by Donna Leon
He lifted his feet onto the desk, folded his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair. He studied the middle distance as he considered everything that had happened since Vianello asked him to go out to Mestre. He ran the events through his mind like the beads of a rosary, each one a separate entity but each leading to and from another, until they led to Tassini's body lying in front of the burning furnace.
He had eaten nothing all day save two panini and now regretted it. The sandwiches had done little more than remind him about food without satisfying his desire for it, and it was now too late to get anything to eat at a restaurant while it was still too early to go home.
He leaned forward and picked up the three sheets of paper and looked at them, then let them float, one by one, back to the surface of his desk. He felt his left knee growing stiff, so he crossed his feet, which allowed him to bend the knee. As he turned in the chair to do so, he felt one of the books in his pockets strike against the back of his chair, reminding him of their presence.
He pulled them out, looked at the ecological frightener and tossed it onto the desk. That left him with Dante, an old friend he had heard nothing from for more than a year. By nature an optimist, Brunetti would have preferred to find Purgatorio, the only book in which hope was a possibility, but given the fact that the alternative was Industrial Illness, he chose the black misery of Hell.
As he had fallen into the habit of doing in recent decades, he opened the book at random, thinking that this might well be the way other people read religious texts: letting fate lead them to some new illumination.
He dipped in just as Dante, still new to Hell and still capable of pity, tried to leave a message for Cavalcante that his son was still alive, then followed his Guide deeper into the abyss, already sickened by the stench. He flipped quickly on and found Vanni Fucci's obscene gesture to God, and flipped on again. He read of Dante's violence towards Bocca Degli Abbati and felt a moment's pleasure that such a traitor was so viciously treated.
He turned back and found himself reading one of the passages bordered by the notes Tassini had made in red. Canto XIV, the burning sand and horrid stream and fiery rain, that whole grotesque parody of nature that Dante thought so well suited to those who sinned against it: the usurers and sodomites. Brunetti followed them as, beneath the flaming snow that fell all around them, Dante and Virgil moved deeper into Hell. There appeared the company of shades, one of whom Brunetti recognized, or remembered, as Brunetto Latini, Dante's respected teacher. Though Brunetti had never much liked the passages that followed—the praise of Dante's genius that he puts into Ser Brunetto's mouth and the outing of public figures—he read on to the end of the next canto. He flipped back to Tassini's heavy red lines under ' . . . the plain whose soil rejects all roots .. . The wood itself is ringed with the red stream.' In the margin, Tassini had written, 'No roots. No life. Nothing.' In black ink, he had written 'The grey stream.'
Brunetti flipped forward and came upon the hypocrites. He recognized them, with their voluminous cloaks, like the Benedictines of Cluny, all dazzle and golden and fair on the outside, leaden and heavy and dull on the inside, the perfect physical manifestation of their deceit, doomed to carry it and measure out their steps until the end of time.
The lines describing their cloaks were circled in green and linked by a line to the text on the facing page, Virgil saying, 'Were I a pane of leaden glass, I could no more instantly imitate your look.'
The phone rang, dragging Brunetti away from Hell. He let his chair fall forward and answered with his name.
'I thought I'd call,' Elio Pelusso said. An old classmate of Brunetti's, Pelusso now worked on the newsdesk of the Gazzettino and had in the past been both informative and helpful. Brunetti had no idea why Pelusso would call him, which meant he could not figure out what sort of favour Pelusso would be after.
'Indeed’ Brunetti said. 'It's good to hear your voice.'
Pelusso laughed outright. 'Have they been making you all take sensitivity classes so you'll know how to deal with the press?' he asked.
'It's that obvious, eh?' Brunetti asked.
'To hear a policeman saying he's glad to hear my voice gives me goose-flesh.'
'And if a friend says it?' Brunetti asked, making himself sound offended.
'Then it's different,' Pelusso said in a warmer tone. 'Do you want me to call again and we can start over?'
Brunetti laughed. 'No, Elio, not at all. Just tell me what you'd like to know.'
'This time I'm calling to tell, not to ask.'
Brunetti bit back the remark that he was going to write the date down so he would be sure to remember it and, instead, asked, 'Tell me what?'
'Someone I spoke to said that your boss has had a bug put in his ear by a certain Gianluca Fasano.'
'What sort of bug?'
'The sort that comes from people who don't like hearing that questions are being asked about their friends.'
'I suppose you wouldn't want to tell me who told you that, would you?' Brunetti asked.
'You're right. I wouldn't.'
'Is he reliable?'
'Yes.'
Brunetti considered this for some time. The waiter, either the waiter or Navarro. 'I was out at the glass factory next .to his,' he volunteered to Pelusso.
'De Cal's?' the reporter asked.
'Yes. You know him?'
'Enough to know he's a bastard and enough to know he's a very sick man.'
'How sick?' Brunetti asked. 'And how do you know it?'
'I've met him a few times over the years, but a friend of mine was in a room in the hospital with him, so I saw him there when I went to visit my friend.'
'And?' Brunetti asked.
'You know how it is in oncology,' Pelusso said.
'No one ever tells anyone what they think they don't want to hear. But my friend heard the word "pancreas" enough times to suspect it didn't make any difference what else they said.'
'How long ago was this?'
'About a month. De Cal was in there for tests. Not treatment, but they still kept him in for two days—long enough for my friend to come to hate him as much as he seems to hate his son-in-law’ the reporter said. Then, perhaps because he felt he had given enough information and had no return on his investment, he asked, 'Why are you interested in Fasano?'
'I didn't know I was,' Brunetti said. 'But now maybe I am.'
'And De Cal?'
'He's threatened the husband of someone I know.'
'Sounds like something he'd do,' Pelusso said.
'Anything else?' Brunetti asked, though he knew it was greedy to do so.
'No.'
'Thanks for calling,' Brunetti said. 'I have to think about this for a while.'
'It's my single hope in life, to be of help to the forces of order,' Pelusso said in his most unctuous voice, waited for Brunetti's answering laugh, and when he heard it, hung up.
Inferno open in his lap, Brunetti wondered where Dante would have placed someone like De Cal. With the thieves? No, Brunetti had no reason to suspect he had ever stolen anything, save what the ordinary businessman was obliged to steal from the taxman in order to survive, and that was hardly to be considered a sin. Among the grafters? But how else to run a business? Brunetti remembered the man, his face red with anger, and realized that he would be among the wrathful and be torn limb from limb, like Filippo Argenti, by his fellow sinners. Yet if De Cal knew himself to be a dying man but still bent his mind to profit, then Dante might have put him among the hoarders and condemned him to push his heavy stone, for all eternity, against the stones of other men like himself.
Brunetti had once read in the science column of La Repubblica a report on experiments done with people suffering from Alzheimer's. Many of them lost the use of the brain mechanism that told them when they were hungry or full, and if given food repeatedly, would eat again and again, unconscious of the fact that they had just eaten and should no longer be hungry. He sometimes thought it was the same with peopl
e afflicted with the disease of greed: the concept of 'enough' had been eliminated from their minds.
He folded the papers in three and slipped them into the pocket of his jacket. Downstairs he left a note on Vianello's desk, telling the Inspector he had left for the day but would like to talk to him the following morning. Outside the Questura he gave himself over to what was left of the day. He went out to Riva degli Schiavoni and took the Number One to Salute, then headed west with no destination in mind, turning that decision over to his memory and his mood. He cut through the underpass by the abbey, down past building site after building site then left, down towards the Incurabili. Only a fragment of Bobo's fresco remained, glassed in now in order to save what was left from the elements. Had it been warmer, he would have had his first ice-cream of the year, not at Nico's but at the little place down by Ai Schiavi. He passed the Giustinian, crossed over to Fondamenta Foscarini and then went down to Tonolo for a coffee and a pastry. Because he had had no lunch to speak of, he had two: a cream-filled swan and a tiny chocolate eclair as light as silk.
In the window of a shop where he had once bought a grey sweater, he saw what might be its twin, but in green. The size was his and soon, without his bothering to try it on, so was the sweater. As he stepped out into the calle, he realized how happy he was, much in the way he had been as a boy to be out of school when the others were still inside, and no one to know where he was or what he was doing.
He went into a wine shop not far from San Pantalon and bought a bottle of Nebbiolo, a Sangiovese, and a very young Barbera. By then it was almost seven, and he decided to go home. As he turned into the calle, he noticed Raffi opening the front door of their building and called out to him, but his son didn't hear him and closed the door. Brunetti shifted packages, looking for his keys, and by the time he got inside it was too late to shout up the steps after his son.
As he turned into the final flight of stairs, he heard Raffi's voice, though he had seen him come in alone. This confusion was resolved halfway up the steps, when he saw Raffi, slouched against the wall outside the door, tele-fonino in hand. 'No, not tonight. I've got that calculus to do. You know how much homework he gives us.'
Brunetti smiled at his son, who held up a hand and, in a gesture of unmistakable male solidarity, rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, saying, 'Of course I want to see you.'
Brunetti let himself into the apartment, abandoning Raffi to what he assumed were the tender solicitations of Sara Paganuzzi. Inside, he found himself surrounded by the aroma of artichokes. The scent floated down the hallway from the kitchen, filling the house. The penetrating odour sent Brunetti's mind flashing back to the stench that had surrounded him twelve hours before. He set the packages on the floor and went down the corridor, away from the kitchen, and into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, showered, his hair still wet, and wearing a pair of light cotton pants and a T-shirt, he went back down the hallway to get his sweater. Both packages were gone. He went down to the kitchen, where he saw the three bottles lined up on the counter, Paola at the stove, and Chiara setting the table.
Paola turned and made a kissing gesture towards him; Chiara said hello and smiled. 'Aren't you cold?' Paola asked.
'No’ Brunetti answered, turning back towards Raffi's room. As he walked down the corridor, his righteous indignation mounted: it was his sweater; he'd worked to pay for it; the colour was perfect for these slacks. He stopped outside Raffi's door, preparing himself for the sight of his son wearing his sweater, knocked on the door and entered when he heard Raffi's voice.
'Ciao, Papa,' Raffi said, looking up from the papers scattered over his desk. A textbook was in front of him, propped open by the ceramic frog Chiara had given him for Christmas. Brunetti said hello and gave what he thought was a quite thoroughly professional glance around the room.
'I put it on your bed,' Raffi said and went back to his homework.
'Oh, good’ Brunetti said. 'Thanks.'
He wore it to dinner, earning compliments from Paola and from Chiara, though she complained that men always got to wear the best sweaters and jackets and girls always had to wear pink angora and horrible things like that. Girls, however, did get first crack, it seemed, at fried artichoke bottoms and then at pork ribs with polenta. Not at all disturbed by the fact that it had just been carried home, Paola had opened the Sangiovese, and Brunetti found it perfect.
Because he had eaten the two pastries, Brunetti declined a baked pear, to the considerable surprise of the others at the table. No one asked after his health, but he did notice that Paola was particularly solicitous in asking him if he would like a grappa, perhaps with coffee, in the living room while the kids did the dishes?
She came in a little later, carrying a tray with two coffees and two ample glasses of grappa. She placed it on the table and sat beside him. 'Why did you take a shower?' she asked.
He spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it, saying, 'I went for a walk, and it was colder than I expected, so I thought it would warm me up.'
'Did it?' she asked, sipping at her own coffee.
'Uh huh,' he said, finishing his coffee, and picked up his grappa.
She set her cup down, picked up her glass and moved back in the sofa. 'Nice day for a walk.'
'Uh huh’ was the best Brunetti could do. Then he said, 'I'll tell you another time, all right?'
She moved minimally closer to him, until her shoulder touched his, and said, 'Of course.'
'You're good at crossword puzzles and things like that, aren't you?' he asked.
'I suppose.'
'I have something I'd like you to look at’ he said, getting to his feet. Without waiting for her answer, he went out to the hallway to get the three sheets of paper from his jacket, and took them back into the living room.
He unfolded them, sat back down beside her, and handed them over. 'I found these in the room of someone who worked on Murano. I think he was killed.'
She took the papers and held them at some distance from her. Brunetti got up again, went down to her study, and came back with her glasses. After she put them on, she looked more closely at the papers, studying them. She tried to hold them in line with one another, but gave that up, leaned forward and spread them out on the table, pushing the tray to one side to make enough room for them.
Brunetti offered, 'I thought of bank codes, but that doesn't make any sense. He didn't have any money. I don't think he was very interested in it, either.'
Paola put her head down again and studied the papers. 'You excluded dates, too?' she asked, and he grunted in assent.
After some time, she said, "The first number on the first page is almost twice as big as the second one.'
'Does that mean anything to you?' he asked.
'No,' she said with a quick shake of her head. She said nothing about the numbers on the second and third pages.
So they sat, for another ten minutes, staring with futile attention at the papers. Chiara, on her way back to her room to continue her Latin homework, found them that way and flopped down on the arm of the sofa next to Brunetti. 'What's that?' she asked.
'Puzzles,' Brunetti answered. 'Neither of us can make any sense of them.'
'You mean the coordinates?' Chiara asked, pointing at the numbers that appeared on the third page.
'Coordinates?' asked an astonished Brunetti.
'Sure,' Chiara said in her most offhand manner.
'What else could they be? See,' she said, pointing at the degree sign after the first number, 'this is the degree, the minute, and the second.' She pulled the paper a bit closer and said, "This one is the latitude—that's always given first—and that one's the longitude.' She looked at the numbers a moment more and said, 'The second set is for a place that's got to be very near to the first, slightly to the south-east. And the third is to the southwest. You want to know where they are?'
'Where what are?' Brunetti asked, still slightly stunned.
"The places,' Chiara said, tapping her finge
r on the paper. 'Do you want to know where they are?'
'Yes,' Paola said.
'OK,' Chiara said and got to her feet. In less than a minute, she was back with the giant atlas she had requested for Christmas, the best Brunetti could find, more than 500 pages and published in England, its page spread almost as large as the Gazzettino's.
Chiara thumped it down on the table, covering the papers, then pulled them out by their corners. She had to use both hands to open the book to the middle, then started to page through it, occasionally glancing at the numbers, then at the book. With a snort of irritation, she turned back to the opening pages, ran her finger across the numbers at the top of a map of Europe, then down the right side of the page.
Carefully she turned the pages by their top corners until she found the page she was looking for, opened the book and let it fall flat, and they all found themselves looking at the laguna of Venezia.
'Looks like they're on Murano’ Chiara said, 'but you'd need a more detailed map—probably a nautical chart of the laguna—to find the exact places.'
Neither of her parents said anything; both were staring at the map. Chiara got to her feet again, saying, 'I've got to get back to the Gallic Wars’ and went to her room.
20
'Did she learn all that from reading those Patrick O'Brian books?' Brunetti asked when Chiara was gone.
He had intended the question as a joke, at least as a semi-joke, but Paola took it seriously and answered, 'They probably used the same notation for writing latitude and longitude in the nineteenth century: she's got the advantage of better maps.'
I'll never say another word against those books,' Brunetti promised.
'But you still won't try again to read them?' she asked.
Ignoring the question, Brunetti said, 'Do we still have those nautical charts?'
