About Face

by Donna Leon

  ‘If they killed him, then they already know that you were, wouldn’t you say?’ Brunetti asked, unwilling to be merciful.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Guarino agreed with some reluctance, then changed it to ‘probably.’ His voice grew a bit stronger. ‘But those are the rules. We can’t do anything that might put her at risk.’

  ‘Of course,’ Brunetti said and stopped himself from observing that that had already been amply taken care of. He returned to his desk. ‘I don’t know how much we’ll be able to help you, but I’ll ask around and have a look at the files. I have to tell you now that no one comes to mind.’ It was implicit, in his use of the term ‘ask around’, that whatever was done beyond the usual search through the files would be done at the casual, private level: men talking to their informers, hinting, chatting in the bars. ‘However,’ Brunetti added, ‘Venice isn’t the best place to search for information about trucking.’

  Guarino glanced at him, seeking sarcasm but finding none. ‘I’ll be grateful for whatever information you can give me,’ he said. ‘We’re at a loss. It’s always this way when we try to work someplace where we don’t know . . .’ Guarino’s voice trailed off.

  It occurred to Brunetti that the other man could as easily have stopped himself from saying ‘who we can trust’ as anything else. ‘It’s strange that he never set it up so that you could have a look at this man,’ he said. ‘After all, you knew about him for a long time.’

  Guarino said nothing.

  There were countless questions to be asked, Brunetti realized. Had a truck even been stopped and the driver asked for papers? What if there was an accident?

  ‘You talked to the drivers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they weren’t very helpful.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It could mean that they drove where they were told to drive and didn’t give it a thought.’ Brunetti’s expression showed how believable he found this, so Guarino added, ‘Or that Ranzato’s murder helped to wipe out their memories.’

  ‘You think it’s worth trying to find out which?’

  ‘My guess is no. People up here don’t have a lot of direct experience with the Camorra, but they’ve already learned not to cause them trouble.’

  ‘If this is the way it is already, then there’s no hope of trying to stop them, is there?’ Brunetti asked.

  Guarino got to his feet and leaned across Brunetti’s desk to shake his hand, saying, ‘You can reach me at the Marghera station.’

  Brunetti shook his hand. ‘I’ll ask around.’

  ‘I’d be grateful.’ Guarino gave Brunetti a long look, nodded as if he believed him, and walked quickly to the door. He let himself out quietly.

  ‘Oh my, oh my, oh my,’ Brunetti muttered to himself. He sat at his desk for some time, thinking over what he had been told, then went down to Signorina Elettra’s office. She looked up from her computer screen as he came in. The winter sun streamed through the window of her office, illuminating the roses he had seen earlier, and her shirt, which managed to make the roses look dingy.

  ‘If you’ve got time, there’s something I’d like to ask you to look into,’ he said.

  ‘For you or for Maggior Guarino?’ she asked.

  ‘For both of us, I think,’ he answered, conscious of the warmth with which she pronounced the other man’s name.

  ‘In December, a man named Stefano Ranzato was killed in his office in Tessera,’ he said. ‘During a robbery.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ she said, then asked, ‘And the Maggiore is in charge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How can I help you both?’ she asked.

  ‘He has reason to believe that his killer might live close to San Marcuola.’ This was not exactly what Guarino had told him, but it was close enough to the truth. ‘The Maggiore, as you noticed, is not Venetian, and it turns out no one else in his squad is.’

  ‘Ah,’ she exclaimed, ‘the infinite wisdom of the Carabinieri.’

  As if he had not heard her, Brunetti went on, ‘They’ve already checked the arrest records for the area around San Marcuola.’

  ‘For violent crime or assault?’ she asked.

  ‘Both, I imagine.’

  ‘Did the Maggiore say anything else about the murderer?’

  ‘That he was about thirty, good–looking, and dressed expensively.’

  ‘Well, that cuts the number down to about a million.’

  Brunetti did not bother to reply.

  ‘San Marcuola, eh?’ she asked. She sat silent for some time; as he waited, he saw her touch her cuff and button it closed. It was after eleven o’clock, yet there was no wrinkle to be seen in either of the stark cuffs of her blouse. Should he warn her to be careful about cutting her wrists on the edges?

  She tilted her head and glanced at the space above Patta’s door while one hand idly unbuttoned and rebuttoned the same cuff. ‘The doctors are a possibility,’ Brunetti said after some time.

  She looked at him in open surprise, then smiled. ‘Ah, of course,’ she said appreciatively. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I don’t know if Barbara . . .’ Brunetti prompted, naming her sister, a doctor, who had in the past spoken to him but had always made a clear distinction between what she could and could not tell the police.

  Signorina Elettra’s answer was immediate. ‘I don’t think we’ll have to ask her. I know two doctors who have offices near there. I’ll ask them. People talk to them, so they might have heard something.’ In response to Brunetti’s look, she said, ‘They’re the ones Barbara would ask, anyway.’

  He nodded and said, ‘I’ll ask down in the squad room.’ The men there usually knew about the lives of the people living in the neighbourhoods they patrolled.

  As he was turning away, Brunetti paused as if remembering something, and said, ‘There’s another thing, Signorina.’

  ‘Yes, Commissario?’

  ‘A part of another investigation, well, not really an investigation, but something I’ve been asked to look into: I’d like you to see what you can find about a businessman here in the city, Maurizio Cataldo.’

  Her ‘ah’ could have meant anything.

  ‘And his wife, as well, if there’s anything about her.’

  ‘Franca Marinello, sir?’ she said, head lowered above the paper on which she had written Cataldo’s name.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything specific?’

  ‘No,’ Brunetti said, then, offhandedly, ‘The usual things: business, investments.’

  ‘Are you interested in their personal life, sir?’

  ‘Not particularly, no,’ Brunetti said, then quickly added, ‘But if you find anything that might be interesting, make a note of it, would you?’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  He thanked her and left.

  6

  On the stairs back to his own office, Brunetti’s thoughts moved away from the unknown dead man to the people he had met at the dinner party the night before. He decided that the business of asking Paola for gossip – perhaps best to be honest with himself and call it what it was – about Cataldo and his wife could be done after lunch.

  January had declared itself unkind this year and had assailed the city with damp and cold. A grey cloud had taken up residence over northern Italy, a cloud that begrudged the mountains snow at the same time as it kept the temperature warm enough for fog but no rain.

  The streets had thus not been washed clean for weeks, though a viscous layer of condensation covered them every night. The one acqua alta, four days before, had done nothing but shift the dirt and grime around without leaving the streets any cleaner. Undispersed by bora or tramontana, the air from the mainland had gradually oozed eastward and now spread across the city, nudging the levels of pollution higher each day, covering Venice in who knew what sort of chemical miasma.

  Paola had responded to the situation by asking them to take their shoes off before coming into the house,
and so the landing in front of their door was rich enough in clues to tell Brunetti that the others had all got home before him. ‘Ah, superdetective,’ he whispered aloud as he bent to untie his shoes; he set them side by side to the left of the door and let himself into the apartment.

  He heard voices from the kitchen and turned towards them, moving silently. ‘But it says in the paper,’ Chiara’s voice was filled with confusion and more than a touch of exasperation, ‘that the levels are beyond the legally permitted limit. That’s what it says here.’ He heard what sounded like a hand slapping against a newspaper.

  ‘What does that mean, “legally permitted”?’ she continued. ‘And if the levels are beyond the legal limit, then who’s supposed to do something about it?’

  Brunetti wanted to eat his lunch in peace and then gossip with his wife. He had little desire to be drawn into a conversation during which he feared he would be held responsible for the law or for what it permitted.

  ‘And if they can’t do anything about it, then what are we supposed to do, stop breathing?’ Chiara concluded, and Brunetti’s interest awoke at the sound of the same tone Paola used for her own most lyrical passages of denunciation and outrage.

  Curious now to learn how the others would respond to her question, he moved closer to the door.

  ‘I’ve got to meet Gerolamo at two-thirty,’ Raffi interrupted in a voice that sounded frivolous in contrast to his sister’s. ‘So I’d really like to eat soon and get some of my calculus done before I leave.’

  ‘The whole world’s collapsing around us, and all you can think about is your stomach,’ a female voice declaimed.

  ‘Oh, come off it, Chiara,’ Raffi said. ‘This is just more of the same old stuff, like giving our pocket money to ave Christian babies when we were in elementary school.’

  ‘There will be no saving of Christian babies in this household,’ a magisterial Paola declared.

  Luckily, both of the children laughed at this, and so Brunetti timed his entrance to follow. ‘Ah, peace and harmony at the table,’ he said, taking his place and turning to look at the pots on the stove across the room. He took a sip of wine, liked it, and took another sip, set the glass down. ‘It is a comfort and a joy to a man to return, after a hard day’s work, to the peaceful bosom of his loving family.’

  ‘It’s only half a day, so far, Papà,’ Chiara said in her deepest referee’s voice, tapping at the crystal of her watch.

  ‘And know that he will never be contradicted,’ Brunetti forged on, ‘and that his every word will be considered a gem of knowledge, his every utterance respected for its wisdom.’

  Chiara moved her plate aside, laid her head on the table, and covered it with her hands. ‘I was kidnapped as a baby and forced to live with lunatics.’

  ‘Only one,’ Paola said, approaching the table with a bowl of pasta. She spooned large helpings into Raffi’s dish and Brunetti’s, a smaller one into her own. By this time, Chiara was sitting upright, her dish back in place in front of her, and Paola filled it in turn with another large portion.

  She set the bowl on the table in front of them, went to the stove and got the cover. The others waited for her. ‘Mangia, mangia,’ she said, approaching the table with the cheese.

  They all waited until she was seated, and no one started eating until the cheese had been passed around.

  Ruote: Brunetti loved ruote. And with the melanzane and ricotta in tomato sauce, they seemed the perfect pasta. ‘Why ruote?’ he asked.

  Paola seemed surprised. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why do you use ruote with this sauce?’ Brunetti clarified, spearing one of the wheel-like pastas and holding it up to examine it more closely.

  She looked at her plate, as if surprised to find that particular shape of pasta there. ‘Because . . .’ Paola began, then prodded at the many-spoked pasta with the tip of her own fork. ‘Because . . .’

  She set her fork down and took a sip of wine. She glanced across at Brunetti and said, ‘I’ve no idea, but it’s what I’ve always used. It’s just that ruote are right for this sort of sauce.’ Then, with real concern, ‘Don’t you like them?’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ he said. ‘They seem entirely right to me, but I don’t know why that is, and I wondered if you did.’

  ‘I suppose the truth is that Luciana always used ruote with tomato sauces that had little pieces in them.’ She speared a few and held them up. ‘I can’t think of a better explanation.’

  ‘May I have some more?’ Raffi asked, though the others at the table had eaten less than half of their portions. For him, the shape of any pasta was secondary to its quantity.

  ‘Of course,’ Paola said. ‘There’s plenty.’

  As Raffi served himself, Brunetti asked, knowing he would probably regret doing so, ‘What were you saying when I came in, Chiara? Something about legal limits?’

  ‘The micropolveri,’ Chiara said, continuing to eat. ‘The Professoressa talked about it at school today, that there are all these tiny little particles of rubber and chemical and God knows what, and they’re all trapped in the air, and we breathe them in.’

  Brunetti nodded and served himself a bit more pasta.

  ‘So I read the paper when I got home, and it said . . .’ she set down her fork and reached to the floor to retrieve the newspaper. It was folded open at the article, and Chiara’s eyes skimmed to the passage she meant. ‘Here it is,’ she said and read aloud: ‘. . . blah, blah, blah, “the micropolveri have risen to a point fifty times the legal limit”.’

  She dropped the paper back to the floor and looked across at her father. ‘That’s what I don’t understand: if the limit is a legal limit, then what happens when it’s fifty times as much?’

  ‘Or, for that matter, twice as much,’ Paola added.

  Brunetti put his fork down and said, ‘That’s a problem for the Protezione Civile, I’d say.’

  ‘Can they arrest anyone?’ Chiara demanded.

  ‘I don’t think so, no,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘Make them pay a fine?’

  ‘Not that either, I think.’

  ‘Then what’s the purpose of having a legal limit, if you can’t do anything to people who break the law?’ Chiara demanded in an angry voice.

  Brunetti had loved this child from the instant he learned of her existence, since the moment Paola told him she was expecting their second child. All of that love stood between Brunetti and the temptation to tell her that they lived in a country where nothing much ever happened to anyone who broke the law.

  Instead, he said, ‘I suppose the Protezione Civile will file a formal denuncia, and someone will be asked to investigate.’ The same impulse that had silenced his previous comment helped him refrain from observing that it would prove impossible to find a single offender, not when most factories did what they wanted, and the engines of docked cruise ships poured out whatever they pleased for as long as they stayed.

  ‘But they’ve already investigated, or how else did they get those numbers?’ Chiara demanded, as if she held him responsible, and then immediately repeated, ‘And what are we supposed to do until they do investigate, stop breathing?’

  Brunetti felt a surge of delight to hear his wife’s rhetorical devices echoed in his daughter’s voice, even that old warhorse of logic, the rhetorical question. Ah, she would cause a lot of trouble, this child, if only she could keep her passion and her sense of outrage.

  Some time later, Paola came into the living room with coffee. She handed him a cup, saying, ‘There’s sugar in it’, and sat down next to him. The second section of Il Gazzettino lay open on the table where Brunetti had set it down, and Paola inquired, with a nod in its direction, ‘What revelations does it bring us today?’

  ‘Two city administrators are under investigation for corruption,’ Brunetti said and sipped at his coffee.

  ‘They’ve chosen to ignore the rest of them, then?’ she asked. ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘The prisons are full.’

  ‘Ah
.’ Paola finished her coffee. She set her cup down and said, ‘I’m glad you didn’t toss oil on the fires of Chiara’s enthusiasm.’

  ‘It didn’t sound to me,’ Brunetti replied, setting his own empty cup on the face of the Prime Minister, ‘as if she needed any encouragement.’ He sat back, thought about his daughter for a while, and said, ‘I’m glad she’s so angry.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Paola said, ‘though I suppose we’d better disguise our approval.’

  ‘You really think that’s necessary? After all, she probably got it from us.’

  ‘I know,’ Paola admitted, ‘but it’s still wiser not to let her know.’ She studied his face for a moment, then added, ‘Truth to tell, I’m surprised you approve; well, that you do so strongly.’

  She laid her hand on his thigh, patted it twice. ‘You let her rave on, and I could almost hear you ticking off the errors in logic she used.’

  ‘Your very own favourite, argumentum ad absurdum,’ Brunetti said with unconcealed pride.

  Paola had a particularly idiotic smile on her face as she turned to him. ‘It is my heart’s delight, that one.’

  ‘You think we’re doing a good thing?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Raising them to be so clever in argument?’

  Brunetti’s tone, light as he tried to make it, failed to disguise his real concern. ‘After all, if a person doesn’t know the rules of logic, it will sound as if they’re being sarcastic, and that’s not something people like.’

  ‘Especially when they hear it from a teenager,’ Paola added. After a moment, as if trying to ease his fears, she offered, ‘Very few people pay attention to what anyone else says during a discussion, anyway. So maybe we don’t have to worry.’

  They sat silent for some time until she said, ‘I spoke to my father today, and he told me he has three days to decide about this thing with Cataldo. He asked me if you’d managed to find out anything about him.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Brunetti said, biting back the impulse to say it had been less than twenty-four hours since he had been asked to do it.

  ‘Do you want me to tell him that?’