Beastly Things

by Donna Leon

  ‘Meucci. Not only has he made three phone calls to Signorina Borelli’s telefonino in the last two days, but it turns out that he is not a veterinarian at all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He spent four years at Padova, took and passed most of the exams, but seems not to have taken the last four, and there’s no record that he took his degree from the university or that he passed – or ever applied to take – the state exams.’

  Brunetti was about to ask how it was possible for the provincial department of health to give him a job as a veterinarian at a slaughterhouse or by what means he had set up a private practice, but he stopped himself in time. Few weeks passed without the revelation of some fake doctor or dentist; why should the species of the patient make fraud any less likely?

  He decided on the instant. ‘Call his office and find out if he’s there: ask if you can bring your cat in or something like that – just find out if he’s there. If he is, send Foa and Pucetti over to ask him if he’d like to come in to talk to me.’

  ‘I’d be delighted, sir,’ she said, then, ‘Have a look at the papers about Signorina Borelli, why don’t you?’

  Brunetti took the folder, intending to go to his office to read through the papers, but instead he went to the officers’ room to give more precise instructions to Foa and Pucetti, telling Pucetti to be careful to address Meucci as ‘Signore’ and not ‘Dottore’. After that, still carrying the file, he went down to the bar at Ponte dei Greci and had a coffee and two tramezzini.

  Back in the office, he called Paola and asked what they were going to have for dinner. To please her, he asked how she was feeling about having orchestrated the non-renewal of her colleague’s contract.

  ‘Like Lucrezia Borgia,’ she said and laughed.

  Brunetti spent some time looking for a tape recorder, which he found in the back of his bottom drawer. He checked that it worked and placed it very conspicuously on his desk. He opened the file then and began to read but had got as far only as the prices paid for Signorina Borelli’s apartment in Mestre and the first one in Venice when he heard a sound at his door.

  Looking up, he saw Pucetti and, beside him, Meucci. If he were a tyre, then some of the air had been let out of him; this was most evident in his face, where the eyes seemed to have grown larger. His cheeks had sagged and hung loose above the soft little mouth. Less flesh pressed against the retaining wall of his collar.

  His body seemed smaller, as well, but that might have been because of the dark woollen jacket that had replaced his voluminous lab coat.

  Pucetti waited at the door while Meucci entered. The door closed; the only sound was the officer’s retreating footsteps.

  ‘Come in, Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said coolly. He leaned across the desk and clicked on the tape recorder.

  The man came slowly forward, as timidly as a young wildebeest forced to step into tall grass. As he approached Brunetti’s desk, his eyes moved around the room in search of the danger he knew was there. Slowly he lowered himself into a chair. Brunetti thought the noise was a sigh, but then he realized it was the sound of Meucci’s flesh-crammed clothing as it rubbed against the sides and back of the chair.

  Brunetti observed the man’s hands, which remained fixed to the arms of the chair. The stained fingers were wrapped under the arms and so the hands looked like normal hands, however swollen with fat.

  ‘How did you obtain your job at the macello, Signor Meucci?’ Brunetti asked. No greeting, no politeness, only the simple question.

  Brunetti watched Meucci consider various possibilities, and then the fat man said, ‘The opening was announced, and I applied for it.’

  ‘Were you asked to submit supporting documents with your application, Signore?’ Brunetti asked, giving special emphasis to the last word.

  ‘Yes,’ Meucci answered. The fact that he did not answer with an indignant ‘of course’ told Brunetti that he would have no trouble with this interview. Meucci was a defeated man who wanted only to limit the damage he was going to endure.

  ‘And the absence of evidence that you were a doctor of veterinary medicine did not serve as an obstacle to your application for that position?’ Brunetti asked with the mildest interest.

  Meucci’s right hand moved to the pocket of his jacket, then slipped inside to take what comfort it could from the feel of his packet of cigarettes. He shook his head.

  ‘You have to speak, Signore. Your answers must be audible so that the stenographer can record them.’

  ‘No,’ Meucci said.

  ‘How was that possible, Signore?’

  As he looked at Meucci, Brunetti was filled with the strange sensation that the man was melting. He sat lower in his chair, though he had made no motion that suggested he was shifting in his seat. His mouth seemed to have grown smaller before it pronounced that last monosyllable. His jacket hung loosely from his shoulders.

  ‘How was that possible, Signore?’

  Brunetti heard the crunching sound as Meucci’s hand closed on the packet of cigarettes. ‘No one showed me any papers. I didn’t sign anything that said you could ask me these questions.’ Something resembling anger could be heard in Meucci’s voice.

  Brunetti gave an understanding smile. ‘Of course, Signor Meucci. I understand that. You are here voluntarily, come in to aid the police in their investigations.’ Brunetti slid the tape recorder back towards him. ‘You’re free to go whenever you please.’ He clicked off the tape.

  Eyes locked on the tape recorder, Meucci asked, the anger evaporated, ‘What happens if I do?’ It was a simple request for an answer, not a demand. Lost men had no demands to make.

  ‘Then you leave us with no choice but to inform the police in Mestre and the ULSS and, for good measure, the Guardia di Finanza, just in case you haven’t been bothering to pay taxes on what is probably – given your lack of a licence to function as a veterinarian – an illegal practice.’

  Brunetti pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. Not being in a particularly theatrical vein that day, he failed to lean back and latch his fingers behind his head while staring at the ceiling. ‘Let me see what my various colleagues might make of this. Impersonation of a public official, to begin with.’ Then, seeing Meucci open his mouth to protest, ‘You serve as a public official at the macello, Signore, whether you know it or not.’ He saw Meucci register the truth of this.

  ‘Let’s see what else we have here, shall we? Illegal exercise of a profession. Fraud. Taking money under false pretences.’ Brunetti allowed a menacing smile to cross his face. ‘And if you’ve ever written a prescription for any of your patients, then there would be the illegal procurement of drugs; and if you’ve ever given an inoculation to an animal and been paid for it, there is also the illegal sale of and administration of drugs.’

  ‘But they’re animals,’ Meucci protested.

  ‘Indeed they are, Signor Meucci. Thus your lawyer will have an intriguing argument to present at your trial.’

  ‘Trial?’ Meucci asked.

  ‘Well, it’s likely to come to that, wouldn’t you say? You’ll be arrested, of course, and your practice closed, and I imagine your clients – to make no mention of the management of the macello – will all sue you to return the money you took from them illegally.’

  ‘But they knew,’ Meucci bleated.

  ‘Your clients?’ Brunetti asked with feigned astonishment. ‘But then why would they bring their animals to you?’

  ‘No, no, not them. The people at the macello. They knew. Of course they knew. That was all part of it.’

  Brunetti leaned forward and held up his hand. ‘Shall I turn on the tape recorder before we continue this conversation, Signor Meucci?’

  Meucci pulled the cigarettes out of his pocket and clasped his hands around the packet. He nodded.

  Willing to accept a gesture as a response, Brunetti switched on the machine.

  ‘You’ve just told me that the people at the macello in Preganziol hired you even though they knew you were no
t a veterinarian. That is, they employed you as a veterinarian while knowing that you had no licence. Is this correct, Signor Meucci?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They knew you had no licence?’

  ‘Yes,’ Meucci said, then he snapped, ‘I just told you that. How many times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘As many as you like, Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said amiably. ‘Hearing it repeated might serve to remind you that such an interesting fact needs some explanation.’

  When Meucci did not speak, Brunetti asked, ‘You said that the opening for the job was announced. Could you tell me how you learned of that announcement?’

  Here it came, Brunetti knew: the moment when the person being questioned began to weigh the relative risk of little lies. Forget something here, leave out a name, change a date or a number, pass over a meeting as having been insignificant.

  ‘Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said, ‘I’d like to remind you how very important it is that you tell us everything you remember: all of the names and where and when you met the people, and what was said in your conversations. To the best of your ability.’

  ‘And if I can’t remember?’ Meucci asked, but Brunetti heard fear in the question, not sarcasm.

  ‘Then I’ll give you time until you do remember, Signor Meucci.’

  Meucci nodded again, and again Brunetti let the gesture serve in place of assent.

  ‘How did you learn about the job at the macello?’

  There was no hesitation in Meucci’s voice as he said, ‘The man who had it before I did called me one night – we were friends at university – and said he was going to quit, and he asked me if I would be interested in taking the job.’

  ‘Did this friend know that you had not finished your studies?’ Brunetti asked.

  He saw Meucci prepare to lie and held up his right forefinger in a gesture his elementary religion teacher used to make.

  ‘Probably,’ Meucci finally said, and Brunetti gave him some credit for not wanting to shop a friend.

  ‘And how did this occur, that you replaced him?’

  ‘He spoke to someone there, and then I went out to the macello one day for an interview. It was explained what I had to do.’

  ‘Was any mention made of your missing qualifications?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you have to submit a curriculum vitae?’

  After the briefest of hesitations, Meucci said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you say in it that you had a degree in veterinarian medicine?’

  Voice softer, Meucci repeated, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have to submit proof – photocopies of your degree?’

  ‘I was told that wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘Who told you this?’

  Meucci, apparently unaware of what he was doing, took a cigarette out of the pack and put it in his mouth. He took out a lighter and lit the cigarette. Years ago, Brunetti had seen an old man step down from a train that had stopped at a station and light up, take three incredibly deep drags on a cigarette, then, at the sound of the conductor’s whistle, pinch it out and put it back in the packet. Dragon breath issuing from his mouth, the old man had pulled himself back into the train just as it started to move. He sat and watched Meucci smoke the entire cigarette with the same blind avidity. When there was only the smallest stub left and the front of his jacket was covered with spilled ash, Meucci looked across at Brunetti.

  Brunetti opened his middle drawer, took out a box of Fisherman’s Friend, and poured them out. He shoved the box across to Meucci and watched as he stubbed out the cigarette.

  ‘Who was it that told you the degree wasn’t necessary?’

  ‘Signorina Borelli,’ Meucci said and lit another cigarette.

  29

  ‘SHE’S PAPETTI’S ASSISTANT, isn’t she?’ Brunetti asked, as if unfamiliar with her.

  ‘Yes,’ Meucci said.

  ‘Who brought up the subject of your degree?’

  ‘I did,’ Meucci said, removing his cigarette from his mouth. ‘I suppose I was nervous that she would find out, though Rub …’ he stopped before pronouncing his predecessor’s full name, as if too stunned by what was happening to realize his name would be public information. ‘My colleague assured me it wouldn’t matter. But I couldn’t believe it. So I asked her if she had checked my file and if it was satisfactory.’ He gave Brunetti a look that asked for his comprehension. ‘I suppose I needed to know, really, that they knew I didn’t have the licence, and that it didn’t matter and wouldn’t come back to haunt me.’ Meucci looked away from Brunetti and out the window.

  ‘And did it?’ Brunetti asked with what sounded like real concern.

  Meucci shrugged, crushed out his cigarette and reached for another, only to be stopped by Brunetti’s glance.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Meucci asked, stalling.

  ‘Did anyone at the macello ever try to make use of that information?’

  Again Brunetti watched the fat man consider lying, saw him weigh the alternatives: which was the greater danger? Which would cost him less, the truth or a lie?

  Like a drunkard who pours a bottle of whisky down the kitchen sink as proof of reformation, Meucci placed the crumpled packet of cigarettes on Brunetti’s desk and lined it up carefully beside the tape recorder. ‘It happened during my first week,’ he said. ‘A farmer from Treviso brought in some cows: I don’t remember now how many: maybe six. Two of them were more dead than alive. One looked like it was dying of cancer: it had an open sore on its back. I didn’t even bother to do an exam: anyone could see it was sick: skin and bones and saliva dripping from its mouth. The other one had viral diarrhoea.’

  Meucci looked at the cigarettes, and went on. ‘I told the knacker, Bianchi, that the farmer would have to take those two cows back and destroy them.’ He looked at Brunetti and raised one of his hands towards him. ‘After all, it was my job. To inspect them.’ He stopped and made a heaving motion that could have been a shrug or an attempt to extricate himself from the constriction of the chair.

  ‘What happened?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Bianchi told me to wait there with the cows and went to get Signorina Borelli. When she came and asked me what was going on, I told her to look at the cows and tell me if she thought they were healthy enough to be slaughtered.’ His voice was filled with the sarcasm he could not use with Brunetti.

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She barely looked at them.’ Meucci, Brunetti could see, was back there, at the macello, having this conversation again. ‘And she said,’ he began, moving forward to bring his mouth closer to the tape recorder, ‘she said, “They’re as healthy as your application, Signor Meucci.”’ He closed his eyes at the memory. ‘She’d always called me Dottor Meucci before that. So I knew she knew.’

  ‘And?’ Brunetti asked after some time.

  ‘And I knew that it had,’ Meucci answered.

  ‘Had what?’

  ‘Come back to haunt me.’

  ‘What did you do about the cows?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘What do you think I did?’ Meucci demanded indignantly. ‘I certified them.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said, forbidding himself to allow the words ‘safe for human consumption’ to pass his lips. He remembered then that Nava’s wife had said her husband ate fruit and vegetables. ‘And after that?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘After that I did what I was told to do. What else did you expect me to do?’

  Ignoring that, Brunetti asked, ‘Who told you what that was?’

  ‘Bianchi was the one who told me that the average rate of rejection was about three per cent, so that’s where I stayed: some months a little more, some a little less.’ He paused to hoist himself up in his chair. ‘At least I tried to condemn the worst of them. But so many of them were sick. I don’t know what they feed them, or what medicines they pump into them, but some were disgusting.’

  Ignoring the temptation to comment that this had not preve
nted Meucci from approving their entry into the food chain, Brunetti said, ‘Bianchi told you, but someone must have told him.’ When Meucci said nothing, Brunetti prodded him. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course,’ Meucci answered, snatching back the cigarettes and lighting one. ‘It was Borelli who gave him the orders: that’s obvious. And that’s what I did. Three per cent. Sometimes a little bit more, sometimes a little bit less. But always right around there.’ It sounded, this time, like a kind of incantation.

  ‘Did you ever speculate about who might be giving Signorina Borelli the orders?’ Brunetti asked.

  Meucci shook his head quickly, then said, ‘No. That wasn’t my business.’

  Brunetti let a suitable amount of time pass and then asked, ‘For how long did you do this?’

  ‘Two years,’ Meucci snapped, and Brunetti wondered how many kilos that represented in cancerous and diseased meat.

  ‘Until what?’

  ‘Until I went into the hospital and they had to hire someone else,’ Meucci said.

  He cared nothing about the cause, but aware of how useful a display of concern would seem, Brunetti asked, ‘Why were you in the hospital, Signor Meucci?’

  ‘Diabetes. I collapsed at home, and when I woke up I was in Intensive Care; it took them a week to find out what was wrong with me, and then two weeks to get me stabilized, and then a week at home.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said, unable to say that he was sorry.

  ‘At the end of the first week, they hired Nava.’ He looked at Brunetti and said, ‘You didn’t believe me, did you? When I said I never met him? Well, I didn’t. I don’t know how they found him or who recommended him.’ Meucci took visible pleasure in being able to say this.

  ‘But you were lying when you said you didn’t know I had been out to the macello, which means you were lying when you said you didn’t keep in touch with anyone there.’ He waited for Meucci to respond, and when he didn’t, Brunetti snapped the whip. ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘She called me,’ Meucci said.

  Brunetti thought it unnecessary to ask him whom he meant.