by Donna Leon
It took him an hour to finish reading the play, so dense did he find the text. Hecuba, Queen of Troy, is to become a slave of Odysseus, ‘that vile lying man’, ‘a monstrous beast’. Andromache’s son is taken from her to be cast to his death from the walls of Troy, and she is led from the scene to be raped and enslaved by Agamemnon. In the third relentless blow of fate, her child’s battered corpse is given to his grandmother, Hecuba, who can do nothing but provide burial for him, even though, in her ruin, she has realized that ‘the dead care little about burial. It is the vanity of the living.’ Then she is taken from the stage, now the slave of Odysseus, a man she knows to be ‘as false in hate as in love’. There, below, the Greek ships wait.
He closed the book and set it aside. Paola was always banging on about how vital to our spirits the reading of the classics is because they use beautiful language to tell us important things. Because he was reading the text in translation, he had no idea of how beautiful the original language was: the Italian read easily, with the occasional wondrous phrase, but was that Euripides’ or the translator’s merit?
He thought for a moment about what the important things might be. War and greed drag in the innocent and kill or maim them. Men go off and play at being heroes; women get raped and widowed and see their children die, or are murdered on a whim and tossed aside. Men ride off to battle and fame; women stay home and wait. We’ve been reading and listening to that for two and a half millennia, Brunetti thought, and still we run whooping off to war
He got to his feet and went into the kitchen to get himself a glass of wine before lunch.
The news of Zio Gonzalo’s death troubled the kids when they learned of it at dinner that evening. Chiara still had the teddy bear he’d given her when she was seven, and Raffi still had his first book in English, Treasure Island, which Gonzalo had sent him from London for his eleventh birthday. Both of them were shocked by the terrible suddenness of it: one moment walking, next moment dead. It ran counter to everything life had shown them so far. Life was not meant to be merciless. They hadn’t lived long enough to understand what grace it was to die in an instant and not to linger.
When they were alone in the living room, night in full possession of the city, Brunetti sat for a long time after drinking his coffee before he asked Paola, ‘Did you speak to your father?’
‘They fly to Madrid tomorrow. The funeral’s the next day, and they’ll come back on Monday afternoon.’
‘I wish …’ Brunetti began and then stopped speaking, not sure what he wanted to say.
‘Wish what?’ Paola asked.
‘That I had listened to Gonzalo the last time I saw him or had the courage to ask if he’d already adopted him.’
‘Do you think he could have?’
‘He said it was too late for your father to stop him, but I chose to believe that meant he’d made up his mind, and there would be no changing it. But it could just as easily mean he had already done it.’
‘Is there any way you can find out?’ she asked.
‘I suppose I could, once Signorina Elettra’s back: have her check the files in the Tribunale and see if he made the request and if it was granted,’ he said.
‘Will you?’
Brunetti considered this for some time and finally said, ‘There’s no sense to it, is there?’
Paola raised her eyebrows, so he continued, ‘Either he adopted him or he didn’t. Either he’ll inherit or Gonzalo’s brother and sisters will …’
‘Maybe my father could …’ Paola said.
‘Don’t ask him, Paola. Your father wouldn’t think it decent to stick his nose into this.’ His voice was sharper than he had intended it to be.
Paola was seldom embarrassed to be called out for what she said, but this time she looked away, perhaps to hide her blush, and then nodded a few times. ‘You’re right, Guido.’ After a moment’s reflection, she added, ‘Besides, if Gonzalo’s estate passes to this young man, the whole city will know about it soon enough.’ He saw her listening to her own conclusion, after hearing which, she added, ‘And after that, the city will talk about it for days.’
Brunetti thought of Gonzalo and what a gentleman he had been and how fine his sense of privacy, and that prompted him to add, ‘Poor Gonzalo: he’d hate this.’
Seeing Paola’s confusion, he explained. ‘Being gossiped about. Just think what they’ll make of this,’ he said, not believing it necessary to name the friends and well-wishers who had accepted Gonzalo’s invitations and dined at his table for years.
‘“Foolish old man, ready to do anything to satisfy his lover.” “Ageing queen, having to pay for sex.”‘ Brunetti tried to put into his voice the disgust he knew some people would use when speaking of Gonzalo’s life, but his heart wasn’t in it. He stopped and took a few breaths then went on, more calmly, ‘“Blessed are the merciful.”‘
‘In a city where gossip is the lymph that travels through the body politic,’ Paola said, ‘there’s not a lot of mercy lying around to be picked up from the streets.’
Brunetti started to get up, and his copy of The Trojan Women fell from the sofa to the floor. He bent and picked it up, saying, ‘I finished it.’ Then, almost sulking, ‘Now I don’t have anything to read.’
Paola smiled up at him. ‘You’ve got three long shelves in my study, Guido. Surely there’s something to read there.’
He nodded. ‘I know. It’s really that I don’t know what I want to read.’
‘Go and take a look,’ she said, adding, ‘Perhaps something light.’
‘Light?’
Paola pulled her book down from the arm of the sofa and her glasses down from on top of her head. Peering over the top of them, she smiled and said, ‘Sturmtruppen, for example. I found the copy I had at university a few days ago and had a look. It’s still very funny. It’s on my desk.’
He remembered the comics from his student days. Hell, why not Sturmtruppen?
Two hours later, his face was tired from smiling, even laughing, at this absurdist vision of the military. Ordinary soldiers suffered and died under the command of various incompetents, speaking in their broken German-Italian about putting things in their ‘tasken,’ suffering under the abuse of the Sergenten and the even worse Uffizialen Superioren, who added senility to their uselessness. Even the Eroiken Portaferiten, the medics, were too busy looting the bodies of the dead and nearly dead to be of any use to the wounded or dying.
He took it to bed and laughed until he turned out the light. It was only then he realized that, in its own light way, Sturmtruppen was as strong an anti-war book as was The Trojan Women.
17
The weekend passed quietly, interrupted by two phone calls from Paola’s parents in Madrid. The first was to say they had attended the funeral Mass and were invited by Elena to a family dinner to be held in a restaurant that evening for relatives and close friends. It was the Contessa who called, explaining that Paola’s father had been overcome by tears during the Mass and had suggested they go back to the hotel to have a rest.
‘Rest?’ was all Brunetti heard Paola say to her mother, after which she listened to a long explanation, told her mother she loved them both and asked her to call, if she could, when they got home; the time didn’t matter.
‘Have a rest?’ Brunetti asked.
‘My father wanted to go back to the hotel and rest after the funeral.’
Brunetti stared at her, uncertain he had heard her clearly. ‘Your father?’
‘He was very upset,’ Paola explained. ‘There’s a family dinner tonight. They’re invited.’
Brunetti said, the first thing that came into his head, ‘I think we should go for a walk.’
‘Good idea,’ Paola said, getting to her feet. ‘We can go over to the Zattere and walk in the sun.’ They did exactly that, going first to San Basilio, which meant they had to cut through Campo Santa Margherita and then weave their way through the back reaches of Dorsoduro to emerge on to the Canale della Giudecca. The sunlight la
shed them; Paola even brought her hand up to shade her eyes and regretted she’d forgotten her sunglasses.
They turned left, the sun behind them, and started down towards the Gesuati, surprised by the number of gelaterie that had opened in the last year. Brunetti wondered if ice cream and pizza were now the two most common foods in Italy. In the world? An enormous navy blue yacht was moored just before the pizzeria, surely blocking the view to the other side of the canal for most of the residents of the buildings in front of which it floated.
They looked across the canal to the Giudecca, draped in shadow and looking low and foreboding: Brunetti had no great affection for the place, nor – had he been forced to confess it – for the Giudecchini. Most of the ones he’d known had been foulmouthed and loud, given to boasting and acts of violence, large and small. It was, however, a wonderful place from which to look across at the city and see – especially near the end of it, up near the Zitelle – its full glory.
He reached over and slipped his arm under Paola’s, pulled her close, and shortened his step to match hers. Ahead of them, a woman held, with considerable difficulty, the leash of what looked like a Great Dane that was squirming to break loose. It was only when they drew closer that Brunetti identified it as an Irish Wolfhound.
He tightened his grip on Paola’s arm to capture her attention. ‘What in God’s name is she doing with a dog that size?’ he asked.
‘Maybe her children ride it,’ suggested an ever-practical Paola.
Brunetti laughed, looked off to San Giorgio, battered by the afternoon’s light, and thought of what a wondrous life he had.
When il Conte called Brunetti’s telefonino, it was close to midnight. Brunetti and Paola were still in her study, reading, waiting for the call. He took the receiver and shifted closer to Paola, switching the phone to loudspeaker so they could both listen.
‘They made us part of the family,’ was the first thing il Conte said. ‘In a way, Elena’s my long-distance sister. We didn’t know the others well, but Elena’s always talked about them so much, we felt as if we already knew them.’
He broke off for a moment, and Brunetti could hear him talking to his wife, his voice calm. ‘Donatella sends love,’ he said and returned to talking about the evening. ‘Even Rudy was there. He arrived yesterday. He said that when he read about Gonzalo’s death in the papers – no one thought to call him – he went to the airport and took the first flight to Madrid.’
‘How is he?’ Brunetti asked.
‘He’s in good health, but Gonzalo’s death has upset him terribly. He couldn’t stop crying at the funeral.’ Il Conte’s voice trailed off, then came back to say, ‘It’s a pity …’
‘Did you know anyone else there?’ Brunetti asked, to change the subject.
‘One or two of his friends that I’d met over the years, but Rudy and Elena were the only ones … Well, the only ones I really knew.’
Paola waved her hand to get Brunetti’s attention and mouthed, ‘Tomorrow?’
‘What will you do tomorrow?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Tell Paola,’ il Conte said with his usual uncanny ability to read his daughter’s mind, ‘that her mother said it would be nice to go to the Prado and then have a walk. It’s very warm here, really springtime.’
‘Good, good,’ Brunetti muttered, at a loss for what to say.
Paola had just raised her hand and started moving an invisible fork towards her mouth when her father said, ‘I think it would be better if we had dinner together on Tuesday. We’ll both be tired when we get there, I think.’
‘Paola will call you.’
Brunetti heard the Contessa’s voice, and il Conte added, ‘Bring the children, if they want to come.’
Brunetti agreed, happy at the possibility that the meal would be spent talking about something other than the trip to Madrid. ‘Thanks for calling,’ was the only thing he could think of to say to bring the conversation to a close.
He lowered the phone and rested the back of his hand on his knee. ‘Well?’ he asked, staring at the lights beyond the window.
‘I think it’s time to go to bed,’ Paola said, getting to her feet. She left the room without saying anything further and went down the corridor towards the bedroom. Brunetti followed her from the room, switching off the lights as he went, then walked back to the front of the house to see that the lights were off and the door locked. That done, he joined his wife in their bedroom.
Monday morning brought the return of Signorina Elettra Zorzi to the Questura. There was no panoply, no trumpets sounded from the windows as she stepped from Foa’s launch, arms filled with bouquets of flowers that must have been bought from one of the usual florists and not at the Rialto Market. The armed officers failed to raise their pistols and fire off a celebratory round or two when she walked through the front door.
There was, however, general rejoicing to be observed, had one the eye to detect it. Vianello had placed four vases on the windowsill, already filled with water for the flowers. Pucetti had made a mixture of vinegar and distilled water and cleaned the screen of her computer since Signorina Elettra objected to the use of chemical fluids. Vice-Questore Patta had asked Lieutenant Scarpa to stop at Mascari for a gift basket of dried fruit and chocolates, which now stood at the side of her desk.
Brunetti had chosen a less obvious route and stood at his office window at nine to wait for the police launch to pull up at the dock below his window. He suspected that more than a few people had been drawn to the windows of their offices by the triple beep of Foa’s horn as they passed under the Ponte dei Greci.
No one threw palm fronds on the ground at her feet, but surely the sight of such a display would have surprised no one.
Thinking it seemly to delay his arrival, Brunetti went back to his desk and glanced through that month’s staffing schedule. At best, these lists alerted the uniformed officers to the days and shifts when they were to be on duty: the higher ranks viewed their assignments as suggestions, so often did the vagaries and uncertainties of crime force them to work longer hours, indeed, sometimes days on end.
He glanced at his watch and, seeing that it was almost ten, decided he could mosey on down the stairs to say hello to Signorina Elettra, newly returned from no one knew where. He stacked the papers and put them in his out-tray. He was wearing a new white shirt and the dark grey suit, half silk and half wool, he’d had made in Naples: he realized he’d dressed for her return.
There was no line outside her office, nor did the sound of voices filter into the corridor. He rapped twice on the frame of her door and went into the office. Two full vases remained, one on her desk and one on the windowsill: that meant she’d used the others to decorate Vice-Questore Patta’s office. She was at her desk, her computer apparently restraining whatever desire it had to purr at her return to work. ‘Ah, Commissario,’ she said when she looked up at the sound of his steps, ‘how very nice to see you again.’
‘We missed you,’ Brunetti said, only then realizing how true that was.
‘I trust that everything proceeded as usual while I was away,’ she said with mendacious humility.
‘Things have a way of not changing here, Signorina, or so I have observed.’
‘A very mirror of the country, one might say,’ she replied with a smile, and then asked, ‘Was there a great deal of talk and activity during my absence?’
‘A great deal of talk, and a great deal of activity. And not much change.’
Her smile blossomed. ‘I rest my case, Your Honour,’ she said. Then, suddenly more serious, she asked, ‘Shall I continue with what I was working on when I left, Signore?’
Obviously, then, no one had told her.
‘No, I’m afraid that won’t be necessary, Signorina. Signor Rodríguez de Tejeda died while you were on vacation.’
She was surprised and made no attempt to disguise it. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I know he was a friend of yours.’ Then, her voice growing softer, she asked, ‘Can you talk about it?’
‘And the adoption?’ she inquired.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Brunetti said. ‘It doesn’t matter any more.’
She paused the way she did before saying something she thought might not be well received, then said, ‘It might matter to his family.’
Brunetti nodded to acknowledge that she was right. ‘I meant it doesn’t matter whether we know about it or not. The law will step in and decide what happens.’
‘Exactly,’ she responded, not smiling. ‘The law will determine who the heirs are, and that’s why I asked about the adoption.’
‘It’s not our concern, Signorina,’ Brunetti said, speaking in what he thought was an amiable voice. ‘Perhaps it never was.’ He did not want to sound melodramatic, so he did not say that Gonzalo was far beyond being able to care about this any longer.
‘Then what shall I do with what I found before I left? Or with whatever might have come in while I was away?’
‘I’d like you to leave it alone, if you would, Signorina. Put it all in a file somewhere, and then we can decide about it …’ he began, incapable of thinking about when this might happen. ‘… later,’ he concluded.
Signorina Elettra tilted her head to one side as she considered what he had just said. She glanced at the screen of her computer, which Brunetti noticed was blank. Then she nodded a few times, more to herself than to acknowledge having heard him, and said, ‘All right, Commissario. I’ll open a file and put everything in it, and then when this is less painful for you, you can decide what to do with it.’
‘That seems wise,’ Brunetti said and reminded her that they were still waiting for information about the Vice-Questore’s downstairs neighbours. He thanked her for her concern, remembered he had not formally welcomed her back, and did so. He added that he was happy to see her looking so rested, then left her office, and went back up to his own.
