Drawing Conclusions

by Donna Leon

  He tried to do as he was told: the toasting had done nothing to improve the taste of processed white bread, nor had the heat managed to melt the processed cheese or bestow taste upon the cooked ham. Cardboard would have been worse, he supposed. He put the panini back on his plate and took a sip of wine. That, at least, was tolerable.

  ‘She didn’t want to call the police,’ Signora Orsoni continued: Brunetti realized she had not finished telling the story of her sister. ‘And then she was afraid to call them. He broke her nose, and then her arm, and then she did call them.’ She looked at him, a level glance, appraising. ‘They did nothing.’ Brunetti asked for no explanation. ‘There was no place she could go.’ She caught his expression and said, ‘Or would go. I was living in Rome, and she never told me anything was wrong.’

  ‘Your family?’

  ‘There were only two old great-aunts left, and they knew nothing.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘She was six years younger, and we were never at the same school together. So we didn’t have any friends in common.’ She shrugged this away. ‘That’s the way it was. It’s not something women talk about, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Brunetti said and drank more wine.

  ‘She was a lawyer,’ Signora Orsoni said, giving a lopsided smile, as if asking him to believe, please, that she wasn’t making this up, and who could believe that her sister could have been so stupid. ‘After she finally called the police – after her arm – they took him away, but the prison was full, so he was given house arrest.’ She paused to see what this representative of the legal system would have to say to that, but Brunetti remained silent.

  ‘So she moved out, and then she got a separation, and when that didn’t keep him away, she got an injunction against him. He had to stay at least a hundred and fifty metres from her.’ Orsoni caught the barman’s attention and asked for a glass of mineral water.

  ‘She wanted to move away – they were both still living in Mestre. She had left him the apartment when she moved out, but her job was there, and …’ Brunetti wondered how she would manage to say what she had to say, something he had heard many people say, after. ‘And I suppose she didn’t have any idea about him.’ The barman brought the water. She thanked him for it and drank half, then set the glass down.

  ‘One night he went to her new apartment with a gun, and he shot her when she opened the door. Then he shot her three more times, and then he shot himself in the head.’ Brunetti remembered the case: four, five years ago.

  ‘You came back?’

  ‘Do you mean then, when she was killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, I came back. And I decided to stay and do something new. If I could.’

  ‘Alba Libera?’ he asked.

  Perhaps hearing scepticism in the way he pronounced the name, she said quickly, ‘Well, it is dawning liberty for most of these women.’ Brunetti nodded, and she went on. ‘It took me two years to set it up. I was already managing an NGO in Rome, so I was familiar with the system and knew how to get the permissions and money from the state.’

  He liked the fact that she called it ‘money’ and did not bother with all the euphemisms people used. And now that she was talking about procedure and routine, the angry undertone had disappeared from her voice.

  She went on. ‘She should have gone to another city: she could have found work. The law couldn’t protect her, but she didn’t want to believe that. There was no safe house, no place where she could go and live and be with people who would try to protect her.’

  Brunetti knew well how little chance a person in danger had of getting any sort of protection from the state. The current government was doing everything in its power to eviscerate the existing witness protection programme: there were too many people saying embarrassing things in court about the Mafia. These witnesses provided information, at least, in return for safety: imagine the chance of protection being offered to a woman who had nothing to offer the state in return.

  Perhaps she too heard the tinge of outrage creeping into her voice. ‘I think that’s enough explanation. At least you know why I started it. We have a number of houses, most of them out on terra ferma: here in the city, we have some people who will give a room to the women we send them and not ask questions.’

  ‘Are they safe here?’

  ‘Safer than where they come from. Much.’

  ‘Always? They don’t get found?’

  ‘It happens,’ she said, pushing her glass to one side without picking it up. ‘Last year, near Treviso, there was a case.’

  Brunetti searched his memory but could come up with nothing. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Her boyfriend found out where she was – we never learned how he did or who told him – and came to the home where she was living and asked for her.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Her face softened, as if to announce that there would be some lessening of misery in this story. ‘The old woman she was staying with – she’s almost ninety – said she didn’t really understand what he was talking about, she lived alone, but told him he looked like a nice boy, so she invited him in to have a coffee. She told me she left him alone in the living room while she went to the kitchen.’

  She saw Brunetti’s fear for the old woman, and for the younger one, so she explained, ‘She’s a wily old thing, told me her parents had a Jewish friend live with them all during the war. That’s where she learned the rules she imposes.’ In response to Brunetti’s unspoken question, she said, ‘No items of any sort from their old lives, not even underwear. Everything they wear is kept in her closet and drawers, mixed in with her things. And every time they leave the apartment, no matter for what, they have to leave their room looking as though no one uses it.’

  ‘Just in case?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Just in case.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She took as long as she could making the coffee, and all the while she could hear him moving around in the other rooms. He went into the guest room. Then he came into the kitchen, and she gave him a coffee and some biscuits, and she started talking about her grandchildren and telling him what a fine-looking young man he was, and was he married, and soon he got up and left.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we moved her to another city that night.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘You’re very efficient.’

  ‘We have to be. Some of these men are very clever. And all of them are violent.’

  She made no gratuitous reference to her sister here, and Brunetti was glad of that.

  ‘And Signora Altavilla?’

  ‘A cousin of hers told her about us. She and I had a talk, and she told me she would be willing to help us. She was a widow, lived alone, had an extra room, and there were three other apartments in the building.’ Seeing Brunetti’s puzzled expression, she explained, ‘It means people are constantly going in and out of the building.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  She tilted her head to the right while she searched her memory.

  ‘Two, three years ago, I’d say. I’d have to check my records.’

  ‘Where are your offices, if I might ask?’ Brunetti said, though that would be easy enough to find out.

  ‘Not far from here,’ she said, irritating him with the unnecessary evasion.

  Brunetti continued, ‘Did anything similar to what happened to that old woman – a man coming to the house or suspecting that someone was staying there – ever happen to Signora Altavilla?’

  She put her hands on the table and laced her fingers together. ‘She never said anything.’ By way of explanation, she added, ‘We give clear instructions about that. The house owner has to report anything – even if it’s only a suspicion – immediately.’ Then she said, with a weary smile, ‘Not everyone is as clever as that old woman.’

  ‘Do you know if she was ever troubled by anything one of her guests told her?’

  Her smile grew warmer. ‘That’s ve
ry kind of you,’ she said.’

  Momentarily confused, Brunetti said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘To call them guests.’

  ‘It seems to me that’s what they are,’ he answered simply, ignoring her attempt at diversion. ‘Did this ever happen, that she was troubled by something she heard?’

  Signora Orsoni raised her chin and pulled in air, creating a noise Brunetti could hear from the other side of the table. ‘No, not really. That is, she never told me about anything like that.’ She gave him an evaluating glance, then said, ‘Usually these women talk very little.’ She offered no further explication, though Brunetti still felt she had something else to say.

  ‘But?’ he encouraged.

  ‘But it came the other way,’ she said, confusing him again. ‘That is, a woman who was staying with her said she thought something had upset Costanza.’

  ‘What exactly did she say?’ Brunetti asked, trying to hide his rush of interest.

  Orsoni rubbed her forehead, as if to show Brunetti how hard she was trying to remember. ‘She said that when she went to stay with her, Costanza seemed a very calm person, but then after she had been there for a few weeks, Costanza came home one day looking troubled. She thought it would pass, but the mood she came home in seemed to linger.’

  ‘Where had she gone? Did she know?’

  ‘She said the only places Costanza ever went were to visit her son and to see the old people in the nursing home.’

  ‘When did she tell you this?’

  ‘When she was leaving – when I was going to the airport with her. It must have happened about a month ago, so perhaps Costanza’s spirits improved after that.’

  ‘Did this woman ask her about it?’

  Signora Orsoni spread her palms out flat. ‘You have to understand the dynamic here, Commissario. You call these women guests, but it’s not like that. They’re in hiding. Some of them go out to work, but most of them stay home, and the only thing they can do is worry about what’s going to happen to them.’

  She looked at him to be sure she had his full attention and continued. ‘Bad things have happened to these women, Commissario. They’ve been beaten, and raped, and men have tried to kill them, so it’s difficult for them to concern themselves with the problems of other people.’ She paused, as if to measure the sympathy with which he greeted this, and then said, ‘They find it hard even to imagine that people like the ones they stay with – who have homes, and jobs, who don’t have financial problems, and who aren’t at risk – it’s hard for them to think that these people can have problems.’ She stared across the table at him. ‘So the amazing thing is not that she didn’t ask what was wrong but that she even noticed that something was. Fear cripples people,’ she said, and he thought of her sister.

  ‘You say you took her to the airport?’ he asked.

  Displaying no surprise that her words had failed to deflect him, she said, ‘She left. I told you that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Her husband was arrested.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His lover.’

  ‘Ah,’ escaped Brunetti, but then he asked, ‘And so?’

  ‘And so she could go back to her home.’ Signora Orsoni’s tone made this sound like a simple choice, even an obvious one. Perhaps it was.

  ‘Who came then?’

  He watched as she formulated an answer. ‘Another young woman, but she’d left before Costanza died.’

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell, really. Only what she told me.’ At Brunetti’s encouraging nod, she went on. ‘She’s from Padova. She was in university there, studying economics.’ She paused but Brunetti waited her out, and she added, ‘Her family’s very … traditional.’ When Brunetti did not respond to that word, she went on. ‘So when she told them she had a boyfriend,’ she began, then added, ‘who’s from Catania … they told her she had to choose between him and them.’ She shook her head at such things in this day and age. ‘So she chose the boyfriend and went to live with him.’

  ‘How did she get to Signora Altavilla?’ he asked, if only to show her that he had not been distracted by this story of the young woman, no matter how traditional her family.

  ‘She called our office in Treviso about three weeks ago. That was after the police said there was nothing they could do.’ She looked at Brunetti, who lifted his chin in enquiry. ‘The boyfriend. She said there was trouble from the start. That he was jealous. And violent: he roughed her up a few times, but she was afraid to call the police.’ She sighed and raised her hands and shoulders in exasperation.

  ‘This time she thought he was going to kill her: that’s what she told them. They were in the kitchen when it happened, and to protect herself she poured the pasta water on him.’ He thought she seemed unusually passive in describing this.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she got out and called the police.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘They went to the apartment to talk to him, but they didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was his word against hers. He said she had started the argument and all he’d tried to do was defend himself.’ Though she tried, she failed to disguise scorn of the police and anger at male prejudice as she recounted this. She went on, finally expressing an opinion, ‘Besides, she’s a woman and he’s a man.’ Brunetti was surprised she failed to add, ‘And he’s a Sicilian.’

  In the face of Brunetti’s silence, she continued, ‘They were living in Treviso and, as I said, she called our office there. They thought she’d be safe here in the city: it’s far enough away.’

  After considering what she had told him, Brunetti asked, ‘Did the police tell you this?’

  Her features appeared to contract. ‘I spoke to someone in our office, and that’s what they told me.’

  After some time, Brunetti asked, ‘Signora Altavilla helped you for several years, you said?’

  It was evident that the question displeased her, but eventually she said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Putting herself at some risk.’ When he saw her begin to protest, he added, ‘Theoretical risk. But she was still willing to do it.’

  She nodded, looked away, then back at him.

  ‘This woman, you say she isn’t there any more,’ Brunetti said. ‘And there was no sign of her in the apartment.’

  Again Signora Orsoni nodded.

  ‘Could she have gone back to the apartment?’

  Voice level, emotionless, she said, ‘She had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘How do I know that’s true?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I’m telling you so.’

  ‘And if I choose not to believe you?’

  As he waited for her to respond Brunetti saw the moment when she decided to leave, saw it in her eyes and then heard it as she drew her feet under her chair. He raised a hand to catch her attention.

  ‘Your organization is fairly well known, isn’t it?’ he asked mildly.

  She smiled involuntarily at what she took to be a compliment. ‘I’d like to think so,’ she said.

  ‘And I imagine the city gives you what support it can. And private donors.’

  Her smile was small but gracious. ‘They realize, perhaps, how much good we do.’

  ‘Do you think bad publicity would change that?’ Brunetti enquired in the same mild fashion and with every appearance of real interest.

  It took a moment for her to register what he had said. ‘What do you mean? What bad publicity?’

  ‘Come now, Signora. No need to be disingenuous with me. The sort of bad publicity that would come when the papers wrote about how your society put a woman in the home of a widow – no, make that a Venetian widow – and when the Venetian woman dies in strange circumstances, the woman you put there is nowhere to be found.’ He smiled and said, voice amiably conversational, ‘The word “risk” can’t help coming
to mind, can it?’

  Then, far more serious, he went on with his reconstruction of events and how they might be perceived, adding some details to strengthen his case: ‘The circumstances of her death are unclear, and the police are unable to find this woman who was put there by Alba Libera.’ He put his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand. ‘That’s the kind of bad publicity I’m talking about, Signora.’

  She rose to her feet and Brunetti thought she was going to walk out. But she stood and stared at him for some time. Then she pulled out her telefonino and held up a hand for him to wait. She moved over to stand beside the door, but then looked back at Brunetti and went outside. She tapped in a number.

  Brunetti called over for a glass of mineral water and, though he drank it slowly, nudging the plate containing the uneaten panini farther away from him, when he finished the water she was still holding the phone, still punching in numbers.

  There was a copy of Il Gazzettino on the next table, but Brunetti did not want to offend her by such a blatant sign of impatience. He pulled out his notebook and wrote down a few phrases that would bring the conversation back to him. Busy with this, he did not hear her approach the table and was not aware of her return until she said, ‘She isn’t answering her phone.’

  20

  Brunetti stood to pull her chair out for her. She sat, placing her telefonino in front of her. ‘I don’t know why she doesn’t answer. She can see who’s calling,’ she said, sounding to Brunetti forced and artificial.

  He resumed his seat and reached for his glass, only to see that it was empty. He pushed it to the side and said, ‘Of course.’ He looked at the ugly slab of sandwich and then at Signora Orsoni.

  His face was implacable; he said nothing.

  ‘She called me,’ Signora Orsoni said.

  ‘Who?’ Brunetti asked. She failed to answer, and so he asked again, ‘Who called you, Signora?’

  ‘Signora … Costanza. She called me.’

  Brunetti weighed her weakness and asked, ‘Why?’