Through A Glass Darkly

by Donna Leon

  'Oh, Papa,' Chiara said, as usual, the first to get it, 'you are so silly sometimes.' Brunetti feigned not to understand her and tried to convince her that she should stop studying mathematics and learn to weld. Dessert interrupted his performance, and by then the ghost of whatever Fulvio was up to had been driven from the feast.

  It was not until they were in bed, Brunetti exhausted by his day, that he asked, 'What about Fulvio?'

  The light was already out, so he felt rather than saw her shrug. 'My guess is drugs,' Paola said.

  'Using them?'

  'Could be,' she answered, not at all persuaded.

  "Then selling them’ he said and turned onto his right side to face her dim outline.

  'More likely.'

  'Poor boy’ Brunetti said, adding, 'poor everyone.' He shifted onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. 'Do you have any idea if . . .' he began, wondering at the extent of the boy's sales and whether it was a matter he should interest himself in professionally. And who would Ful-vio's customers be? The very question released the worm that was forever poised and ready to begin crawling towards every parent's heart.

  'If what you want to know is whether Raffi is interested, I think we can be fairly sure he isn't. He doesn't use drugs.'

  The policeman in Brunetti wanted to know why Paola could say this: what was her source, and how reliable? Had she questioned Raffi himself, or had he volunteered the information, or was her witness some other person with knowledge of the case or the suspects? He stared at the ceiling, and as he watched, one of the lights shining in from the other side of the calle was extinguished, leaving him in comforting darkness. How foolish, how rash to believe a mother's word as to the innocence of her only son.

  He stared at the ceiling, afraid to question her. The window was ajar, and through it came the bells of San Marco, telling them that it was midnight, time to be asleep. Over it, he heard Paola say, 'It's all right, Guido. Don't worry about Raffi.' He closed his eyes in momentary relief, and when he opened them again, it was morning.

  23

  On his way to the Questura the following morning, Brunetti began to consider how best to raise the subject of Fasano with Signorina Elettra. He did not understand the reason for her apparent regard for the man: she usually had enough sense to hold politicians in utter contempt, so why had she chosen to stand up in defence of this one? Given the peculiarities of Signorina Elettra's prejudices, it might be nothing more than the fact that Fasano had not yet made an official declaration of his desire to enter into politics, and until such time she might be willing to continue to treat him as human.

  Brunetti had been seeing Fasano's photo and reading his name in the Gazzettino for years. He was tall, athletic, photogenic, was said to be a good speaker and a well-regarded employer. Brunetti had met him and his wife at a dinner some years before and had a vague memory of him as being affable and of her as an attractive blonde, but he could summon up little more than that. He might have talked with her about a play they had both seen at the Goldoni, or perhaps it had been a film: he could not retrieve the memory.

  He went into Ballarin and asked for a coffee and a brioche, still trying to recall anything else about the man that the waves of gossip had washed up into his memory over the years. Brunetti had the brioche halfway to his mouth when it occurred to him that the best way to gather information would be to go and talk to the man. He stood for a few seconds, brioche poised in the air, his head tilted to one side. A man eased by him to get to the bar and Brunetti caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Quickly he finished the brioche and the coffee, paid, and started back toward Fondamenta Nuove and the 42.

  The route from the Sacca Serenella ACTV embarcadero was by now familiar to Brunetti. At the end of the cement walkway, instead of turning to the right and to De Cal's factory, he went to the left and approached the other building, which he had previously ignored. Built of brick, the factory had a high peaked roof with a double row of skylights. As with most of the fornaci, the entrance was through a set of sliding metal doors.

  As he approached, he recognized Palazzi standing in front of the building, smoking. 'Good morning’ Brunetti said to the workman and raised a hand in greeting. 'Looks like it'll be a nice day.'

  Palazzi returned an amiable enough smile, dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, grinding it into the earth with his toe. 'Habit’ he said when he saw Brunetti watching this. 'I used to work in a chemical plant, and we had to be careful with cigarettes.

  'I'm surprised they let you smoke there at all’ Brunetti said.

  "They didn't’ Palazzi said and smiled again. At the sign of Brunetti's answering grin, he asked, tilting his head backwards, towards the field that ran from the factories down to the water, 'You find anything out there?'

  'No results yet’ Brunetti said.

  'You expecting to find anything?'

  Brunetti shrugged. 'The guy in the lab'll tell me.'

  'What're you looking for?'

  'No idea’ Brunetti admitted.

  'Just curious?' Palazzi asked, taking out his cigarettes. He shook some forward in the packet and held them out towards Brunetti, who shook his head.

  When Brunetti said nothing, Palazzi repeated, 'Just curious?'

  'Always curious.'

  'Because of Tassini?'

  'Partly, yes.'

  'What's the other part?'

  'Because people don't like it that I come out here.'

  'And ask questions?'

  Brunetti nodded.

  Palazzi lit his cigarette and pulled deeply on it, leaned his head back and let out a long series of perfect smoke rings that slowly expanded to the size of haloes before evaporating in the soft morning air. 'Tassini asked a lot of questions, too’ Palazzi said.

  'About what?' The sun had grown warmer since Brunetti got off the boat. He unbuttoned his jacket.

  'About everything’ Palazzi said.

  'Such as?'

  'Such as who kept the records of what sort of chemicals came in and went out and whether any of us knew anyone in the other factories who had kids with ... kids with problems.'

  'Like his daughter?' Brunetti asked.

  'I suppose so.'

  'And?'

  Palazzi tossed his half-smoked cigarette beside the shreds of the other one and ground it out, too, then rubbed at the space with his toe until all sign of the cigarettes had been obliterated. 'Tassini didn't work with us until a couple of months ago. He was over at De Cal's for years, so we all knew him. Then, when the night man here retired, well, I suppose the boss thought it made sense to get him to work here, too. Not all that much for l'uomo di notte to do, after all.' Palazzi's voice softened. 'We knew about his daughter by then. From the guys at De Cal's. But like I told you yesterday, no one much wanted to listen to him or talk to him or get involved in his ideas.' Brunetti nodded to make it clear that he understood their reluctance, hoping to make Palazzi feel less uncomfortable about speaking of Tassini like this so soon after his death.

  After a reflective, or respectful, pause, Palazzi added, 'And we all sort of felt sorry for him.' In response to Brunetti's inquisitive glance, he added, 'Because he was so clumsy: he was pretty much useless around the fornace. But all l'uomo di notte has to do is toss things in and stir them around, then keep an eye on the miscela and stir it whenever it's necessary.'

  'Did he ask questions about anything else?' Brunetti asked.

  Palazzi thought about this. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and studied the toes of his shoes. Finally he looked at Brunetti and said, 'About a month ago, he asked me about the plumber.'

  'What about him?'

  'Who he was—the one for the factory—and when was the last time he did any work here.'

  'Did you know?' When Palazzi nodded, Brunetti asked, 'What did you tell him?'

  'I told him I thought it was Adil-San—they're over by the Misericordia. It's their boat that comes out for pick-ups or when anything goes wrong: that's what I told him.'

/>   'And when were they last out here?' Brunetti asked, though he had no idea why he was pursuing this.

  'About two months ago, I think, around the time he started working here. The grinding shop was closed for a day while they worked on one of the sedimentation tanks.'

  'Did Tassini know about that?'

  'No: he was working nights, and they were finished and gone by the middle of the afternoon.'

  'I see,' Brunetti said, though he didn't.

  Palazzi looked at his watch. Seeing him shift his weight prior to moving on, Brunetti asked, 'Your boss around?'

  'I saw him come in a while ago. He's probably in his office. Would you like me to find out?'

  'No, thanks,' Brunetti said easily. 'If you'll tell me where it is, I'll find him. It's nothing important, just some bureaucratic questions about Tassini and how long he worked here.'

  Palazzi gave Brunetti a long look and said, 'Odd that the police should send a commissario all the way out here to ask bureaucratic questions, isn't it?' He smiled and Brunetti wondered which of them had been conducting the interrogation.

  He thanked Palazzi again, and the man turned and went back inside the factory. Brunetti followed him through the sliding doors and into the now-familiar gloom of the work space. The open rectangles of the furnaces glared at him from the far end of the room, light-rimmed figures moving around in front of them. He stood and watched them for a few minutes, saw them

  bend carefully forward and slide the canes into the glaring light of the furnaces in the familiar rhythm. Something about the way they moved caught at his memory, but all he saw were men twirling the rods and inserting them into the fire, continuing to rotate them until they pulled them out, never pausing in the constant rotation: precisely what he had seen often over the last few days. He turned away.

  Four doors stood along the right wall. Fasano's name was on the first. Just as he was about to knock, Brunetti realized what he had just seen in the glare of the furnaces. The maestri used their right hands to hold the end of the long rods, levering them from the position of greater strength. The glove and protective sleeves were worn on the left, the side closest to the fire. But Tassini had held his glass, and the phone, with his left hand, so he should have been wearing the sleeve and glove on the right.

  Brunetti knocked, then entered at a shout. Fasano stood by the single window, bent close to something he held towards the light. He was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his attention devoted entirely to the object in his hands.

  'Signor Fasano?' Brunetti asked, though he recognized him from his photos and from their one meeting.

  'Yes’ Fasano answered, glancing across. 'Ah,' he said when he saw Brunetti, 'you're the policeman who's been coming out here, aren't you?'

  'Yes. Guido Brunetti,' he said, choosing to make no reference to the long-ago dinner party.

  'I remember’ Fasano said. 'At the Guzzinis', about five years ago.'

  'You have a good memory’ Brunetti said, which could mean either that he did or he did not recall the meeting.

  Fasano smiled and walked over to his desk. He set the object on it—a tall filigree vase that tapered to a lily-like opening at the top—then came across and offered his hand to Brunetti.

  'How may I help you?' Fasano asked.

  I'd like to ask you about Giorgio Tassini, if I might’ Brunetti said.

  'That poor devil who died over there’ he said, part question, part statement, pointing with his chin in the direction of De Cal's factory. 'It's the first time anyone's been killed out here for as long as I can remember.'

  ' "Out here," meaning Murano, Signore?'

  'Yes. De Cal's never even had a serious accident before this’ Fasano said. Then he added, with something between relief and pride, 'Nor have we.'

  'Tassini hadn't been working for you very long, had he?' Brunetti asked, 'before this happened?'

  Fasano gave him a nervous smile and then said, 'I don't mean to be offensive, Commissario, but I'm not sure I understand why you're asking me these questions.' He paused, then added, 'Instead of De Cal, that is.'

  'I'm trying to get an idea of what Tassini did, Signore. Or, in fact, anything about him that might help me understand what might have happened. I've already spoken to Signor De Cal, and since Tassini also worked for you . . .' Brunetti let the sentence drift away.

  Fasano looked away. Unconsciously mimicking Palazzi's uncertainty, he put his hands in his pockets and studied the floor for some time, then looked at Brunetti squarely and said, 'He was working in nero, Commissario.' He took his hands out of his pockets and raised them in a consciously theatrical gesture. 'You're going to find out sooner or later, so I might as well tell you.'

  'It's nothing that concerns me, Signor Fasano,' Brunetti said with easy grace. 'I'm not interested in how he was paid, only in what may have caused his death; nothing else.'

  Fasano studied Brunetti's face, obviously weighing how much he could trust this man. Finally he said, 'My guess is that he was making glass.' When Brunetti did not respond, he clarified this by adding, 'Objects, that is. Glasses, vases.'

  'Did he know how to?' Brunetti asked.

  'He'd been working next door for years, so I'm sure he'd have picked up the basic skills, yes.'

  'Did you ever see him working the glass? There or here?'

  Fasano shook his head. 'No, I saw almost nothing of him here, after I hired him,' he said, sounding nervous when he used the word 'hired'.

  'He worked nights’ Fasano went on quickly, 'and I'm here only during the day. But it's what most of the men who work the night shift do. They make a piece or two during their shift, let it cool, then take it with them in the morning when they go home. It's pretty much accepted, at least here, by me.'

  'Why?'

  Fasano smiled and said, 'So long as they don't put the name of the vetreria on it or try to sell it as the work of one of the maestri, it's harmless enough. I suppose, over the years, we've all come to turn a blind eye to it, and it's now a sort of thirteenth pay packet for them, certainly for those working the way he was.' He thought about this for a while, then added, 'And from what the men have told me, it sounded like Tassini had a hard time of it, what with his daughter and all, so why not let him do it?' When Brunetti did not comment, Fasano said, 'Besides, without the help of a servente, there really wasn't much he could make except the most simple sort of plate or vase.'

  'Did the other workers know what he was doing?'

  Fasano considered the question, then said, 'My guess is that they would have known. The workers always know everything that's going on.'

  'You sound very untroubled by it.'

  'I told you,' Fasano said, 'he deserved a bit of charity.'

  ‘I see,' Brunetti said, then asked, 'Did he ever talk to you about his theory that his daughter's problems were the result of the working conditions here?'

  'I told you, Commissario: I spoke to him only when I hired him, and he was here just two months.'

  With an easy smile, Brunetti said, 'I'm sorry; I didn't express myself clearly. I know he was here only a short time. I suppose what I should have asked was whether you ever heard talk from anyone that he was saying such things?' When Fasano did not respond, Brunetti gave a complicit smile and said, The workers always know what's going on.'

  Fasano's hands went back into his pockets and he returned his attention to the tips of his shoes. His head still lowered, he finally said, 'I don't like to say these things about him.'

  'There's nothing you can say that can do him any harm, Signore,' Brunetti said.

  Fasano looked up at that. 'Well, then, yes, I did hear talk. That he believed he had breathed in chemicals and minerals while he was working for De Cal and that that was the cause of his daughter's ... of her problems.'

  'Do you think that's possible?'

  'You ask me a difficult question, Commissario,' Fasano said, trying to smile. 'I've looked at the statistics for the workers out here, and I've never seen anything that would suggest... w
ell, that would suggest that what Tassini believed is possible.' He saw Brunetti's reaction and added, 'I'm not a scientist and I'm not a doctor, I know, but this is something that concerns me.'

  'The health of the workers?' Brunetti asked.

  'Yes. Of course’ Fasano said with sudden heat, adding, 'and mine.' He smiled to suggest he was joking. 'But it's not working on Murano that puts them in danger, Commissario: it's working so near to Marghera. You read the papers; you know what's going on at the trial.' Then, with a rueful half-smile, he amended that to, 'Or not going on.' He took a step to his left and raised a hand in the direction of what Brunetti thought was north-west. "The danger's over there,' he said; then, as if unwilling to leave Brunetti in any doubt, specified, 'Marghera.'

  He saw that he had Brunetti's attention and went on, "That's where the pollution comes from; that's what puts my workers at risk.' His voice had grown stronger. "Those are the people who dump and pour and pollute, toss anything they want into the laguna or ship it south to be spread on fields. Not here, believe me.'

  Fasano stopped, as if he had realized how heated his voice had become. He tried to laugh off his enthusiasm but failed. 'I'm sorry if I get excited about this’ he said. 'But I've got kids. And to know what they're pumping into the atmosphere and the water, every day, well, it makes me ... I suppose it makes me a little crazy.'

  'And there's nothing coming from here?' Brunetti asked.

  Fasano answered with a shrug that dismissed the very possibility. "There was never much of a problem with pollution here. But now they've got us so closely watched and measured and weighed, well, there's no chance we could get away with polluting anything.' After a moment, he added, 'For the sake of my children, I'd like to be able to say the same about Marghera, but I can't.'

  Brunetti had built up, over the years, the habit of suspicion, especially when people spoke of their concern for the good of others, but he had to confess, if only to himself, that Fasano sounded very much like Vianello on the subject of pollution. And because of the trust Brunetti had come to invest in the Inspector, Fasano sounded sincere.

  'Could pollution from Marghera have been the cause of Tassini's daughter's problems?' Brunetti asked.