by Donna Leon
‘Of course,’ Brunetti answered, sounding suitably chastened. ‘And these fees?’
‘Two thousand Euros,’ she said.
‘But that’s nothing for a place like this,’ he exclaimed, having clicked back to the photo of the façade of the villa and remembering that this was the same sum he had paid for the nursing home where his mother had lived out her life.
‘A week, Signore,’ she added.
‘Maria Vergine’ escaped him. Where would a factory worker find more than a hundred thousand Euros a year to pay for a retirement home? From what Federica had told him, it sounded as though Bianchi had been reduced to tears by hunger.
‘That’s beyond belief,’ he protested, without knowing why.
‘Indeed,’ she answered and said she had another call.
When she was gone, Brunetti considered tactics. Two policemen arriving to question a blind old man, two men with their deep voices: did he want that? Someone had once told him that blind people could smell the difference between men and women; not because of perfume or aftershave but because of their different hormones. Women smelled sweeter, he had said, something that influenced even the sighted.
He dialled Griffoni’s number; when she said she was not busy, he asked if she’d come up to his office. While he waited, Brunetti went and looked out the window and allowed anomalous information to move around in his mind: a few dead bees in a plastic vial, the Aral Sea, two thousand Euros a week, dark mud in another vial. If they were pieces on a board, would he be able to move them round so that they formed a picture?
Griffoni’s knock pulled him back from these reflections. As soon as she came in, tall, blonde, and with the casual assurance of a woman who had always been aware that she was beautiful, he knew she was a better choice than Vianello, even if Bianchi would not see her.
‘Claudia,’ he said, ‘I’d like you to help me.’
An hour later, Foa pulled up to the dock at Piazzale Roma, where an unmarked car was waiting. The driver, who was not wearing a uniform, got out to open the rear door when they approached, even snapped out a salute, which Brunetti attributed to the shortness of Griffoni’s skirt.
During the twenty-five minutes it took them to get to Mira, Brunetti finished telling her the last of the story: the price of the retirement home.
‘The accident happened twenty years ago?’ she asked, ignoring the rows of stores that lined both sides of the highway and concentrating on what Brunetti had just told her.
‘More or less. Signorina Elettra is still trying to find out what happened. Why do you ask?’
‘Because if this man Bianchi’s been there since then, he’s paid them more than two million Euros.’ She glanced away momentarily and then looked back at him and said, speaking with quiet emphasis, ‘I can’t even count how many years I’d have to work to earn that.’
They turned into a road that ran along the right side of the Brenta canal. Brunetti made no comment, waiting to hear more of what she thought. ‘Someone’s paying for him, then,’ she said. It was a declaration, not a question. ‘We can exclude the possibility of insurance,’ she went on in the same tone. ‘They’d drag something this expensive through the courts for decades before they’d pay.’
Brunetti nodded in agreement but said nothing.
She leaned back in the seat and turned away from him, watching the large houses and extensive gardens on their right. ‘Who’d pay?’ she asked in a low voice, as if speaking to herself.
After asking that, she turned to Brunetti and repeated, ‘Who’d pay?’
By way of answer, Brunetti said, ‘And if someone was paying, why weren’t they also paying Casati?’
‘Because he was hurt in the same accident?’
‘I have no proof of that,’ Brunetti answered. ‘But it makes sense: they were hospitalized at about the same time and kept in touch for years.’
‘Why was that, do you think?’
‘No idea.’ When Griffoni did not comment, he continued. ‘All I know is what Casati’s daughter told us: old times, old friends who had an argument, and the misery Bianchi lived in.’
At that moment, the car turned through the iron gates in the fence that isolated Villa Flora from the rest of the world and headed up the gravel drive. The façade of the villa declared itself, upright and square and glowing warmly in the sun, the garden in front of it dappled with white and red roses.
Griffoni bent forward to see more of the building and garden. ‘Misery,’ she said and leaned back in her seat.
The driver stopped in front of the building, got out, and opened the door for Griffoni. Together she and Brunetti started up the steps. He raised the small brass lion head that served as knocker and hit it a few times against the metal plate beneath it.
After some time, the door was opened by a woman who wore a dark blue jacket and mid-calf skirt that might have been a uniform or merely a sober taste in clothing. In her fifties, she had a plump and amiable face that succeeded in making them feel welcomed by the smile she flashed at them. A plastic ID card was pinned to the right lapel of her jacket, adding to the argument that it was a uniform. It bore her photo and name: Anita Segalin.
‘Welcome to Villa Flora,’ she said. Her eyes were a deep brown and moved slowly from Brunetti to Griffoni and back again. Though neither of them answered, she flashed them another smile that resided exclusively in her mouth. The flash erased, her face returned to its normal passivity, her eyes continuing to move back and forth between them, assessing things. ‘How may I help you?’
‘We’ve come to visit one of your residents,’ Brunetti said, choosing that word in place of ‘patients’, a word that seemed out of place in these surroundings.
‘And who might that be?’ she asked, stepping back to allow them to enter a long hallway illuminated by the sunshine that flowed in from the rooms on either side.
‘Zeno Bianchi,’ Brunetti answered.
A half-second before Brunetti spoke the name, Signora Segalin had flashed him another tight smile, as though both to encourage his memory and congratulate him for coming to see any resident of Villa Flora. ‘Ah,’ she breathed when she heard the name. ‘He’ll be delighted; he has very few visitors.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Brunetti said.
‘And you are?’ the woman asked.
‘Guido Brunetti, and this is Dottoressa Claudia Griffoni.’
Signora Segalin’s eyes widened slightly and she asked, ‘Dottoressa?’
Griffoni put on her warmest, most disarming smile and said, ‘Not of medicine, I’m afraid, Signora.’ This time, she looked mildly relieved.
‘Public Administration,’ Claudia said, a half-truth, for she had taken a degree in this before taking another in Law.
‘Is there some problem?’ Signora Segalin asked, as though this were an official visit of some sort. The question was not followed by a smile.
‘Nothing that can’t be sorted out very quickly, I’m sure,’ Griffoni said with easy confidence. ‘The new regulations for persons with handicaps are very complicated, and I wanted to explain some changes to Signor Bianchi.’
Signora Segalin nodded, as though she completely understood this desire. Brunetti thought of the way Alvise’s wife had spent the last six months going from office to office, trying to get a public health nurse to come to visit her grandmother, more than ninety, who had been confined to bed for the last four years. Perhaps the sort of people who could afford Villa Flora were accustomed to greater solicitude from the social services: certainly Signora Segalin appeared to find nothing untoward in their unannounced visit.
‘I last saw Signor Bianchi in the gazebo,’ she said, semaphoring her pleasure at the word, eager to help now that she knew these people had something to do with public administration, the broad group charged with visiting rest homes to see that the rules of patient care were being followed. ‘I’ll take you to him.’ She turned and walked swiftly towards the back of the building; they followed, drawn along so quickly that the
y had little time to pause to look into the rooms on either side of the corridor.
Brunetti glanced through the first doorway they passed and saw an enormous bouquet of mixed roses standing on a narrow table, magazines and newspapers fanned out on both sides of it. From the next room floated what he thought might be a Chopin nocturne, badly played, but when he glanced inside, the view was too narrow to allow him to see anything but the curved back of a grand piano. At the end of the corridor, the woman paused and opened a thick wooden door. The door, Brunetti noticed, had a normal metal handle that was pressed down to open it, not the long metal bars of fire exits he was accustomed to seeing in nursing homes.
Outside, a gravel path led to a small gazebo covered with trailing roses, the sweetness of which he could smell at a distance. Signora Segalin stopped when they were still a few metres away and turned to flash them another smile. ‘Let me go ahead to prepare Signor Bianchi. He has so few visitors.’ She kept her voice low, as if afraid someone might overhear her.
She walked quickly to the gazebo and climbed its three steps. Brunetti watched her approach a man in a white wicker chair, a small dog sitting alertly at his side: he, unlike his owner, watched Signora Segalin draw close. One parent had apparently been a Jack Russell; the other was anyone’s guess, so long as it was a dog with very long legs. The dog stood and went over to Signora Segalin, who bent down and scratched at one of its ears.
Brunetti and Griffoni exchanged glances: a dog in a nursing home. The dog turned his attention to the other humans and studied them as they studied the man in the chair. The man, too, had had at least one parent with very long legs, for his knees rose high in front of him, creating a slanted lap on which they could see an old-fashioned transistor radio in his left hand.
Bianchi, for this must be Zeno Bianchi, wore large dark glasses that covered his eyes and much of his upper face but failed to cover the slick red scar that began at the left hairline, appeared to trail under the glasses, then slithered straight down his right cheek and beneath the open collar of his shirt. There was another patch of tight red skin on the right side of his forehead, beginning at his temple and cutting a jagged line upward through his short white hair.
Brunetti knew him to be close in age to Casati, but he seemed years older, with deep hollows in his cheeks and a great deal of wattled skin to the left of the scar under his chin. Even in the cloying heat of July he wore a wool tweed jacket, white shirt, and tie. The upper part of his body curved forward, emphasizing the way his shoulders pushed at the shoulders of his jacket. A woollen plaid blanket bearing signs that it was shared by the dog lay across his lap. He wore light woollen trousers and dark brown shoes.
‘Signor Bianchi,’ Signora Segalin announced, ‘you have visitors. From the social services.’ She bent to the dog and said, ‘Bardo, you have guests.’ The dog wagged his tail at the news. Bianchi gave no response.
Brunetti and Griffoni approached the man and the dog. Because Bianchi could not see them, Brunetti did not extend his hand, but Bianchi put his left one out in an entirely normal manner, and they both shook it; and, in turn, told him their names.
‘Please,’ Signora Segalin said, moving quickly to some wicker chairs and sliding two of them to face Bianchi. ‘Sit down. Be comfortable,’ she told them as they took their places in the chairs. ‘I’ve got to go back to the office, but you can come and tell me when you’ve solved Signor Bianchi’s problems for him.’ Long experience with the blind man had apparently taught her not to waste her smiles on him, but she did give a small flash, really little more than a spark, to Bardo, who failed to see it, so eager was he to sniff the shoes and ankles of the new people.
‘Is he behaving himself?’ Bianchi asked, turning his face in their direction. His voice was weak and high-pitched; Brunetti wondered if he had breathed in fire all those years ago and damaged his vocal cords.
‘Yes, he is,’ Griffoni said, patting at her lap. Bardo needed little more than that and sprang up, turned a few tight circles before curling himself into another one, careful to place his head where he could keep an eye on Bianchi.
Absently, Griffoni put her hand on the dog’s head and, as if milking a cow, began to pull at his ears. Bardo made a small noise and Bianchi said, ‘He doesn’t like to have his ears touched. Try his neck.’
When Griffoni did, the noise changed: it was surprisingly like the purring of a cat. ‘Good,’ Bianchi said. ‘He likes that.’ Brunetti heard a far-off woman’s voice: perhaps there was someone walking in the rose garden behind them.
‘What is it you’d like from me?’ Bianchi startled them by asking.
Griffoni shot a glance at Brunetti; the remark had been made in a very curt voice. ‘I’m afraid Signora Segalin confused things,’ she said. ‘I told her I’d taken a degree in Public Administration, and she drew the wrong conclusion.’
‘And the right conclusion?’ Bianchi asked, speaking above the woman’s voice.
‘We’re from the police.’
Bianchi said nothing, and Griffoni returned to scratching Bardo’s head. The purring noise started again, managing to block out the invisible woman’s voice.
‘And what is it you want?’ Bianchi asked.
‘We’d like you to tell us about your friendship with Davide Casati,’ Brunetti said. Bianchi turned sharply in the direction of Brunetti’s voice but turned too far: his sunglasses were directed to the left of Brunetti’s shoulder.
Bardo shifted on to his side, exposing his neck. ‘He likes to be scratched there,’ Bianchi repeated.
‘Most dogs don’t,’ Griffoni said.
After a long pause, Bianchi answered, ‘He’s very trusting.’ Then, using the past tense to make it clear he was not talking about Bardo, he went on, ‘We were friends for a long time. Best friends. I’m very sorry for his death.’
‘His daughter told us you spoke to him often,’ Brunetti said.
Bianchi didn’t answer. He moved his hand a bit, and it was then that Brunetti realized the woman’s voice was coming from the radio he held. He hadn’t seen one like it for years: black, rectangular, the size of the old Walkman, with a small metal antenna poking out of one corner. As he watched, Bianchi brought his right hand out from under the blanket and used what remained of it to anchor the radio while he moved a dial with the intact fingers of the other hand. The voice of a woman speaking with militant cheerfulness grew louder: ‘The Blessed Virgin asks us to join her in the worship of her beloved Son. By reciting the rosary together, we earn her grace and favour. Today we recite the Joyful Mysteries, so let us begin with contemplation of the Annunciation and declare that the time for the Incarnation is at hand.’
The maimed hand put Brunetti in mind of the front end of a crab, a hard pink carapace with two pincers made of thumb and pinkie. He tore his eyes away and looked helplessly at Griffoni: what could they do if Bianchi chose to have them listen to the recitation of the rosary? It began, a chorus of female voices murmuring the incantation he recalled from his childhood.
‘That’s Radio Maria, isn’t it, Signor Bianchi?’ Griffoni asked in a friendly, interested voice.
Bianchi’s head swivelled until he was facing in her direction. His left hand moved again, and the voice lowered and almost disappeared. ‘Do you know the programme?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Griffoni said with raw delight. ‘My mother listens to it every day.’
‘She’s a believer?’ the blind man asked.
‘Of course,’ Griffoni said again, strongly, proudly.
‘Are you?’
Griffoni turned to Brunetti, raised her eyebrows, and shrugged. ‘Yes,’ she said, then added with audible regret, ‘Perhaps I don’t do as much as I should – Mass – but I believe.’ Then, with sudden force, ‘It’s a good thing. I can’t imagine how …’ She let her voice fall off. Anyone who didn’t know her would be entirely persuaded of her sincerity.
Brunetti heard a click, and the droning voice of the women reciting the rosary was silenced.
&nbs
p; Bardo suddenly flipped himself upright, barked once at Griffoni’s face, and jumped to the ground. He ran down the steps of the gazebo, his nails clicking all the way, and disappeared into the garden.
‘Will he be all right?’ Griffoni asked Bianchi, quite as though he too had watched the dog run off.
‘He’s a dog, remember,’ Bianchi answered. ‘He knows his way around.’ He lowered his head, then reached his good hand to the table beside him, felt its surface with his knuckles, and set the radio on to it.
‘Signor Bianchi,’ Brunetti said. ‘We’d like you to tell us about the accident that you and Signor Casati were involved in.’
‘What did he tell you about it?’ Bianchi asked in a peremptory voice.
‘We were swimming together, Signor Bianchi. He could hardly hide the results: I was curious about the cause.’ When, Brunetti wondered, had he learned to be so mendacious?
He looked back at Bianchi’s hands and saw that the old man had covered the stump with his left hand. Twenty years had passed, and Bianchi still thought of this. Brunetti remained silent, waiting to see how Bianchi chose to interpret his answer.
‘Why do you want to know?’ Bianchi asked.
Brunetti had thought about this on the way and answered putting a great deal of hesitation into his voice. ‘His daughter, whom I think you know, is very upset at her father’s death, to the point that she thinks it might not have been an accident.’
Hearing this, Bianchi put his good hand to his mouth.
‘She’s told me that,’ Brunetti went on, ‘in the last weeks of his life, he seemed troubled and nervous about something. She doesn’t know what it was. She asked him, she said, shortly before he died, if anything was wrong, but all he said was that it was something from his past that troubled him.’
Bianchi’s face tightened involuntarily. ‘And that’s enough to make you come out here to ask me questions?’ he asked.
‘It’s enough to make us curious,’ Brunetti said.
‘Don’t the police have better things to do with their time?’
