About Face cb-18

by Donna Leon

  She studied his face, weighing what he had said. ‘The first thing I said to Antonio was that you were a policeman and had come to arrest him,’ she told him. ‘He always carried a gun. I knew him well enough by then. .’ she began and paused a long time after saying that, as if listening to an echo, then went on, ‘to know he would try to use it. But then he saw you — I think he saw you both, with guns — and I told him it was useless, that his family’s lawyers could get him out of any trouble he might be in.’

  She pressed her lips together, and Brunetti was struck by how very unattractive the gesture was. ‘He believed me, or he was so confused he didn’t know what to do, so he handed me the gun when I told him to.’

  The front door slammed and they both looked in that direction, but it was only a woman with a pram trying to leave. One of the women at the table near the door got up and held the door for her, and she left.

  Brunetti looked back at her. ‘What did you say to him then?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you I knew him well enough by then, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I told him I thought he was gay, that he fucked like a fag, and that he probably wanted me because I didn’t really look like a woman.’

  She waited for his response, but Brunetti made none, and she said, ‘It wasn’t true, of course. But I knew him, and I knew what he’d do.’ Her voice changed, all emotion long since leached from it, and she said with a detachment that was almost academic, ‘Antonio had only one reaction to opposition: violence. I knew what he’d do. So I shot him.’ She paused, but when Brunetti remained silent, she went on, ‘And when he was on the ground, I realized I might not have killed him, so I shot him in the face.’ Her own face remained immobile as she said this.

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti finally said.

  ‘And I’d do it again, Commissario. I’d do it again.’ He was tempted to ask her why, but he knew she was now incapable of stopping herself from explaining. ‘I told you: he had unpleasant tastes.’

  And that was the last thing she said.

  29

  ‘Well,’ Paola said, ‘I’d give her a medal.’ Brunetti had gone to bed soon after dinner, saying he was tired, not explaining why. Paola had come to bed some hours later, had fallen instantly asleep, only to be awakened at three by a sleepless, motionless Brunetti lying beside her, his memory chasing after everything that had happened the day before. He went over his conversations with the Contessa, with Griffoni, and then with Franca Marinello.

  It took him some time to tell all of this, his voice interrupted every so often by the sound of bells from different parts of the city that neither of them paid any attention to. He could explain, theorize, try to imagine, but his memory kept swirling back to that phrase she had sought, and found: ‘unpleasant tastes’.

  ‘God above,’ Paola had said when he repeated it. ‘I don’t know what it could mean. And I think I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Would a woman let something like that go on for two years?’ he finally asked, knowing as he spoke that he had sounded the wrong note.

  Instead of answering, she switched on her bedside lamp and turned towards him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Paola said. ‘I just want to see the face of a person capable of asking a question like that.’

  ‘What question?’ asked an indignant Brunetti.

  ‘Whether a woman would let something like that go on for two years.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked. ‘The question, I mean.’

  She slid down a bit and pulled the covers over her shoulder. ‘To begin with, it assumes that there is something like the female mind, that all women would react in the same way in those circumstances,’ she said. Abruptly, she propped herself up on her elbow and said, ‘Think about the fear, Guido: think about what has been happening to her for two years. This man was a murderer, and she knew what he had done to the dentist and his wife.’

  ‘Do you believe that she felt she had to sacrifice herself to keep her husband’s illusions about himself intact?’ he asked, feeling quite virtuous in doing so and in phrasing it the way he did. He tried, but failed, to keep himself from going on and asked, ‘What sort of a feminist are you, to defend something like that?’

  For a moment, even though she opened her mouth to speak, Paola found it difficult to find the words. Finally she said, ‘Look at the pulpit from which this sermon comes.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It isn’t supposed to mean anything, Guido. But what it does mean is that you are not, especially in this matter, allowed to present yourself as a paladin of feminism. I will allow you a lot, and I will allow you at other times and in other circumstances to be a paladin of anything you like, even of feminism, but not now, not about this.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, though he feared he did.

  She pushed back the covers and sat up, facing him. ‘What I’m talking about is rape, Guido.’ Then, before he had the chance to say anything, she said, ‘And don’t give me that look, as if all of a sudden I’m a hysterical woman, afraid that any man I smile at is going to jump out of the wardrobe, or that I assume every compliment is the prelude to an assault.’

  He turned away and switched on his own lamp. If this was going to go on a long time — and he now suspected it would — he might as well be able to see her clearly.

  ‘It’s different for us, Guido, and you men simply don’t want to see that or you can’t see it.’

  She paused after that and he took the opportunity to say, ‘Paola, it’s four in the morning, and I don’t want to listen to a speech, all right?’

  He feared that would inflame her yet it seemed to do just the opposite. She reached aside and put a hand on his arm. ‘I know, I know. All I want you to do is try to see it as a situation in which a woman consented to sex with a man with whom she did not want to have sex.’ She thought for some time, then added, ‘I’ve spoken to her only a few times. It’s my mother who likes her — loves her, really — and her judgement is good enough for me.’

  ‘What judgement did your mother make about her?’ he asked.

  ‘That she wouldn’t lie,’ Paola said. ‘So if she told you she did this unwillingly — and I think “unpleasant tastes” is enough to suggest it was — then it’s rape. Even if it went on for two years, and even if her reason was to protect her husband’s sense of himself.’ When his expression did not change, she said, in a much warmer voice, ‘You work around the law in this country, Guido, so you know what would have happened if she had gone to the police and if any of this had ever been dragged into the courts. What would happen to that old man, and to her.’

  She stopped and looked at him, but he chose not to answer and chose not to object.

  ‘Our culture has very primitive ideas about sex,’ she said.

  To lighten the mood, Brunetti said, ‘I think our society has very primitive ideas about a number of things.’ But as soon as he said it, he realized how firmly he believed this and so it did little to cheer him.

  And that was when she said it: ‘Well, I’d give her a medal.’

  Brunetti sighed, then shrugged, then reached aside to turn off the light.

  When he felt the pressure, he noticed that her hand had never left his arm. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to go to sleep,’ he said.

  ‘And in the morning?’ she asked, switching off her light.

  ‘I’ll go and talk to Patta.’

  ‘What will you tell him?’

  Brunetti turned on to his right side, though to do so, he had to pull his arm free of her hand. He rose up and pounded his pillow a few times, then pulled himself over so that he could put his left hand on the inside of her arm. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ he said, and then they slept.

  The newspapers latched on to the story and would not let it go. They sank th
eir teeth into it and shook it, for it had just what their public loved: wealthy people caught in apparent misbehaviour; the younger wife caught with the lover; violence, sex, and death. On the way to the Questura, Brunetti saw again the photo of the young Franca Marinello; in fact, he saw a number of photos of her and wondered how it was possible that the press could have found so many and so soon. Did her university classmates sell them? Her family? Friends? When he got to his office, he opened the papers and read through the story as it was presented in all of them.

  Amidst the tumble of words, there were more photos of her at various social functions during the last few years, and speculation was rife about what would have driven an attractive young woman to have tampered with — they drew themselves short of talking about ‘God’s gift’, limiting themselves to ‘her natural appearance’ — in order to end up looking the way she did. Various psychologists were inter-viewed: one of them said she was a symbol of a consumerist society, never satisfied with what it had, always looking for some symbolic achievement to validate its worth; while another, in L’Osservatore Romano, a woman, saw it as a sad example of the way women were driven to attempt any means to make themselves younger or more attractive so as to compete for the approval of men. Sometimes, the psychologist said, with badly disguised glee, these attempts failed, though that failure seldom served as sufficient warning to those still willing to pursue the evanescent goal of physical beauty.

  A different journalist speculated about the nature of Franca Marinello’s relationship with Terrasini, whose criminal past was splattered across the pages. They had become a well known couple, it was said by a number of unnamed people, and had been seen at the best restaurants in the city and often at the Casinò.

  Cataldo, it seemed, had been selected to play the role of the betrayed husband. Entrepreneur, former city councillor, well regarded by his fellow businessmen of the Veneto, he had ended his former marriage of thirty-five years in order to marry Franca Marinello, a woman more than thirty years his junior. Neither he nor Marinello was available for comment, nor had a warrant been issued for her arrest. The police were still questioning witnesses and waiting for the results of the autopsy.

  Brunetti, one of the witnesses to the crime, had certainly not been questioned, nor, it turned out when he phoned both Griffoni and Vasco, had they. ‘And who the hell is supposed to be questioning us?’ he could not stop himself from asking out loud.

  He closed the papers and, realizing it was nothing more than a gesture of protest and, as such, self-indulgent and meaningless, tossed them into the wastepaper basket — and felt better for having done it. Patta did not come in until after lunch, but when he arrived Signorina Elettra phoned Brunetti, and he went downstairs.

  Signorina Elettra was at her desk and said, when he came in, ‘I see I didn’t find enough about her, or about Terrasini. Or I didn’t find it soon enough.’

  ‘You’ve read the papers, then?’

  ‘I looked at them and found them more disgusting than usual.’

  ‘How is he?’ Brunetti asked, nodding towards Patta’s door.

  ‘He’s just finished speaking to the Questore, so I suspect he’ll want to see you.’

  Brunetti knocked on the door and went in, knowing that Patta’s mood usually had a one-note overture. ‘Ah, Brunetti,’ the Vice-Questore said when he saw him. ‘Come in.’

  Well, it was more than one note, but they had all been in a minor key, so that meant a subdued Patta and that meant a Patta who was up to something and not certain about whether he could get away with it and even more uncertain about whether he could count on Brunetti to help him with it.

  ‘I thought you might like to speak to me, sir,’ Brunetti said in his most deferential voice.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Patta said expansively. He waved Brunetti to a seat, waited until he was comfortable, and said, ‘I’d like you to tell me about this incident in the Casinò.’

  Brunetti was growing more and more uneasy: a civil Patta always had that effect on him. ‘I was there because of the man, Terrasini. His name had come up’ — Brunetti thought it best not to mention the photo Guarino had sent him, and Patta would never be curious enough to ask — ‘in my investigation into Guarino’s death. The chief of security at the Casinò called me and told me he had come in, so I went over. Commissario Griffoni came with me.’

  Patta sat, all but regal, behind his desk. He nodded and said, ‘Yes. Go on.’

  ‘Soon after we came in, Terrasini had a sudden losing streak and, when it looked like he might cause trouble, the head of security and his assistant intervened and started to take him downstairs.’ Patta nodded again, understanding so well how important it was that trouble be removed quickly from the public eye.

  ‘He had been at the table with a woman, and she followed them.’ Brunetti closed his eyes, as if reconstructing the scene, then continued. ‘They took him to the bottom of the first flight of steps, and I suppose they judged he wasn’t going to give them any trouble because they let go of his arms and waited to see if he had cooled down. Then they started up the steps, back to the gaming rooms.’

  He looked at Patta, who liked it when people did so when speaking to him. ‘Then, for no reason I can understand, Terrasini pulled out a pistol and aimed it up at us, or at the two security men — I don’t know which.’ This was certainly true enough: he had not known whom Terrasini was pointing his gun at.

  ‘Griffoni and I both had our guns in our hands by then, and when he saw them he must have changed his mind, because he lowered his and gave it to Signora Marinello.’

  Brunetti found it encouraging that Patta seemed not to find it unusual that Brunetti should refer to her formally like this. He went on. ‘Then — it was only a few seconds later — he turned to her and raised his hand as if he were going to hit her. Not slap her, sir, but hit her. He had his hand in a fist. I saw that.’

  Patta looked as if he was hearing a story with which he was already familiar.

  ‘And then she shot him. He fell, and she shot him again.’ Patta asked nothing about this, but Brunetti said, anyway, ‘I don’t know why she did that, sir.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all I saw, sir,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘Did she say anything?’ Patta asked, and Brunetti prepared to answer, but Patta specified, ‘When you spoke to her in the Casinò? About why she did it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Brunetti answered honestly.

  Patta pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his legs, showing a sock blacker than night and smoother than a maiden’s cheek. ‘We have to be cautious here, Brunetti, as I think you can understand.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Griffoni, and she confirms your story, or you confirm hers. She said exactly what you did, that he gave her the gun and then pulled his fist back to hit her.’

  Brunetti nodded.

  ‘I spoke to her husband today,’ Patta said, and Brunetti disguised his astonishment with a small cough. ‘We’ve known one another for years,’ Patta explained. ‘Lions Club.’

  ‘Of course,’ Brunetti said, filling his voice with the admiration of non-members. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That his wife panicked when she saw that Terrasini was going to hit her.’ Then, with a confidentiality that allowed Brunetti a one-day membership in the old boys’ club, Patta said, ‘You can imagine what would happen to her face if anyone hit it. It might fall apart.’

  Brunetti’s stomach clenched with rage at the words, but then he realized that Patta was entirely serious and spoke literally. A moment’s reflection forced him to accept the fact that Patta was also probably right.

  Patta went on, ‘And when he was on the ground, she saw his hand start to move towards her leg. Her husband told me that’s what made her shoot him again.’ Then, to Brunetti directly, he asked, ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘No, sir, I was looking at her, and I think the angle was wrong, anyway.’ That made no sense, but Patta wanted to beli
eve what he had been told, and Brunetti saw no reason to prevent that.

  ‘That’s exactly what Griffoni said,’ Patta volunteered.

  Some imp of the perverse urged Brunetti to ask, ‘What did you and her husband decide, sir?’

  Patta heard the question but not the words, and answered, ‘I think what happened is pretty clear, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I do,’ Brunetti answered.

  ‘She felt threatened and she defended herself the only way she knew how,’ Patta explained, and Brunetti was suddenly sure he had said the same to the Questore. ‘And this man, Antonio Terrasini — I’ve asked Signorina Elettra to find out about him, and once again she has done so with remarkable speed — has a criminal record filled with violence.’

  ‘Ah,’ Brunetti allowed himself to exclaim, then asked, ‘And so the possibility of criminal charges?’

  Patta flicked the idea away as though it were a fly. ‘No, that’s certainly not necessary.’ Then, switching to the mode of pathos, the Vice-Questore went on, ‘They’ve certainly suffered enough.’ Presumably, her husband was the other part of that plural, and Brunetti thought how true his words were. They had.

  He got to his feet. ‘I’m glad this is settled, then,’ he said.

  Patta graced Brunetti with one of his rare smiles, and Brunetti was struck, as happened each time he smiled, by how very handsome the man was. ‘You’ll write a report, then, Brunetti?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Brunetti said, filled with the uncharacteristic desire to do his master’s bidding. ‘I’ll go up and do it now.’

  ‘Good,’ Patta said and pulled some papers towards him.

  Upstairs, Brunetti remembered his missing computer but could not bring himself to care much about it. He wrote an account, neither brief nor long, of what had happened in the Casinò two nights before. He confined himself to describing what he had seen, making reference to Franca Marinello in a passive way, as the person who had followed Terrasini down the steps and to whom he had handed his gun. She became active, in Brunetti’s account, only when Terrasini raised his hand to her, and then Brunetti described her response. He made no mention of having seen her speak to Terrasini, nor did he mention her asking him about Ovid, nor yet did he refer to his meeting with her in the gelateria.