About Face

by Donna Leon

  Sergio saw him come in and, instead of his usual smile, narrowed his eyes and moved his chin minimally to the right, in the direction of the booths near the window. In the last one, Brunetti made out the back of a man’s head; narrow skull, short hair. The angle was such that he could see, opposite the first man and facing him, the halo of another man’s head; wider, with longer hair. He recognized those ears, pressed down and out by years spent under a policeman’s cap. Alvise: and that identified the back of Lieutenant Scarpa’s head. Ah, so much for the idea that Alvise would return to the flock and mingle again as an equal with his fellow officers.

  Approaching the bar, Brunetti gave Sergio an equally minimal nod and asked quietly for a coffee. Something in Alvise’s expression must have alerted Scarpa, who turned and saw Brunetti. Scarpa’s face remained impassive, but Brunetti saw that Alvise’s face was crossed by something stronger than surprise – guilt, perhaps? The machine hissed, then a cup and saucer rattled and slid across the zinc bar.

  None of them spoke; Brunetti nodded at the two men, turned back to the bar and ripped open a packet of sugar. He poured it into his coffee and stirred it around slowly, asked Sergio for the newspaper, and spread the Il Gazzettino on the counter beside him. He decided to wait them out and settled in to read.

  He glanced at the first page, where the world outside Venice was referred to, then skipped over to page seven, lacking the mental energy – and the stomach – to endure the five pages of political chatter; one could hardly call it news. The same faces had been appearing and the same things happening, the same promises made – with a few minimal variations in cast and title – for the last forty years. The lapels of their jackets expanded and narrowed as fashion dictated, but those same front trotters remained in the trough. They opposed this, and they opposed that, and by their selfless efforts they vowed to bring the current government crashing down. So that what? So that, next year, he could stand at the bar and drink a coffee and read the same words, now in the mouths of the new opposition?

  It was almost with relief that he turned the page. The woman convicted of infanticide, still at home, still crying out her innocence through the mouths of yet another legal team. And who now responsible in her mind for the murder of her son – extraterrestrials? More flowers placed at the curve in the road where four more teenagers had died a week before. Yet more uncollected garbage filling the streets in the suburbs of Naples. Another worker crushed to death by heavy equipment at his workplace. Another judge transferred away from the city where he had begun an investigation of a cabinet minister.

  Brunetti slid the Venezia section out from under the first. A fisherman from Chioggia, arrested for assault after coming home drunk and attacking a neighbour with a knife. Yet more protests against the damage done by the cruise ships using the Giudecca Canal. Two more vendors going out of business at the fish market. Another five-star hotel to open next week. The mayor denounces the increased number of tourists.

  Brunetti pointed down to the last two articles. ‘Lovely: the city administration can’t give out licences for hotels fast enough, and when they’re not busy with that, they’re denouncing the number of tourists,’ he said to Sergio.

  ‘Vottá á petrella, e tirá á manella,’ Sergio said, looking up from the glass he was drying.

  ‘What’s that, Neapolitan?’ asked a surprised Brunetti.

  ‘Yes,’ Sergio answered, and translated: ‘Throw the stone, then hide the hand.’

  Brunetti laughed out loud, then said, ‘I don’t know why one of these new political parties doesn’t take that as its motto. It’s perfect: you do it, then you hide the evidence that you did it. Wonderful.’ He continued to laugh, something in the honesty of the phrase having touched him with delight.

  He sensed motion on his left, then heard the men’s feet as they pushed themselves out of the benches. He turned the page, allowing his attention to be caught by the news of the farewell party given at Giacinto Gallina for a third-grade teacher who was leaving after teaching forty years in the same school.

  ‘Good morning, Commissario,’ Alvise said in a small voice from behind him.

  ‘Morning, Alvise,’ Brunetti said, tearing his eyes away from the photo of the party and turning to greet the officer.

  Scarpa, as if to emphasize the equality resulting from their superior rank, limited himself to a curt nod, which Brunetti returned before turning his attention back to the party. The children had brought flowers and home-baked cookies.

  When the two were gone, Brunetti folded closed the paper and asked, ‘They come in here often?’

  ‘Couple of times a week, I’d say.’

  ‘Always like that?’ Brunetti asked, gesturing towards the two men walking side by side back towards the Questura.

  ‘Like it’s their first date, you mean?’ Sergio asked, turning to place the glass carefully upside down on the counter behind him.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Been that way for about six months. In the beginning, the Lieutenant was sort of stand-offish and made poor Alvise work hard to please him.’ Sergio picked up another glass, held it up to the light to check for spots, and began to wipe it dry. ‘Poor fool, couldn’t see what Scarpa was doing.’ Then he interjected, conversationally, ‘Real bastard, that one is.’

  Brunetti pushed his cup closer to the barman, who took it and placed it in the sink.

  ‘You have any idea what they talk about?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘I don’t think it matters. Not really.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘All Scarpa wants is power. He wants poor Alvise to jump when he says “frog” and smile whenever he says something he thinks is funny.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sergio’s shrug was eloquent. ‘As I said, because he’s a bastard. And because he needs someone to push around and someone who will treat him like a big shot important Lieutenant, not like the rest of you, who have the sense to treat him like the nasty little shit he is.’

  At no time in this conversation did it occur to Brunetti that he was inciting a civilian to speak badly of a member of the forces of order. If truth be told, he thought Scarpa a nasty little shit, too, so the civilian was merely reinforcing the received wisdom of the forces of order themselves.

  Changing the subject, Brunetti asked, ‘Anyone call me yesterday?’

  Sergio shook his head. ‘Only person who called here yesterday was my wife, telling me that if I didn’t get home by ten, there’d be trouble, and my accountant, telling me I was already in trouble.’

  ‘With?’

  ‘With the health inspector.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t have a bathroom for handicapped people. I mean people with different abilities.’ He rinsed the cup and saucer and slipped them into the dishwasher behind him.

  ‘I’ve never seen a handicapped person in here,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘Neither have I. Neither has the health inspector. Doesn’t change the rule that says I’ve got to have a toilet for them.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Handrail. Different seat, button on the wall to make it flush.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Because it will cost me eight thousand Euros to get it changed, that’s why.’

  ‘That sounds like an awful lot of money.’

  ‘It includes permissions,’ Sergio said elliptically.

  Brunetti chose not to follow that up and said only, ‘I hope you can stay out of trouble.’ He put a Euro on the counter, thanked Sergio, and went back to his office.

  14

  Griffoni was just coming out of the Questura as Brunetti approached. Seeing her, he gave a friendly wave and quickened his pace. But by the time he reached her, he had seen that something was wrong. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Patta’s looking for you. He called down and asked where you were. He said he couldn’t find Vianello, so he told me to find you.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘He won’t tell
me.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Worse than I’ve ever heard him.’

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘No, not angry, not really,’ she answered, as if surprised at the realization. ‘Well, sort of, but it’s as if he knows he’s not allowed to be angry. It’s more like he’s frightened.’

  Brunetti started towards the door of the Questura, Griffoni falling into step beside him. There was nothing he could think of to ask her. Patta was far more dangerous frightened than angry, and they both knew it. Anger usually rose from other people’s incompetence, while it was only the thought that he might himself be at risk that brought Patta close to fear, and that heightened the risk for anyone else who might be involved.

  Inside, they went up the first ramp of steps together, and Brunetti asked, ‘Does he want to see you, too?’

  Griffoni shook her head and, with a look of undisguised relief, went to her office, leaving Brunetti to turn towards Patta’s.

  There was no sign of Signorina Elettra, probably already at lunch, so Brunetti knocked on the door and went in.

  A sober-faced Patta sat at his desk, hands clenched into fists on the desk in front of him. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Questioning a witness, sir,’ Brunetti lied. ‘Commissario Griffoni told me you wanted to see me. What is it?’ He balanced concern and urgency in his voice.

  ‘Sit down, sit down. Don’t stand there gaping at me,’ Patta said.

  Brunetti took his place directly in front of the Vice-Questore but said nothing.

  ‘I’ve had a call,’ Patta began. He glanced at Brunetti, who did his best to produce a look of eager attention, then went on, ‘About that man who was here the other day.’

  ‘Do you mean Maggior Guarino, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Guarino. Whatever he called himself.’ Patta’s voice had grown more strident after he said the name, Guarino the source of his anger. ‘Stupid bastard,’ Patta muttered, sur-prising Brunetti by his unaccustomed use of bad language, but not making it clear whether he was referring to Guarino or the person who had called about him.

  Guarino had perhaps not been telling the complete truth, but he was by no means stupid, nor did Brunetti think he was a bastard. But Brunetti made no mention of these judgements and asked, voice level, ‘What’s happened, sir?’

  ‘He’s got himself killed: that’s what’s happened. Shot in the back of the head,’ Patta said with no diminution of his anger, though it seemed now to be aimed at Guarino for having been killed. Murdered.

  Possibilities clamoured for attention, but Brunetti pushed them away, waiting for Patta to explain. He kept the same intent expression on his face and his eyes on Patta. The Vice-Questore raised a fist and slammed it on the surface of his desk. ‘Some captain from the Carabinieri called this morning. He wanted to know if I’d had a visitor last week. He was very cagey, didn’t name the visitor, just asked if I’d had a visit from an official from out of town.’ Petulance replaced anger in his face and voice as Patta said, ‘I told him I have lots of visitors. How did he expect me to remember them all?’

  Brunetti had no answer and Patta continued. ‘At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. But I had a suspicion he meant Guarino. It’s not like I have a lot of visitors, is it?’ Seeing Brunetti’s confusion at this contradiction, Patta deigned to clarify. ‘He was the only person who came last week that I didn’t know. Had to be him.’

  The Vice-Questore pushed himself suddenly to his feet, took a step away from his desk, then turned and sat down again. ‘He asked if he could send me a photo.’ Brunetti had no need to feign confusion. ‘Imagine that,’ Patta went on. ‘They’d taken it with a telefonino and he sent it to me. As if he expected me to recognize him from what was left of his face.’

  This last phrase stunned Brunetti; it was not until some moments had passed that he was able to ask, ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. The bullet went in at an angle, so only the chin was damaged. I could still recognize him.’

  ‘How was he killed?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘I just told you,’ Patta said in a loud voice. ‘Weren’t you paying attention? He was shot. In the back of the head. That’s enough to kill most people, wouldn’t you think?’

  Brunetti raised a hand. ‘Perhaps I didn’t express myself clearly, sir. Did this man who called tell you anything about the circumstances?’

  ‘Nothing. All he wanted was for me to say whether I recognized him or not.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That I wasn’t sure,’ Patta answered and gave Brunetti a sharp look.

  Brunetti bridled the impulse to ask his superior why he had done that.

  Patta followed on by saying, ‘I didn’t want to give them anything until I knew more.’ It took Brunetti very little time to translate this from Patta-speak into Italian: it meant that Patta wanted to pass the responsibility on to someone else. Hence this conversation.

  ‘Did he tell you why he called you?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘It seems they knew he had an appointment at the Questura in Venice, so they called and asked to talk to the person in charge to see if he had come here.’ Indeed, Brunetti reflected, even a bullet through a man’s skull could not prevent Patta from that little burst of pride: ‘the person in charge’.

  ‘When did he call, sir?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Half an hour ago.’ With no attempt to disguise his irritation, Patta added, ‘I’ve been trying to locate you since then. But you weren’t in your office.’ As if to himself, Patta muttered, ‘Questioning a witness.’

  Ignoring this, Brunetti asked, ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘He didn’t say,’ Patta answered vaguely, as if he saw no reason why the question mattered.

  By force of will, Brunetti removed all trace of interest from his expression while he allowed his mind to lunge ahead. ‘Did he say where he was calling from?’

  ‘From there,’ Patta answered in the voice he used for addressing the weak of mind and character. ‘Where they found him.’

  ‘Ah,’ Brunetti said, ‘so that’s when he sent you the photo.’

  ‘Very clever, Brunetti,’ Patta snapped. ‘Of course that’s when he sent me the photo.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ Brunetti said, stalling for time.

  ‘I’ve called the Lieutenant,’ Patta said, and again Brunetti washed all expression from his face. ‘But he’s in Chioggia and can’t get there until the afternoon.’

  Brunetti felt his heart tighten at the thought that Patta wanted to involve Scarpa in this. ‘Excellent idea,’ he said, then allowed a bit of enthusiasm to drain from his voice as he added, ‘I just hope the . . .’ He dragged his voice to a stop, then repeated, ‘Excellent idea.’

  ‘What don’t you like about it, Brunetti?’ Patta demanded.

  Brunetti this time plastered confusion across his face and did not answer.

  ‘Tell me, Brunetti,’ Patta said, his voice slipping towards menace.

  ‘It’s really a question of rank, sir,’ Brunetti said hesitantly, speaking only to keep the bamboo shoots from being stuck under his fingernails. Before Patta could inquire, he explained. ‘You said the man who called was a captain. My only concern is how it’s going to look if we’re represented by a person of lower rank.’ He studied Patta’s body and saw the first tightening of the muscles.

  ‘It’s not that I have doubts about the Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘But we’ve had jurisdictional trouble with the Carabinieri before, and sending a person of superior rank would eliminate the possibility of that.’

  Patta’s eyes were suddenly hooded with mistrust. ‘Who are you talking about, Brunetti?’

  Looking as surprised as he could manage, Brunetti said, ‘Why, you, sir. Of course. You should be the person to represent us, sir. After all, as you said yourself, Vice-Questore, you’re the person in charge here.’ Though this rendered the Questore irrelevant, Brunetti doubted that Patta would notice.

  Patta’s glance was fierce,
filled with unvoiced suspicions, probably ones that Patta did not realize he felt. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said.

  Brunetti shrugged, as if to suggest it would have been only a matter of time before he had done so. Patta bestowed his most serious look on Brunetti, then asked, ‘You think it’s important, then?’

  ‘That you go, sir?’ asked an alert Brunetti.

  ‘That someone who outranks a captain should go.’

  ‘You certainly do, sir, and by a great degree.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about me, Brunetti,’ Patta snapped.

  Brunetti made no attempt to disguise his inability to understand and said, fresh-faced, ‘But you have to go, Dottore.’ Brunetti suspected that a case of this nature was bound to gather national attention, but this was not something he wanted Patta to realize.

  ‘You think this investigation will drag on?’ Patta asked.

  Brunetti allowed himself to measure out the tiniest of shrugs. ‘I have no way of knowing that, sir, but these cases sometimes tend to.’ Brunetti, as he spoke, had no idea what he meant by ‘these cases’, but the prospect of sustained effort would suffice to discourage Patta.

  Patta leaned forward and put a smile on his face. ‘I think, Brunetti, since you were the person who liaised with him, that you should be the one to represent us.’

  Brunetti was trying to find the proper tone of moderate resistance when Patta said, ‘He was killed in Marghera, Brunetti. That’s in our territory, so it’s our jurisdiction. It’s the sort of call a commissario would answer, so it makes complete sense for you to go out there and have a look.’

  Brunetti started to protest, but Patta cut him short: ‘Take that Griffoni woman along with you. That way there will be two commissari.’ Patta smiled with grim satisfaction, as though he had just come up with a clever move in chess. Or draughts. ‘I want the two of you to go there and see what you can find out.’

  Brunetti got to his feet, doing his best to appear disgruntled and unwilling. ‘All right, Vice-Questore, but I don’t think . . .’