by Donna Leon
After a hesitation so brief as barely to have existed, he said, ‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t know that,’ rubbing the fingers of his left hand across the back of the right. ‘I knew him only because of his work at the macello, so I was not familiar with his private life.’
‘You knew that he was married, though, didn’t you, Dottore?’ Brunetti asked in his mildest voice.
‘Oh,’ Papetti said with an attempt at an airy wave of the hand, ‘I suppose I must have known, or at least assumed; most men his age are, after all. Or perhaps he mentioned his children. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.’ Then, after the briefest pause, with what was meant to be a look of concern, ‘I’d like you to extend my condolences to his widow, Commissario.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Brunetti said with a nod that acknowledged Papetti’s feelings.
Brunetti let some time pass and then asked, ‘Could you tell me exactly what Dottor Nava’s duties at the macello were?’
Papetti’s answer came so fast it seemed he had been prepared for this question. ‘His job was really that of an inspector. He had to see that the animals that come to us were fit for slaughter, and then he had to inspect samples of the meat that came from them.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Brunetti said, then with the eagerness of a novice, he went on, ‘Your position must afford you some knowledge of the way all slaughterhouses work, Dottore. In general, that is. The animals arrive, are unloaded …’ Brunetti paused with another friendly smile and said, ‘We didn’t get much of an idea.’ Trying not to look embarrassed, he said, ‘My Inspector, he …’ He stopped and shrugged and then went on, ‘So please understand that I’m speaking out of ignorance here, Dottore. I’m merely trying to imagine how it might be; I’m sure you know far better than I.’ Trying his best to look uncertain, Brunetti asked, ‘Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the animals are unloaded or led in or however it is they’re brought there. And then, presumably, Dottor Nava would examine them to see that they are healthy, and then they would be taken into the slaughterhouse and killed.’ Dull people are repetitive, Brunetti knew, hoping that Papetti also believed this.
Papetti seemed to relax at this chance to remain far away from the particular. ‘That’s more or less what happens. Yes.’
‘Are there problems that you might encounter, or that Dottor Nava might have?’
Papetti pursed his lips in a gesture of thought and then said, ‘Well, as far as the slaughterhouse is concerned, if there should be a difference between our records of the number of animals brought in and what the farmers claim: that might be one. Or if there are delays in processing that force the farmers to keep their animals here longer than planned, with the resulting costs: that’s another.’ He uncrossed and recrossed his legs and said, ‘As for Dottor Nava, his concern would be any violation of EU regulations.’
‘Could you give me an example, Signore?’ Brunetti asked.
‘If the animals suffer unnecessarily or if the proper standards of cleanliness aren’t maintained.’
‘Ah, of course. Now it makes sense to me. Thank you, Dottore.’ Brunetti was pleased at how he must look, finally understanding all of this.
As if in response to Brunetti’s willingness to understand, Papetti said, ‘We like to think of ourselves as working with the farmers to help them receive a just price for the animals they’ve raised and brought to us.’
Brunetti, enjoining himself to avoid the danger of overreaching, stopped himself from saying that he could not have put it more accurately. Instead, he muttered, ‘Indeed,’ and then said, ‘But if I might take us back to Dottor Nava, did you ever hear anyone at the macello say a word against him?’
‘Not that I can recall,’ Papetti answered instantly.
‘And you were pleased with his work?’
‘Absolutely,’ Papetti said with another swipe at the back of his hand. ‘But you have to understand that my function is primarily administrative. My direct contact with the people who work here is somewhat limited.’
‘Would any of the workers have informed you if there had been anything irregular in Dottor Nava’s activities?’ Brunetti asked.
After some consideration, Papetti said, ‘I don’t know, Commissario.’ Then, with a modest smile, he added, ‘I doubt that’s the kind of information that would be passed on to me.’ Could mere gossip percolate to so high a point?
Keeping his voice as casual as it had been since he began speaking to Papetti, Brunetti asked, ‘Do you think they’d tell you about Nava’s affair with your assistant, Signorina Borelli?’
‘How do you …?’ Papetti said, then did something Brunetti had never seen an adult do: he clapped both hands across his mouth. Roundness is an absolute. So Papetti’s eyes could not grow rounder, but they could grow larger. They did, and his face grew whiter as the blood drained from it.
He tried. Brunetti had to give him credit for that. Papetti laced his voice with indignation and demanded, ‘How do you dare say that?’ but it was a feeble attempt: both men knew it was too late in the game to try to change either his reaction or his words.
‘So they did tell you, Dottore?’ Brunetti said, finally permitting himself the smile of the wolf. ‘Or was it perhaps Signorina Borelli herself who told you?’
At first, from the noise Papetti was making, Brunetti thought the man was choking, but then he realized it was the sound of a man fighting off tears. Papetti sat with one hand over his eyes, the other draped across his bald forehead and skull in what seemed to be an attempt to hide. The noise persisted, gradually subsiding into deep heaves as Papetti caught his breath, then heavy breathing as he sat, his head and face still protected from Brunetti.
After some moments, Papetti took his hands away. The round eyes were encircled by red patches, and two more had appeared in the middle of his cheeks.
He looked at Brunetti and said, voice shaking, ‘You have to leave.’
Brunetti sat immobile.
‘You have to leave,’ Papetti repeated.
Slowly, Brunetti got to his feet, aware of who this man’s father-in-law was and aware from his own family of the lengths to which a wife’s father might go in defence of his daughter and his grandchildren. He took out his wallet and removed one of his cards. Taking a pen from Papetti’s desk, he wrote his telefonino number on the front of the card, then placed it on the desk between them.
‘This is my number, Dottore. If you decide you want to tell me more about this, you can call me whenever you wish.’
Outside, Brunetti found the driver leaning against the door of the car, eyes narrowed as he faced into the sun. He was eating an ice cream cone and looking very pleased with it. They drove back to Venice.
28
FEELING THAT TO have been out to the mainland twice in one day – regardless of how inconclusive the meetings had been and regardless of the fact that thousands of people did the same two trips every day – was more than a full day’s work for him, Brunetti decided he did not have to return to the Questura. Instead, when the driver let him out at Piazzale Roma, he offered himself the chance to go for a walk and the chance to get home by any route he chose, so long as it got him home on time for dinner.
The softness of the late afternoon encouraged him to walk in the vague direction of San Polo, turning or stopping where whim indicated. He had known this part of the city decades ago, when he took the train daily to Padova to attend his university classes and chose to walk back and forth to the station because it saved him – how much had it been then? – the fifty lire of boat fare. It had been enough for a sweet drink or a coffee; he recalled with the affection age brings to the weaknesses of youth how he had chosen coffee only when with his classmates, giving in to his normal preference for sweet drinks when alone and there was no one to judge his choice unsophisticated.
For a moment, he considered stopping for one of those drinks, if he could only remember their names. But he was a man and had laid aside the things of childhood, and so he stopped for a coffee, smiling at h
imself as he poured in the second envelope of sugar.
He emerged into Campo Santa Margherita, by day the same, normal campo it had been for centuries, with fruit and fish stands, a gelateria, a pharmacy, shops of all sorts, and the odd, elongated shape that made it such a good place for children to run after dogs or other children. Because he had given himself free time, Brunetti turned his mind away from the chaos that now plagued the campo at night and that had driven people he knew to sell their family homes, if only to escape the noise.
Had Gobbetti still been there, he would have stopped to buy a chocolate mousse to take home, but they had sold the business, and the pasticceria that had replaced them had not replaced the mousse. How replace the sublime?
The boats were moored on the other side of Ponte dei Pugni, one for fruit and one for vegetables, and he tried to remember if he had ever known them not to be there. If not, and they were permanently there, were they – at least in the philosophical sense – still boats? Musing on this, he got halfway across Campo San Barnaba before he decided he would like to go home and enjoy the rest of the evening’s softness from his balcony. He passed in front of the calle that led to his parents-in-law’s palazzo without giving a thought to stopping to see them. The idea was in his mind to go home, and go home he would.
To Brunetti’s great relief, everyone was there when he arrived, and to his greater relief, after they said hello and kissed him, they left him to whatever he chose while they went about the business of their lives. He poured himself a glass of white wine and took a chair out on to the balcony, where he sat for an hour, watching the light dim and disappear, sipping at his wine, and being grateful that the people he loved all had lives and things to busy themselves with that had nothing at all to do with the dreadful lies and deceptions with which his days were filled.
The next morning dawned sweetly for Brunetti, though that sensation diminished the nearer he got to the Questura and what he decided would have to be another conversation with Patta. He realized he had no choice but to tell his superior what he had learned and where those facts had led his suspicions. Like the composer of an opera, he had notes and arias, a range of singers, the sketch of a plot, but there was as yet no coherent libretto.
‘She’s Maurizio De Rivera’s daughter, and you think her husband knows something about a murder and isn’t telling you?’ Patta erupted after Brunetti recounted his conversation with Papetti. Had Brunetti told him that the liquefaction of the blood of San Gennaro was a hoax, Patta could have been no more indignant.
‘You know who he is, don’t you, Brunetti?’ his superior demanded.
Ignoring this, Brunetti said, ‘He might want to know what sort of man his daughter is married to.’
‘The truth’s the last thing a man wants to know about the man his daughter’s married to.’ Then, after a pause so long that Brunetti sensed Patta was taking careful aim, Patta let fire. ‘You should know that.’
Brunetti failed to contain his response, but he did manage to limit it to a glance, quickly turned away. It must, however, have sufficed to show Patta that he had finally gone too far, for he added immediately, in a transparent attempt to back-pedal, ‘You’ve got a daughter, after all. You’ll want to believe she’s married to a good man, won’t you?’
Brunetti’s heart was still pounding at the insult, so it took him some time to find an answer. Finally he said, ‘De Rivera might have different standards from other fathers, Vice-Questore. If his daughter or her husband were involved in this killing in any way, he might not be bothered by things like obstruction of justice, lying to a public official in the pursuit of his duties, perhaps even direct support in the commission of the crime.’ Then, after a pause, he added, ‘After all, he’s been tried for the first two.’
‘And acquitted,’ Patta snapped back.
Brunetti ignored the remark and went on, ‘Nava was stabbed in the back and somehow taken to a place where he could be pushed into a canal. That suggests the participation of two people.’ Brunetti was calmer now and in greater control of his voice.
‘And why does this have to involve Papetti?’ Patta asked loftily.
Brunetti stopped himself from blurting out that it simply felt right, well aware of how far he was likely to get with that. ‘It doesn’t necessarily, Dottore. But he knows something, or he knows things, that he’s not telling. He knew about the affair between Nava and Borelli: his surprise that I knew about it was evidence of that. And if he recommended her for the job as his assistant, then she’s got some hold on him,’ Brunetti said, dismissing out of hand the possibility of the generosity that is one of the first signs of love.
Patta drew his lips together in a tight, out-thrust circle, a habit Brunetti had come, over the years, to see as a visual suggestion that he was going to consider things reasonably. The Vice-Questore raised his right hand and studied his fingernails. Brunetti had no idea whether he actually saw them or if this was merely another physical manifestation of thought.
At last Patta lowered his hand and relaxed. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘I want to bring the Borelli woman in here and ask her a few questions.’
‘Such as?’
‘I won’t know that until I have some more information.’
‘What information?’ Patta asked.
‘About some apartments she owns. About Papetti and Nava and how she got her job as Papetti’s assistant. And how her salary was decided. About the slaughterhouse and how well she knows Dottor Meucci,’ he added, a scenario taking shape.
‘Who’s he?’ Patta demanded, giving evidence that he had not read the reports on the case.
‘Nava’s predecessor.’
‘What’s she got, this Borelli woman – a thing for veterinarians?’
Brunetti was tempted to smile at hearing Patta so unthinkingly ask this very interesting question.
‘I’ve no idea, sir. I’m merely curious in a general way.’
‘In a general way?’ Patta repeated slowly. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, sir, that I don’t have a clear idea yet of how all of these people are connected or of what continues to hold them together. But something does, because no one is telling me anything.’ Speaking more to himself than to Patta, Brunetti said, ‘All I need is the way in.’
Patta set his palms firmly on his desk. ‘All right, bring her in and see what she has to say. But, remember, I want to know anything you learn about Papetti before you act on it.’
‘Of course, Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said and repaired to the outer office, where he saw the face of Signorina Elettra rising behind the screen of her computer.
‘I’ve accessed the files of the ULSS office in Treviso, sir, since they keep the same records the slaughterhouse does,’ she said. ‘It was easier than trying to get into those of the macello.’ Thoughtfully, she added, ‘Besides, in the unlikely event that any traces of my presence were left, it’s always better to leave them in a government agency than in a private business.’
Not wanting to offend Signorina Elettra, who was perhaps waiting for him to query her use of ‘accessed’ or ‘always’, perhaps even ‘unlikely event’, Brunetti limited himself to a mild ‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve gone back four years, sir, and to make it easier to read, I’ve put it into a graph.’ She nodded to the screen.
She moved the mouse, clicked, clicked again, and a line graph appeared, above which was written ‘Preganziol’. The months of the year were listed at the top; the side held numbers that ascended from 0 to 100.
The line began, in January four years before, at three and zigzagged its way to four the following month, then wiggled back to three the next. This pattern continued for the next two years. In the third year it followed the same erratic path upwards to five before sinking back to three, where it remained until November, when it catapulted up to eight and, rising steadily, finished the year at twelve. The line jumped off from January and hit thirteen, stayed there for a month, and then in March moved up to
fourteen. The chart ended that month.
‘So whatever this number reflects,’ Brunetti said, ‘it moved upward suddenly at about the time Nava began working at the macello and continued to do so …’ He leaned forward and tapped at the end of the line, ‘… until the month before his death.’
Signorina Elettra scrolled the page down, allowing Brunetti to read the caption: Percentage of animals rejected by the competent authority as unfit for slaughter.
‘Unfit for slaughter.’ Which probably meant the same thing as ‘Unfit for human consumption.’ So there it was. The cowardly dog had defied the robbers, but this cowardly dog had not managed to turn on the robbers and save anyone, and the family where he had been living had not been able to take him back in and love him again, even though he still wasn’t very brave.
‘So he was doing his job,’ Brunetti said, then added, to Signorina Elettra’s confusion, ‘just like the dog.’ But he quickly added something she did understand, so clear was it made by the graph: ‘And his predecessor was not.’
‘Unless we’re back in Exodus and plagues were unleashed upon the land and pestilence upon the herds the day he started working there,’ she added.
‘Unlikely,’ Brunetti observed, then asked, ‘Anything else about Signorina Borelli?’
‘Aside from the list of her properties, I now have some information about her investments and her bank accounts.’
‘Plural?’
‘Here in the city, one in Mestre where her salary is deposited, and one in the postal banking system.’ She smiled and said, with badly disguised contempt, ‘People seem to believe that no one would think to look there.’
‘And what else?’ he asked, so familiar with her manner that he knew there were still treats to be revealed.
