by Donna Leon
Brunetti bent over the open drawer and then knelt on the other side to take a better look. It held all manner of things that appeared to have been dropped in helter-skelter. There were bunched-up banknotes with Arabic script and portraits of men in headdresses. There was an envelope he found, which, when he opened it, held boarding passes for flights to and from Dubai four months before. There were two key rings with keys that, when they examined them, appeared to be for different locks. There was a small malachite hippopotamus, a receipt for thirty Euros spent to charge up his imob travel card, two separately wrapped cough drops, and a well-worn leather wallet. Brunetti opened it and slipped his finger into the various slots; all were empty, as was the larger slot in the back, where bills were usually kept.
Under a few ten-pound notes, he found more receipts; two for restaurants and one for the purchase of three printer cartridges at Testolini; one of those cartridges – black – had somehow got itself into the drawer. Brunetti flipped through some papers held together with a paper clip and found that they were not receipts but coupons for cosmetics, each for 154 Euros, all made out to ‘Gasparini’. There were four AAA batteries in an unopened package, a flashlight that didn’t work, more receipts, and three more coupons. He stood and slipped the drawer closed with the toe of his right foot.
‘Not so fast, Guido,’ she said and bent to pull the drawer open again. ‘There’s no order here; the things have nothing in common, unlike all his other things.’ She picked up the envelope and pulled out the stiff pieces of cardboard. ‘Why did he keep only these two boarding passes? These are people who travel. Didn’t you tell me his wife travels a lot for work? ‘
Brunetti nodded, but he still had no idea what she was talking about.
Griffoni pulled the drawer out and set it on the table between the room’s two windows. One by one, she removed its contents. She placed all of the objects in a long line, running from the drawer to the end of the table and then back again in a second row.
The line began with the boarding passes and, next to them, the currency printed with the portraits of the men in headdresses. Next she put down the leather wallet, and next to that the malachite hippopotamus. The AAA batteries lay beside the printer cartridge; then came the stack of coupons, the flashlight, the cough drops, the key rings, receipts, currency. More receipts and a few objects not seen before appeared, all in a line that swung around and back to the empty drawer.
Griffoni examined the boarding passes. ‘People say Emirates is the best airline,’ she said, and put them back into their envelope. She set it down and picked up the flashlight, which still didn’t work. She went through everything, picking up each piece, reading and trying to decipher any text she saw.
While she was busy studying a hotel bill from Milano, Brunetti picked up the coupons held together by a paper clip. He studied the first one again and then turned them over one by one, examining each. Finally he looked at Griffoni and asked, ‘Why would a man have nine hundred Euros in coupons for cosmetics?’
For some reason, he thought of the boys accepting the scandal magazines at the kiosk. Boys didn’t read them. Men didn’t use cosmetics, at least not nine hundred Euros’ worth of them.
‘It doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ Brunetti walked over to Griffoni and handed her the papers.
She did as he had, examining them again one by one. ‘Nine hundred and twenty-four, to be exact,’ she said, handing them back to Brunetti.
‘Let’s ask her,’ Brunetti said. He slipped the coupons into the pocket of his jacket, and together they put everything back into the drawer.
Failing to find Professoressa Crosera where they had left her, Brunetti and Griffoni walked towards the kitchen. They had not heard the boy enter the apartment and so were surprised to find him sitting at the table, an enormous sandwich in one hand. His mother sat opposite him, a cup of what might have been tea in front of her.
‘Oh, excuse me,’ Brunetti said, stopping abruptly in the open doorway. Griffoni bumped into him with a muffled ‘Uh’.
Professoressa Crosera half rose from her seat. The boy set his sandwich on the plate in front of him and started to get to his feet. Brunetti smiled, and Sandro tried to do the same. He had more colour in his face today and seemed calmer. He managed a polite, ‘Buon giorno, signori,’ and looked at his mother, uncertain what to do.
‘Please. Don’t disturb yourself, Signora,’ Brunetti said. ‘We have only a few more questions. We’ll wait for you in the living room.’
Before Professoressa Crosera could say anything, the boy asked, ‘Have you found the man who hurt my father?’ He tried to make his voice sound very grown-up, but he failed to cover the note of fear in his question.
‘Not yet,’ Brunetti answered. ‘That’s why we’d like to speak to your mother again.’
‘About what?’ she asked, sounding curious, not offended.
‘Some of the things we found, Signora,’ Brunetti said, giving no farther explanation. ‘We’ll wait for you in the salotto,’ he told her and turned away from the doorway. He led Griffoni down the corridor and back into the living room; they sat where they had been and waited for her to return.
Professoressa Crosera arrived a few minutes later and closed the door behind her as she came in. Brunetti got to his feet. ‘What is it?’ she asked, standing in front of the door.
‘We’ve looked through your husband’s belongings, and there’s one thing we don’t understand,’ he said, pulling the coupons from his pocket.
She looked at them and, puzzled, asked, ‘What are they?’
‘Coupons for cosmetics: we don’t understand how he could have such a large credit for cosmetics.’ Then, remembering what he’d seen, Brunetti added, ‘His name is on them.’ He passed them to her. She looked through them briefly, then handed them back.
She walked over and sat on the sofa, and Brunetti resumed his seat next to Griffoni. She glanced at her watch, as if uncertain that she’d have enough time to explain. She looked as though she were trying to smile and said, ‘That’s his aunt.’ She spoke the noun in a manner that led him to believe she had a great deal more to say about this aunt.
Neither of them spoke.
‘Zia Matilde,’ she said with studied neutrality. ‘Matilde Gasparini. She’s the Gasparini on the coupons. For some reason, my husband brought them home the last time he saw her and said he had to talk to someone about them. She’s eighty-five, so only God knows what she’s doing spending so much money on cosmetics.’ Professoressa Crosera sounded displeased at the thought.
Brunetti could hardly say anything about the foolishness of women, could he? Nor about the desire not to let go of youth; not to a woman with a husband struggling not to let go of life and certainly not with Griffoni sitting next to him. All he could think of to say was, ‘Did he tell you anything about them?’
Surprised, she answered, ‘Only that he didn’t understand what she told him about where they came from.’ Then she added, ‘He went to see her when she came home from the hospital, and that’s when he found out about them. She told him that wasn’t the moment to trouble her by asking about them.’ She smiled and shook her head in memory of what she probably considered her husband’s aunt’s folly.
‘The hospital here?’ Brunetti asked, to keep the conversation going. When she nodded, he asked, ‘Why was she there?’
‘Her badante couldn’t wake her up one morning, so she called an ambulance. We were away, so she didn’t reach us for a few days and was very upset.’
Brunetti confined himself to an inquisitive tilt of the head, and she continued. ‘When Tullio went to the hospital, he found her doctor before he found her. He said she’d apparently mixed up her medicines and taken too many sleeping pills. He said it often happens to old people.’
Both Brunetti and Griffoni nodded. Griffoni added a sympathetic noise, as if she, too, had stories to tell about old people.
‘Tullio told the doctor that he was her nephew, not her son, and didn’t know
much about her health because she’d always been healthy and never spoke about it. He never even learned the name of her doctor.
‘This doctor told him his aunt wasn’t as healthy as he seemed to believe and that her records showed she’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s and was taking medicine for it. There was also a prescription for something against early-onset Alzheimer’s.’
She raised her eyebrows and closed her eyes for a moment, then went on, ‘When Tullio finally saw her, he was shocked by the change. He told me she was suddenly an old woman and very confused. She kept telling him to go to her house and get those coupons because she was afraid Beata, the badante, would steal them. She wouldn’t rest until he promised to go that same day.’
‘And did he?’ Brunetti asked.
She nodded, ‘She made him give his word, so he had no choice but to go and get them.’
She shook her head at this and said, ‘Beata’s been with her for ten years; she’s like a daughter to her. It’s crazy to think she’d steal anything. Besides, she’s had ten years to do it.’ The more she spoke of the aunt, the more exasperated Professoressa Crosera sounded.
‘She was sent home the next day – this was about two weeks ago – and he went to see her there. Twice. She asked him about the coupons again, told him to keep them safe, and he had to promise her that he would.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘Not since she was taken home,’ she said. ‘Only my husband goes. Went.’
‘Has anyone told her about your husband?’
She shook her head three or four times. ‘I called Beata and told her. She hadn’t heard anything. I asked her to try to keep the news from his aunt if she could; she said it would be easy because no one comes to visit any more.’
‘Why is that?’ Griffoni broke in to ask.
‘The people who knew her are all dead or in nursing homes,’ Professoressa Crosera answered with the brusque finality of a closing door.
A breathy ‘Ah’ escaped Griffoni, who turned to Brunetti for a clue as to what he wanted to do.
He took out his notebook, saying, ‘Could you tell us her address, Signora?’
‘You aren’t going to talk to her, are you?’
Brunetti had learned, early on, that witnesses would tolerate anything except sarcasm, so he rejected the idea of telling Professoressa Crosera that her husband’s aunt would perhaps be more help to them than the malachite hippopotamus. He smiled and said, ‘The coupons are the only things we’ve found among your husband’s belongings that seem out of place, Signora, so I’d like to find out about them. If only to exclude a possibility.’ He paused, considering, then asked, ‘Would you allow me to take them with me?’
‘You won’t upset her, will you?’ she asked.
Griffoni interrupted to say, ‘No. I give my word.’
Professoressa Crosera looked at Griffoni for a few seconds, then gave a quick nod. ‘And if you don’t find out anything?’ she asked.
‘Then we’ll have to try to find something else,’ he said, wishing he had something better to offer her.
‘She lives opposite the Carmini,’ Professoressa Crosera said, ‘the building just in front of the bridge. I’m sorry, but I don’t know the number. If you walk down the middle of the bridge, it’s the door you’d walk into. Fourth floor: her name’s on the bell.’
Brunetti got to his feet; both women stood. She led them to the door, where all three stopped. It was only then that Brunetti remembered he had not asked how her husband was, but the thought had no sooner come to him than Griffoni said, ‘I wish you strength in this, Signora.’ She turned to leave. Brunetti followed her out, saying nothing.
20
As they walked down the steps, Brunetti reflected on the grace of what Griffoni had said. Only a southerner could display deep emotion with such a conventional wish, so simply stated. It was directed at the person in need, aimed at helping her, not at the unconscious victim, who, however much he might be in need of help willed or bestowed, would never hear or understand it, nor be helped by it in any real way. Not for the first time, Brunetti was aware of the dissonance between his impulse towards suspicion of southerners and his frequent wonder at their instinctive grace of spirit.
Outside the door, Brunetti paused in what another Venetian would recognize as a brief consultation with the GPS implanted in him at birth. There was no greater sign than the quivering needle of a compass makes before finding sharp north or declining west.
Path clear, he set out, and Griffoni fell into step beside him. He led them towards Campo Santa Margherita and then through it the long way and down alongside the church of the Carmini until they were in front of the bridge. They stopped to study the building made conspicuous by two central bricked-up windows on the second floor. ‘Why’d they do that?’ Griffoni asked.
‘Structural problems, I’d say. The palazzo is directly on a canal, and they tend to shift around a bit.’
‘You make it sound so ordinary,’ she said, smiling.
‘I suppose it is.’
‘But why brick up the windows?’
‘They probably realized only after the windows were there that they weakened the wall.’
‘Ummm,’ she agreed and started up the bridge. In front of the door, she found the bell for ‘Gasparini’, waited for Brunetti to come up and stand beside her, and rang it.
After some time, a woman’s voice asked through the speaker phone, ‘Chi è?’
Brunetti tapped Griffoni’s shoulder lightly, and when she looked at him, he pointed at her face: a woman’s voice would be far better received than a man’s.
‘Professoressa Elisa has asked us to stop by and see Signora Gasparini,’ Griffoni answered in a voice she made sound friendly and warm.
‘Signor Tullio’s wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you from the hospital?’
‘No,’ Griffoni answered. ‘The Professoressa asked us to pass by and see how Signor Tullio’s aunt is.’
‘Is Signor Tullio all right?’ the woman asked.
Griffoni looked at Brunetti, who nodded. ‘Yes,’ then added, ‘Thanks be to God.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the woman answered. ‘I pray for him every day.’
‘May we come up and speak with her for a moment?’ Griffoni asked.
‘Of course, if Professoressa Elisa has sent you.’ After a second, the buzzer sounded and the door opened. They entered an enormous, high-ceilinged atrium with the usual white and red chequerboard paving. At the back, large glass doors led to a garden that ran at least a normal city block to a high brick wall. Fruit trees slumbered in damp misery, hunkered down until springtime. The steps in the double flight to the first floor were broad and low, worn away in the centre by centuries of feet going up and down. The doors of two separate apartments faced them on the first landing and then again on each successive landing up to the fourth, where there was only one door. Seeing it when they reached the top, Griffoni asked, ‘Does that mean the whole floor is hers?’
‘Probably,’ Brunetti answered, thinking of what the combined size would be. He rang the bell beside it.
After a moment, the door was opened by a woman in her mid-thirties, with blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She stepped back to invite them to enter. She wore a white sweater made of some kind of synthetic fabric and a dark skirt that fell to the middle of her calves. Her hair was parted in the middle and fell, straight as a plumb line, to her shoulders. She had the rounded features and pale skin of an Eastern European and smiled nervously at them.
After asking permission to enter, Brunetti stepped aside to allow Griffoni to go in first.
The entrance was an enormously long, low-ceilinged room made even lower by dark beams running from side to side. Even the light that came from the windows at the back, windows that must overlook the garden, did little to brighten the room; the dark wooden floor managed to trap even more light. ‘The Signora is in her room,’ the woman said, turning towards the back of the house.
The young woman stopped in front of a door on the right and said, ‘The Signora is in here. You won’t say anything that will upset her, will you?’ Voice growing confidential while pleading for their understanding, she added, ‘She’s not the same as she was.’
Her sadness was real, Brunetti thought. ‘We’ll certainly try not to, Signorina.’
She tried to smile and dipped low in something that resembled a curtsey but might have been a genuflection, then she opened the door and stepped into a room as dim as the corridor. ‘Some friends of Signor Tullio are here, Signora,’ she announced in a falsely bright voice. She took two steps into the room and turned to wave them in behind her. As soon as they were inside, she repeated the curtsey and left, closing the door behind her.
A tiny woman with flame-red curly hair, cut into a youthful cap suitable for a far younger person, was seated in a low chair in front of the windows, her feet raised and resting on a brocade-covered footstool. What light there was came in from her right side. Her blue silk jacket was patterned with interwoven red dragons, and her skirt, striped grey and green in some shiny fabric that might have been satin, fell to her ankles. On her feet, she had the sort of open-backed, high-heeled bedroom slippers Brunetti had seen only in opera or in Longhi’s portraits: they even had the fuzzy ruff over the instep. She could have been waiting to host a dinner party or preparing to perform in a Christmas pantomime.
The immobility of her face might have been the result of surgery badly performed, although, Brunetti reflected, it might as easily reflect a lack or loss of interest in what lay beyond this room. Her eyes were cloudy, not only with the faint smokiness that often comes with advanced age, but with a vague uncertainty about the reality they perceived. Her mouth was as red as her hair and just as thin.
