘Besides, Danilo’s father’s been with us all the time.’

  ‘Good,’ Brunetti said, beginning to feel haunted by all this talk of boats and the laguna.

  As if she had read his mind, Paola broke in and said, ‘Raffi, will you help me take the plates?’ He got up to do so, and they carried them inside, leaving Brunetti alone on the terrace, where he indulged in an excess of long views. Though they extended over rooftops and were occasionally obstructed by bell towers, they soothed his soul as much as his eyes with their sweet assurance that he had returned to a safe haven.

  Paola returned after about twenty minutes, by which time Brunetti had retreated to the sofa in the living room, kicked off his shoes, and put his feet on the low table in front of him. She set down two coffees. Raffi had not seen the state his father was in when he came home, so the subject of Brunetti’s experiences in the laguna had not arisen at dinner, and now Raffi had gone to the cinema with a friend.

  ‘There’s sugar in it already,’ Paola said, sitting beside him. They drank their coffee silently. Brunetti, after more than a week of drinking only a single glass of wine with dinner, felt no desire for anything other than coffee; he surprised himself by wanting no grappa.