by Donna Leon
It felt to him a bit like being back at university, two classmates sitting in a small space, reading together. It was all standard fare: the company named Romina Rimozione was established more than forty years before, only nine employees at the beginning, now more than a hundred, with offices in Padova, Treviso, and Marghera. The first business was transport: quick delivery anywhere in Europe. The company had expanded into building: houses and schools, then office buildings and even a part of the airport. One early success was a contract to transport materials from the Marghera industrial area, soon followed by another to remove waste metal from a factory complex in the same area. Construction of a shopping centre outside Pordenone, sub-contract for the laying of track for the new tram between Mestre and Venice. Somewhere in the middle of the expansion, Romina disappeared, as did the idea of removals, and the name of the company was changed to ‘GCM Holdings’.
He checked the articles and saw that Signorina Elettra had arranged them in chronological order, as though wanting them to feel participant in the continuing success of the company.
There was only one article of any length about the owner and guiding spirit of the company. Gianclaudio Maschietto, 83, was born in Piove di Sacco and currently divided his time between his birthplace and Venice. The article had photos of the church he had built and donated to his birthplace and quoted him as saying, ‘It is my duty to God and my fellow citizens that I do this.’ Presumably, he meant building the church, which Brunetti thought grotesque, a cement box with a sharply slanted tile roof and stained-glass windows that looked like scenes from religious comic books.
There had been a spurt of articles six years before, when Maschietto had withdrawn from the daily running of the company, passing control to his son, Francesco, who became CEO, his father retaining only a non-voting position on the board.
Finished reading the articles, Brunetti looked across at Griffoni, who was studying the photos of the stained-glass windows. She looked at him and sighed. ‘It looks frighteningly like the new church in the village my mother comes from.’
Griffoni tapped the sheets of paper on her knees, forcing them back into order. ‘To build the new church in my village, they tore down a small chapel from the sixteenth century.’ When she saw his startled look, she said, ‘That was fifty years ago.’
Brunetti wondered if this were meant to make it less awful. It didn’t.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘I’d like to know why his company is paying for Bianchi.’
Brunetti turned a few pages and found what he was looking for. ‘It says here that the original company was working in Marghera from the early eighties.’
‘Umm,’ she said. ‘I read that.’ She flipped a few pages, then lowered the papers. ‘Do you think the accident would have been reported in the press? Two men were badly injured.’
‘If the damage was big enough or people were killed, it would be,’ Brunetti observed.
Griffoni thought about this for a moment, pulled her lips together and nodded a few times. ‘Of course, we believed what he told us, didn’t we? Because he’s handicapped. There could have been more people involved.’
Brunetti flirted with the idea of adding, ‘And because he’s good to his dog,’ but good sense prevailed. ‘Shall we go and see what else she’s found?’ he asked, instead.
Together they went down to Signorina Elettra’s office, where they found her still at her computer. As they entered, Brunetti saw a new pile of papers lying in the tray of the printer and asked, ‘Are those for us?’
‘Yes,’ Signorina Elettra said without bothering to look up from the screen. ‘They’re about the fire.’
Brunetti went and picked up the papers, and again there were two copies of each page. He went to the windowsill and sorted them into two piles, handed one to Griffoni. She leaned back beside him and started with the top page, instantly intent.
Brunetti remained where he was and started to read his copy.
The Gazzettino carried a story about a fire in a warehouse at a complex of offices and factories in Marghera in which at least two workers were killed, three injured, and two others reported as missing. The fire – for which no cause was given - had started in the warehouse in the late afternoon. Four brigades of firefighters had responded to the call and fought the fire until it was extinguished in the early morning.
The following day, La Nuova di Venezia confirmed the number of injured and killed but reported that the two missing workers had been on assignment in another part of the industrial complex and had not been involved in the fire. The captain of the firefighters was quoted as saying that the likely cause of the fire was a short circuit in the electrical system.
There was the usual comment on the large numbers of ‘white deaths’, on-the-job deaths of workers, and the standard interviews with the friends and family members of the two dead men, whom they remembered as serious, careful workers whose loss would be mourned by their colleagues and loved ones. The injured workers, Zeno Bianchi, Davide Casati, and Leonardo Pozzi, had been transported to hospitals in Padova and Venice and were all reported in ‘condizione riservata’.
By the third day, the story had moved farther back in the papers, and on the fourth there was a photo of the then- mayor visiting the site, surrounded by firefighters and various unnamed officials, all of them wearing coveralls, boots, and helmets, the mayor turned in half-profile, the better to be recognizable in the photo. After that, nothing, although Brunetti could still hear the thuh, thuh, thuh of the printer.
Without asking, he went and collected the pages, separated them, and handed one copy to Griffoni.
These dealt, though not until a year had passed, with Gianclaudio Maschietto, who had given an interview to Famiglia Cristiana, in which he declared that the events at his warehouse in Marghera, still fresh in his mind, as well as the recent death of his wife, had so burned into his soul – perhaps not the most opportune choice of word, Brunetti reflected – that his thoughts had turned to God, in whose name he would devote some of his wealth to aid the spiritual and physical welfare of his fellow citizens. Thus the construction of the church and the endowment of three beds in perpetuity at a casa di cura, to be given to workers who suffered crippling injuries in on-the-job accidents.
Years passed before Maschietto appeared again, this time, only six months ago, named among the forty people – almost all men – put forward as possible candidates for the state honour of Cavaliere del lavoro, to be awarded later in the year to twenty-five of them.
The printer was silent, the tray empty, and they had learned very little that would aid them in understanding the circumstances of Davide Casati’s death.
‘Three beds?’ Griffoni asked, reading his mind.
‘We didn’t know to ask, did we?’ Brunetti answered.
‘A short circuit?’
‘It’s what the firemen said,’ Brunetti answered and turned to Signorina Elettra, who was taking silent part in this conversation. He lifted his chin in inquiry.
‘There was nothing else in the papers,’ she said, ‘so it’s likely that was the cause; the insurance investigators don’t seem to have found anything else,’ she went on, then asked, ‘What happened at Villa Flora?’
Brunetti briefly explained their conversation with Bianchi, and then the three of them passed some time in silent consideration of this. Brunetti glanced through the papers again, and Griffoni pulled out one page and read it through. Signorina Elettra kept her attention on the screen, but her eyes did not move along the lines of text.
Finally Brunetti said, ‘Claudia, would you call Signora Segalin and tell her we discovered when we got back to the office that we were also meant to inspect the condition of the residents who occupy the other two beds endowed by GCM Holdings?’
‘What if Bianchi’s told her who we are?’ Claudia asked, setting the papers on the windowsill behind her.
‘I doubt that he would,’ Brunetti answered.
‘One moment,
’ Signorina Elettra said, tapped in a few letters, and then read out the phone number of Villa Flora. She picked up her desk phone, dialled, and held the receiver out to Griffoni. Griffoni took the phone and leaned one hip against Signorina Elettra’s desk.
‘Good afternoon, this is Dottoressa Griffoni. I visited earlier with my colleague, Dottor Brunetti. Could I speak to Signora Segalin, please? Yes, thank you.’
She looked up at them and made an arc in the air with her free hand to show that the call was being transferred.
‘Ah, good afternoon, Signora,’ she said, her smile slipping down the line. ‘So good of you to speak to me again … No, nothing really important, but I have to tell you that we’ve all been victims of bureaucratic incompetence … No,’ she said with a small, complicit laugh, ‘I didn’t think you’d be a stranger to it, Signora. Which of us is?
‘It’s about the other beds in the GCM endowment. Yes, precisely. Could you tell me if the other beds are occupied and, if so, by whom?’
A long silence stretched out until Griffoni said, ‘Yes, it’s to complete our files … Ah, I didn’t know that, Signora. When was it cancelled? Ah, of course, of course. But the second one remained?’
Griffoni reached over, pulled a piece of paper towards her and took the pencil Signorina Elettra held out to her. ‘Leonardo Pozzi? Yes, thank you. And how long has he been there? … Oh, really? Ah, the poor man. Does anyone come to …? Yes, I can understand why the staff would … Of course. Of course.’
Griffoni stared at the floor while speaking, intent on saying the right thing and keeping the correct tone. Signora Segalin went on for a long time, and Brunetti imagined her eyes flashing out useless signals to cue her listener to the proper emotional response. Griffoni did not disappoint, umming and ahhing and saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’, both with the special emphasis one uses with a person who wants affirmation, not only of the fact reported but of the emotional weight of that fact.
‘Would it be possible for us to come and speak to him, do you think?’ Griffoni looked across at Brunetti and held up a hand, then shook it in the air a few times, as one does when in possession of important information.
‘Yes, that’s very kind of you. When would be the best time, do you think? You certainly understand these things far better than we do.’ The flattery was blatant, but Brunetti could imagine the flashes of delight from Signora Segalin’s eyes.
‘Fine, then we’ll be there tomorrow morning at eleven. And thank you so much for your efficiency and help.’ Griffoni made a few positive, warm noises and hung up.
She handed the pencil back to Signorina Elettra and pushed away from the desk. She looked over at Brunetti and said, ‘The second bed is still occupied by Leonardo Pozzi. He’s been there a shorter time than Signor Bianchi, but that’s because he was in the hospital longer and was moved to Villa Flora four months later.’
She turned slightly to her right and looked at Signorina Elettra before continuing. ‘Pozzi was injured far more seriously than either of the others,’ she began and lowered her head while she said, ‘He lost both legs.’ Before they could inquire, she said, ‘He was hit by pieces of one of the barrels that exploded and didn’t bleed to death only because … because the wounds were seared closed.’ Here she glanced at both of them, and looked down at the floor again. ‘That was the phrase Signora Segalin used. By whatever was in the barrel.’ She let them think about that for a moment and continued.
‘Signora Segalin said that he has become more isolated as the years pass, and now he seldom speaks to anyone.’ She put her hands together and rubbed at her left wrist, as though she had broken it once and it ached at times.
Brunetti asked, ‘And the third bed?’
‘The money for it was cancelled when the third man injured in the accident didn’t accept the invitation to Villa Flora and chose to remain in a state facility, instead.’
‘Casati?’ Brunetti asked.
‘She didn’t give a name, and I didn’t want to interrupt her to ask.’ She paused a moment and then added, ‘From what you’ve told me about him, it seems likely.’
‘If they’re paying for two beds,’ Griffoni said, ‘then they’ve spent more than four million Euros to keep them there all this time.’
Brunetti heard Griffoni say something under her breath and turned to ask her, ‘What?’
‘Seared,’ she said, told him she’d see them in the morning, and left without saying anything else.
27
The same driver took them back to Villa Flora the next morning, both of them disguising their eagerness to meet Leonardo Pozzi. They spoke of the terrible heat and the comfort of having a car with air conditioning; they spoke of the desiccated crops on either side of the road; they spoke of anything other than the second man at Villa Flora.
Signora Segalin opened the door to them again, today wearing what appeared to be the same suit in dark grey. The flash of her smile was subdued, perhaps in proportion to Signor Pozzi’s greater disability. ‘I’ve told him you’re coming to visit,’ she said as soon as they’d shaken hands.
‘Was he interested?’ Griffoni asked. They had decided that she, having been the one to speak to Signora Segalin the previous evening, should speak for them both.
‘It’s sometimes difficult to know what he thinks,’ Signora Segalin said and flashed a small smile. ‘Because he speaks so little. And now that he and Signor Bianchi don’t seem to talk to one another any more, we can’t ask him to help us communicate with Signor Pozzi.’ She said this as one would speak of a spat between children.
Griffoni let out a little ‘oh’ of surprise. ‘I didn’t know they knew one another. Certainly Signor Bianchi didn’t mention him yesterday.’
‘I suppose he wouldn’t. Not now,’ Signora Segalin said. Like many people who worked with patients, she was glad to show how much she knew about their private lives, sure proof of her close involvement with them. ‘They’ve been good friends for years. They often ate together. But recently they’ve stopped speaking to one another or going to visit.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Griffoni said, impressing even Brunetti with the sound of her sincerity. ‘I hope it doesn’t last.’
Signora Segalin smiled at this proof of the other woman’s goodwill. ‘Well, these things happen sometimes between patients, but they usually calm down after a while. I’m sure that will happen with them.’ She couldn’t have sounded more certain. ‘All they have is one another, in the end.’ She turned away and started down the corridor on the other side of the building from where they had been the previous day. They walked to the very end; Signora Segalin stopped in front of an open door and tapped a few times on the jamb, then entered and waved them in after her.
Aside from the heat, which enveloped them as soon as they entered the room from the air-conditioned corridor, they could have been visiting a celebrity in a hotel suite: there was a large bouquet of the by-now-familiar roses in a crystal vase, what looked like an Isfahan carpet on the parquet floor, and three prints of Longhi harlequins on the walls. Through a door, Brunetti glimpsed a carpeted bedroom and a brocade-covered bed. The same garden that spread out beyond the other wing of the building bloomed behind the windows in this room. It was hard to concentrate on details, however, so overwhelmed were they by the heat and humidity.
Upright on a grey velvet sofa sat a tall man of extraordinary thinness, his lap covered with a light blue cashmere blanket. His hair was dark brown with no sign of grey and cut close to his head. His eyes were an even darker brown and displayed absolutely no interest in them, nor in Signora Segalin. Two deep lines curved outward from either side of his nose and arched to below his mouth, but aside from them his face was almost entirely unlined. He appeared to be about ten years younger than Casati and Bianchi.
He wore striped pyjamas that had not been slept in under a dark blue dressing gown, with a paisley scarf tied at the open neck of his pyjama jacket. The sight of the woollen dressing gown made Brunetti reach up and loos
en his tie. Pozzi’s hands lay folded in his lap. As they approached, Pozzi’s face remained calm, uninterested, his attention entirely absent.
Brunetti and Griffoni stopped a few metres from him, reacting automatically to the force field of indifference he projected. Signora Segalin either didn’t notice or didn’t care – perhaps she just wanted to introduce them quickly and escape the heat in the room – and continued until she stood near to where his feet would have been, had anything but the empty legs of the pyjamas been visible at the front of the sofa.
‘Signor Pozzi,’ Signora Segalin began, speaking with exaggerated clarity, ‘these are the people from social services who would like to talk to you.’ She stepped aside and motioned them forward, but neither of them moved.
Pozzi turned his head towards them; Brunetti noticed that his shoulders moved when his head did, as though his neck were not able to turn on its own. It gave him the look of a robot, some of whose parts had been scrapped.
Signora Segalin again motioned them forward, this time impatiently.
‘Perhaps Signor Pozzi feels more comfortable if we stay here,’ Griffoni suggested.
‘Nonsense,’ Signora Segalin said and busied herself moving chairs around until two of them stood facing Signor Pozzi, whose eyes had moved to Griffoni’s face. In her haste, Signora Segalin yanked one of the chairs into the edge of the carpet and stopped only when she could move the chair no farther. Saying nothing, Griffoni moved towards the chair and lifted it to allow the edge of the carpet to fall smooth again, then she smiled at Signor Pozzi and sat.
Brunetti nodded his greeting, pulled the second chair slightly farther away from Pozzi, and sat, careful to sit far back in the deep seat.
Signora Segalin glanced at her watch and asked Brunetti, ‘Would you like me to stay and help?’ as though she were a reluctant translator unable to disguise her eagerness to finish and leave.
‘That’s very kind of you, Signora,’ Griffoni said in her most polite voice. ‘But we’ve already taken up too much of your time.’ She stood and moved around behind her chair to enforce her words by taking Signora Segalin’s hand in both of hers to give it a squeeze that showed her thanks.
