Suffer the Little Children cgb-16

by Donna Leon

  Brunetti looked at the photo and saw Pedrolli, his wife and, between them, a tow-headed infant with a round face and dark eyes.

  Marcolini paced away, turned at the wall, and came back to Brunetti. 'You should have seen him, the little cuckoo, with his square Albanian head, flat at the back the way they all are. You think I want my daughter to be his mother? You think I'm going to let something like that inherit everything I've worked for all my life?' He took the photo back and tossed it face down on to his desk. Brunetti heard the glass shatter, but Marcolini must not have heard it or must not have cared, for he snatched up another one and thrust it at Brunetti.

  'Look, there's Bianca when she was two. That's what a baby is supposed to look like.' Brunetti gazed at the photo of a tow-headed infant with a round face and dark eyes. He said nothing but was careful to nod in appreciation of whatever it was he was meant to detect in the photo. 'Well?' demanded Marcolini. 'Isn't she? Isn't she what a baby's supposed to look like?'

  Brunetti handed it back, saying, 'She's very beautiful, Signore. Then and now.'

  'And married to a fool,' Marcolini said and let himself down heavily into his chair.

  'But aren't you worried for her, Signore?' Brunetti asked in a voice he struggled to fill with concern.

  'Worried about what?'

  That she'll miss the baby?'

  'Miss it?' Marcolini asked, and then he put his head back and laughed. 'Who do you think made me make the phone call?'

  22

  Brunetti could neither hide nor disguise his astonishment. His mouth hung open for a second before he thought to close it. ‘I see’ he said, but in an unsteady voice.

  'Surprised you, didn't I?' Marcolini said with a deep laugh. 'Well, she surprised me, too, I have to confess. I thought she'd taken to the child: that's what kept me quiet for so long, though the older he got, the more I saw him turning into a little Albanian. He didn't look like one of us,' he said, his voice earnest. 'And I don't mean me and Bianca or my wife: he just didn't look like an Italian.'

  Marcolini looked to see if he had Brunetti's attention, and though he certainly had that, Brunetti did his best to make it look as if he had

  his approval, as well. ‘But I wasn't sure because, well, she seemed to take to him, and I didn't want to do anything or say anything that would hurt her feelings or make things difficult between us.'

  'Of course,' Brunetti said with a friendly smile, one father to another. Then he prodded, 'But?'

  'But then one day she was at home - my home, our home, that is. The day there was that story in the paper about that Romanian woman who sold her baby. Down in the South,' Marcolini added with particular contempt. 'That’s where everything happens. They don't know the meaning of honour.'

  Brunetti nodded, as though he had never heard a greater truth spoken.

  ‘I said something. I was angry, and as soon as I said it, I was afraid I might have said too much. At any rate, that's when she told me that they had done the same thing, well, that she thought that’s what Gustavo had done. Anyway, the baby wasn't his.' Marcolini broke off, as if to see that Brunetti was still following his story. Brunetti made no attempt to disguise his mounting interest.

  'Until that time, I swear I still thought the baby was Gustavo's, and that he looked the way he did because of the mother: that her influence was stronger than his. Like with Blacks: you just need a little bit, and the genes take over’ From the way Marcolini spoke, he might as well have been Mendel, explaining the rules that governed his peas.

  'But then Bianca told me what had really happened. Some colleague of his - someone he was at medical school with - was working in Cosenza, and one of his patients was going to have a baby and wanted to, well, to give it up’

  ‘For adoption?' asked an artfully ingenuous Brunetti.

  'You can call it that if you want,' Marvilli said with a complicit smile. 'So Gustavo went down to talk to his friend and to this woman, and when he came back he explained things to Bianca, and she agreed because she said Gustavo said it was the only chance they'd ever have to have a baby. She told me she really didn't want to, but he persuaded her. They were too old to be allowed to adopt a baby - maybe an older child, but not a baby - and the tests always said they couldn't have children.' Marcolini stopped and gave a short, barking laugh. 'That's about the only thing we ever got out of Gustavo's being a doctor: he could at least interpret all the figures on the tests. So Bianca agreed.'

  ‘I see,' Brunetti muttered. 'So he went and got the baby?'

  'Yes. It's easy enough down there, to do things like that. He went into the Anagrafe and said it was his baby, and the woman signed it with him, confirming that it was.' Marcolini cast his eyes at the ceiling in a manner Brunetti judged melodramatic, then continued. 'She probably doesn't even know how to read and write, but she signed the document, and then the baby was his. And he gave her ten thousand Euros’

  Marcolini's anger was no longer melodramatic, but real. ‘It was only later that he told Bianca how much he paid. The fool’

  It was evident from his manner that he had something further to add, so Brunetti sat quietly, the look of intense interest still on his face, and Marcolini continued, ‘For the love of God, he could have got it for less. That other guy - the one with the Romanian - got it for a permesso di soggiorno and an apartment for the mother to stay in. But no, Dottor Gustavo has to be the gran signore and give her ten thousand Euros’

  Lost for words, Marcolini threw his hands in the air, then went on. 'She probably spent it on drugs or sent it back to her family in Albania. Ten thousand Euros,' he repeated, clearly unable sufficiently to express his disgust.

  'And when he brought it back, I saw immediately what was wrong with it, but, as I said, I thought it was the mother's influence. You'd think all babies look alike, but this one... I knew right away that it wasn't one of us. You just have to look at those little eyes and that head’ Marcolini shook his own head in disbelief, and Brunetti murmured in assent and encouragement, hoping to keep the man talking.

  'But Bianca's my daughter,' Marcolini continued, and it seemed to Brunetti now that he was talking to himself as much as to his listener. 'And I thought she wanted the child, too. Then that day she told me what she really felt, and that the baby was just a chore for her, something she had to take care of and that she really didn't want. It was Gustavo who was crazy for him, couldn't wait to get home so he could play with him. Paid no attention to her any more, just to the baby, and she didn't like that.' 'I see,' Brunetti said.

  'So I said something like, "Just like in the papers today, huh?" because of what we'd been talking about. I meant that Gustavo got the baby the same way, but Bianca thought I meant the way the police found out.'

  'A telephone call?' Brunetti asked, making himself sound very proud at having figured it out.

  'Yes, a telephone call to the Carabinieri.'

  'And that's when she asked you to make the call, I imagine,' Brunetti said, knowing he would not believe it until he heard Marcolini spell it out.

  'Yes, call them and tell them Gustavo had bought the baby. After all, the woman's name was on the birth certificate along with his, so it would be easy for them to find her.'

  'And that's just what happened, isn't it?' Brunetti asked. He forced himself to imbue his voice with approval, even a small measure of enthusiasm.

  'I had no idea what would happen after they found out,' Marcolini said. 'And I suppose Bianca didn't, either. She said she was terrified the night they came. She thought they were terrorists or robbers or something.' Marcolini's voice had grown unsteady as he considered his daughter's suffering. I didn't expect them to go breaking into the house the way they did.'

  'Of course not’ Brunetti agreed.

  'God knows how much they frightened her.'

  It must have been terrible for them’ Brunetti allowed himself to say.

  ‘Yes. I didn't want that to happen, per carita.'

  'I can certainly understand that.'


  'And I suppose they shouldn't have been so rough with Gustavo’ Marcolini added in a lacklustre voice.

  'No, of course not.'

  The clouds parted and Marcolini's voice warmed. 'But it solved the problem, didn't it?' he asked. Then, as if suddenly aware who he had been speaking to, he asked, 'I can trust you, can't I?'

  Brunetti pulled his face into a broad smile and said, 'You needn't ask that, Signore. After all, our fathers fought together, didn't they?' Then, stunned by the realization, he added, 'Besides, nothing you did was actually illegal, was it?'

  'No, it wasn't, was it?' Marcolini asked with a sly smile, obviously having long since arrived at this truth. He reached over and gave Brunetti's shoulder a friendly, manly squeeze.

  Brunetti was suddenly conscious of how easy it would be, now, to keep Marcolini talking. All he would have to do was ask him more questions, and Marcolini was sure to answer them, perhaps even honestly. It was a common enough phenomenon, though Brunetti had most frequently observed it among the people he was questioning in regard to crimes they were accused of having committed. The point came when the subject believed he had won the sympathy of his questioner and, in return, placed his trust in him. After this, people would even confess to crimes about which no questions had been asked, almost as if there was no length to which they would not go in order to maintain the good will of their listener. But Marcolini, as the man himself had agreed with great pleasure, had committed no crime. Indeed, he had acted as would any conscientious citizen and had reported one to the police.

  It was this thought that forced Brunetti to his feet. He clung to the remnants of the role he was playing as he said, ‘I’m very grateful for your time, Signor Marcolini’ He forced himself to extend his hand and said, ‘I’ll report to the Questore what you've told me.'

  The older man stood and took Brunetti's extended hand. He smiled in a friendly manner, then turned and moved towards the door. At the sight of Marcolini's thick, expensively clothed back, Brunetti found himself overcome by the desire to strike him. He saw himself knocking the older man to the floor, but that would serve no purpose unless he were also able to kick the man, and he knew he could not do that. So he followed Marcolini across the room.

  The older man opened the door and stood aside to let Brunetti pass. Marcolini raised a hand, and Brunetti knew he was going to clap him on the shoulder or pat him on the arm. The thought filled him with something close to horror; he knew he could not stand that. He quickened his pace and slipped past Marcolini, took two steps and then turned, as though surprised that the other man had not followed close behind him.

  Thank you for your time, Signore’ Brunetti said, squeezing out a last smile.

  'Not at all,' Marcolini said, rocking back on his heels and folding his arms across his chest. 'Always happy to be of help to the police.'

  Brunetti tasted something metallic, muttered words even he did not understand, and left the building.

  23

  Outside, Brunetti felt himself assailed by a chorus of Furies whispering, 'Eighteen months, eighteen months, eighteen months.' They had had the child for eighteen months, and then Bianca Marcolini had asked her father to arrange to have it taken away, as though the little boy were an unwanted piece of furniture or a kitchen appliance she had bought on warranty and had decided to return.

  By the time either one of his children was eighteen months old, Paola could have told Brunetti they resulted from her union with the postman, the garbage man, the parish priest, for all he cared, and he would have loved them none the less. Brunetti pulled himself up short; here he went again, judging the entire world by his own experience, as if there were no other standard with which to measure human behaviour.

  He continued walking towards the Questura, but however much he tried to rid himself of the sound of these voices, he failed to do so. He was so distracted that he almost bumped into Patta, who was coming out of the main door.

  'Ah, Brunetti’ the Vice-Questore said, 'coming back from a meeting, are you?'

  Brunetti slapped an expression of distracted busyness on his face. ‘Yes, Dottore, I am, but don't let me keep you from yours.' How else to make polite note of the fact that the Vice-Questore was leaving for home two hours early?

  Brunetti felt it best that Patta should not learn what he was up to, especially not that he had just been asking questions of the leader of a political party of growing significance in the Veneto. Patta believed that only waiters had the right to ask questions of politicians; everyone else should only stand and wait.

  'What sort of meeting?' Patta asked.

  Brunetti recalled the description the Marquis de Custine had given of the customs officers at the port of St Petersburg and said, 'Someone was complaining about the port, that the customs officers were taking bribes or making it difficult for people who didn't pay them.'

  'Nothing new there’ Patta said with little patience, pulled on his gloves, and turned away.

  When Brunetti reached the first floor, he went to the officers' room and was relieved to see Vianello and Pucetti. He gave no thought to whether they had discovered anything about the pharmacist, nor whether they could help him resolve this case: Brunetti was simply happy to be in their company and to know that they were men who would share his visceral disgust at what Marcolini had just told him.

  He came into the office quietly. Vianello looked up and smiled, then Pucetti did the same. Their desks were covered with papers and files; an ink smear ran across Pucetti's chin. Strangely, Brunetti found himself too moved at the sight of them to speak: two entirely normal men, sitting at their desks and doing their jobs.

  Vianello's smile, however, was that of a predator that has just glimpsed the dappled brown coat of a fawn at the edge of the forest glade. 'What is it?' Brunetti asked.

  'Have you seen Signorina Elettra?' the Inspector enquired. Brunetti noticed that Pucetti was looking at him with much the same grin.

  'No. Why?'

  'Signor Brunini's companion had a phone call last night.'

  It took Brunetti a moment to process this information: the telefonino he had bought and the number he had given at the clinic, the number of Signor Brunini, the phone Signorina Elettra had said she would see to answering.

  'And?' asked Brunetti.

  'And the caller said he thought he might be able to be of help to Signor Brunini and, of course, to the Signorina.'

  "That's all?' Brunetti asked.

  'Signorina Elettra could not help becoming emotional when he gave her the news.' Brunetti did not respond, so the Inspector went on. 'She kept saying, "a baby, a baby," until the man said that, yes, he was talking about a baby.'

  'And now what? Did he leave a number?'

  Vianello's smile grew broader. 'Better. He agreed to meet her and Signor Brunini. She told me that, even when he told her where and when they should meet, she was still unable to stop her tears.'

  Brunetti could not help smiling. 'And?'

  'And I wondered what you wanted to do,' Vianello said.

  Marvilli had behaved honestly, even generously, towards them: the least they could do was return the favour with a piece of information that might help advance his career. Besides, it could never hurt to have another friend among the Carabinieri. He could call Marvilli himself, but it would be more subtle if the call came from Vianello: that would appear less like what it was: repayment of a personal favour. 'It belongs to the Carabinieri,' Brunetti finally said. 'Would you call Marvilli?'

  'And the meeting?'

  'Tell him about it. If they want us to go, we will. But it's theirs: they decide.'

  'All right,' Vianello said but made no move for the phone. 'It's not until the day after tomorrow,' he said.

  Brunetti cleared his throat and addressed himself to the reason he had come. You finished with the names that were on Franchi's computer?'

  ‘Justnow’ Vianello said. 'We've gone through the files and found about a dozen with information that someone-might be interested in.'<
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  How wonderfully diplomatic the Inspector was being today, Brunetti thought. 'You mean blackmail them about?' he asked.

  Pucetti laughed, turned to Vianello and said, ‘I told you it was better just to say it.'

  Vianello went on. 'I think we should divide the files among the three of us and go and talk to them.'

  'Not on the phone?' Pucetti asked, unable to disguise his surprise.

  Brunetti spoke before Vianello had time to answer, conscious of what sort of information might be in those files. 'The first contact, yes, to see if there is reason to talk to them, and then in person.' He pointed at the folders. 'Is any of it criminal?'

  Vianello put his hand out horizontally and waggled it a few times. 'There are two who are taking an awful lot of tranquillizers, but that's the doctors' fault, not theirs, I'd say.'

  It sounded pretty tame to Brunetti. 'Nothing better?' he asked, struck by how strange the word sounded.

  'I've got one that might be,' Pucetti said diffidently.

  Both men turned to look at the young officer, who rooted around in the files on his desk and finally pulled one out. If s an American woman’ he began.

  Shoplifting, was Brunetti's immediate unspoken thought, but then he realized that a pharmacist was unlikely to have information about that.

  'Well,' temporized Pucetti, 'it's really maybe her husband.'

  Vianello sighed audibly, and Pucetti said, 'She's been into the Pronto Soccorso five times in the last two years.'

  Neither of them said anything.

  'The first time was a broken nose’ said Pucetti, opening the file and running his finger down the first page. He flipped it over and started down the second. 'Then, three months later, she was back with a very bad cut on her wrist. She said she cut it on a wine glass that fell into the sink.'

  'Uh huh,' Vianello muttered.

  'Six months passed, and then she was back with two broken ribs.'

  'Fell down the stairs, I suppose?' Vianello offered.

  'Exactly,' answered Pucetti. He flipped over another page and said, 'Then her knee: torn ligaments: tripped on a bridge.'