by Donna Leon
‘The most interesting reactions are the most spontaneous ones.’
‘But this is life, not a book,’ Brunetti said, pretending her remark had not irritated him.
‘As you will, Guido,’ Paola answered.
18
The next morning, Brunetti called Vianello on his telefonino at eight and asked if he could perhaps call in sick and meet him at the Fondamente Nove embarcadero at nine-thirty and go out to Burano with him.
‘Not in uniform, I assume,’ the Inspector answered.
‘No. We’re just going out to ask some questions.’
It took the Number 12 more than half an hour to get to Burano, and during the trip, Brunetti explained what had happened to Casati and what they had been doing before his death. He told Vianello about the death of the bees and how much it had upset Casati, and how he had taken the samples of the dead insects. Vianello followed closely, nodding as he began to recognize the pattern of Brunetti’s days.
Brunetti, halfway through his story, realized how weak it all sounded, at least as a reason to ask Vianello to come out to Burano with him. So he confessed: ‘He spent much of his life on boats. It’s hard for me to think he’d be so careless, but I want to exclude the possibility that he … that he chose to go and join his wife.’
‘And if you find he had a … woman,’ Vianello asked, ‘would that be enough?’
‘Yes, and for his daughter, too. I hope,’ Brunetti said.
When Vianello made no response to that, Brunetti added, ‘Maybe I just want to learn more about him.’ As he said that, Brunetti realized that Casati had been the only man with whom his father had never quarrelled, the man his father had always considered his only friend. But he couldn’t say this, even to Vianello.
‘Let’s do it, then. Besides, I’ve always liked Burano,’ the Inspector said.
Brunetti nodded to acknowledge the remark and then asked, unable not to, ‘What’s happening with Ruggieri?’
‘He says now that he remembers giving the girl two aspirin. She told him she had a headache, and he said he always takes them to parties in case he needs them.’ Vianello’s voice could not have been more dispassionate.
‘How convenient that he remembered,’ Brunetti observed.
‘The people who saw him give something to the girl now say they might well have been aspirin. They’re not sure any longer.’
‘And so?’
‘And so that’s probably going to be the end of it,’ was all Vianello said.
Brunetti looked out the window of the vaporetto and saw they were passing Mazzorbo. Many things passed. Eventually, Brunetti knew, all things do.
‘What do you want to do when we get there?’ Vianello asked at the sound of the slowing of the boat’s engine. ‘Try to find the woman?’
‘Later,’ Brunetti answered. ‘I’d like to go to the post office and see if he was sending the samples from there.’
The boat pulled in and tied up, and the early crowd of tourists disembarked, going off in search of their Indonesian-made Burano lace and Chinese-made Murano glass, certain that, out here on a genuine Venetian island, they’d be sure to get the real thing. And at a better price.
Brunetti saw a café on the left, and they went in. The woman behind the bar smiled in welcome and asked what they’d like. Both of them had coffee and home-made brioche, which both of them complimented. When they were finished, Vianello took a twenty-Euro bill from his wallet. As he waited for his change, he asked, ‘Signora, could you tell me where the post office is?’
‘Don’t you poor people have a post office in Castello?’ she asked, hitting Vianello’s accent right on the nose.
‘Only in Via Garibaldi, Signora, or I can go to Sant’Elena if I want,’ Vianello answered straight-faced, exaggerating his Castello accent to tell her he understood the joke in her question.
‘It’s easy to find,’ she said. ‘You know where Da Romano is?’
‘Yes.’ Vianello had eaten there many times, and always well.
‘Turn into the calle just before it, and cross the bridge. That will take you right to it. It’s open until two.’ She gave Vianello his change with a smile, and the two men left the bar.
The post office stood on Rio Terranova, stuck between a tabaccheria and a shop selling masks and other souvenirs. They entered and found a broad wooden counter behind which sat two women. There were two old men standing in front of the first, two old women in front of the other. Brunetti glanced around for some sign of an office and saw an open door just opposite the entrance.
Inside, a grey-haired man of about his own age sat behind a desk, talking on the phone and not looking very happy at what he was hearing. He saw Brunetti and Vianello, nodded but held up a hand, suggesting he’d be with them as soon as he finished the call.
They retreated from the doorway but not before they heard him say, ‘But we need to stay open until two, Direttore. There’s no way we can reduce our hours.’
There was no air conditioning, only one large ceiling fan that moved the air from place to place with no effect on the temperature. They stood and watched the old people collect their pensions or pay their bills, and Brunetti was struck by how slow each transaction was. On both sides of the counter, only first names were used, and there prevailed a sense of long familiarity. There was even a strong resemblance in body type and clothing. Indeed, they could all easily be members of the same family.
Ten minutes passed, and still one of the old women remained at the counter. Brunetti started towards the open door just as the man inside appeared on the threshold and waved them inside. Closer to him now, Brunetti saw the soft roundness of his face with an accumulation of flesh under his chin that was very soon to declare itself a separate entity. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a strangely wide tie that attempted to conceal the straining buttons beneath it. When the man reached his desk, he turned and asked, ‘Signori, how can I be of use to you?’
‘Signor Borelli, a pleasure to meet you.’ Brunetti, who had seen the sign to the left of the door, extended his hand and gave his name and rank. Then he introduced Vianello.
‘We’re here,’ Brunetti said, ‘about one of your customers. Well,’ he amended, lowering his voice and speaking more slowly, ‘a former customer.’
‘Yes?’ the man inquired, apparently not connecting the term with Casati’s death.
‘Davide Casati,’ Brunetti said.
‘Ah,’ Borelli breathed, ‘I heard about it. Poor man.’
‘Did you know him?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Perhaps,’ he surprised Brunetti by answering. ‘I see people in here all the time and recognize many of them, but I don’t know the names of all of them. If he came often, then the women at the counter would know him. They’re the ones who have direct contact with our clients.’
‘In that case, I’d like to speak to them,’ Brunetti said. ‘If I might.’
‘Nothing easier,’ the Director said, moving towards the door. The old woman had disappeared and the two women were chatting amicably.
The Director walked over to the counter and said, addressing the woman on the left, who looked older than the other, ‘Maria, these gentlemen would like to speak to you and Dorotea about someone who might have been one of our clients.’ That captured their attention, and they both looked at Brunetti and Vianello to see what this might be about. ‘I’ll be in my office,’ Signor Borelli said to no one in particular, nodded to Brunetti and Vianello but made no move to shake their hands or to explain to the women who they were. He went back to his office. This time he closed the door.
The women’s eyes turned to Brunetti, then to Vianello, and the older one shifted some papers to the right, as if a clear desk would make it easier to answer questions. The one named Dorotea continued to look back and forth between Vianello and Brunetti, trying to assess which of the two men was in charge. To make it easier for her, Vianello took a step backward, leaving Brunetti in the front line.
‘It’s about Davide Casati,
’ Brunetti began. He could see that both of them recognized the name.
‘Did you know him, either of you?’ Brunetti asked, trying to sound like an insurance adjuster or a friend of the family.
The younger one raised her hand in a timid gesture, like a child in elementary school who had the answer but was afraid to speak until the teacher called on her.
‘Did you, Signora?’ Brunetti asked in his softest voice.
She cleared her throat and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Was he a client here?’
‘Yes,’ she said, then hesitated as though to signal that this was only half of the answer she wanted to give and Brunetti would have to question her to get the other half.
‘Was he someone you knew, as well, not just a client?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask how that was, Signora?’ Brunetti asked, tilted his chin, and smiled to show his innocent curiosity.
‘I went to school with his brother’s grandson,’ she said. ‘When we were kids.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Brunetti said, smiling at this happy coincidence. ‘The islands are so close.’ He might have been speaking of geography, but he might as well have been commenting on the fact that everyone knew everyone. And their business, and their private life. He nodded in satisfaction and he could see her slowly begin to relax.
‘He married a friend of my sister,’ she added, as if Brunetti had asked about her childhood friend and not Casati.
‘I see,’ Brunetti said and forced his entire body to relax. ‘And Signor Casati, did you know him?’
She turned in evident distress to her older colleague, who took this as a request that she answer for her. ‘Dorotea handles parcels, so she knew him. I take care of pensions.’ Then, as if she feared being accused of having provided insufficient information, she added, ‘We both can do pensions.’ Having said this, she placed her hand on the pile of papers, as though taking an oath upon them.
‘Ah, parcels,’ Brunetti said, returning his attention to Dorotea. ‘So if he received a parcel or sent one, he’d have had your help?’ Even as he phrased it, Brunetti knew he would have to travel widely in the country to find anyone who would pose the question in this way when referring to the service doled out by the Ufficio Postale. But she smiled and nodded, so perhaps that was how she envisioned her work.
‘Yes, I helped him a number of times,’ she said proudly.
‘Ah,’ came Brunetti’s polite expression of surprise. ‘Did he receive a lot of parcels?’
‘No, but he sent some, especially in the last few months.’ She glanced aside at her colleague, who gave a small nod of approval, and went on, her voice taking on a confiding tone. ‘He told me he tried to do it with DHL, but after he spent a half-hour on the phone without getting in touch with them, he gave up and decided to come to us.’
‘I see, I see,’ Brunetti muttered. Then, seeming to recall that they had been talking about parcels, he asked, ‘Were they big things he was sending?’
‘No. Small. Less than half a kilo. And as long as it’s small, we’re really much cheaper than DHL. And just as fast most of the time,’ she added quickly, perhaps hoping that Brunetti had something small in his pocket he wanted to send.
Brunetti nodded thanks to her implied offer while he tried to think of a country where the scientific testing of insects and soil might be done. ‘Are those the ones he sent to Germany?’
‘No, Switzerland,’ she said. ‘To the University. Of … it begins with “L”, but it’s not Lugano.’ She stared down at the counter, as if trying to visualize the envelope. A smile blossomed. ‘Lausanne.’
Her colleague, Maria, broke in, as though she could no longer contain herself, and said, ‘It’s terrible, what happened to him.’ Then, pitching her voice in the range proper for discussing victims of fatal diseases or souls lost at sea, she said, ‘May he rest in peace.’
Brunetti lowered his eyes to the floor and, along with Vianello, observed the seconds that propriety gave to the recently deceased.
While they were still silent, two people came in, about his age, obviously a couple. They paid three bills and left, saying very little, perhaps uncomfortable at the sight of the two strange men.
Vianello then asked, ‘Did the University ever send him anything?’
Dorotea was quick to answer. ‘No, not to him.’
Vianello smiled at the evasion and asked, ‘Then to whom did they send it?’
Dorotea turned to her colleague, and they exchanged the glance that two people suddenly realizing they’d stepped into quicksand would give one another. ‘Well,’ Dorotea began. ‘That is …’ She looked to her older colleague, perhaps to ask for help in pulling her feet out of this.
‘Some letters – return receipt requested – have come from the same university to … a person Signor Casati knows,’ she said. Then, quickly, ‘Knew.’ Brunetti decided to let her tell him at her own speed, as though the letters were a minor detail in which he had little interest. He let the time pass.
‘Patrizia Minati,’ she finally said, but before she could continue, Maria interrupted to add an important element. ‘She’s a divorced woman.’
Brunetti gave her what he tried to make a knowing look, somewhere between disapproval and prurient curiosity, but when he saw Vianello’s face he realized how poor his own effort was and returned his attention to Dorotea.
‘She lives here?’ Vianello asked, managing to sound as though he were just managing to stop himself from asking how she dared do so.
‘Over by the church,’ Maria added, as if this geographic liberty somehow compounded the offence of being divorced.
When it was apparent that she would say no more, Brunetti asked, ‘Can’t people get mail delivered on Sant’Erasmo?’
Again, it was Maria who answered. ‘Of course they can. But these letters were addressed to her, not to him.’ Then, just in case he might not have understood, she added, ‘Since they came from the same university, they must have been for him,’ she said and left it there.
‘I’d certainly say so,’ Vianello broke in to comment, his respect for her acuity audible in his voice.
Brunetti sensed that the women were growing restless, and so he said, ‘Thank you both. You’ve been very helpful.’ That brought satisfied looks to their faces, and Brunetti and Vianello used the opportunity to leave.
Outside, Brunetti saw that Vianello was busy on his iPhone. ‘You trying to get her address?’ he asked. Vianello nodded and pushed more numbers. Brunetti’s lack of faith in technology in general and Telecom in particular led him to telephone Signorina Elettra.
‘Good morning, Commissario,’ she answered. ‘How very nice to be in touch with you again. How may I help you?’
‘Could you find an address for Patrizia Minati, on Burano?’
‘Certainly,’ she answered pleasantly. ‘Would you like to wait?’
‘Yes,’ he said, looking over at Vianello, who was still pecking at the keys of his phone.
Brunetti looked around at the houses. The colours were cheap and garish and battered his eyes, flailing at one another in competition for his attention. No one would think of wearing any of those colours as clothing. Children, perhaps. Or lunatics. Red that made him think of the poisoned candies that were sold to children in Victorian London, green like Irish fields, blue the sky would never dare to wear. But as he considered it, he realized that fishermen who spent the entire day looking at the sea, either blue or grey or somewhere in between, and at the sky, either with or without clouds, would be glad to come home to colour, even this mad excess.
‘Are you still there, Commissario?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Calle del Turco, down at the end, last house on the right. I checked it in Calli, Campielli e Canali.’
‘And could you have a look if there’s anything we should know about her?’
‘I’ve already started, Dottore.’
‘Then take a look at Davide Casati while you�
��re looking, please.’
‘The man who died out there?’
‘Yes: anything you can find. Any trouble with us’ – though Brunetti very much doubted this – ‘work history, health problems. You know what I mean.’
‘Of course, Signore. And for Signora Minati, as well?’
‘Please.’
‘I’ll get to it,’ she said and broke the connection. At that instant, Vianello looked across at him and shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘We’ll have to go over to the church and ask people there.’
‘Calle del Turco,’ Brunetti could not prevent himself from saying. ‘Last house on the right.’ Vianello’s expression made him laugh.
It took the Inspector a moment to recover, but when he did, he said, ‘She should be mayor.’ He considered this and corrected himself. ‘She’d be wasted. A chimpanzee could be mayor.’
Brunetti’s mind turned to local politics and he said, ‘Indeed,’ then passed to more serious things.
19
Nothing is very far from anything else on Burano, so they were quickly on the other side of the island, approaching the church of San Martino. Following the map provided by Vianello’s telefonino, they cut through Campiello San Vito and over the bridge. Right, then left, then down a narrow calle, and they were in front of the door of the last house, the name Minati on the bell for the first floor. The house, a shocking yellow, seemed tri-polar: the windows on the ground floor were shuttered tight, with no sign that anyone had opened those shutters for years. The first floor had flower boxes on every windowsill, behind which crisp linen curtains rustled in the slight breeze; the floor above had the withered look of a house that was no longer occupied; the shutters were sun-cracked and dry as driftwood; weeds grew from the metal gutters.
They rang the bell, waited and rang it again. After a long time, they heard the slithering sound of curtains being pushed back. A woman a few years younger than Brunetti, with dark copper hair, leaned out of a window and asked, ‘Yes?’ She stood with her hands braced on the windowsill, arms stiff, looking down at them.
