Through A Glass Darkly

by Donna Leon

  "Ah, Commissario’ she said, as he held the door open for her, 'I'm afraid I've got bad news for you.'

  Her smile denied that, and so Brunetti asked, 'Which is?'

  'I'm afraid you didn't win the lottery.'

  'Lottery?' Brunetti asked, distracted by the lilacs and by the sudden warmth in the air as they stepped outside.

  'The Vice-Questore's received his letter from Interpol.' She wiped away her smile and said, 'I'm afraid he was not selected for the job in England.'

  They were standing still, the light reflecting onto their faces from the canal. 'That news is that nation's loss, I fear,' Brunetti said in a suitably serious voice.

  She smiled and said that she was sure the Vice-Questore would be strong, then turned in the opposite direction and walked away.

  Brunetti noticed Foa standing on the deck of his boat, following Signorina Elettra with his eyes. When she turned the corner, the pilot returned his attention to Brunetti. 'Give you a ride somewhere, sir?' he asked.

  'Not on duty?' Brunetti asked.

  'Not until two, when I have to pick up the Vice-Questore at Harry's Bar.'

  'Ah,' muttered Brunetti in acknowledgement of the appropriateness of his taste. 'Until then?'

  'I suppose I should stay here and wait to see if there are any calls’ the pilot said, his heart not in it, 'but I'd rather you asked me to take you somewhere. It's such a beautiful day.'

  Brunetti raised a hand to shield his eyes from the young sun. 'Yes, it is,' he agreed, succumbing to the contagion of Foa's restlessness. 'How about up the Grand Canal?' he asked for no real reason.

  As they passed Harry's Bar, where Patta sat with some presumably powerful personage, Brunetti began to notice the return to life taking place in the gardens on either side of the canal. Crocuses tried to hide themselves under evergreens; daffodils didn't even bother. The magnolia would be out in a week, he noticed; sooner if it would only rain.

  He saw the plaque marking the home of Lord Byron, a man who, like the young Brunetti, had once swum in these waters. No more.

  'You want to go out to Sacca Serenella?' Foa asked with a glance at his watch. 'Lunch there and back on time?'

  "Thanks, Foa, but I don't think I'll be going out there again. At least not for work.'

  'Yeah, I read about it, and Vianello told me a bit,' Foa said, waving at a gondoliere who passed at some distance in front of them. 'So they get to pollute all they want and get away with it?'

  "The pipes in Fasano's factory were shut off, no one knows when. Could have been years ago,' Brunetti explained. 'And there's no evidence that he knew anything about it. Might have been his father; might even have been his grandfather.'

  'Cheap bastards, each and every one of them, Foa said.

  'Says who?'

  Foa took one hand from the wheel, unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie in homage to the sun. 'The father of a friend of mine who lives out there: he knew them both, the father and grandfather. And an uncle of mine who worked for the father. Said they'd do anything to save fifty lire.' As an afterthought and with the beginning of a laugh, he added, 'And a friend of mine I was at school with.'

  'What's so funny?' Brunetti asked, attention on the trees in a garden to his left.

  'He's a captain with ACTV now’ Foa said with a residual chuckle. 'Lives on Murano, so he knows Fasano, and his father knew the father, and so on.' This sort of familiarity was common enough, and Brunetti acknowledged it with a nod.

  'He told me a couple of days ago that he had Fasano on his boat about a week ago, trying to dodge the fare. Got on without a ticket, then tried to say he forgot to stamp it. But he didn't have a ticket to stamp in the first place.'

  "The captain checks them?' Brunetti asked, wondering who, if this were the case, had been left to drive the boat.

  'No, no, the guys who check the tickets. Usually they only work during the day, but the last month or so they've been checking tickets at night because that's when people don't expect to be checked.' Foa broke off to shout a greeting to a man passing in a transport boat riding low in the water, and Brunetti thought the topic was over.

  But Fao continued. 'Anyway, he recognized Fasano, who was standing on deck when it happened, and after the route was finished—because he knew who he was—he asked the ticket checkers what he'd said. Usual stuff: I forgot to stamp my ticket, forgot to ask to buy one when I got on board. But they've heard it all,' Foa said with another laugh. 'One of them once had a woman say she was on the way to the hospital to have a baby'

  'What happened?'

  'He made her open her coat, and she was as thin as . . .' Foa began, glancing at Brunetti. 'As thin as I am’ he finished.

  Perhaps to cover the awkward pause, Foa went back to his original story. 'So they asked to see his identity card, but he said he didn't have it with him. Left his wallet at home. But then he found some money and paid the fine right then. Nando said Fasano was so cheap he thought he'd give his name and then try to get some friend of his to fix it for him, but he paid right then before they could take his name and send him a notice and the fine.'

  Brunetti turned his head from the contemplation of the progress of spring and asked, 'What boat?'

  'The 42’ Foa said, 'going out to his factory.'

  'At night?'

  'Yes. That's what Nando said.'

  'Did he say what time it was?' Brunetti asked.

  'Huh?' Foa asked, coming up behind a transport boat and slipping past it.

  'Did he say what time it happened?'

  'Not that I remember. But they usually knock off at midnight, guys on that shift’ Foa said, with a long toot on his horn at the boat they were passing.

  'Exactly when was this?' Brunetti asked.

  'Last week some time, I'd say,' Foa answered. 'At least that's what Nando said. Why?'

  'Could you check?'

  'I suppose so. If he'd remember’ Foa said, puzzled by his superior's sudden curiosity.

  'Could you call him?'

  'When?'

  'Now.'

  If he found this request strange, Foa gave no sign of it. He pulled out his telefonino and punched some numbers, studied the screen, then punched in some more.

  'Ciao, Nando’ he said. 'Yeah, it's me, Paolo.' There was a long pause, after which Foa continued, 'I'm at work, but I've got to ask you something. Remember you said you had Fasano on a boat last week, when he got a fine for not having a ticket? Yes. Do you remember what night it was?' There followed a silence, after which Foa pressed the receiver to his chest and said, 'He's checking his schedule.'

  'When he comes back, ask him what time it was, please’ Brunetti said.

  The pilot nodded and wedged the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and Brunetti looked at the facade of Ca' Farsetti, the city hall. How lovely it was, white and permanent, with flags snapping in the wind in front of it. To govern Venice was no longer to govern the Adriatic and the East, but it was still something.

  'Yes, I'm still here,' Foa said into the phone. Tuesday? You sure?' he asked. 'And what time? You remember that?' There was a short pause and then Foa said, 'No, that's all. Thanks, Nando. Give me a call, all right?' There were a few more words of affectionate friendship, and then Foa slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  'You hear that, sir? Tuesday.'

  'Yes, I heard, Foa.' The night Tassini died, the night Fasano, during his interrogation— videotaped and the transcript signed by Fasano—said he had been away from the city. 'And what time?'

  'He says it was some time close to midnight, but the exact time would be on the receipt for the fine he paid.'

  'His receipt?' Brunetti asked, breathing a silent prayer that this would not be the only copy.

  'Sure, on his. Cheap bastard will probably try to take it off his taxes somehow—say it was a business trip or something. But the time'll be on the copy in the ACTV office, too.'

  'With his name on it?'

  'No, Nando said he didn't give his name: just paid the
fine. But one of the ticket collectors recognized him, too. He and Nando laughed about it after he got off.'

  Their boat passed under the Rialto Bridge, entered the sweep that would take them past the market and then up to the third bridge. After a few moments, Brunetti looked at his watch and saw that it was a little after one.

  'If you don't mind turning around, Foa, I'd like you to take me to Harry's Bar.'

  'You going to join the Vice-Questore for lunch?' Foa asked, slowing the motor and looking behind him to see when he could make the turn.

  Brunetti waited, unwilling to distract the pilot during this manoeuvre. Finally the turn was made and Brunetti was going in the right direction. 'No, as a matter of fact,' Brunetti said with the beginnings of a smile, 'I think I'm going to ruin the Vice-Questore's lunch.'