Friends In High Places

  Rossi turned back to the cover, where the name of the notary was listed. ‘Did you select this notary?’ he asked.

  Brunetti didn’t even remember the name and had to look at the cover. ‘No, the seller suggested we use him, and so we did. Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ Rossi said, too quickly.

  ‘Why? Do you know something about him?’

  ‘I believe he’s no longer practising as a notary,’ Rossi said in a soft voice.

  Finally out of patience at Rossi’s questions, Brunetti demanded, ‘I’d like to know what all this means, Signor Rossi. Is there some dispute about our ownership of this apartment?’

  Rossi gave his nervous smile again. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that, Signor Brunetti.’

  Brunetti had no idea what could be more serious than that. ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid this apartment doesn’t exist.’

  2

  ‘WHAT?’ BRUNETTI CRIED before he could stop himself. He could hear the outrage in his voice but made no attempt to modify it. ‘What do you mean, it doesn’t exist?’

  Rossi leaned back in his chair as if to remove himself from the immediate orbit of Brunetti’s anger. He looked as if he found it puzzling to have someone react strongly to his having called into question the very existence of a perceived reality. When he saw that Brunetti had no violent intention, he relaxed minimally, adjusted the papers on his lap, and said, ‘I mean that it doesn’t exist for us, Signor Brunetti.’

  ‘And what does that mean, not for you?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘It means there are no records of it in our office. No requests for building permits, no plans, no final approval of the work that was done. In short, there exists no documentary evidence that this apartment was ever built.’ Before Brunetti could speak, Rossi added, placing his hand upon the file Brunetti had given him, ‘And, unfortunately, you can’t provide us with any.’

  Brunetti recalled a story Paola had once told about an English writer who, confronted with a philosopher who maintained that reality did not exist, had kicked a rock and told the philosopher to take that. He turned his mind to more immediate matters. His knowledge of the workings of other city offices was vague, but it was not his understanding that this sort of information would be kept at the Ufficio Catasto, where, as far as he knew, only documents regarding ownership were kept. ‘Is it normal for your office to interest itself in this?’

  ‘No, not in the past,’ Rossi answered with a timid smile, as if he approved of Brunetti’s being well informed enough to ask. ‘But as the result of a new directive, our office has been commissioned to assemble a comprehensive, computerized file of all of the apartments in the city that have been declared historical monuments by the Fine Arts Commission. This building is one of them. We’re in the process of assembling the papers and files from the various offices in the city. This way, one central office, ours, will have copies of the complete documentation regarding every apartment on the list. In the end, this centralized system will save enormous amounts of time.’

  Two weeks ago, Brunetti reflected, observing the smile of satisfaction Rossi gave as he said this, Il Gazzettino had carried an article announcing that, because of lack of funds, the dredging of the canals in the city had stopped. ‘How many apartments are there?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, we have no idea. That’s one of the reasons this survey is being done.’

  ‘How long ago was the survey begun?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Eleven months,’ Rossi answered at once, leaving Brunetti little doubt that, if asked, he could supply the exact date, as well.

  ‘And how many of these composite files have you compiled so far?’

  ‘Well, because some of us have volunteered to work on Saturdays, we’ve done more than a hundred,’ Rossi said, making no attempt to disguise his pride.

  ‘And how many of you are working on this project?’

  Rossi looked down at his right hand and, beginning with his thumb, began to count out his fellow workers. ‘Eight, I think.’

  ‘Eight,’ Brunetti repeated. He turned his mind away from the calculations he had been making and asked, ‘What does all of this mean? For me, specifically?’

  Rossi’s answer was immediate. ‘When we don’t have the papers for an apartment, the first thing we do is ask the owner to supply them, but there’s nothing suitable in this file.’ He indicated the slim folder. ‘All you have is the deed of transfer, so we have to assume you weren’t given any records the previous owners may have had concerning the original construction.’ Before Brunetti could interrupt, he continued, ‘And that means they are either lost, which is to suggest that they once existed, or else they never did. Exist, that is.’ He looked across at Brunetti, who said nothing. Rossi continued: ‘If they are lost, and if you say you never had them, then they must be lost in one of the city offices.’

  ‘In that case,’ Brunetti asked, ‘what will you do to find them?’

  ‘Ah,’ Rossi began, ‘it’s not as simple as that. We have no obligation to keep copies of those documents. The Civil Code makes it clear that this is the responsibility of the person who owns the property under consideration. Without your copies, you can’t argue that we’ve lost ours, if you see what I mean,’ he said with another small smile. ‘And it’s impossible for us to initiate a search for the papers because we can’t afford to use manpower in a search that might prove futile.’ Seeing Brunetti’s look, he explained, ‘Because they might not exist, you see.’

  Brunetti bit his lower lip and then asked, ‘And if they haven’t been lost and, instead, they never existed?’

  Rossi looked down and prodded at the face of his wristwatch, centring it on his wrist. ‘In that case, Signore,’ he finally explained, glancing up at Brunetti, ‘it means that permits were never granted and the final work was never approved.’

  ‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’ Brunetti asked. ‘There was a tremendous amount of building just after the war.’

  ‘Yes, there was,’ Rossi said with the feigned modesty of one who spent his working life dealing with just these things. ‘But most of those projects, whether they were minor restorations or extensive renovations, most of them have received the condono edilizio and so have gained legal status, at least with our office. The problem here is that no condono exists,’ he said and waved a hand to encompass the offending walls, floor, ceiling.

  ‘If I might repeat my question, Signor Rossi,’ Brunetti said, forcing sweet calm and Olympian reasonableness into his voice, ‘what does this mean for me and for my apartment, specifically?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the authority to answer that, Signore,’ Rossi said, handing the file back to Brunetti. He leaned down and picked up his briefcase. Holding it, he got to his feet. ‘My responsibility is only to visit home-owners and see if the missing papers are in their possession.’ His face sobered, and Brunetti thought he saw real disappointment there. ‘I’m sorry to learn that you don’t have them.’

  Brunetti stood. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘That depends upon the Commission of the Ufficio Catasto,’ Rossi said and took a step toward the door.

  Brunetti moved to the left, not quite blocking Rossi’s exit, but certainly creating an obstacle between Rossi and the door. ‘You said you think the floor below was added in the nineteenth century. But if it was added later, at the same time as this one was, would that change things?’ Try as he might, Brunetti could not disguise the raw hope in his voice.

  Rossi considered this for a long time and eventually said, his voice a study in caution and reserve, ‘Perhaps. I know that floor has all the permits and approvals, so if this floor could be shown to have been added at the same time, that could be used to argue that permits must once have been granted.’ He thought about this, a bureaucrat presented with a novel problem. ‘Yes, that might change things, though I’m certainly not in a position to judge.’

  Momentarily buoyed by the possibility of a reprieve, Brunetti
stepped over to the door to the terrace and opened it. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said, turning to Rossi and waving his hand through the open door. ‘I’ve always thought the windows on the floor below were the same as ours.’ Without looking back toward Rossi, he went on, ‘If you just have a look, down here on the left, you can see what I mean.’ With the ease of long familiarity, Brunetti leaned out over the waist-high wall, bracing himself on broad-spread palms, to look at the windows of the apartment below. Now that he studied them, however, he could see that they were not at all the same: those below had carved lintels of white Istrian marble; his own windows were nothing more than rectangles cut in the brick of the wall.

  He pulled himself back upright and turned toward Rossi. The young man stood like one transfixed, his left arm raised in Brunetti’s direction, his palm exposed, as if trying to ward off evil spirits. He stared at Brunetti, his mouth agape.

  Brunetti took a step toward him, but Rossi stepped quickly back, his hand still raised.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Brunetti asked, stopping at the door.

  The younger man tried to speak, but no sound came. He lowered his arm and said something, but his voice was so soft Brunetti couldn’t hear what it was.

  In an attempt to cover the awkwardness of the moment, Brunetti said, ‘Well, I’m afraid I might not have been right about the windows. There’s nothing to see at all.’

  Rossi’s face relaxed and he tried to smile, but his nervousness remained and was contagious.

  Trying to move away from all thoughts of the terrace, Brunetti asked, ‘Can you give me some idea of what the consequences of all of this will be?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rossi said.

  ‘What’s likely to happen?’

  Rossi moved back a step and began to answer, his voice taking on the curiously incantatory rhythms of someone who has heard himself say the same thing countless times, ‘In the case that permits were applied for at the time of construction but final approval was never granted, a fine is imposed, depending on the seriousness of the violation of the building codes in force at the time.’ Brunetti remained immobile and the young man continued. ‘In the event that neither application was made nor approval granted, the case is passed to the Sovraintendenza dei Beni Culturali and they make judgement in accordance with how much damage the illegal structure does to the fabric of the city.’

  ‘And?’ Brunetti prompted.

  ‘And sometimes a fine is imposed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And sometimes the offending structure has to be demolished.’

  ‘What?’ Brunetti exploded, all pretence of calm abandoned.

  ‘Sometimes the offending structure has to be demolished.’ Rossi gave a weak smile, suggesting that he was in no way responsible for this possibility.

  ‘But this is my home,’ Brunetti said. ‘This is my house you’re talking about demolishing.’

  ‘It seldom comes to that, believe me,’ Rossi said, trying to sound reassuring.

  Brunetti found himself incapable of speech. Seeing this, Rossi turned away and made toward the door of the apartment. Just as he reached it, a key turned in the lock, and the door was pushed open. Paola came into the apartment, her attention divided among two large plastic bags, her key, and the three newspapers just slipping out from under her left arm. She noticed Rossi only when he lunged forward instinctively to grab the papers before they fell. She gasped in surprise and dropped the bags, stepped violently back from him and hit the open door with her elbow. Her mouth fell open, either in alarm or pain, as she began to rub at her elbow.

  Brunetti stepped quickly toward her, calling her name as he came, ‘Paola, it’s all right. He’s here with me.’ He walked around Rossi and placed a hand on Paola’s arm. ‘You surprised us,’ he said, hoping to calm her.

  ‘You surprised me, too,’ she said and managed to smile.

  Behind them, Brunetti heard a sound and turned to see Rossi, his briefcase set against the wall, kneeling on one knee and stuffing oranges back into a plastic bag.

  ‘Signor Rossi,’ Brunetti said. The younger man looked up, finished with the oranges, got to his feet, and set the bag on the table beside the door.

  ‘This is my wife,’ Brunetti said unnecessarily. Paola released her elbow and offered her hand to Rossi. They shook hands and said the appropriate things, Rossi apologizing for having startled her, and Paola dismissing it.

  ‘Signor Rossi is from the Ufficio Catasto,’ Brunetti said at last.

  ‘The Ufficio Catasto?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Signora,’ Rossi said. ‘I came to speak to your husband about your apartment.’

  Paola glanced at Brunetti, and what she saw on his face led her to turn to Rossi with her most winning smile. ‘It looks like you were just leaving, Signor Rossi. Please don’t let me keep you. I’m sure my husband will explain everything to me. There’s no reason you should waste your time, especially on a Saturday.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Signora,’ Rossi said warmly. He turned to Brunetti and thanked him for his time, then apologized to Paola again, though he did not offer to shake hands with either of them. When Paola closed the door after him, she asked, ‘The Ufficio Catasto?’

  ‘I think they want to tear the apartment down,’ Brunetti said by way of explanation.

  3

  ‘TEAR IT DOWN?’ Paola repeated, not at all certain whether to respond with astonishment or laughter. ‘What are you talking about, Guido?’

  ‘He’s just told me some story about there being no papers on file at the Ufficio Catasto for this apartment. They’ve started a new sort of system to computerize all of their records, but they can’t find any proof that the permits were ever granted – or requested, for that matter – for this apartment when it was built.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ Paola said, bending down. She handed him the newspapers, picked up the remaining plastic bag, and headed down the corridor toward the kitchen. She set the bags on the table and started to take the packages out of them. As Brunetti explained, she continued to take out tomatoes, onions, and some zucchini flowers no longer than her finger.

  When Brunetti saw the flowers, he stopped talking about Rossi and asked, ‘What are you going to do with those?’

  ‘Risotto, I think,’ she answered and bent to put a white-paper-covered package into the refrigerator. ‘Remember how good that one was that Roberta made us last week, with the ginger?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Brunetti answered, glad to be diverted to the far more congenial topic of lunch.

  ‘Many people at Rialto?’

  ‘Not when I got there,’ she answered, ‘but by the time I was leaving, it was packed. Most of them were tourists, come, as far as I could see, to take pictures of other tourists. In a few years, we’ll have to get there at dawn or we won’t be able to move.’

  ‘Why do they go to Rialto?’ he asked.

  ‘To see the market, I suppose. Why?’

  ‘Don’t they have markets in their countries? Don’t they sell food?’

  ‘God knows what they have in their countries,’ Paola answered with the slightest suggestion of exasperation. ‘What else did he say, this Signor Rossi?’

  Brunetti leaned back against the kitchen counter. ‘He said that, in some cases, all they do is impose a fine.’

  ‘That’s pretty standard,’ she said, facing him now that all of the food was put away. ‘That’s what happened to Gigi Guerriero, when he put in that extra bathroom. His neighbour saw the plumber carrying a toilet into the house and called the police and reported it, and he had to pay a fine.’

  ‘That was ten years ago.’

  ‘Twelve,’ Paola corrected, out of habit. She saw the tightening of Brunetti’s lips and added, ‘Never mind. Doesn’t matter. What else can happen?’

  ‘He said that in some cases, when the permits were never requested but the work was done anyway, they were forced to demolish whatever it was that had been built.’

  ‘Surely he was joking,’ she
said.

  ‘You had a look at Signor Rossi, Paola. Do you think he was the kind of man to joke about something like this?’

  ‘I suspect Signor Rossi is not the kind of man to joke about anything at all,’ she said. Idly, she went into the living room, where she straightened some magazines lying abandoned on the arm of a chair, then went out on to the terrace. Brunetti followed her. When they were standing side by side, the city lying stretched out before them, she waved at rooftops, terraces, gardens, skylights. ‘I’d like to know how much of that is legal,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to know how much of it has the right permits and has received the condono.’ Both of them had lived in Venice for most of their lives, so they had an endless repertoire of stories about bribes paid to building inspectors or walls made of plasterboard that were pulled down the day after the inspectors left.

  ‘Half the city’s like that, Paola,’ he said. ‘But we’ve been caught.’

  ‘We haven’t been caught at anything,’ she said, turning toward him. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong. We bought this place in good faith. Battistini – wasn’t that the man we bought it from – he should have got the permits and the condono edilizio.’

  ‘We should have made sure he had them before we bought it,’ Brunetti attempted to reason. ‘But we didn’t. All we had to do was see that’ – he said, sweeping his hand in an arc that encompassed all that lay before them – ‘and we were lost.’

  ‘That’s not the way I remember it,’ Paola said, walking back into the living room and sitting down.

  ‘That’s the way I remember it,’ Brunetti said.

  Before Paola could object, he went on, ‘It doesn’t matter how we remember it. Or how rash we were at the time we bought it. What does matter is that we’re stuck with this problem now.’

  ‘Battistini?’ she asked.

  ‘He died about ten years ago,’ Brunetti answered, thus putting an end to any plans she might have had to contact him.