The Golden Egg cgb-22

by Donna Leon

  ‘She named her own children Loredano and Letizia.’

  Foa made another exasperated noise. ‘I suppose that was to keep in good with her parents. From what my friends said, they ran a tight ship.’ Then, after a moment’s reflection, Foa said, ‘Though a couple of them said it was the mother. A real tiger. And a religious one at that.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Brunetti looked up to the top of the bell tower of San Giorgio just at the instant when the angel chose to shift in the wind and wave his wings at Brunetti.

  ‘She was a friend of the Patriarch, always wore a black veil when she went to Mass, the worst sort of basabanchi.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Got it from her family, I’m told.’

  Brunetti smiled, in love with his own language. He’d seen them as a boy, those veiled women in black, bending forward as if to kiss the top of the pew in front of them. Baciare il banco. Only the dialect of anti-clerical – proudly, historically anti-clerical – Venice could transform the word, and the act, and the idea, with such acid contempt. Basabanchi.

  ‘The mother had a nun living in the palazzo and governesses to turn the girls into ladies. Her father – the mother’s father, that is, so the girls’ grandfather – had some sort of title, but it was one that the Savoias gave him, so it was really just a piece of shit.’

  Well, there’s a bit of vox pop to tell Paola about, Brunetti reflected. He hoped she would pass the remark on to her father: because his own title was several centuries older, he was sure to appreciate it. Foa paused and looked aside at Brunetti, who nodded in agreement. ‘This is all gossip, sir,’ the pilot went on. ‘You know what it’s like when people sit around in the bars and talk about other people.’

  ‘Who aren’t there to defend themselves?’ Brunetti asked with a laugh. He did not add that it also helped if the person under discussion was rich or successful, or both.

  ‘Exactly. Besides, it sounds as if the family always – well, the grandfather, they told me – was always quick to go to law with everyone, and no one likes that. Cross him in a deal, try to buy a property he wanted, and you’d find six lawyers at breakfast the next morning. I asked my father, and he said he never heard a good word about him.’

  Brunetti stopped himself from observing that the list of the people about whom he himself had never heard a good word was longer than Leporello’s list of Don Giovanni’s conquests, but, instead, he asked, ‘Did you ever meet any of the daughters?’

  ‘Me, no. But my best friend Gregorio told me he had an affair with Lucrezia. A long time ago, before they were married. Wasn’t anything important, really.’ Brunetti did not have to strain to understand that they did not marry one another. ‘Gregorio always thought she did it to spite her mother.’

  ‘What sort of reputation did she have?’ Brunetti asked. ‘When she was a girl, that is.’

  ‘Oh, you know what it’s like, Signore,’ Foa said and cut to the left and into Rio de la Madoneta. ‘Once a woman goes with a man, everyone’s going to say he’s had her, too.’ Brunetti put this nugget in a side pocket in his memory to pull out the next time someone spoke to him of human progress.

  Then, as if to make up for what he had said, Foa added, ‘Gregorio said she was a nice girl. They remained friends for a long time.’

  ‘But not now?’

  ‘Not on your life, sir. He married a girl from Giudecca, and she keeps him on a short lead. If she found out he even telephoned another woman, she’d have the cross up in the garden, and she’d send him out to get the nails.’

  ‘Would he go?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’ Foa brought the boat to a smooth stop on the right side of the canal.

  ‘No need to wait for me, Foa,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll have a coffee and go back to the Questura. If you change your mind, call me and I’ll

  come get you.’

  Brunetti said he would, though he trembled at the thought of Chiara’s reaction should she learn that he had had a boat travel twice all the way across the city, and the second time when there was no urgency. She’d probably send him out for the nails, too.

  He had checked the address in Calli, Campielli e Canali, and so found it easily, an undistinguished building with a dark green double door. The doctor’s name was on one of the bells, and the door opened soon after Brunetti rang. The entrance hall smelled of damp; no surprise after the previous day’s rain. At the very end of the hallway, facing the entrance, a door stood open. Brunetti entered and found the standard chair-lined walls of a doctor’s waiting room, though here the chairs were separate, wooden, antique, and beautiful. More surprisingly, the walls displayed, not the usual sentimental portraits of dogs and children, but three fine-lined drawings that drew his eye. At first, he thought they were surreal cityscapes, with abstract towers and cupolas, until closer examination showed that it was his eyes, and not the lines, that created the illusion of a city. The lines were so close together that the background of the drawing seemed grey: Brunetti wondered what technique the artist

  had used to put them so flawlessly close, for nowhere did one line touch another.

  Brunetti took his reading glasses from his pocket and put them on, the better to study these magical lines that drew the gaze of the viewer with the force of an electromagnet. The second drawing suggested a beach, though here again it was the viewer who imposed this reality on the drawing, where the varied spaces between horizontal lines of different widths and lengths suggested the variation in surface and texture between sand and sea.

  The third had to be the facades of the buildings on the eastern side of Campo San Polo, but only a Venetian would see that, just as only a Venetian would recognize Palazzo Soranzo and Palazzo Maffetti-Tiepolo. Or perhaps not. When Brunetti stepped back from the drawing, the distance transformed it into mere lines, closely drawn but utterly abstract and devoid of meaning. He swept his eyes along the three drawings and was very relieved to see that they were covered with glass. Then he moved closer to the third one again, and the magic repeated itself: the palazzi materialized among the lines. Enough to move back forty centimetres, and again they dissolved.

  ‘Commissario?’ a man’s voice said behind him.

  He turned, removed his reading glasses, and saw a short, thickset man a decade younger than himself. Though the doctor wore glasses, Brunetti saw that one eye was slightly larger than the other, or angled differently in his face. Yet when he looked for similar imperfection in his mouth, he found it was perfectly proportioned. He searched for a resemblance to Umberto and found it in the general squareness of the face: ears tight to the head, jawbone prominent and almost as wide as the cheekbones.

  Brunetti extended his hand. ‘Thank you for letting me come,’ he said. He had learned, when greeting people who had agreed to speak to him, to say only that and to say nothing at first that would remind them that he was there to ask them questions. He returned his glasses to his pocket.

  ‘Do you like the drawings?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘More than that, I’d say.’ Brunetti turned back to them and, from this distance, saw that all three had turned into entirely different images. ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘Here,’ Proni said. ‘A local artist.’ Then he turned, saying, ‘Perhaps we’d be more comfortable in my office.’

  He held the door open for Brunetti, who passed through what must be the nurse’s reception room and then into the doctor’s, in which there was a desk that held a computer and a small bouquet of orange tulips. Two more of the antique chairs stood in front of the desk, and Brunetti went over to one of them, leaving the doctor to take his seat behind the desk. Being questioned by the police was so alien an experience for most people that it was best to make the circumstances as comfortable and close to normal as possible.

  Brunetti sat and glanced around the room. The windows were heavily barred, standard practice in any doctor’s office where drugs might be, or be thought to be. A glass-doored cabinet between the windows, its shelves sta
cked with unruly piles of boxes of medicine, was exactly what addicts hoped to see: cocktail time. Brunetti was pleased to see another of the drawings on the wall opposite the windows. Had he not seen those in the waiting room, Brunetti would have taken it for an abstract watercolour in different tones of grey, but he now realized that the colour resulted from the closeness of the lines: there could not be a millimetre between them.

  Proni called back Brunetti’s attention by saying, ‘I called the hospital and spoke to the doctor in charge of her ward. He says he wants to keep her there for at least another day. The concussion is very slight, but they want to be careful.’

  ‘Did she tell him what happened?’ Brunetti asked, though he was certain he knew what the answer would be.

  ‘Just what she told the man who found her: she fell down the steps.’ After saying that, Proni kept his eyes on Brunetti’s.

  ‘Let’s hope that’s what happened,’ was his response.

  ‘What does that mean, Commissario?’

  ‘Exactly what I said, Dottore: I hope that’s what happened.’

  ‘Instead of?’

  ‘Instead of an attempt to harm her.’

  ‘Who would want to do that?’ the Doctor asked, seeming honestly puzzled.

  Brunetti allowed himself a small smile. ‘You’d have a better idea of that than I would, Dottore.’

  Proni was immediately indignant. ‘If I might repeat myself, what does that mean?’

  Brunetti held up one hand and gave a soft answer, to turn away wrath. ‘You’re her doctor, so you’d know more about her life than I do. All I know is that she is the mother of a man who died, Davide Cavanello.’ He knew more than that, but little of it was of substance, and none of any help.

  ‘What sort of thing do you expect me to know, Commissario?’ Proni asked, careful to use the polite form of address.

  Brunetti responded with equal formality. ‘I’d like to know anything you can tell me about the relationship between Signora Cavanella and her son.’

  ‘She was his mother.’

  Try as he might, Brunetti found no sarcasm there, so he responded quite naturally. ‘Was she a good mother?’

  Proni’s face remained unchanged. ‘That’s an entirely subjective judgement, one I’m not qualified to make.’ There was no apology in his voice, only explanation. ‘She took care of his physical needs to the best of her ability, if that’s the sort of information you’re looking for.’

  It wasn’t, but it was still information Brunetti had not had before and was glad to have. He did, however, find it interesting that the doctor specified physical needs and did not describe her ability.

  Brunetti had no intention of telling him that he had seen Ana Cavanella’s medical records: no doctor should know how easily they were available to anyone skilled enough to look for them. ‘Could you give me a general idea of her health?’

  The doctor’s eyes contracted, as if he had been awaiting a question about the son and not the mother. He appeared to give the question some thought and then answered, ‘I’d say that, for a woman of her age, she’s healthy. She doesn’t smoke and never has, drinks moderately – not even that – and to the best of my knowledge has never taken drugs.’

  ‘Did you prescribe the sleeping pills, Dottore?’

  This question could not have surprised him, yet the doctor failed to disguise his nervousness in answering it. He pulled his eyes away from Brunetti’s and looked at the drawing on the far wall, then said, eyes still on the drawing, ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘You seem troubled by the question, Dottore. Why is that?’

  ‘Because I don’t like being in any way responsible for Davide’s death.’ He looked at Brunetti as he said this.

  Brunetti shook his head. His failure to understand was not feigned. ‘That’s too hard a judgement, don’t you think, Dottore?’

  ‘It’s hard, but it’s not too hard,’ Proni said. ‘She had never needed them before: she’s always been a patient who takes very few medicines. I should have told her to try drinking something hot before she went to bed, or going for a walk in the evening.’ He scratched idly at a point just above the middle of his glasses and then rubbed the tips of his fingers up and down his forehead. ‘I should have thought.’

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘That they come in bright colours and have a slick, sweet covering, like candies. They would be very appealing to someone of Davide’s mental age.’ He scratched again. ‘But I didn’t. I just wrote her the prescription.’

  ‘What was his mental age?’ Brunetti asked.

  Proni shot him a glance, as though he’d invited him into his home and found him ruffling through the drawers. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said mildly. Then, ‘Did you ever treat him as a patient, Dottore?’

  ‘Do I have to answer this question?’

  ‘It would save a lot of time.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That, eventually – but only by our going through channels and getting an order from a magistrate and spending days of work – yes, you can be required to answer that question.’

  Proni pushed his chair back from the desk: its legs made an ugly, scraping sound on the tile floor. He rubbed at his forehead again. ‘I went to their home once when he had flu and another time when he had terrible diarrhoea. The first time all I could do was to tell her to keep him in bed and warm and see that he drank lots of liquids. The second time I wrote a prescription. I don’t remember what I prescribed: this was years ago.’

  ‘Was this done officially?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Proni asked, obviously confused.

  ‘Was the prescription written for him?’

  ‘Of course it was written for him. He was the one who was sick.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dottore. I wasn’t clear enough. Was the prescription written in his name?’

  Proni stared at Brunetti as though he had suddenly noticed smoke coming from his ears. ‘I told you this was years ago, Commissario. I don’t remember what I prescribed and I don’t remember whom I prescribed it for. He had symptoms, I wrote a prescription, and that was that.’

  There was nothing to lose in being truthful, Brunetti thought. ‘Dottore, I see your irritation, and I think I understand it.’ Embarrassed by having no tool left but honesty, he went on. ‘I saw him for years. He worked in the dry cleaner’s where my wife and I take our clothes. And I’d see him on the street sometimes. He always looked so . . . I don’t know the right word. Vulnerable, perhaps.’ He paused, but Proni said nothing. Some inner sense of propriety or decency kept Brunetti from inventing a lie similar to Pucetti’s and telling the doctor that his son had known and played soccer with Davide.

  ‘What was wrong with him, Dottore?’ Before Proni could answer, he said, ‘I don’t care if you saw him other times or treated him for other things. I just want to know that: what was wrong with him?’

  Proni leaned forward and said, ‘He was born to a stupid woman. He was born to a woman who saw whatever was wrong with him as a curse from God, as though she were living in a hut in a forest and believed in witches. Like most Christians, she knew everything about guilt and nothing about charity, so she kept it hidden – remember, it was a curse – and made no attempt to get him trained or taught, and God knows how she raised him. That’s why he looked so vulnerable: that’s why he seemed so lost and alien.’

  ‘Did she tell you this, Dottore?’

  Proni’s face flushed, because of either the story he was telling or the fact that Brunetti should question it. His mouth tightened and the difference between his eyes grew more marked. ‘She didn’t have to tell me, Commissario,’ he added in a calmer voice. ‘It was implicit in the way she treated him and in everything she said about him.’

  Abruptly, Proni got to his feet. ‘That’s all I have to say, Commissario.’

  Brunetti stood and leaned over the desk to offer his hand. Proni did not hesitate to take it.

  ‘Let him rest in pe
ace,’ the doctor said. ‘He had so little of it when he was alive.’

  Sensing that there was nothing to be gained by asking anything else, Brunetti turned towards the door. In the waiting room, he paused and nodded at the three drawings, which had changed again to suit the greater distance from which he was seeing them. ‘You said he’s a local artist,’ Brunetti said, pointing at the drawings. ‘Would I recognize his name?’

  ‘Probably,’ Proni said with a smile that shaved years off his face.

  ‘What is it?’ Brunetti asked, thinking he was being asked to do so.

  ‘Davide Cavanella,’ Proni said, moving past him. ‘That should explain my anger at his mother.’ He held the door open, and Brunetti left.

  19

  Because he was so close to home, Brunetti decided to go there instead of returning to the Questura. The kids would not be there for lunch; he had told Paola he would not be back, either, but his conversation with Dottor Proni had left him wanting to talk to her.

  He found her where he thought he would: lying on the sofa, reading. She looked up when he came in, not at all surprised, and he was prompted to ask, ‘What if I had been the axe murderer?’

  She picked up a piece of paper on her chest and stuck it back in the book, tossed the book to the foot of the sofa, and said, ‘The axe murderer had your footsteps on the stairs, and his keys jingled the same way yours do.’

  ‘You can hear that well?’ he asked, his surprise audible to both of them.

  ‘You mean at my advanced age or after having lived through years of the music choices of two teenaged children?’ she inquired.

  He smiled and hung his jacket on the back of a chair, moved the book aside and sat down. ‘Did you really hear me coming up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you can tell my keys?’

  She hesitated, the way she always did when considering the usefulness of telling a lie. ‘No.’ He smiled; she shrugged. ‘But I did hear keys, and thieves – or axe murderers, for all I know – don’t make a noise when they’re trying to come in.’