by Donna Leon
The Count emptied his glass and set it on a table. He stood. ‘I don't think there's anything more I want to say about this.'
Brunetti stood and, compelled by an impulse that surprised him, walked over to the Count and embraced him, held him in his arms for a long moment, then turned and left the study.
17
Paola was asleep when he got home, and though she swam up long enough to ask him how it had gone with her father, she was so dull that Brunetti simply said that they'd talked. He kissed her and went to see if the kids were home and in bed. He opened Raffi's door after knocking lightly and found his son lying face down, sprawled in a giant X, one arm and one foot hanging off the edge of the bed. Brunetti thought of the boy's heritage: one grandfather come back from Russia with only four toes and half a spirit, the other willing executioner of unarmed boys. He closed the door and checked on Chiara, who was neatly asleep under unwrinkled covers. In bed he lay for some time thinking about his family, and then he slept deeply.
The next day he went first to Signorina Elettra's office, where he found her besieged by regiments of paper advancing across her desk.
'Am I meant to find all of that promising?' he asked as he came in.
'What was it Harold Carter said when he could finally see into the tomb, "I see things, marvellous things"?'
'Presumably you don't see golden masks and mummies, Signorina,' Brunetti responded.
Like a croupier raking in cards, she swept up some of the papers on her right and tapped them into a pile. 'Here, take a look: I've printed out the files in her computer.'
'And the bank records?' he asked, pulling a chair up to her desk and sitting beside her.
She waved disdainfully at a pile of papers on the far side of her desk. 'Oh, it was as I suspected’ she said with the lack of interest with which one mentions the obvious. The bank never called the attention of the Finanza to the deposits, and it seems they never troubled to ask the bank.'
'Which means what?' he asked, though he had a fair idea.
'The most likely possibility is that the Finanza simply never bothered to cross-check her statements with the reports on money transfers arriving in the country.'
'And that means?' he asked.
'Negligence or bribery, I'd say.'
'Is that possible?'
'As I have told you upon more than one occasion, sir, when you are dealing with banks, anything at all is possible.'
Brunetti deferred to her greater wisdom and asked, 'Was this difficult for you to get?'
'Considering the laudable reticence of the Swiss banks and the instinctive mendacity of our own, I suppose it was more difficult than usual.'
Brunetti knew the extent of her friendships, and so let it go at that, always uneasy at the thought of the information she might some day be asked to provide in return, and whether she would.
These are her letters’ Signorina Elettra said, handing him the pile of papers. The dates and the sums mentioned correspond to bank transfers made from her account.'
He read the first, to the orphanage in India, saying that she hoped her contribution would help the children have better lives, and then one to a home for battered women in Pavia, saying much the same thing. Each letter explained that the money was being given in memory of her grandfather, though it did not give his name nor, for that matter, her own.
'Are they all like this?' he asked, looking up from the page.
"Yes, pretty much. She never gives her name or his, and in each case she expresses the hope that the enclosed cheque will help people have a better life.'
Brunetti hefted the pile of papers. 'How many are there?'
'More than forty. All the same.'
'Is the amount always the same?'
'No, they vary, though she seemed to like ten million lire. The total is close to the amount that went into her account.'
He considered what a fortune one of these transfers would be to an Indian orphanage or for a shelter for battered women.
'Are there any repeated donations?'
'To the orphanage in Kerala and the AIDS hospice. Those seemed to be her favourites but, so far as I can see, all of the others are different.'
'What else?' he asked.
She pointed to the closest pile. 'There are the papers she wrote for her literature classes. I haven't had time to read through all of them, though I must say her dislike of Gilbert Osmond is quite ferocious.'
It was a name he'd heard Paola use; she shared Claudia's dislike. 'What else?' he asked.
Indicating a thick pile to the left of her computer. Signorina Elettra said, ‘Personal correspondence, none of it very interesting.'
'And that?' he asked, pointing to the single remaining sheet. ‘It would cause a stone to weep’ she said, handing it to him.
'I, Claudia Leonardo’ he read, 'declare that all of the worldly goods of which I am in possession should, at my death, be sold and the profits distributed to the charities listed below. This is hardly enough to make up for a life of rapacious acquisition, but it is, if nothing else, an attempt to do so.' Below were listed the names and addresses of sixteen charities, among them the Indian orphanages and the women's home in Pavia.
'"Rapacious acquisition"?' he asked.
'She had three million, six hundred thousand lire in the bank when she died’ was Signorina Elettra's only reply.
Brunetti read through the will again, pausing at 'rapacious acquisition'. 'She means her grandfather’ he said, finally perceiving the obvious.
Signorina Elettra, who had heard from Vianello some of the history of Claudia's family, agreed instantly.
He noticed that there was no signature on the paper. 'Is this your print-out?' he asked.
'Yes.' Before he could ask, she said, There was no copy among her papers.'
That makes sense. People that young don't think they're going to die.'
'And they usually don't’ Signorina Elettra added.
Brunetti put the will down on the desk. 'What was in the personal correspondence?'
'Letters to friends and former classmates, letters to an aunt in England. These were in English, and she usually talked about what she was doing, her studies, and asked about her aunt’s children and the animals on her farm. I really don't think there's anything in them, but you can take a look if you want.'
'No, no, that's all right. I trust you. Any other correspondence?'
'Just the usual business things: the university, the rough draft of what looks like a letter of application for a job, but there's no address on it.'
'A job?7 Brunetti interrupted. 'She was being sent more than a hundred million lire a year: why would she want a job?'
'Money isn't the only reason people work, sir,' Signorina Elettra reminded him with sudden force. 'She was a university student,' Brunetti said. 'What does that mean?'
'She wouldn't have had time to work, at least not during the academic year.'
'Perhaps,' Signorina Elettra conceded with a scepticism suggesting a certain measure of familiarity with the academic demands made by the university. 'Certainly there was no change in her finances that would indicate she had another source of income,' she said, pushing some of the papers aside until she found Claudia Leonardo's bank account. 'Look, she was still drawing out the same amounts every month when she died. So she didn't have any other income.'
'Of course she might have been working for nothing, as a volunteer or an apprentice,' Brunetti said. 'If s a possibility.'
'You just said she was a university student, sir, and wouldn't have had the time.'
'It could have been part time,' Brunetti insisted. 'Do you remember anything in the letters that suggests she might have been working?'
Signorina Elettra considered this for a while and finally said, 'No, nothing, but I wasn't looking for anything specific when I read the letters.' Without asking, she picked up the copies of Claudia Leonardo's letters, divided the pile in two, and handed half to Brunetti.
He moved his chair b
ack from her desk, stretched out his legs and began to read. As he read his way through these records of Claudia's truncated life, he recalled a present an aunt of his had once, decades ago, given him for Christmas. He had been disappointed when he opened the matchbox and found nothing more than what looked like a bean made out of paper. Unable to disguise his disappointment, he had asked his aunt, 'But what’s this for?' and in answer she had filled a pan with water and told him to put the bean into it.
When he did, it swam magically on the surface of the water and then, under his marvelling eyes, gradually began to move and twist around, as the water unfurled what seemed like hundreds of tiny folds, each one pulling another one open after it. When it was finally still, he found himself gazing down at a perfect white carnation, the size of an apple. Before the water could soak and ruin it, his aunt plucked it out and set it on the windowsill, in the pale winter sun, where it stood for days. Each time Brunetti looked at it, he recalled the magic that had turned one thing into such a wonderfully different other.
Much the same process took place as he read Claudia's words and heard her natural voice. These poor Albanians. People hate them as soon as they learn where they're from, as though their passports (if the poor devils even have passports) were pairs of horns.' 1 can't stand to hear my friends complain about how little they have. We five, all of us, better than the Emperors of Rome.' 'How I long to have a dog, but who could make a dog live in this city? Perhaps we should all keep a pet tourist, instead.' Nothing she said was particularly insightful, nor was the language distinguished, but then that pale dollop of compressed paper had hardly merited a second glance; yet how it had blossomed.
After about ten minutes he looked up and asked, 'Found anything?'
She shook her head and kept reading.
After another few minutes he observed, 'She seemed to spend a great deal of time in the library, didn't she?'
'She was a student,' Signorina Elettra said, looking up from the papers. Then she added, 'But, yes, she did, didn't she?'
'And it never sounds like she's doing research there, I'd say.' Brunetti asked, turning back a page and reading out,
' "I had to be at the library at nine this morning, and you know what a horror I am that early, enough to frighten anyone away’"
Brunetti set the page down. 'Seems a strange concern, doesn't it? Turning people away?'
'Especially if she's going there to read or study. Why would it matter?' Though Signorina Elettra's question was rhetorical, both of them considered it.
'How many libraries are there in the city?' Brunetti asked.
There's the Marciana, the Querini Stampalia, the one at the university itself and then those in the quartieri and maybe another five’
'Let's try them,' Brunetti said, reaching for the phone.
Just as quickly, Signorina Elettra opened the bottom drawer of her desk, pulled out the phone book and flipped to 'Comune di Venezia'. One after the other, Brunetti called the city libraries in Castello, Canareggio, San Polo and Giudecca, but none of them had an employee or a volunteer working there called Claudia Leonardo nor, when he called them, did the Marciana, the Querini Stampalia, or the library of the university.
'Now what?' she asked, slapping the directory shut. Brunetti took it from her and looked under the B's. 'You ever heard of the Biblioteca della Patria?' he asked.
'Of the what?' she asked.
'Patria’ he repeated and read out the address, saying, 'Sounds like it might be down at the end of Castello.' She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
He dialled the number and, when a man answered, asked if someone named Claudia Leonardo worked there. The man, speaking with a slight accent, asked him to repeat the name, told him to hold on a moment, and set the phone down. A moment later he was back and asked, 'Who's calling, please?'
'Commissario Guido Brunetti,' he answered, then asked, 'And Claudia Leonardo?'
'Yes, she worked here’ the man said, making no reference to her death.
'And you are?' Brunetti asked.
'Maxwell Ford’ he answered, all the Italianate softness of his voice slipping away to reveal the Anglo-Saxon bedrock. In response to Brunetti's demanding silence, he explained, 'I'm co-director of the Library.'
'And where, exactly, is this library?'
'It's at the very end of Via Garibaldi, across the canal from Sant’ Anna.'
Brunetti knew where it must be, but he had no memory of ever having been conscious of the existence of a library in that area. I'd like to talk to you’ Brunetti said.
'Of course’ the man answered, his voice suddenly much warmer. 'Is it about her death?'
'Yes.'
'A terrible thing. We were shocked.' 'We?' Brunetti asked.
A brief pause, and then the man explained, 'The staff here at the library.' When Ford spoke Italian his accent was so slight as almost not to be there.
'It should take me about twenty minutes to get there’ Brunetti said and put the phone down.
'And?' Signorina Elettra asked.
'Signor Ford is the co-director of the Biblioteca, but seemed uncertain at first about whether she worked there or not.'
'Anyone would be nervous, being asked about someone who was murdered.'
'Possibly’ Brunetti said. I'll go and talk to him. What about Guzzardi?' he asked.
'A few things. I'm trying to check on some houses he owned when he died.'
Brunetti had been moving towards the door, but he stopped and turned back.
'Were there many?'
'Three or four’
What happened to them?'
‘I don't know yet’
'How did you learn about them?'
‘I asked my father’ She waited to see what Brunetti would say in response, but he had no time to talk to her about this now: he was reluctant to keep Signor Ford waiting. In fact, he already regretted having called and told the library director he was coming: people's response to the unexpected arrival of the police on their doorstep was often as illuminating as anything they subsequently said.
Brunetti walked back towards the Arsenale, turning and choosing bridges by instinct as he allowed the tangled story of Claudia*Leonardo and her grandfather to take shape, evaporate, and then reform in his mind. Facts, dates, pieces of information, fragments of rumour swirled around, blinding him so that it wasn't until he found himself at the entrance to the Arsenale, the goofy lions lined up on his left, that he came back to the present. At the top of the wooden bridge he allowed himself a moment to gaze through the gateway into what had once been the womb of Venice's power and the ultimate source of her wealth and dominion. With only manpower and hammers and saws and all those other tools with strange names that carpenters and boat builders use, they had managed to build a ship a day and fill the seas with the terrible power of their fleet. And today, with cranes and drills and endless sources of power, there was still no sign that the burnt-out Fenice would ever be rebuilt.
He turned both from these reflections and the gateway and continued, weaving back towards Via Garibaldi and then, keeping the canal on his left, down towards Sant’ Anna. When he saw the facade of the church, he realized he had no memory of ever having been inside; perhaps, like so many others in the city, it didn't function any longer as a church. He wondered how much longer they could continue to serve as places of worship, now that there were so few worshippers and young people were bored, as were his own children, by the irrelevance of what the Church had to say to them. Brunetti would not much regret its passing, but the thought of what little there was to replace it unsettled him. Again, he had to summon himself back from these thoughts.
He crossed the small bridge on his left and saw, on his right, a single long building the back of which faced the church. He turned into Calle Sant'Anna and found himself in front of an immense green portone. To the right were two bells: 'Ford', and 'Biblioteca della Patria'. He rang the one for the library.
The door snapped open and he walked into
an entrance hall that must have been five metres high. Enough light filtered in from the five barred windows on the canal to illuminate the enormous beams, almost as thick as those of the Palazzo Ducale, that spanned the ceiling. The floor was of brick, set in a simple herringbone pattern. He noticed that, towards the back door and particularly around the stairs that ran down to the water gate, the bricks glistened slickly with a thin coat of dark moss.
There was only one set of steps. At the first landing a short, thickset man dressed in a very expensive dark grey suit waited at the door. A bit younger than Brunetti, he had thinning reddish hair the curious dappled colour such hair turns on its way to white. 'Commissario Brunetti?' he asked and extended his hand.
‘Yes. Signor Ford?' Brunetti asked in return, shaking hands.
'Please come in.' Ford stepped back and stood just inside the door, holding it open for Brunetti.
He entered and glanced around. A row of windows looked out over the canal, towards the opposing flank of the church. To his left, at the far end, more windows looked out over what Brunetti knew must be the Isola di San Pietro.
Four or five long tables, each of them bearing green-shaded reading lamps, were placed around the room, and glass-fronted bookcases lined the walls between the windows. The other walls were covered with framed photos and documents, and in a glass case in one corner objects Brunetti could not identify lay exposed on three shelves.
The room had ceilings as high as those in the entrance hall, and from many of the beams hung flags and standards which Brunetti did not recognize. To his left a long, glass-topped case, like the ones used in museums, contained a number of notebooks, all of them spread open so that the exposed pages could be read.
‘I’m glad you came’ Ford said, making towards a door on the right. ‘Please come into my office. We can talk there.'
