by Donna Leon
‘No, Riccardo, it’s about one of yours, a Milanese. Viscardi. I don’t even know his first name, but he’s in armaments, and he’s just finished spending a fortune restoring a palazzo here.’
‘Augusto,’ Fosco replied instantly, then repeated the name for the sheer beauty of it, ‘Augusto Viscardi.’
‘That was quick,’ Brunetti said.
‘Oh, yes. Signer Viscardi’s is a name I hear quite often.’
‘And what sort of things do you hear?’
‘The munitions factories are out in Monza. There are four of them. The word is he had enormous contracts with Iraq, in fact, with a number of countries in the Middle East. Somehow, he managed to continue deliveries even during the war, through the Yemen, I think,’ Fosco paused for a moment, then added, ‘But I’ve heard that he had trouble during the war.’
‘What sort of trouble?’Brunetti asked.
‘Well, not enough to do him serious harm, or at least that’s what I heard. None of those factories closed during the war, and I don’t mean only his. From what I’ve heard, the whole zone remained at full production. There’ll always be someone to buy what they make.’
‘But what was the trouble he had?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to make some calls out here. But the rumours were that he got hit pretty hard. Most of them make sure the payments are made in some place safe like Panama or Lichtenstein before they make delivery, but Viscardi had been doing business with them for so long - I think he even went there a few times, talked to the boss man - that he didn’t bother, sure he’d be given best-dealer treatment.’
‘And that didn’t happen?’
‘No, that didn’t happen. A lot of the stuff got blown up before it was delivered. I think a whole shipload might have been hijacked by pirates in the Gulf. Let me call around, Guido. I’ll get back to you soon, within an hour.’
‘Is there anything personal?’
‘Nothing I’ve heard, but I’ll ask.’
‘Thanks, Riccardo.’
‘Can you tell me what this is about?’
Brunetti saw no reason why he couldn’t. ‘His place was robbed last night, and he walked in on the robbery. He couldn’t identify the three men, but he knew what three paintings they took.’
‘Sounds like Viscardi,’ Fosco said.
‘Is he that stupid?’
‘No, he’s not stupid, not at all. But he is arrogant, and he’s willing to take chances. It’s those two things that have made him his fortune.’ Fosco’s voice changed. ‘Sorry, Guido, I’ve got a call on another line. I’ll call you later this morning, all right?’
‘Thanks, Riccardo,’ he repeated, but before he could add, ‘I appreciate it.’ the line was dead.
The secret of police success lay, Brunetti knew, not in brilliant deductions or the psychological manipulation of suspects but in the simple fact that human beings tended to assume that their own level of intelligence was the norm, the standard, and to work on that assumption. Hence the stupid were quickly caught, for their idea of what was cunning was so lamentably impoverished as to make them obvious prey. This same rule, unfortunately, made his job all the more difficult when he had to deal with criminals possessed of intelligence or courage.
During the next hour, Brunetti called down to Vianello and got the name of the insurance agent who had asked to inspect the scene of the crime. When he finally found the man at his office, he assured Brunetti that the paintings were all genuine and had all disappeared in the robbery. Copies of papers of authenticity were on his desk, even as they spoke. The current value of the three paintings? Well, they were insured for a total of five billion lire, but their current real market value had perhaps increased in the last year, with the rise in prices for Impressionists. No, there had never been a robbery before. Some jewellery had also been taken, but it was nothing in value when compared to the paintings: a few hundred million lire. Ah, how sweet the world in which a few hundred million lire were viewed as nothing.
By the time he was finished talking to the agent, Rossi was back from the hospital, telling him that Signor Viscardi had been very surprised to see the picture of Ruffolo. He had quickly overcome that emotion, however, and said that the photo bore no resemblance to either of the two men he had seen, now insistent, upon further reflection, that there had been only two.
‘What do you think?’ Brunetti asked.
There was no uncertainty in Rossi’s voice when he answered, ‘He’s lying. I don’t know what else he’s lying about, but he’s lying about not knowing Ruffolo. He couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d shown him a picture of his own mother.’
‘I guess that means I’ll go over and have a talk with Ruffolo’s mother.’ Brunetti said.
‘Would you like me to go down to the supply room and get you a bullet-proof vest?’ Rossi asked with a laugh.
‘No, Rossi, the widow Ruffolo and I are on the best of terms now. After I spoke up for him at the trial, she decided to forgive and forget. She even smiles when she sees me on the street.’ He didn’t mention that he had gone to see her a few times during the last two years, apparently the only person in the city who had.
‘Lucky you. Does she talk to you, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘In Siciliano?’
‘I don’t think she knows how to speak anything else.’
‘How much do you understand?’
‘About half,’ Brunetti answered, then added, for truth’s sake, ‘but only if she talks very, very slowly.’ Though Signora Ruffolo could not be said to have adapted to life in Venice, she had, in her own way, become part of the police legend of the city, a woman who would attack a commissario of police to protect her son.
Soon after Rossi left, Fosco called back. ‘Guido, I spoke to a few people here. The word is that he lost a fortune in the Gulf business. A ship that was carrying an entire cargo - and no one knew what was in the cargo - disappeared, probably taken by pirates. Because the boycott was in effect, he couldn’t get insurance.’
‘So he lost the whole lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any idea how much?’
‘No one’s sure. I’ve heard estimates that range from five to fifteen billion, but no one could give me an exact amount. In any case, the word is thathe managed to hold things together for a while, but now he’s got serious cash-flow problems. One friend of mine at Corriere said Viscardi’s really got nothing to worry about because he’s tied into some sort of government contract. And he’s got holdings in other countries. My contact wasn’t certain where. Do you want me to try to find out more?’
Signor Viscardi was beginning to sound to Brunetti like any one of the rising generation of businessmen, those who had replaced hard work with boldness, and honesty with connections. ‘No, I don’t think so, Riccardo. I just wanted to get an idea of whether he’d try something like this.’
‘And?’
‘Well, it looks like he might be in a position to want to give it a try, doesn’t it?’
Fosco offered a bit more information. ‘The word is that he’s very well connected, but the person I spoke to wasn’t sure just how. Do you want me to ask around some more?’
‘Did it sound like it might be Mafia?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It looks that way.’ Fosco gave a resigned laugh. ‘But when doesn’t it? It seems, though, that he’s also connected to people in the government.’
Brunetti resisted, in his turn, the temptation to ask when didn’t it sound that way and, instead, asked, ‘What about his personal life?’
‘He’s got a wife and a couple of kids here. She’s some sort of den mother for the Knights of Malta - you know, charity balls and visits to hospitals. And a mistress in Verona; I think it’s Verona. Some place out your way.’
‘You said he’s arrogant.’
‘Yes. A few people I spoke to say he’s more than that.’
‘What does that mean?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Two said he could be dangerous.’
‘Personally?’
‘You mean, will he pull a knife?’ Fosco asked with a laugh.
‘Something like that.’
‘No, that’s not the impression I got. Not personally, at any rate. But he likes to take chances; at least that’s the reputation he has here. And, as I said, he’s a very well-protected man, and he has no hesitation about asking his friends to help him.’ Fosco paused for a moment and then added, ‘One person I spoke to was even more outspoken, but he wouldn’t tell me anything exact. He just said that anyone who dealt with Viscardi should be very careful.’
Brunetti decided to treat this last lightly and said, ‘I’m not afraid of knives.’
Fosco’s response was immediate. ‘I used not to be afraid of machine guns, Guido.’ Then, embarrassed at the remark; he added, ‘I mean it, Guido, be careful with him.’
‘All right, I will. And thanks,’ he said, then added, ‘I still haven’t heard anything, but when I do, I’ll let you know,’ Most of the police who knew Fosco had put out the word that they were interested in knowing who had done the shooting and who had done the sending, but whoever it was had been very cautious, knowing how well-liked Fosco was with the police, and years had passed in silence. Brunetti believed it was hopeless, but he still asked the occasional question, dropped a hint here and there, spoke vaguely to suspects about the chance of a trade-off in exchange for the information he wanted. But, in all these years, he had never got close.
‘I appreciate it, Guido. But I’m not so sure it’s all that important any more.’ Was this wisdom or resignation he was hearing.
‘Why?’
‘I’m getting married.’ Love, then, better than either.
‘Congratulations, Riccardo. Who?’
‘I don’t think you know her, Guido. She works on the magazine, but she’s just been here a year or so.’
‘When is it?’
‘Next month.’
Brunetti didn’t bother with false promises to try to attend, but he spoke from the heart when he said, ‘I hope you’ll both be happy, Riccardo.’
‘Thanks, Guido. Look, if I hear anything more about this guy, I’ll call, all right?’
‘I’d appreciate it.’ With more good wishes for the future, Brunetti said goodbye and hung up; Could it be this simple? Could his business losses have driven Viscardi to organize something as rash as a fake robbery? Only a stranger to Venice could have chosen Ruffolo, a young man infinitely better at being caught than at being criminal. But perhaps the fact that he was so recently out of prison had served as sufficient recommendation.
There was nothing more he could do here today, and Patta would be the first to scream police brutality if a millionaire was questioned on the same day by three different policemen, especially if the questioning took place while the man was still in hospital. There was no sense in going to Vicenza on a day when the American offices would be closed, though it might be easier to defy Patta’s order if he went in his own time. No, let the doctor swim towards the bait until next week, when he could easily give another gentle tug on the line. For today, he would drop his line in Venetian waters and go after different prey.
Signora Concetta Ruffolo lived, her son Giuseppe sharing it with her during those brief periods when he was not incarcerated, in a two-room apartment near Campo San Boldo, an area of the city characterized by proximity to the severed tower of that church, to no convenient vaporetto stop, and, if one is but willing to expand the definition of the word ‘proximity’, to the church of San Simeone Piccolo, where Sunday Mass is still said, in open protest to concepts such as modernity or relevance, in Latin. The widow lived in an apartment owned by a public foundation, IRE, which rents its many apartments to those people judged sufficiently needy to be awarded them. Often, they were given to Venetians; how Signora Ruffolo had been given one remained a mystery, though no mystery surrounded the reality of her need.
Brunetti crossed the Rialto Bridge and went down past San Cassiano, then cut to his left, soon to find the squat tower of San Boldo on his right. He turned into a narrow calle and stopped in front of a low building. The name ‘Ruffolo’ was engraved in delicate script on a metal nameplate to the right of the bell; rust streaked down from both and discoloured the plaster that slowly peeled from the front wall of the building. He rang the bell, waited a moment, rang it again, waited, and rang it a third time.
A full two minutes after his last ring, he heard a voice ask from inside, ‘Si, chi è?’
‘It’s me, Signora Concetta. Brunetti.’
The door was quickly pulled open and, looking into the dark hall, he had his usual sensation that he was looking at a barrel and not a woman. Signora Concetta, her family history recounted, had forty years ago been the reigning beauty of Caltanisetta. Young men, it was maintained, would spend hours walking up and down Corso Vittorio Emmanuele in the hope of no more than a glimpse of the fair Concetta. She could have had her pick of them, from the mayor’s son to the doctor’s younger brother, but instead she had chosen the third son of the family which had once ruled the entire province with an iron fist. She had become a Ruffolo by marriage, and when Annuziato’s debts had driven them from Sicily, she had become an alien in this cold and inhospitable city. And, in quick succession, she had become a widow, living on a pension paid by the State and the charity of her husband’s family, and, even before Giuseppe could finish school, she had become the mother of a felon.
From the day of her husband’s death, to which event her emotional response was unfathomable, even to her son, perhaps even to her herself - she had clothed herself solidly in black: dress, shoes, stockings, even a scarf for those times she left the house. Though she grew stouter with the years, her face more lined with the grief of her son’s life, the black remained unchanged: she would wear it to her grave, perhaps beyond.
‘Buon giorno, Signora Concetta,’ Brunetti said, smiling and offering her his hand
He watched her face, read her expression as a child would the quickly-turning pages of a comic book. There was the instant recognition, the instinctive chill of disgust at what he represented, but then he saw her remember the kindness he had shown to her son, her star, her sun, and with that her face softened and her mouth turned up in a smile of real pleasure. ‘Ah, Dottore, you’ve come to visit me again. How nice, how nice. But you should have called so that I could give the house a real cleaning, make you some fresh pastries.’ He understood ‘called’, ‘house’, ‘cleaning’, and ‘pastries’, so he constructed her speech to mean that.
‘Signora, a cup of your good coffee is more than I could hope to have.’
‘Come in, come in,’ she said, putting her hand under his arm and pulling him towards her. She backed through the open door of her apartment, keeping her hold on his arm, as if she were afraid he would try to escape her.
When they were inside the apartment, she closed the door with one hand and continued to pull him forward with the other. The apartment was so small that no one could be lost in it, and yet she kept her hand on his arm and led him into the small living room. ‘Take this chair, Dottore,’ she said, leading him to an overstuffed armchair covered in shiny orange cloth, where she finally released him. When he hesitated, she insisted, ‘Sit, sit. I’ll make us some coffee.’
He did as she commanded, sinking down until his knees were on a level almost with his chin. She switched on the light that stood beside his chair; the Ruffolos lived in the endless twilight of ground-floor apartments, but even lights at midday could do nothing to work against the damp.
‘Don’t move,’ she commanded and went to the other side of the room, where she pushed aside a flowered curtain, behind which lay a sink and stove. From his side of the room, he could see that the taps gleamed and the surface of the stove was almost radiant in its whiteness. She opened a cabinet and pulled down the straight cylindrical espresso pot he always associated with the South, he didn’t know why. She unscrewed it, rinsed it carefully, rinsed it again, filled it with
water, and then reached down a glass canister filled with coffee. With gestures grown rhythmic with decades of repetition, she filled the pot, lit the stove, and placed the pot over the flame.
The room was unchanged from the last time he was there. Yellow plastic flowers stood in front of the plaster statue of the Madonna; embroidered lace ovals, rectangles, and circles covered every surface; on top of them stood ranks of family photos, in all of which appeared Peppino: Peppino dressed as a tiny sailor, Peppino in the brilliant white of his First Communion, Peppino held on the back of a donkey, grinning through his fear. In all of the photos, the child’s outsized ears were visible, making him look almost like a cartoon figure. In one corner stood what could only be described as a shrine to her late husband: their wedding photo, in which Brunetti could see her long-gone beauty; her husband’s walking stick propped in a corner, ivory knob aglow even in this dim light; his lupara, its deadly short barrels kept polished and oiled, more than a decade after his death, as if even death had not freed him from the need to live up to the cliché of the Sicilian male, ever ready to defend with his shotgun any offence to his honour or his family.
