‘If you believed that, I doubt you would be here. And you certainly wouldn’t be dressed the way you are.’ As soon as he said it, he realized that it sounded like deprecation of the way she was dressed, though his words referred only to her decision to leave the order and remove her habit.
Brunetti pushed the list to the side of his desk and, in a verbal equivalent of that gesture, changed the subject. ‘When did you decide to leave?’
If she had been waiting for the question, her answer could have come no more quickly. ‘After I spoke to the Mother Superior,’ she said, voice rough with some remembered emotion. ‘But first I spoke to Padre Pio, my confessor.’
‘Can you tell me what you said to them?’ Brunetti had been away from the Church and all its works and pomps for so long that he no longer remembered just what could and could not be repeated about a confession or what the penalty for doing so was, but he remembered enough to know that confession was something people were not supposed to talk about.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Is he the same priest who says Mass?’
‘Yes. He’s a member of our order, but he doesn’t live there. He comes twice a week.’
‘From where?’
‘From our chapter house, here in Venice. He was my confessor in the other nursing home, too.’
Brunetti saw how willing she was to be diverted by details, and so he asked, ‘What did you tell him?’
She paused a moment, and Brunetti imagined she was remembering her conversation with her confessor. ‘I told him about the people who had died,’ she said and stopped, looking away from him.
When he saw that she was going to say nothing further, Brunetti asked, ‘Did you say anything else, anything about their money or what they had said about it?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know about it then. That is, I hadn’t remembered it then, I was so troubled by their deaths, so that’s all I said to him, that they had died.’
‘And what did he say?’
She looked at Brunetti again. ‘He said that he didn’t understand. And so I explained it to him. I told him the names of the people who had died and what I knew of their medical histories, that most of them had been in good health and had died suddenly. He listened to everything I had to say and asked me if I was sure.’ In a casual aside, she added, ‘Because I’m Sicilian, people up here always assume I’m stupid. Or a liar.’
Brunetti glanced at her to see if there was some reprimand, some comment on his own behaviour hidden in this remark, but there seemed to be none. ‘I think he just couldn’t believe it, that it was possible. Then, when I insisted that so many deaths were not normal,’ she continued, ‘he asked me if I was aware of the danger of repeating such things. Of the danger of causing slander? When I told him that I was aware of that, he suggested I pray about it.’ She stopped.
‘And then?’
‘I told him that I had prayed, that I had prayed for days. Then he asked me if I knew what I was suggesting, what a horror it was.’ She stopped again and then added as an aside, ‘He was shocked. I don’t think he could understand the possibility. He’s a very good man, Padre Pio, and very unworldly.’ Brunetti smothered a smile at hearing this said by someone who had spent the last twelve years in a convent.
‘What happened then?’
‘I asked to speak to the Mother Superior.’
‘And did you?’
‘It took two days, but she finally saw me, late one afternoon, after Vespers. I repeated everything to her, about the old people dying. She couldn’t hide her surprise. I was glad to see that because it meant Padre Pio hadn’t said anything to her. I knew he wouldn’t, but what I had said was so terrible, well, I didn’t know ...’ Her voice trailed away.
‘And?’ he asked.
‘She refused to listen to me, said she would not listen to lies, that what I was saying would damage the order.’
‘And so?’
‘She told me, ordered me, under my vow of obedience, to keep full silence for a month.’
‘Does that mean what I think it does, that you were not to speak to anyone for a month?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about your work? Didn’t you have to speak to the patients?’
‘I wasn’t with them.’
‘What?’
‘The Mother Superior ordered me to spend my time in my room and in the chapel.’
‘For a month?’
‘Two.’
‘What?’
‘Two,’ she repeated. ‘At the end of the first month, she came to see me in my room and asked if my prayers and meditations had shown me the proper path. I told her that I had prayed and meditated – and I had – but that I was still troubled by the deaths. She refused to listen and told me to resume my silence.’
‘And did you?’
She nodded.
‘And then?’
‘I spent the next week in prayer, and that’s when I began to try to remember anything those people had told me, and that’s when I remembered what Signora da Prè and Signorina Cristanti had said to me, about their money. Before that, I wouldn’t let myself think about it, but once I did, I couldn’t stop remembering.’
Brunetti considered the wide variety of things she might have ‘remembered’ after more than a month of solitude and silence. ‘What happened at the end of the second month?’
‘The Mother Superior came to my room again and asked me if I had come to my senses. I said that I had, which I suppose is true.’ She stopped talking and again gave Brunetti that sad, nervous smile.
‘And then?’
‘And then I left.’
‘Just like that?’ Immediately, Brunetti began to consider the practical details: clothing, money, transportation. Strangely enough, they were the same details that had to be considered by people who were about to be released from prison.
‘That same afternoon, I walked out with the people who had been there for visiting hours. No one seemed to think it was strange; no one noticed. I asked one of the women who was leaving if she could tell me where I could buy some clothing. All I had was seventeen thousand lire.’
She stopped speaking and Brunetti asked, ‘And did she tell you?’
‘Her father was one of my patients, so she knew me. She and her husband invited me to go back to their home with them for supper. I had no place to go, so I went. To the Lido.’
‘And?’
‘On the boat, I told them what I’d decided to do, but I didn’t say anything about the reason. I’m not sure I even knew, or know now. I wasn’t slandering the order or the nursing home. I’m not doing that now, am I?’ Brunetti, who had no idea, shook his head and she continued. ‘All I did was tell the Mother Superior about the deaths, that it seemed strange to me, so many of them.’
In an entirely conversational tone, Brunetti said, ‘I’ve read that old people sometimes die in a series, with no reason.’
‘I told you that. It’s usually right after the holidays.’
‘Could that be the explanation here?’ he asked.
Her eyes flashed in what Brunetti believed was anger. ‘Of course it could be. But then why did she try to silence me?’
‘I think you told me that, Maria.’
‘What?’
‘Your vow. Obedience. I don’t know how important that is to them, but it could be that they were worried about that, more than anything else.’ When she didn’t answer, he asked, ‘Do you think that’s possible?’ She still refused to answer, so he asked, ‘Then what happened? With the people on the Lido?’
‘They were very kind to me. After we had dinner, she gave me some of her clothes.’ She swept her hands open to show the skirt she was wearing. ‘I stayed with them for the first week, and then they helped me get the job at the clinic.’
‘Didn’t you have to show some sort of identification to get it?’
She shook her head. ‘No. They were so glad to find someone willing to do the work that they didn’t ask any ques
tions. But I’ve sent to the city hall in my home town and asked that copies of my birth certificate and carta d’identità be sent to me. If I’m going to come back to this life, then I suppose I’ll need them.’
‘Where did you have them sent, to the clinic?’
‘No, to the home of these people.’ She had heard the concern in his voice and said, ‘Why do you ask?’
He shook her question away with a quick sideways motion of his head. ‘Just curiosity. You never know how long that sort of thing can take.’ It was a bad lie, but she had been a nun for so long that Brunetti did not believe she would easily recognize one. ‘Are you still in contact with anyone from the casa di cura or from your order?’
‘No. No one.’
‘Do they know where you’ve gone?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. There’s no way they could know.’
‘Would the people on the Lido tell them?’
‘No, I asked them not to tell anyone about me, and I think they won’t.’ Recalling his former uneasiness, she asked, ‘Why do you ask about that?’
He saw no reason not to tell her this much, at least. ‘If there is any truth in ...’ he began, but then realized that he wasn’t at all sure what to call it, for certainly it wasn’t an accusation, really no more than a comment on coincidence. He began again. ‘Because of what you’ve told me, it might be wise for you to make no contact with the people at the casa di cura.’ He realized that he had no idea who these people were. ‘When you heard these old women talk, did you have any idea who, and I mean specifically, who they would leave their money to?’
‘I’ve thought about that,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and I don’t like to say.’
‘Please, Maria, I don’t think you can choose any longer what you do and don’t want to say about this.’
She nodded, but very slowly, acknowledging the truth of what he said, though that didn’t make it palatable. ‘They could have left it to the casa di cura itself or to the director. Or to the order.’
‘Who’s the director?’
‘Doctor Messini, Fabio Messini.’
‘Is there anyone else?’
She considered this for a moment and then answered, ‘Perhaps to Padre Pio. He’s so good to the patients that many of them are very fond of him. But I don’t think he’d accept anything.’
‘The Mother Superior?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No. The order forbids us to own anything. The women, that is.’
Brunetti pulled a piece of paper toward him. ‘Do you know Padre Pio’s surname?’
Her alarm was palpable in her eyes. ‘But you aren’t going to talk to him, are you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But I’d like to know it. In case it becomes necessary.’
‘Cavaletti,’ she said.
‘Do you know anything more about him?’
She shook her head. ‘No, only that he comes to hear confessions twice a week. If someone is very sick, he comes to give them the Last Rites. I’ve seldom had time to talk to him. Outside of the confessional, that is.’ She stopped for a moment, and then added, ‘The last time I saw him was about a month ago, Mother Superior’s name day, February twentieth.’ Suddenly her mouth drew closed and her eyes tightened, as if she had been struck by a sudden pain. Brunetti leaned forward in his chair, afraid she was going to faint.
She opened her eyes and looked across at him, raising a hand to ward him off. ‘Isn’t that strange?’ she asked. ‘That I would remember her feast day.’ She looked away and then back at him. ‘I can’t remember my birthday. Just the feast day of L’Immacolata, December eighth.’ She shook her head, whether in sadness or surprise, he couldn’t tell. ‘It’s as if part of me stopped existing for all those years, got cancelled out. I can’t remember any more when it is, my birthday.’
‘Maybe you could make it be the date you left the convent,’ Brunetti suggested and smiled to show he meant it gently.
She met his glance for a moment and then raised the first two fingers of her right hand to her forehead and rubbed at it, eyes turned down. ‘La Vita Nuova,’ she said, more to herself than to him.
With no warning, she got to her feet. ‘I think I’d like to leave now, Commissario.’ Her eyes were less calm than her voice, so Brunetti made no attempt to stop her.
‘Could you tell me the name of the pensione where you’re staying?’
‘La Pergola.’
‘On the Lido?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the people who helped you?’
‘Why do you want their name?’ she asked with real alarm.
‘Because I like to know things,’ he said, an honest answer.
‘Sassi, Vittorio Sassi. Via Morosini, number eleven.’
‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said, not writing these names down. She turned toward the door and for a moment he thought she would ask him what he was going to do about what she had told him, but she said nothing. He got up and came around the desk, hoping at least to open the door for her, but she was too quick for him. She opened it, took one glance back at him, didn’t smile, and left the room.
Donna Leon, Acqua Alta
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