A Noble Radiance

by Donna Leon

  Even before her husband could speak, she asked, voice so soft it would have been lost in the room had it not been the only sound, 'Are you the policeman?'

  'Yes, Contessa, I am.'

  The Count came forward from the fireplace then and extended his hand to Brunetti. His grasp was as firm as his nephew's was limp, forcing Brunetti's fingers against one another. 'Good evening, Commissario. Excuse me if I don't offer you something to drink. I think you'll understand.' His voice was deep but surprisingly soft, almost as soft as his wife's had been.

  ‘I bring you the worst of news, Signor Conte’ Brunetti said.

  'Roberto?'

  'Yes. He's dead. His body has been found near Belluno.'

  From across the room, the boy's mother asked, 'Are you sure?' Brunetti looked towards her and was amazed to see that she appeared to have grown even smaller in the few moments that had passed, sat even more deeply huddled between the two tall wings of the chair.

  ‘Yes, Contessa. We've shown X-rays of his teeth to his dentist, and he confirms that they are the same as Roberto's’

  'X-rays?' she asked. 'What about his body? Hasn't anyone identified it?'

  'Cornelia,' her husband said softly, 'let him finish, and then we can ask questions.'

  'I want to know about his body, Ludovico. I want to know about my baby’

  Brunetti turned his attention back to the Count, looking for a sign that he should proceed, and how. The Count nodded at Brunetti, who continued, 'He was buried in a field. It looks like he's been there for some time, more than a year.' He stopped, hoping that they would understand what happened to a body in a year under the earth and not make him have to tell them.

  'But why the X-rays?' the Contessa demanded. Like so many people Brunetti had encountered in the same circumstances, there were things she did not want to understand.

  Before Brunetti could mention the ring, the Count interrupted, looking across at his wife. 'It means that the body has deteriorated, Cornelia, and they have to identify it that way.'

  Brunetti, who was watching the Countess as her husband spoke, saw the instant when his explanation penetrated whatever defences she had left. Perhaps it was the word 'deteriorated' that did it; whatever it was, at the moment when she understood, she put her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Her lips moved, either in prayer or protest. The Belluno police would give them the ring, Brunetti knew, and so he spared himself the pain of telling them about it.

  The Count turned away from Brunetti and redirected his attention to the flowers in the fireplace. For a long time, no one in the room said anything, until finally the Count asked, not looking at Brunetti, 'When can we have him back?'

  'You'll have to contact the authorities in Belluno, sir, but I'm sure they’ll do whatever you want’

  'How do I contact them?'

  'If you call the Questura in Belluno,' Brunetti started to say but then offered, 1 can do it for you. Perhaps it would be easier that way.'

  Maurizio, who had been silent through all of this, interrupted, addressing the Count, 'I'll do it, Zio’ Catching Brunetti's eye, he nodded towards the door, but Brunetti ignored him.

  'Signor Conte, as soon as possible, I'd like to speak to you about the original kidnapping’

  'Not now,' the Count said, still not looking at him.

  'I realize how terrible this is, sir,' Brunetti said, ‘But I will need to talk to you.'

  'You'll talk to me when I please, Commissario, and not before’ the Count said, still not bothering take his eyes from the contemplation of the flowers.

  In the silence created by this, Maurizio moved away from the door and went over to his aunt’s chair. He bent down and placed a hand briefly on her shoulder. Straightening, he said. ‘I’ll show you out, Commissario.'

  Brunetti followed him from the room. In the hall, he told the young man how to go about reaching the people in Belluno who would see to releasing Roberto's body and returning it to Venice. Brunetti did not ask him when he might speak to Count Ludovico again.

  13

  The dinner, when they finally sat down to eat it, lived up to his every expectation, which fact he bore with a stoicism that would have done credit to his favourite Roman writers. He both asked for and ate a second helping of ravioli, covered in something he thought had once been butter, charred sage leaves mashed about in its midst. The chicken was as salty as threatened, so much so that he found himself opening a third bottle of mineral water before the meal was finished. For once, Paola said nothing When he opened a second bottle of wine and did more than her fair share to help him finish it.

  ‘What’s for dessert?' he asked, earning the most tender look he'd seen on Paola's face in weeks.

  ‘I didn't have time to make anything,' Chiara said, failing to see the look that passed among the other three people at the table. No doubt the Dormer Party had exchanged such a glance at hearing the first calls of the men come to rescue them.

  ‘I think there's still some gelato’ Raffi volunteered, living up to his part of the bargain with his mother.

  'No, I finished it this afternoon,' Chiara confessed.

  'Would you two like to go over to Campo Santa Margarita and get some more?' Paola asked. 'And bring it back here?'

  'But what about the dishes, Mamma?' Chiara asked. 'You said because I cooked dinner, Raffi had to do them.'

  Even before Raffi could protest, Paola said, If you two will go and get the ice cream, I'll do the dishes.' Amidst their shouted acceptance, Brunetti took out his wallet and handed Raffi twenty thousand lire. They left, already negotiating over flavours.

  Paola got up from the table and started to gather the plates. 'You think you'll survive?' she asked.

  'If I can drink another litre of water before we go to bed, and if I get to keep a bottle by the bed tonight.'

  ‘Pretty dreadful, wasn't it?' Paola conceded.

  'She was happy,' Brunetti temporized and then added, 'But it really is another strong argument in favour of the education of women, isn't it?'

  Paola laughed at this and stacked the dishes in the sink. Easily, then, they discussed the dinner, both taking pleasure in the fact that Chiara had been so thoroughly pleased with herself, sure proof of the success of familial deception. And, he found himself thinking, familial love.

  When the dishes were done and slotted above the sink to drain, he said, 1 think I'll go up to Belluno with Vianello tomorrow.'

  The Lorenzoni boy?'

  'Yes.'

  'How was it for them, when you told them?'

  'Bad, especially for the mother.'

  He realized that a mother's loss of her only son wasn't something Paola wanted to contemplate. As usual, she used details to divert. 'Where did they find him?'

  'In a field.'

  'A field? Where?'

  'In one of those places with one of those strange Bellunese names - Col di Cugnan, I think.'

  'But how did they find it?'

  'A farmer was ploughing his field and turned up the bones.'

  'God, how terrible,' she said, and then immediately added, 'And you had to tell them that, and then come home to that awful dinner.'

  He couldn't keep himself from laughing at this.

  'What's so funny?'

  'That the first thing you think about is food.'

  ‘I get it from you, my dear,' she said with what sounded like polite disdain. 'Before I married you, I hardly gave food a second thought'

  Then how'd you learn to cook so well?'

  She waved this away, but he detected both embarrassment and a desire to have the truth coaxed from her, and so he persisted, 'No, tell me: how did you learn to cook? I thought you'd been doing it for years.'

  Speaking very quickly, she said, 1 bought a cookbook.'

  'A cookbook? You? Why?'

  'When I knew that I liked you as much as I did, and I saw how important food was to you, I decided I had better learn how to cook.' She looked at him, waited for him to comment, but when
he didn't, she continued, 1 started to cook at home, and, believe me, some of the first things I cooked were even worse than what we had tonight.'

  'Hard to believe,' Brunetti said. 'Go on.'

  'Well, I knew I liked you, and I suppose I knew I wanted to be with you. So I kept at it, and I just sort of...'

  She broke off and gave a gesture that encompassed the entire kitchen. 1 suppose I learned.' 'From a book?' 'And with some help.' 'From whom?'

  'Damiano. He's a good cook. And then my mother. And then, after we were engaged, from yours.'

  "My mother? She taught you how to cook?' Paola nodded and Brunetti said, 'She never told me.' 1 made her promise not to.'

  ‘I don't know, Guido,' she said, obviously lying. He said nothing, knowing from long experience that she'd explain. ‘I guess I wanted you to think I could do everything, even cook.'

  He leaned forward in his chair and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her towards him. She tried half-heartedly to twist away. ‘I feel so silly, telling you after all this time,' she said, leaning against him, bending to kiss the top of his head. Suddenly, the idea came upon her from nowhere, and she said, 'My mother knows her’ ‘Who?'

  'Countess Lorenzoni. I think they're on the board of some charity together, or some.. ‘She broke off. 'I can't remember, but I know she knows her.'

  'Has she ever said anything about her?'

  'No, not anything I'd remember. Except for this thing about her son. It destroyed her, or that's what Mamma says. She used to be involved in lots of things: the Friends of Venice, the theatre, raising money for the restoration of La Fenice. But when this happened, she stopped everything. My mother says she never goes out, doesn't accept calls from anyone. No one sees her any more. I think Mamma said it was not knowing what happened to him that did this to her, that she could probably accept his death. But this way, not knowing if he's alive or dead ... I can't imagine anything more horrible. Even knowing he's dead is better man that’

  Brunetti, who usually voted in favour of life, ordinarily would have disputed this, but it was not a subject he wanted to drag into discussion tonight. He'd spent the day thinking about the disappearance and death of children, and he wanted nothing more to do with it. Blatantly, he changed the topic. 'How are things at the idea factory?' he asked.

  She moved away from him, took the cutlery from the side of the sink, and began to wipe it dry. 'About on the same level as dinner,' she finally answered. Piece by piece, she dropped the knives and forks into a drawer. 'The chairman of the department has insisted that we begin to pay attention to colonial literature’

  'What's that?' Brunetti asked.

  'Well might you ask’ she replied, wiping a serving spoon. "Those people who grew up in cultures where English is not the native language but who write in English’

  'What’s wrong with that?'

  He's asked some of us to teach this stuff next year’

  'You?'

  'Yes’ she answered, dropping the last spoon into the drawer and slamming it closed, that class?'

  "The Voice of Caribbean Women.'"

  'Because you're a woman?'

  'Not because I'm Caribbean,' she answered.

  'And?'

  'And I've refused to teach it.' 'Why?'

  'Because they don't interest me. Because I'd teach it reluctantly and badly.' He sensed equivocation here and waited for her to confess it. 'And because I won't let him tell me what to teach’

  'Is this what’s been bothering you?' he asked casually.

  Though the look she gave him was sharp, her answer was as off-handed as his question. ‘I didn't know that anything was bothering me.' She started to add to this, but the door slammed open, the children were back with the ice cream, and his question remained unanswered.

  That night, indeed, Brunetti woke up at least twice, and each time he drank two glasses of mineral water. The second time was just after dawn,

  and when he turned back from putting the glass down on the floor beside his bed, he propped himself up on his elbow and studied Paola's face. A lock of hair curved down under her chin, and a few strands stirred softly with her breathing. Eyes closed, all animation erased, her face revealed only bones and character. Secret and separate, she lay beside him, and he studied her face for some sign that would help him to know her more absolutely. With sudden urgency, he wanted what Count Orazio had told him to be untrue, wanted desperately for her, and for their life, to be happy and tranquil.

  Mocking this desire, the bells of San Polo rang out six times, and the sparrows who had decided to build a nest between the loose bricks of the chimney called out that it was daylight and time to get to work. Brunetti ignored them and put his head back down on his pillow. He closed his eyes, sure he'd never get back to sleep, but soon discovered how easily he could ignore the call to return to work.

  14

  That morning, Brunetti decided it would be wise to present Patta with what little information he had about the Lorenzoni murder - it could be called that now - and he did so soon after the Vice-Questore got to the Questura. Brunetti feared that there would be repercussions from his own behaviour towards Patta the previous day, but there were none; at least no obvious ones. Patta had seen the newspaper accounts and expressed formulaic concern about the death, his greatest regret apparently that it should have happened to a member of the nobility.

  Brunetti explained that, as he'd just happened to answer the call confirming the identification of the dental records, he had token it upon himself to inform the parents. From long experience, he was careful to display no interest in the case, asked

  almost casually whom the Vice-Questore wanted to assign to it, even going so far as to suggest one of his colleagues.

  'What are you working on now, Brunetti?,

  'The dumping out at Marghera’ Brunetti answered promptly, making pollution sound more important than murder.

  'Ah, yes,' Patta answered: he'd heard of Marghera. 'Well, I think that's something the uniformed branch can handle.'

  'But I've still got to interview the Captain of the Port,' Brunetti insisted. 'And someone's got to check the records of that tanker from Panama.'

  'Let Pucetti do it,' Patta said dismissively.

  Brunetti remembered a game he used to play with the children, when they were much younger. They would drop a handful of spaghetti-length wooden sticks and then see how many they could pick up individually without moving any of the other sticks. The trick was to move extremely gently; one false move could bring everything tumbling down.

  ‘You don't think Mariani would do?' Brunetti suggested, naming one of the other two commissari. 'He's just back from vacation.'

  'No, I think you should handle this. After all, your wife knows people like this, doesn't she?'

  ‘People like this' was a phrase Brunetti had for years heard hurled about as a pejorative, usually racist, yet here it was, newly sprung from the lips of the Vice-Questore himself, sounding for all the world like the highest possible praise. Brunetti nodded vaguely, uncertain of the sort of people his wife might know or what she might know about them.

  'Good, then your association with her family might help you here,' Patta said, suggesting that the power of the state or the authority of the police counted for nothing at all with 'people like this'. Which, Brunetti reflected, might well be the case.

  He dragged out a very reluctant, 'Well,' and then gave in, anything that could be construed as enthusiasm carefully banished from his voice. If you insist, Vice-Questore, then I'll speak to Pucetti about Marghera.'

  'Keep me or Lieutenant Scarpa up to date on what you're doing, Brunetti,' Patta added almost absently.

  'Of course, sir,' he said, as empty a promise as he'd made in quite some time. Seeing that Patta had nothing further to say to him, Brunetti got to his feet and left the office.

  When he emerged, Signorina Elettra asked, 'Did you persuade him to give it to you?'

  'Persuade?' Brunetti repeated, amazed that Signorina
Elettra, even after all this time with Patta, could actually believe that Patta was open to reason or persuasion.

  'By telling him how busy you were with other things, of course,' she said, Hitting a key on her computer and sparking her printer into life.

  Brunetti couldn't help smiling down at her. 'I thought for a moment I'd have to use violence in refusing to accept,' Brunetti said.

  'You must be very interested in it, Commissario.'

  'I am.'

  "Then perhaps this will interest you’ she said, reaching forward and taking a few pages out of the slot beneath the printer's mouth. She passed them to him. 'What is it?'

  'A list of every time one of the Lorenzonis has come to our attention.' 'Our?'

  "The forces of order.' 'Which includes?'

  'Us, the Carabinieri, the Customs Police, and the finance Police.'

  Brunetti put a look of false astonishment on his face. 'No access to the Secret Service, Signorina?'

  Her look was bland. 'Not until it's really necessary, sir. That's a contact I don't want to abuse by overuse.'

  Brunetti studied her eyes, looking for a sign that she was joking. He was uncertain which would be more unsettling: the discovery that she was telling the truth or the fact that he couldn't tell the difference.

  In the face of her continued equanimity, he chose not to pursue this line of questioning and looked at the papers. The first listing dated from October of three years before: Roberto arrested for drunken driving. Small fine: case dismissed.

  Before he could read further, she interrupted him. ‘I didn't include anything there having to do with the kidnapping, sir. I'm having a separate list compiled to deal with that. I thought it would be less confusing.'