by Donna Leon
Through a glass, darkly
( Comisario Guido Brunetti - 15 )
Donna Leon
A luminous spring day in Venice, and Commissario Brunetti and his sidekick Vianello play hooky from the Questura along the Grand Canal to rescue Vianello's friend Marco, who has been arrested during an environmental protest. They get him released, only to be faced by the fury of the man's father-in-law, who owns a glass factory on Murano. The old man is seething with rage, and his daughter shares her fear with Brunetti that he will actually harm her husband. But it is not Marco who has uncovered the guilty secret of the glass foundries, nor he whose body is found lying in front of the furnaces which burn at 1400 degrees C. night and day. The victim has left clues in a copy of Dante and Brunetti must enter an inferno to discover who is poisoning the land and fouling the waters of Venice's lagoon. A man is dead - but will politics and expedience prevent the killer from striking again?
Praise for Donna Leon's
Internationally Bestselling
COMMISSARIO GUIDO BRUNETTI
Mysteries
"The appeal of Guido Brunetti, the hero of Donna Leon's long-running Venetian crime series, comes not from his shrewdness, though he is plenty shrewd, nor from his quick wit. It comes, instead, from his role as an everyman ... not so different from our own days at the office or nights around the dinner table. Crime fiction for those willing to grapple with, rather than escape, the uncertainties of daily life." —Bill Ott, Booklist (starred review)
"The evocative Venetian setting and the warmth and humanity of the Brunetti family add considerable pleasure to this nuanced, intelligent mystery; another winner from the Venice-based Leon. Highly recommended."
—Michele Laber, Library Journal (starred review)
"Another of her fabulous Italian mysteries.... She has her finger on the pulse." —Bookseller
"Gives the reader a feel for life in Venice. . . . The story is filled with the average citizen's cynicism, knowledge of corruption, and deep distrust and fear of government and police. Characters are brilliantly portrayed. Even bit players become real and individual and Brunetti and his family are multifaceted and layered." —Sally Fellows, Mystery News
"The sophisticated but still moral Brunetti, with his love of food and his loving family, proves a worthy custodian of timeless values and verities." —The Wall Street Journal
"In her classy, literate, atmospheric Commissario Guido Brunetti series, Donna Leon takes readers ... to a Venice that tourists rarely see." —Bookpage
"Brunetti ... is the most humane sleuth since Georges Simenon's Inspector Maigret... he is a decent man [who achieves] a quiet heroism." —The Philadelphia Inquirer
"If you're heading to Venice, take along a few of [Leon's] books to use for both entertainment and travel directions."
—The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"[Brunetti's] humane police work is disarming, and his ambles through the city are a delight."
—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review
"A beautifully cadenced mystery ... no one is more graceful and accomplished than Leon." —The Washington Post
"Smuggling, sexual betrayal, high-class fakery and, of course, Mafia money make for a rich brew.... Exactly the right cop for the right city. Long may he walk, or wade, through it." —Sarah Dunant, author of The Birth of Venus
"Leon's books shimmer in the grace of their setting and are warmed by the charm of their characters."
—The New York Times Book Review
"Superb ... An outstanding book, deserving of the widest audience possible, a chance for American readers to again experience a master practitioner's art."
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"Richly atmospheric, Leon introduces you to the Venice insiders know." —Ellen Hale, USA Today
"A new Donna Leon book about... Brunetti is ready for our immediate pleasure. She uses the relatively small and crime-free canvas of Venice for riffs about Italian life, sexual styles, and—best of all—the kind of ingrown business and political corruption that seems to lurk just below the surface." —Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune
"Uniform Justice is a neat balancing act. Its silken prose and considerable charm almost conceal its underlying anger; it is an unlovely story set in the loveliest of cities. . . . Donna Leon is indeed sophisticated."
—Patrick Anderson, The Washington Post
"There's atmosphere aplenty in Uniform Justice.... Brunetti is a compelling character, a good man trying to stay on the honest path in a devious and twisted world."
—The Baltimore Sun
"Venice provides a beautifully rendered backdrop for this operatic story of fathers and sons, and Leon's writing trembles with true feeling." —The Minneapolis Star-Tribune
"One of the best international crime writers is Donna Leon, and her Commissario Guido Brunetti tales set in Venice are at the apex of continental thrillers.... The author has written a pitch-perfect tale where all the characters are three-dimensional, breathing entities, and the lives they live, while by turns sweet and horrific, are always believable. Let Leon be your travel agent and tour guide to Venice. It's an unforgettable trip." —Rocky Mountain Nexvs
"Events are powered by Leon's compelling portraits."
—The Oregonian (Portland)
"The plot is silky and complex, and the main appeal is the protagonist, Brunetti." —The Cleveland Plain Dealer
"Leon, a wonderfully literate writer, sets forth her plot clearly and succinctly. . . . The ending of Uniform Justice is not a neat wrap-up of the case with justice prevailing. It is rather the ending that one would expect in real life. Leon says that 'the murder mystery is a craft, not an art,' but I say that murder mystery in her hands is an art."
—The Roanoke Times
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Donna Leon, who was born in New Jersey, has lived in Venice for many years and previously lived in Switzerland, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and China, where she worked as a teacher. Her other mysteries featuring Commissario Guido Brunetti include A Noble Radiance, Uniform Justice, Acqua Alta, Death in a Strange Country, Blood from a Stone, Dressed for Death, and Death and Judgment, all available from Penguin.
Donna Leon
Through a Glass, Darkly
for Cecilia Bartoli
Da qual tremore insolito
Sento assalir gli spiriti!
Dond'escono quei vortici
Di foco pien d'orror?
What strange fear
Assails my spirits!
Where do they come from,
Those horrible whirlwinds of flame?
Don Giovanni Mozart
1
Brunetti stood at his window and flirted with springtime. It was there, just on the other side of the canal, evident in the shoots he saw popping up from the earth. Over the last few days, someone—in all these years, he had never seen a person working in the garden—had raked the earth, though he noticed it only now. Tiny white flowers were visible amidst the grass, and those fearless little ones that hugged themselves close to the ground, the names of which he could never remember—the little yellow and pink ones—sprouted from the freshly turned earth.
He opened the windows and felt fresh air flood into his overheated room. It brought with it the scent of new growth or rising sap or whatever it was that led to spring fever and an atavistic urge towards happiness. Birds, he noticed, were busy on the ground, no doubt pleased to discover that the worms had somehow been lured to the surface. Two of them squabbled over something, then one flew away, and Brunetti watched it disappear to the left of the church.
'Excuse me,' he heard someone say behind him. He wiped away his smile before he turned. It was Vianello, wearing
his uniform and looking far more serious than he should on such a lovely day. From the expression on the Inspector's face and the stiffness of his body, Brunetti wondered if he should address him with the formal Lei, a grammatical formality they had abandoned on Vianello's promotion to inspector. 'Yes, what is it?' Brunetti asked in a friendly tone while evading the grammatical issue.
'I wondered if you had a moment’ Vianello said, using the familiar tu and not referring to Brunetti as 'sir', thus increasing the likelihood that this would be an informal conversation.
Further to relax the atmosphere, Brunetti said, 'I was just looking at those flowers across the way—' gesturing with his head towards the garden—'and wondering what we were doing inside on a day like this.'
'First day you begin to feel it's spring,' Vianello agreed, smiling at last. 'I always used to play hooky.'
'Me, too’ said Brunetti, who had not. 'What did you do?'
Vianello sat in the chair on the right, his usual chair, and said, 'My older brother delivered fruit
to Rialto, so that's where I'd go. Instead of going to school, that is. I'd go over to the market and meet him and help him carry crates of fruit and vegetables all morning, and then go home for lunch at the same time I usually got home from school.' He smiled again and then he laughed. 'My mother always knew. I don't know how she did, but she always asked me how things were at Rialto and why I hadn't brought her any artichokes.' Vianello shook his head at the memory. 'And now Nadia is the same with the kids: it's like she can read their minds and always knows when they haven't gone to school or have done something they shouldn't.' He looked at Brunetti. 'You have any idea how they do it?'
'Who? Mothers?'
'Yes.'
'You said, it, Lorenzo. They read minds.' Brunetti judged that the atmosphere was sufficiently relaxed and so asked, 'What was it you wanted?'
His question restored all of Vianello's nervousness. He uncrossed his legs and brought his feet together, sitting up straighter. 'It's about a friend of mine,' he said. 'He's in trouble.'
'What kind of trouble?'
'With us.'
'The police?'
Vianello nodded.
'Here? In Venice?'
Vianello shook his head and said, 'No. In Mestre. That is, in Mogliano, but they were taken to Mestre.'
'Who?'
'The people who were arrested.'
'Which people?'
'The ones outside the factory.'
'The paint factory?' Brunetti asked, recalling an article he had seen in that morning's paper.
'Yes.'
The Gazzettino had devoted the front page of its second section to a report of the arrest of six people during a 'No Global' protest in front of a paint factory in Mogliano Veneto the previous day. The factory had been repeatedly fined for its failure to observe regulations on the disposal of toxic waste but had continued to operate regardless, choosing to pay the derisory fines rather than invest in changes to its production methods. The protesters were demanding that the factory be closed and had tried to prevent the workers from entering. This had led to a confrontation between the protesters and the workers, during which the police had intervened and arrested seven people.
'Is he a worker or a "No Global"?' Brunetti asked.
'Neither’ Vianello answered, then qualified his response by adding, 'Well, not a real "No Global," that is. Any more than I am.' This sounded, apparently even to Vianello himself, like a dead end as an explanation, so he took a breath and began again. 'Marco and I were at school together, but then he went to university and became an engineer. He's always been interested in ecology: that's how we know one another, from meetings and things. Once in a while we have a drink together, after a meeting.'
Brunetti chose not to inquire about these meetings. The Inspector continued. 'He's very concerned about what's going on at that factory. And in Marghera. I know he's been at the protests there, too, but he's never been involved in anything like this.'
'Like what?'
'When things get violent.'
'I didn't know that was the case,' Brunetti said. The paper had reported only that people had been arrested; there had been no mention of violence. 'What happened?' he asked. 'Who started it?' He knew how people always answered this question, whether for themselves or for their friends: it was always the other guy.
Vianello sat back in his chair and crossed his legs again. 'I don't know. I only spoke to his wife. That is, she called me this morning and asked me if I could think of some way to help him.'
'Only this morning?' Brunetti asked.
Vianello nodded. 'She said he called her last night, from the jail in Mestre, and he asked her to call me, but not until the morning. She got hold of me just as I was leaving for work.' Vianello returned to Brunetti's question. 'So I don't know who started it. It could have been the workers, or it could have been some of the "No Globals".'
Brunetti was surprised to hear Vianello admit this as a possibility. The Inspector went on, 'Marco's a peaceful guy: he wouldn't start anything. I know that, but some of the people who go to these things, well, I think they use it as a way to have some fun.'
'That's a strange choice of word: "fun".'
Vianello raised a hand and let it fall to his lap. 'I know it is, but that's the way some of these people look at it. Marco's talked about them, says he doesn't like them and doesn't like it when they join a protest, because it increases the risk of trouble.'
'Does he know who the violent ones are?' Brunetti asked.
'He's never said, only that they make him nervous.'
Brunetti decided to bring the conversation back to its original purpose. 'But what did you want to ask me?'
'You know the people in Mestre. Better than I do. And the magistrates, though I don't know who this has been given to. So I wondered if you could call and see what you could find out.'
'I still don't understand why you don't do it,' Brunetti said, making this sound like what it was—a request for information—and not what it was not, a suggestion that Vianello take care of it himself.
'I think it would be better if the inquiry came from a commissario.'
Brunetti considered this for a moment and then said, 'Yes; maybe. Do you know what the charge is?' he asked.
'No. Probably causing a disturbance or resisting a public official in pursuit of his duties. Marco's wife didn't say. I told her not to do anything until I had time to talk to you. I figured you, or we, might be able to do something . . . well, informally. It would save him a lot of trouble.'
'Did she tell you anything at all about what happened?'
'Just what Marco told her: that he was standing there with a placard, along with the other people from his group: about a dozen of them. Suddenly there were three or four men they didn't know, shouting at the workers and spitting at them, and then someone threw a rock.' Before Brunetti could ask, Vianello said, 'No, he didn't know who did it; he said he didn't see anything. Someone else told him about the rock. And then the police were there, and he got thrown to the ground and then they put him in a truck and took him to Mestre.'
None of this surprised Brunetti in any way. Unless someone had been there with a video camera, they would never know who had thrown the first punch, or rock, so it really was anyone's guess what the charges would be and whom they would be brought against.
After a brief pause, Brunetti said, 'You're right, but we better do this in person.' If nothing else, Brunetti caught himself thinking, it would be an excuse to get out of his office. 'You ready to go?'
'Yes,' said Vianello, getting to his feet.
2
As they left the Questura, Brunetti saw one of the launches approaching. The new pilot, Foa, stood at the wheel and he gave Brunetti a smile and Vianello a wave as he pulled up to the dock. 'Where are you going?' Foa asked, and then added, 'sir’ to make it clear whom he was addressing.
'Piazzale Roma,' Brunetti said. He had called the substation there and asked that a car be ready
for them. Because there had been no launch visible from his window, he had assumed that he and Vianello would have to take the vaporetto.
Foa looked at his watch. 'I don't have to be anywhere until eleven, sir, so I could easily take you there and get back.' Then to Vianello, 'Come on, Lorenzo: the weather's perfect today.'
They needed no more to lure them onto the deck, where they remained while Foa took them up the Grand Canal. At Rialto, Brunetti turned to Vianello and observed, 'First day of spring, and we're both playing hooky again.'
Vianello laughed, not so much at what Brunetti had said but at the perfect day, the certain slant of light on the water in front of them, and at the joy of playing hooky on the first day of spring.
As the boat slipped into one of the taxi ranks at Piazzale Roma, both men thanked the pilot and stepped up onto the dock. Beyond the ACTV building, a police car waited, engine running, and as soon as they got in, it pulled out into the traffic leading across the causeway to the mainland.
At the Mestre headquarters, Brunetti quickly learned that the case of the detained protesters had been assigned to Giuseppe Zedda, a commissario he had worked with some years before. A Sicilian and almost a head shorter than Brunetti, Zedda had impressed him then with his rigorous honesty. They had not become friends, but as colleagues they had shared a mutual respect. Brunetti trusted Zedda to see that things were done fairly and well and that none of the people arrested would be prevailed upon to give statements they might later retract.
'Could we speak to one of them?' Brunetti asked, after he and Vianello had turned down Zedda's offer to have a coffee in his office.
'Which one?' Zedda asked, and Brunetti realized he knew nothing more about the man under arrest than that his name was Marco and he was a friend of Vianello's.
'Ribetti’ Vianello supplied.
'Come with me’ Zedda said. ‘I’ll put you in one of the interrogation rooms and get him for you.'
