by Donna Leon
Back upstairs, Brunetti slipped the four sheets of paper inside the folder and placed it in the drawer which he usually pulled out to prop his feet on. He kicked the drawer shut and turned his attention to a new folder which had been placed on his desk while he was in Patta's office: the motors had been stolen from four boats while their owners had dinner at the trattoria on the small island of Vignole.
The phone saved him from the contemplation of the full triviality of this report. 'Ciao, Guido,' came his brother's voice. 'We just got back.'
'But,' Brunetti asked, 'weren't you supposed to stay longer?'
Sergio laughed at the question. 'Yes, but the people from New Zealand left after they gave their paper, so I decided to come back.'
'How was it?'
If you promise you won't laugh, I'd say it was a triumph.'
Timing really is all. Had this call come some other afternoon, even had it pulled him from sound sleep some morning at three, Brunetti would have been happy to listen to his brother's account of the meeting in Rome, eager to follow his explanation of the substance of and reception given his paper. Instead, as Sergio talked about Roentgens and residual traces of this and that, Brunetti stared down at the serial numbers of four outboard motors. Sergio talked of deteriorated livers, and Brunetti considered the range of horsepower from five to fifteen. Sergio repeated a question someone had asked about the spleen, and Brunetti learned that only one of the motors was insured against theft and that for only half its value.
'Guido, are you listening?' Sergio asked.
'Yes, yes, I am,' Brunetti insisted with unnecessary emphasis. 'I think it's very interesting.'
Sergio laughed at this but resisted the impulse to ask Brunetti to repeat the last two things he'd heard. Instead, he asked, 'How's Paola, and the kids?'
'All fine.'
'Raffi still going out with that girl?'
‘Yes. We all like her.'
'Pretty soon it'll be Chiara's turn.'
'For what?' Brunetti asked, not understanding.
'To find a boyfriend.'
Yes. Brunetti didn't know what to say.
Into the expanding silence, Sergio asked, 'Would you like to come over, all of you, this Friday night?'
Brunetti started to accept, but then he said, ‘Let me ask Paola and see if the kids have anything planned.'
Voice suddenly serious, Sergio said, 'Who ever thought we'd see this, eh, Guido?' 'See what?'
'Checking with our wives, asking if our children have made other plans. It’s middle age, Guido’
'Yes, I suppose it is.' Other than Paola, Sergio was the only other person he could ask. Do you mind?'
'I'm not sure it makes any difference if I do or not; nothing we do can stop it. But why this serious tone today?'
By way of explanation, Brunetti asked. Have you been reading the papers?'
'Yes, on the train back. This thing with Lorenzoni?'
'Yes.'
'Yours?'
'Yes,' Brunetti answered and offered nothing further.
'Terrible. The poor people. First the son and then the nephew. If s hard to know which was worse.' But it was evident that Sergio, newly back from Rome and still aglow with the happiness of professional success, didn't want to speak of such things, and so Brunetti interrupted him.
'I’ll ask Paola. She'll call Maria Grazia.'
25
Ambiguity might well be said to be the defining characteristic of Italian justice or - that concept being elusive - of the system of justice which the Italian state has created for the protection of its citizens. To many it seems that, during the time when the police are not labouring to bring criminals before their appointed judges, they are arresting or investigating those same judges. Convictions are hard won and often overturned on appeal; killers make deals and walk free; imprisoned parricides receive fan mail; officialdom and Mafia dance hand in hand towards the ruin of the state - indeed, to the ruin of the very concept of the state. Rossini's Doctor Bartolo might have had the Italian appeals court in mind when he sang, 'Qualche garbuglio si trovera.'
During the next three days, Brunetti, cast down into darkness of spirit by a deadening sense of the futility of his labours, considered the nature of justice and, with Cicero a voice that refused to cease, the nature of moral goodness. All, it seemed to him, to no purpose, like the troll lurking under the bridge in a children's tale he'd read decades ago, the list he'd made lurked in his desk drawer, silent, not forgotten.
He attended Maurizio's funeral, feeling more disgust at the hordes of ghouls with cameras than at the thought of what lay in that heavy box, its edges sealed with lead against the damp of the Lorenzoni family vault. The Countess did not attend, though the Count, red-eyed and leaning on the arm of a younger man, walked from the church behind the body of the man he'd killed. His presence and the nobility of his bearing hurled Italy into a paroxysm of sentimental admiration not seen since the parents of a murdered American boy donated his organs so that young Italians, children of the country of his murderer, could live. Brunetti stopped reading the papers, but not before they reported that the examining magistrate had decided to treat Maurizio's death as a case of justified self-defence.
He devoted himself, like a man with toothache who prods at the affected tooth with his tongue, to the motors. In a world with no sense, motors were as vital as life, and so why not find them? Alas, it proved too easy to do so - they were quickly discovered in the home of a fisherman on Burano, his neighbours so suspicious at having seen him bring them in, one after the other, from his boat that they called the police to report him.
Late in the day after this triumph, Signorina Elettra appeared at the door of this office. 'Buon giorno, Dottore’ she said as she came in, her face hidden and her voice muffled by. the immense bouquet of gladioli she carried in her arms.
'But what's this, Signorina?' he asked, getting up from his chair to steer her clear of the one that stood between her and his desk.
'Extra flowers,' she answered. 'Do you have a vase?' She set the bouquet down on the surface of his desk, then placed beside them a sheaf of papers that had suffered from both her grip and the water on the stems of the flowers.
'There might be one in the cupboard’ he answered, still confused as to why she would bring them up to him. And extra? Her flowers were usually delivered on Monday and Thursday; this was Wednesday.
She opened the door to the cupboard, rustled through the objects on the floor, came up with nothing. She waved a hand in his direction and went back towards the door, saying nothing.
Brunetti looked at the flowers, then at the papers that lay beside them, a fax from Doctor Montini in Padova. Roberto's lab results, then. He tossed them back on the desk. The flowers spoke of life and possibility and joy; he wanted nothing more to do with the dead boy and his dead feelings about him and his family.
Signorina Elettra was quickly back, carrying a Barouvier vase Brunetti had often admired when he saw it on her desk. ‘I think this will be perfect for them’ she said, setting the water-filled vase down beside the flowers. She started to pick them up, one by one, and slip them into the vase.
'How are they extra, Signorina?' Brunetti asked and then smiled, the only response, really, to the conjunction of Signorina Elettra and fresh flowers.
'I did the Vice-Questore's monthly, expenses today, Dottore, and I saw that there was about five hundred thousand lire left.'
‘From what?'
‘From what he's authorized to spend on clerical supplies every month,' she answered, placing a red flower between two white ones. 'So since there's one day left in the month, I thought I'd order some flowers.'
‘For me?'
'Yes, and for Sergeant Vianello, and some for Pucetti, and then some roses for the men down in the guard room.'
'And for the women in the Ufficio Stranieri?' he asked, wondering if Signorina Elettra was the sort to give flowers only to men.
'No,' she said. They've been getting them twice a w
eek, with the regular order, for the last two months.' She finished the flowers and turned to him.
'Where would you like them?' she asked, setting them on the corner of his desk. 'Here?'
'No, perhaps on the window sill.'
Dutifully she carried them over and placed them in front of the central window. "Here?' she asked, turning so that she could see Brunetti's expression.
'Yes’ he said, his face relaxing into a smile. They're perfect. Thank you, Signorina.'
'I'm glad you like them, Dottore.' Her smile answered his own.
He went back to his desk, thought of putting the papers into the file unread, but then smoothed them out with the side of his hand and began to read. And might as well have saved his time, for it was nothing more than a list of names and numbers. The names meant nothing to him, though he thought they must be the various tests the doctor had prescribed for the tired young man. The numbers, as well, might have referred to cricket scores or prices on the Tokyo exchange: it was meaningless to him. Anger at this latest impediment erupted, and as quickly disappeared. For a moment, Brunetti thought of tossing the papers away, but then he pulled the phone towards him and dialled Sergio's home number.
When he had said the right things to his sister-in-law and promised they'd be there for dinner Friday night, he asked to speak to his brother, who was already home from the laboratory. Tired of the exchange of pleasantries, Brunetti said without introduction, 'Sergio, do you know enough about lab tests to tell me what the results mean?'
His brother registered the urgency in Brunetti's voice and asked no questions. 'For most of them, yes.'
'Glucose, reading of seventy-four.' 'That's for diabetes. Nothing's wrong with it.' 'Triglycerides. Reading of, I think, two-fifty.' 'Cholesterol. A bit high but nothing worth bothering about.' 'White cells, reading of one thousand.' 'What?'
Brunetti repeated the number. 'Are you sure?' Sergio asked.
Brunetti looked closer at the typed numbers. ‘Yes, one thousand’
‘Hmm. That’ s hard to believe. Are you feeling all right? Do you get dizzy?' Sergio's concern, and something else, was audible.
'What?'
'When did you have these tests done?' Sergio asked.
'No, no. They're not mine. They're someone else's.'
'Ah. Good’ Sergio paused to consider this, then asked, 'What else?'
'What does that one mean?' Brunetti insisted, troubled by Sergio's questions.
‘I won't be sure, not until I hear the others.'
Brunetti read him the remaining list of tests and the numbers to the right of them. He finished. 'That’s it’
'Anything else?'
'At the bottom, there's a note that says spleen function seems to be reduced. And something about.. ‘ Brunetti paused and peered closely at the doctor's scrawl. 'Something that looks like "hyaline" something. "Membranes", it looks like.'
After a long pause, Sergio asked, 'How old was this person?'
'Twenty-one,' and then, when he registered what Sergio had said, 'Why do you say "was"?'
'Because no one survives with levels like that’
‘Levels of what?' Brunetti asked.
But instead of answering, Sergio demanded, 'Did he smoke?'
Brunetti recalled what Francesca Salviati had said, that Roberto was worse than an American in the way he complained about smoking. 'No’ 'Drink?'
'Everyone drinks, Sergio.'
A sudden note of anger flashed out in Sergio's voice. 'Don't be stupid, Guido. You know what I mean. Did he drink a lot?'
'Probably more than normal.'
'Any diseases?'
'Not that I know of. He was in perfect health, well in very good health, until about two weeks before he died.'
'What did he die of?'
'He was shot’
'Was he alive when he was shot?' Sergio asked. 'Of cour...' Brunetti started to say, but then he stopped. He didn't know. 'We've assumed so’ ‘I’d check,' Sergio said. 'I don't know that we can,' Brunetti said. 'Why? Don't you have the body?' 'There wasn't much of it left’ 'The Lorenzoni boy?'
'Yes,' Brunetti answered, and into the expanding silence he finally asked, 'What does all that mean, the numbers I gave you for those tests?'
'You know I'm not a doctor,' Sergio began, but Brunetti cut him off.
'Sergio, this isn't a trial. I just want to know. Me, for myself. What do they mean, all those tests?'
1 think if s radiation poisoning,' Sergio said. When Brunetti didn't respond, he explained, 'The spleen. It can't have been that damaged if he had no organic disease. And the blood count is horribly low. And the lung capacity. Was much of them left?'
Brunetti remembered the doctor saying that they looked like the lungs of a heavy smoker, of a man far older than Roberto, who had smoked for decades. At the time, Brunetti had not questioned or pursued the contradiction between that and the fact that Roberto didn't smoke. He explained this to Sergio, then asked, 'What else?'
'All of it - the spleen, the blood, the lungs.'
'Are you sure, Sergio?' he asked, forgetting that this was his older brother, just back from a triumph at an international congress about radioactive contamination at Chernobyl.
'Yes.'
Brunetti's mind was off far from Venice, following the trail of Roberto's credit cards across the face of Europe. Eastern Europe. To the breakaway republics of the former Soviet Union, rich in natural resources that lay hidden beneath their soil and just as rich in the armaments which the hastily departing Russians had left behind as they fled in advance of their collapsing empire.
'Madre di Dio’ he whispered, afraid at what he understood.
'What is it, Guido?'his brother asked.
'How do you transport that stuff?' Brunetti asked.
'What stuff?'
'Radioactive things. Material, whatever it's called.' 'That depends.' 'On what?'
'On how much of it there is and what kind it is.'
'Give me an example,' Brunetti demanded and then, hearing his own insistent voice, added, 'It's important.'
‘If it's the sort we use, for radiotherapy, ifs shipped in individual containers’ 'How big?'
'The size of a suitcase. Perhaps even smaller if it’s for a smaller machine or dosage’
'Do you know anything about the other kind?'
'There are lots of other kinds, Guido’ The kind for bombs. He'd been in Belorussia.'
No sound came through the phone, only the well-crafted silence achieved by Telecom's new laser network, but Brunetti thought he could hear the gears meshing in Sergio's mind.
'Ah’ was all his brother said. And then, 'So long as the container is lined with enough lead, it can be very small. A briefcase or suitcase. It’d be heavy, but it can be small.'
This time it was from Brunetti's lips that the sigh escaped. 'That would be enough?'
'I'm not sure what you've got in mind, Guido, but if you mean enough for a bomb, then yes, that would be more than enough.'
That left very little for either of them to say. After a long pause, Sergio suggested, 'I'd check the place where he was found with a Geiger counter. And the body.'
'Is this possible?' Brunetti asked, not having to explain what he meant.
‘I think so, yes’ Sergio's voice blended the certainty of the expert and the sadness of the man. 'The Russians left them nothing else to sell.'
'God help us all, then’ said Brunetti.
26
Brunetti's work had long accustomed him to horror and the various indignities humans inflict upon one another, indeed, upon anything near them, but nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. To contemplate what his phone call to Sergio had revealed was to contemplate the unthinkable. It was not difficult for Brunetti to imagine traffic in armaments on however grand a scale; indeed, he could easily accept the fact that guns would be sold, even to those the sellers knew to be killers. But this, if what he suspected - or feared - was true, then it went beyond any potential for ev
il he had formerly witnessed.
Not for an instant did Brunetti doubt that the Lorenzonis were involved with the illegal transport of nuclear material, and not for an instant did he doubt that the material would be used for armaments: there is no such thing as an illegal X-ray machine. Further, it was impossible for him to believe that Roberto could have organized it. Everything he had learned about the boy spoke of his dullness and lack of initiative: he was hardly the sort to mastermind a traffic in nuclear material.
Who better to do so than Maurizio, the bright young nephew, the better choice of heir? He was ambitious, a young man who looked forward to the commercial possibilities of the next millennium, to the vast new markets and suppliers in the East. The only obstacles to his leading the Lorenzoni business and fortunes to new triumphs was his dull cousin Roberto, the boy who could be sent to fetch and carry, rather in the manner of the friendly family dog.
The only doubt Brunetti had was the extent of the Count's involvement in the business. Brunetti doubted that something like this, an endeavour which could put the entire Lorenzoni empire at risk, could have been carried out without his knowledge and consent. Had he chosen to send his son to Belorussia to bring back the deadly material? Who better and more invisible than the playboy with the credit-card whores? If he drank enough champagne, would anyone question what he had in his briefcase? Who inspects the luggage of a fool?
Brunetti doubted that Roberto would even have known what he was carrying. His picture of the boy did not permit that. How, then, had it happened that he was exposed to the deadly emanation of the materials?
Brunetti tried to imagine this boy he had never seen, pictured him in some flashy hotel, whores gone home, alone in his room with the suitcase he was to take back to the West. If there had been some leakage,, he would never have known, would have brought back with him no more than the strange symptoms of malaise that had driven him from doctor to doctor.
