Brunetti rang the first bell above the bank. There was no answer. The same happened with the second. He was about to ring the top bell when he heard a woman’s voice behind him, asking in purest Veneziano, “May I help you? Are you looking for someone who lives here?”
He turned away from the bells and found himself looking down at a small old woman with an enormous shopping cart leaning against her leg. Remembering the name on the first bell, he said, answering in the same dialect, “Yes, I’m here to see the Montinis. It’s time for them to renew their insurance policy, and I thought I’d stop by and see if they wanted to make any changes on the coverage.”
“They’re not here,” she said, looking into an enormous handbag, hunting for her keys. “Gone to the mountains. Same with the Gasparis, except they’re at Jesolo.” Abandoning her hope of touching or seeing the keys, she took the bag and shook it, bent on locating them by sound. It worked, and she pulled out a bunch of keys as large as her hand.
“That’s what all this is,” she said, holding the keys up to Brunetti. “They’ve left me their keys, and I go in and water the plants, see the place doesn’t fall down.” She looked up from the keys and at Brunetti’s face. Her eyes were a faded, pale blue, set in a round face covered with a tracery of fine lines. “Do you have children, Signore?”
“Yes, I do,” he responded immediately.
“Names and ages?”
“Raffaele’s sixteen, and Chiara’s thirteen, Signora.”
“Good,” she said, as though he had passed some sort of test. “You’re a strong young man. Do you think you could carry that cart up to the third floor for me? If you don’t, then I’ll have to make at least three trips to get it all up there. My son and his family are coming to lunch tomorrow, so I’ve had to get a lot of things.”
“I’d be very glad to help you, Signora,” he said, bending down to pick up the cart, which must have weighed fifteen kilos. “Is it a big family?”
“My son and his wife and their children. Two of them are bringing the great-grandchildren, so there’ll be, let’s see, there’ll be ten of us.”
She opened the door and held it open while Brunetti slipped past her with the cart. She pushed on the timed light and started up the steps ahead of him. “You wouldn’t believe what they charged me for peaches. Middle of August, and they’re still charging three thousand lire a kilo. But I got them anyway; Marco likes to cut his up in red wine before lunch and then have it as dessert. And fish. I wanted to get a rombo, but it cost too much. Everyone likes a good boiled bosega, so that’s what I got, but he still wanted ten thousand lire a kilo. Three fish and it cost me almost forty thousand lire.” She stopped at the first landing, just outside the door to the Bank of Verona, and looked down at Brunetti. “When I was a girl, we gave bosega to the cat, and here I am, paying ten thousand lire a kilo for it.”
She turned and started up the next flight. “You’re carrying it by the handles, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Signora.”
“Good, because I have a kilo of figs right on the top, and I wouldn’t want them to be crushed.”
“No, they’re all right, Signora.”
“I went to Casa del Parmigiana and got some prosciutto to go with the figs. I’ve known Giuliano since he was a boy. He’s got the best prosciutto in Venice, don’t you think?”
“My wife always goes there, Signora.”
“Costs I’ira di dio, but it’s worth it, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Signora.”
They were at the top. She still carried the keys, so she didn’t have to hunt for them again. She opened the single lock on the door and pushed it open, letting Brunetti into a large apartment with four tall windows, closed and shuttered now, that opened onto the campo.
She led the way through the living room, a room familiar from Brunetti’s youth: fat armchairs and a sofa with horsehair stuffing that scratched at whoever sat down; massive dark brown credenzas, their tops covered with silver candy bowls and silver-framed photos; the floor of poured Venetian pavement that glistened even in the dim light. He could have been in his grandparents’ house.
The kitchen was the same. The sink was stone, and an immense cylindrical water heater sat in one corner. The kitchen table had a marble surface, and he could see her both rolling out pasta and ironing on that surface.
“Just put it there, by the door,” she said. “Would you like a glass of something?”
“Water would be nice, Signora.”
As he knew she would, she pulled down a silver salver from the top of the cabinet, placed a small round lace doily in the center, then set a Murano wineglass on top of it. From the refrigerator, she took a bottle of mineral water and filled the glass.
“Grazie infinite” he said before he drank the water. He set it down carefully on the center of the doily and refused her offer of more. “Would you like me to help you unpack it all, Signora?”
“No, I know where everything is and where it all goes. You’ve been very kind, young man. What’s your name?”
“Brunetti, Guido.”
“And you sell insurance?”
“Yes, Signora.”
“Well, thank you very much,” she said, placing his glass in the sink and reaching into the cart.
Remembering what his real job was, he asked, “Signora, do you always let people into the apartment with you like this? Without knowing who they are?”
“No, I’m not a fool. I don’t let just anyone in,” she replied. “I always see if they have children. And, of course, they have to be Veneziano.”
Of course. When he thought about it, her system was probably better than a lie detector or a security check. “Thank you for the water, Signora. I’ll let myself out.”
“Thank you,” she said, bent over her cart, hunting for those figs.
He went down the first two flights of stairs and stood on the landing above the door of the Bank of Verona. He heard nothing at all, although occasionally a voice or a shout would float up from the campo. In the dim light that filtered in through the small windows of the staircase, he looked at his watch. A little after one. He stood for another ten minutes and still heard nothing except odd, disjointed sounds from the campo.
He walked slowly down the stairs and stood outside the door to the bank. Feeling not a little ridiculous, he bent his head and put his eye against the horizontal keyhole of the metal porta blin-data. From behind it he could make out the faintest trace of light, as if someone had forgotten to turn off a light when they closed the shutters on Friday afternoon. Or as if someone were working inside on this Saturday afternoon.
He went back up the steps and leaned against the wall. After about ten minutes, he took his handkerchief from his pocket and spread it on the second step above him, hiked up his pants, and sat down. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. After what seemed a long time, he got up, moved the handkerchief closer to the wall, and sat down again, now leaning against the wall. No air circulated, he had eaten nothing all day, and the heat battered at him. He glanced down at his watch and saw that it was after two. He determined that he would stay there until three and not a minute later.
At 3:40, still there but now determined to leave at 4:00, he heard a sharp sound from below. He stood and backed up onto the second step. Below him, a door opened, but he remained where he was. The door closed, a key turned in the lock, and footsteps sounded on the stairs. Brunetti stuck his head out and looked down after the retreating figure. In the dim light he made out only a tall man in a dark suit carrying a briefcase. Short dark hair, a starched white collar just visible at the back of his neck. The man turned and started down the next flight of stairs, but the dim light of the stairwell revealed little about him. Brunetti moved silently down behind him. At the door to the bank, Brunetti glanced in through the keyhole, but it was now dark inside.
From below, he heard the sound of the front door being opened and closed, and at the sound Brunetti ran down the rem
aining steps. He paused at the door, opened it quickly, and stepped out into the campo. For a moment, the bright sun blinded him, and he covered his eyes with his hand. When he took it away, he swept his eyes across the campo, but all he saw were pastel sports clothes and white shirts. He walked to the right and looked down Calle della Bissa, but there was no dark-suited man there. He ran across the campo and looked down the narrow calle that led to the first bridge, but he didn’t see the man. There were at least five other calli that led off the campo, and Brunetti realized the man would be long gone before he could check them all. He decided to try the Rialto embarcadero; perhaps he had taken a boat. Dodging past people and pushing others out of his way, he ran to the water’s edge and then up toward the embarcadero of the number eighty-two. When he got there, a boat was just leaving, heading toward San Marcuola and the train station.
He pushed his way through a gaggle of Japanese tourists until he got to the edge of the canal. The boat sailed past him, and he ran his eyes over the passengers standing on the deck and those sitting inside. The boat was crowded, and most of the people on it wore casual clothing. Finally Brunetti saw, on the other side of the deck, a man in a dark suit and white shirt. He was just lighting a cigarette and turned aside to flip the match into the canal. The back of his head looked the same, but Brunetti knew he couldn’t be certain about this. When the man turned back, Brunetti stared at his profile, trying to memorize it. And then the boat slipped under the Rialto Bridge, and the man was gone.
14
Brunetti did what any sensible man will do when he has known defeat—he went home and called his wife. When he was put through to Paola’s room, Chiara answered the phone.
“Oh, ciao, Papà, you should have been on the train. We got stuck outside Vicenza and had to sit there for almost two hours. No one knew what happened, but then the conductor told us that a woman had thrown herself under a train between Vicenza and Verona, so we had to wait and wait. I guess they had to clean it up, eh? When we finally got going, I stayed right at the window all the way to Verona, but I didn’t see anything. You think they got it cleaned up so fast?”
“I suppose so, cara. Is your mother there?”
“Yes, she is, Papà. But maybe I was looking out the wrong side of the train and all the mess was on the other side. Do you think that might be it?”
“Perhaps, Chiara. Could I talk to Mamma?”
“Oh, sure, Papà. She’s right here. Why do you think someone would do that, throw themselves under a train?”
“Probably because someone wouldn’t let them talk to the person they wanted to, Chiara.”
“Oh, Papà, you’re always so silly. Here she is.”
Silly? Silly? He thought he had sounded entirely serious.
“Ciao, Guido,” Paola said. “You’ve just heard? Our child is a ghoul.”
“When did you get there?”
“About a half hour ago. We had to have lunch on the train. Disgusting. What have you been doing? Did you find the insalata di calamari
“No, I just got in.”
“From Mestre? Did you have lunch?”
“No, there was something I had to do.”
“Well, there’s insalata di calamari in the refrigerator. Eat it today or tomorrow; it won’t keep very long in this heat.” He heard Chiara’s voice in the background, and then Paola asked, “Are you coming up tomorrow?”
“No, I can’t. We’ve identified his body.”
“Who is he?”
“Mascari, Leonardo. He’s the director of the Banca di Verona here. Do you know him?”
“No, never heard of him. Is he Venetian?”
“I think so. The wife is.”
Again, he heard Chiara’s voice. It went on for a long time. Then Paola was back. “Sorry, Guido. Chiara’s going for a walk and couldn’t find her sweater.” The very word made Brunetti more conscious of the heat that simmered in the apartment even with all the windows open.
“Paola, do you have Padovani’s number? I looked in the phone book here, but it’s not listed.” He knew she wouldn’t ask why he wanted the number, so he explained, “He’s the only person I could think of to answer questions about the gay world here.”
“He’s been in Rome for years, Guido.”
“I know, I know, Paola, but he comes up here every couple of months to review art shows, and his family’s still here.”
“Well, maybe,” she said, managing to sound not at all convinced. “Wait a second while I get my address book.” She set down the phone and was gone long enough to convince Brunetti that the address book was in another room, perhaps another building. Finally she was back. “Guido, it’s 5224404. I think it’s still listed under the name of the people who sold him the house. If you talk to him, please say hello for me.”
“Yes, I will. Where’s Raffi?”
“Oh, he was gone the minute we set down the bags. I don’t expect to see him until dinnertime.”
“Give him my love. I’ll call you this week.” With mutual promises of calls and another admonition about the insalata di calamari, they hung up, and Brunetti thought about how strange it was for a man to go away for a week and not call his wife. Perhaps if there were no children it made a difference, but he thought not.
He rang Padovani’s number and got, as was increasingly the case in Italy these days, a machine telling him that Professore Padovani was not able to come to the phone at the moment but would return the call as soon as possible. Brunetti left a message asking Professore Padovani to call, and hung up.
He went into the kitchen and pulled the now famous insalata from the refrigerator. He peeled back the plastic wrap from the top and picked out a piece of squid with his fingers. Chewing on it, he pulled a bottle of Soave from the refrigerator and poured himself a glass. Wine in one hand, insalata in the other, he went out onto the terrace and set them both down on the low glass table. He remembered bread, went back into the kitchen to grab a panino, and while there, remembering civilization, he took a fork from the top drawer.
Back on the terrace, he broke off a piece of the bread, put a piece of squid on top of it, and popped it into his mouth. Certainly banks had work to be done on Saturday—no holiday for money. And certainly whoever was working on the weekend wouldn’t want to be disturbed by a phone call, so he’d say it was a wrong number and then not answer the next call. So as not to be disturbed.
The salad had rather more celery than he liked, so he pushed the tiny cubes to the side of the bowl with his fork. He poured himself more wine, and he thought of the Bible. Somewhere, he thought it was in Mark, there was a passage about Jesus’s disappearance when he was going back to Nazareth after he’d first been taken up to Jerusalem. Mary thought he was with Joseph, traveling with the men, and that sainted man believed the boy to be with his mother and the women. It wasn’t until their caravan stopped for the night that they spoke to one another and discovered that Jesus was nowhere to be found; it turned out that he was back in Jerusalem, teaching in the Temple. The Bank of Verona believed Mascari to be in Messina; hence, the office in Messina must have believed him to be somewhere else or they would surely have called to check.
He went back into the living room and found one of Chiara’s notebooks on the table, left there in a muddle of pens and pencils. He flipped through the notebook; finding it empty and liking the picture of Mickey Mouse on the cover, he took it and one of the pens out to the terrace.
He began to jot down a list of things to do on Monday morning. Check the Bank of Verona to see where Mascari was supposed to go and then call that bank to see what reason they’d been given for his failure to arrive. Find out why there had been no progress on finding where the shoes and dress came from. Start digging into Mascari’s past, both personal and financial. And take another look at the autopsy report for any mention of those shaved legs. He also had to see what Vianello had managed to learn about the Lega and about Avvocato Santomauro.
He heard the phone ring and, hoping it would be Paola
at the same time he knew it couldn’t be, he went inside to answer it.
“Ciao, Guido, it’s Damiano. I got your message.”
“Professore?” Brunetti asked.
“Oh, that,” the journalist answered dismissively. “I liked the sound of it, so I’m trying it on my message machine this week. Why? Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I like it,” Brunetti found himself saying. “It sounds wonderful. But what are you a professor of?”
A long silence emanated from Padovani’s end of the phone. “I once gave a series of classes in painting in a girls’ school, back in the seventies. Do you think that counts?”
“I suppose so,” Brunetti admitted.
“Well, perhaps it’s time to change the message. How do you think Commendatore would sound? Commendatore Padovani? Yes, I think I like that. Would you like me to change the message, and you call me back?”
“No, I don’t think so, Damiano. I’d like to talk to you about something else.”
“Just as well. It takes me forever to change the message. So many buttons to push. The first time I did it, I recorded myself swearing at the machine. No one left a message for a week, until I thought the thing wasn’t working and called myself from a phone booth. Shocking, the language the machine used. I dashed home and changed the message immediately. But it’s still very confusing. Are you sure you don’t want to call me back in twenty minutes?”
“No, I don’t think so, Damiano. Do you have time to talk to me now?”
“For you, Guido, I am, as an English poet says in an entirely different context, ‘as free as the road, as loose as the wind.’”