by Donna Leon
‘Then they sent me to a rehab facility. State run. They gave me a bed and one hour of rehabilitation a week.’ He looked at Brunetti, raised a hand to shoulder height, and ran it down the front of his torso and out into the air at the height where his knees might still have been. ‘They would have let me lie there until I died.’ Brunetti was familiar with such places.
‘After I’d been there for a month,’ Pozzi continued, ‘some of the men I had worked with came to visit, and they told me about the two who died and about Casati and Bianchi. They said Bianchi had been in a private clinic and had gone to a private nursing home when the clinic released him.’ He let that sink in and then added, ‘And I was lying in a room with three other men, with one hour of rehabilitation a week.’
Neither Griffoni nor Brunetti said a word; their silence led him on.
‘So I called GCM and told them I’d like to speak to one of their lawyers, and when they asked what it was about, I mentioned the fire.’ He paused to observe Brunetti’s reaction: Brunetti did his part and showed every sign of interest.
Apparently pleased with what he saw on his listener’s face, Pozzi continued. ‘When they transferred the call, I told the person who I was and where I was, and why. I told him I’d had a long time in the hospital to think about what had been going on before the fire and wanted to discuss it with them before contacting the authorities.’ Pozzi could not suppress a smile, the same sly smile that Brunetti didn’t like.
‘Their lawyers came the next day, two of them. That they were so eager was enough to tell me I’d already won, so I said I knew about how Bianchi was being treated, and I wanted everything he had, but with rehab every day and enough money every month to be able to live as I pleased.’ Pozzi looked at Griffoni, as though he wanted to be sure she was following his story, and she nodded, though she did not smile.
It was enough, however, to persuade Pozzi to continue. ‘I told them I was willing to make the same agreement with them that Bianchi had.’ Pozzi threw his head back in a motion of pure glee and, eyes on the ceiling, added, ‘I didn’t know what Bianchi had given them, but I knew what he got.’
‘You knew where the barrels had been sent?’ Brunetti asked, wanting to be sure.
‘I was the logistical engineer,’ Pozzi said by way of answer. ‘Remember?’ He forgot to smile when he asked this, then continued. ‘I told them I’d made copies of company invoices and left them in a safe place.’ When Pozzi turned to check the expression on Griffoni’s face, he smiled and said, ‘It was my insurance policy, Signora.’
‘I see,’ she answered and relapsed into silence.
‘And?’ asked Brunetti, though the fact that Pozzi was a patient in Villa Flora made it obvious what the response had been.
Pozzi turned the same smile to Brunetti. ‘They gave it to me: this place, rehabilitation, and they fitted me with artificial legs.’
When he saw Brunetti’s involuntary expression of surprise, Pozzi said, ‘Yes, I’ve got them. Like that South African guy who killed his girlfriend.’ He paused, and in the absence of Brunetti’s question, volunteered: ‘They’re in the other room. I ask them to put them there during the day because it’s easier not to use them all the time.’
Brunetti nodded and then asked, ‘Bianchi. Do you see him?’
Before answering, Pozzi glanced toward the door, as if fearing his words might slip away down the corridors and work their way into Bianchi’s room. ‘I never liked him when we worked together, so I don’t see any reason why I’d like him now.’ Then, as though to erase all doubt, he added, ‘Besides, he can’t read, so what would we talk about?’
‘Of course, of course,’ Brunetti muttered.
A new look, self-satisfied and smug, passed across Pozzi’s face. ‘The lawyer probably thought he was dealing with some crippled idiot. He asked me to sign a form saying that the company had maintained the highest professional standards of security in the areas assigned to them for clean-up.’ Then anger replaced self-satisfaction. ‘What did he think I was?’
‘He underestimated you, I can see,’ Brunetti said, speaking the truth.
Pozzi preened at the compliment. ‘He did, indeed.’
‘What did you have to give …?’ Brunetti began but let his voice trail off, wondering how far Pozzi would let himself go before he remembered that he was talking to a policeman.
Pozzi’s expression changed, and he said, ‘I gave them nothing, Signore. I told them I understood their preoccupation, and I had no idea of making trouble for anyone, so long as they sent me here.’ Pozzi looked up and waved around the room. Then he smiled. ‘They’re businessmen; they understood the conditions: so long as I was here, I’d say nothing. It would not be in my best interests.’
‘Of course,’ Griffoni said and nodded in approval.
Brunetti decided it would be wise to lead Pozzi away from the topic of his dealings with GCM, and so said, ‘You mentioned Signor Casati.’
Pozzi cut him short. ‘He was a fool,’ he answered with a thin, mean-spirited smile. ‘The men who came to see me told me Davide spent three months in a public hospital. Can you believe?’ he asked with the astonishment a dowager would express at the idea of helping with the dishes.
Brunetti limited himself to raising his eyebrows and was happy to see Griffoni shake her head at the very thought.
Pozzi pulled the blanket up higher and said, smiling, ‘May I offer you something? A coffee?’
Brunetti saw that this was an opportunity for Pozzi to impress them by giving an order and having it obeyed, so he answered in his most polite manner, ‘That’s very kind of you, Signor Pozzi, but we had coffee on the way here, and we have to be back in the city for lunch.’
Griffoni leaned forward and smiled. ‘Perhaps another time?’ The words were filled with a warmth that suggested she’d gladly accept a later invitation.
She sat back in the chair, smiling, and crossed her legs. As she did, Brunetti saw a look of raw longing pass across Pozzi’s face, a look that brought back to life that younger, different man, the one with all of life ahead of him, and not the small, useless shell of a man who sat clutching at his blanket.
Griffoni might have seen the expression as well, for she said, her voice filled with curiosity that sounded real and concerned, ‘Could you tell us about the accident?’
Another savage smile swept across Pozzi’s face, driving the younger man back to where he had been sent the last time. Then he laughed, a rusty sound, as though he were imitating a noise he had heard long ago and thought he remembered well enough to imitate. This went on for a long time until Pozzi had to lean his head against the back of the sofa. His hand wiped at his eyes, and he pulled in deep breaths until his normal breathing returned.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ he said and stopped to take a few more breaths. ‘That’s what’s so funny: I have no idea.’
‘But you were there,’ she said.
‘I was there, yes, in my office at the back of the warehouse. I heard a noise, and at first I thought it came from one of the small tankers we were using to transport liquids. Sometimes they made a lot of noise when they banged into the loading dock. But when I heard it again, I realized it came from the other side of the building, not the side that ran along the canal.’ He tilted his head to his right to indicate a place behind him.
‘I walked,’ he began but stopped for some time after that verb, then continued, ‘over to the door, which led into the warehouse, and when I opened it, I saw that the central part of the warehouse was on fire and the noise was the explosion of barrels.’ He looked from Griffoni to Brunetti and back again, but neither of them spoke.
‘I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. All I saw was a strip of fire between me and the door. That was the only way out. Then I saw some men standing on my side of the fire and I started to run towards them. I don’t know why I did that; maybe I thought we’d be safer – somehow – if we were all together. When I got to them I saw that it was Casati and a man I could
n’t recognize, who was screaming and clawing at sticky stuff that was all over his face. He stood still and screamed until finally Casati picked him up and started running for the door, running through the fire, which I could see was only a narrow strip. I ran past them because I wasn’t carrying anyone, and I jumped over the flames.’ Pozzi paused, repeated the single word, ‘jumped’, and stopped. Then, as if he’d just come back from somewhere, he went on. ‘I saw the light outside and realized I was safe, but then something hit me from behind and knocked me over. That’s all I remember.’
Brunetti saw that, although Pozzi was shivering, his face was covered with sweat. Hurriedly Pozzi wiped his right hand across his eyes and left it there for a time, then wiped each eye separately; when he pulled it away, his face was dry.
Griffoni looked at Pozzi with an appreciative smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you must be quite a negotiator.’ When Pozzi did not respond, she added, ‘GCM must have seen the report from the firemen, that it was a short circuit.’
‘Of course,’ Pozzi said.
She smiled again.
‘So they knew the insurance company would have to pay?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Pay GCM, that is,’ Brunetti clarified. ‘As a company.’
Brunetti did not have to make the obvious point that GCM could then make its own decisions about compensation and the care of the injured workers. Nor did he have to remark on the legendary delays of both insurance companies and employers in matters of compensation.
Griffoni gave the room another once-over, nodding in approval at everything she saw. ‘Is all of this what you got from them?’ she asked, much in the manner of a teenager asking a rock star for an autograph.
Pozzi nodded but said nothing, glancing first at Griffoni and then at Brunetti. He gave Brunetti the impression that he was beginning to regret having been so forthcoming. Brunetti thought then of his mother and of the basic principles she had taught him when he was a child. Don’t lie, say please and thank you, be polite to old people and help them if you can, never tease a cripple, eat everything on your plate and do not ask for more, never borrow money, keep your promises.
‘Where would you go if GCM stopped paying for you here, Signor Pozzi?’ Brunetti asked idly, speculatively.
‘What?’ Pozzi asked, startled.
‘If, for any reason, GCM cancelled their contract here, as they did with the third bed? If they cancelled the first and the second, as well? Where would you and Signor Bianchi go?’
‘But why would they do that?’ Pozzi asked. His face was drained white, making the lines near his mouth suddenly deeper.
‘It was just a thought, Signor Pozzi,’ Brunetti said. He put his hand to his chin and did his best to appear to be mulling over Pozzi’s question. ‘You know an investigation into the clean-up of Marghera’s been going on for years,’ Brunetti continued, then waited until Pozzi nodded. He failed to remark that it had been going on so long that most people had forgotten about it. ‘If your former employer learned that new evidence had been produced about their part in the clean-up, do you think they might, er, review your position here?’
‘Millions,’ Griffoni said, freed by Brunetti’s question to launch her own attack. She’d interrupted as though she’d just seen that amount flying past and called out its name to catch its attention. ‘I’m sure they’d like to stop paying all that money.’ She smiled amiably.
Pozzi’s mouth gaped in surprise. He joined his hands together and then separated them and pressed them flat on his thighs. Brunetti averted his eyes and his curiosity from those thighs.
Never tease a cripple. ‘If they thought the information came from you or Signor Bianchi, then I suppose you’d have to content yourself with whatever facility your state pension would permit you,’ Brunetti mused aloud.
Griffoni smiled and added, ‘I’m sure they’d let you take the prosthetic legs with you, Signore.’
As though she’d struck him a blow in the chest, Pozzi gasped and bent forward, one hand clutched to his heart.
‘And since you’d both be coming from the same place, and you’d been colleagues at work, years ago, they’d probably try to put you and Signor Bianchi in the same room,’ Brunetti added. This was the way mobs worked, he realized: one person started it, and then the others joined in, always an escalation, always harder blows, a few kicks once they were down, surround them, and then go in for the kill.
Pozzi’s hand was still on his heart but his breathing had slowed. ‘What do you want?’
Griffoni glanced at Brunetti, an expression of innocent surprise on her face. She said nothing; now, Brunetti saw, they were slowly walking around their prey, looking to find the weak point where they could begin.
‘You said, “This little piggy stayed home”, Signor Pozzi. Do you think you could tell me exactly where it stayed?’ Brunetti asked in a friendly voice, quite as though he were asking where he might find the barber who had given this man such a good haircut.
‘I don’t remember saying that,’ Pozzi said.
‘How strange,’ Griffoni said. ‘I remember hearing you say it.’
Brunetti looked at her. ‘So do I.’ He waved a hand towards what he knew to be the empty pocket of her skirt and asked, ‘Was the tape recorder on?’
She glanced at her watch and pushed at the dial on the right. ‘Yes, Commissario. It was.’
Brunetti smiled across at Pozzi and said, ‘What a relief we have the recording, Signore, should there be any question about our conversation.’ He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and said, ‘Now, as I was saying, just where was it the little piggy stayed?’
Pozzi turned his head and looked towards his bedroom, and Brunetti realized he was probably looking for his legs and regretting that they were in the other room. Pushing aside shame, Brunetti said, ‘We’d also like to know what happened between you and Signor Bianchi.’
Like a goaded animal, Pozzi squealed even before the stick hit him. ‘How do you know about that?’ he demanded, not even bothering to deny it.
Brunetti shrugged; Griffoni sat quietly and said nothing.
Pozzi looked at the door that he would have been able to reach had he been wearing his legs. His hand moved to the right pocket of his dressing gown, but he merely patted the telefonino that must be there; he did not pull it out. Perhaps he feared that these people would take it from him?
When it became evident that neither of them was going to answer him, Pozzi said, sounding like a grumpy child, ‘He told me about his conversation with Casati. Casati had told Bianchi he was going to call the police.’
‘Why would Casati do a thing like that, Signor Pozzi?’ Brunetti asked.
Pozzi considered the question, looked past Brunetti and out the window at the roses. When Brunetti saw the tightness around his eyes disappear, he knew he was going to lie: after so long a pause, only the truth would be stressful, a lie a relief.
‘Bianchi told me he didn’t say,’ Pozzi answered.
‘Why would Casati do a thing like that?’ Brunetti repeated softly, as though Pozzi had not answered.
Pozzi was taken aback by the question, as though he had never thought about what another person might desire. He made no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice. ‘How would I know what went on in his head?’
‘I thought you knew him, that you’d been friends.’
Pozzi snorted at the idea. ‘We worked together, years ago. That’s not friendship.’
‘What is?’ Griffoni interrupted to ask.
When Brunetti glanced at her, he could tell that the question was a real one, and for some reason it was important to her. He decided to see if Pozzi would answer her.
Pozzi returned to his study of the roses, and Brunetti began to feel overcome by the heat of the room and the sight of this man covered and draped in wool. He found himself thinking about the cause: did the loss of his legs slow down his circulation and thus make him more vulnerable to the cold? What did he do in the winter?
‘I don’t know,’ Pozzi finally said. ‘Bianchi was his friend. Why don’t you go and ask him?’
‘Maybe we’d better,’ Brunetti said, and got to his feet.
29
Neither of them wanted to deal with Signora Segalin, so by common consent they let themselves into the rose garden and started across the grass towards the gazebo, where a man sat in a wicker chair, back turned to them, his attention and voice directed at someone they could not see. When they recognized Signor Bianchi’s voice, they found themselves in the embarrassing position of seeming to sneak up on him.
Before they could announce themselves, however, Bianchi said, in an artificially loud voice, ‘I think our guests have come back, Bardo. Why don’t you go and say hello to them?’ The head of the dog appeared under the back of Bianchi’s chair, and when the rest of his body arrived, he trotted down the stairs to greet them. Either he had recognized their smell, or Bianchi’s voice had established the tone, for he came to them quite cheerfully and sat.
Griffoni stooped down and rubbed his head and neck. The dog’s tail stirred the gravel. He got up, moved to Brunetti and sat down again. Brunetti bent and patted his head a few times, saying, ‘It’s good to see you again, Bardo,’ then pressed a knuckle to his lips, hearing himself using that verb.
‘You’ve come back to ask more questions?’ Bianchi asked, speaking loudly enough for them to hear him clearly.
‘Yes, we have,’ Brunetti answered. ‘We’ve just been speaking to your colleague, Signor Pozzi.’
Bianchi turned in his chair to face them. ‘I imagine he wasn’t much help to you.’ He called to the dog, who ran up the steps and jumped into his lap. ‘He’s a very evasive man,’ Bianchi said. Then, sounding almost hospitable, he added, ‘Bardo seems to like you both, so why don’t you come up here and sit with me? That woman’s left the chairs where they were yesterday.’
While they were coming up the steps, Bianchi said, taking a childlike pride in it, ‘No one manages to sneak up on me,’ not explaining whether it was his hearing or Bardo’s that had detected and identified them.
