Turning back to Brunetti, Dottoressa Alberti said, ‘In that case, you might be able to have a few words with her. Sister, will you take Signor Brunetti there after he’s seen Signora Viotti’s room?’
The nun nodded and went back to the door. Brunetti stepped toward the desk and reached his hand across it. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Dottoressa. Thank you.’
She got to her feet to shake his hand. ‘You’re entirely welcome, Signore. If I can be of any help in answering any further questions you might have, please feel free to call.’ Saying that, she picked up the folder and handed it to Brunetti.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, taking it with a grateful smile before turning toward the door. When he reached it, he turned and said a final thank you before following Sister Clara through the door.
Back in the courtyard, she turned left, re-entered the building, and started down a wide corridor. At the end, they came into a large open room in which sat a handful of old people. Two or three were engaged in conversations that seemed to have grown desultory with long repetition. A half dozen sat in their chairs, looking off at memory, or perhaps regret.
‘This is the day room,’ Sister Clara said somewhat unnecessarily. Leaving Brunetti, she walked over and picked up a magazine that had fallen from the hand of an old woman. She returned it to her and stayed a moment talking. Before she returned to Brunetti, he heard her say something encouraging to the woman in Veneziano.
When she came back, he addressed her in dialect, ‘The home where my mother is now is also run by your order.’
‘Which one?’ she asked, not with real curiosity but from the habit of expressed concern that Brunetti assumed must develop if a person did what she did.
‘In Dolo, the Casa Marina.’
‘Ah yes, our order has been there for years. Why do you want to bring your mother here?’
‘It would be closer for me and my brother. And this way our wives would be more willing to visit.’
She nodded, no doubt understanding just how unwilling people were to visit the old, especially when they were not parents. She led Brunetti back down the hall and out into the courtyard.
‘There was a sister who was there for years but who was transferred here, I think. About a year ago,’ Brunetti said with careful off-handedness.
‘Yes?’ she asked with the same civil, bland curiosity. ‘And who was that?’
‘Suor’Immacolata,’ he said, watching for her response from his greater height.
He thought that she missed a step, or else she put her foot down too heavily on the uneven pavement. ‘Did you know her?’ Brunetti asked.
He saw her struggle against the lie. Finally she said, ‘Yes’, but offered no explanation.
Pretending to be unaware of her response, Brunetti added, ‘She was very good to my mother. In fact, my mother became very attached to her. My brother and I are very happy that she’s here because she seems, well, she seems to be able to exert a calming influence on our mother.’ Brunetti looked down at Sister Clara and added, ‘I’m sure you understand how it is with some old people. They sometimes . . .’ he let this trail off.
Opening a door, Sister Clara said, ‘And this is the kitchen.’
Brunetti looked around, feigning interest.
Their inspection of the kitchen complete, she led him off in the opposite direction and up a flight of stairs. ‘The female patients are up here. Signora Viotti is out with her son for the day, so you can have a look at her room.’ Brunetti stopped himself from saying that he thought Signora Viotti should have something to say about this and followed her down the corridor, this one painted a light cream but with the same ubiquitous hand rails.
She opened a door and Brunetti looked into the room, saying whatever one says when presented with comfortable sterility. That done, Sister Clara turned toward the steps again.
‘Before I see the Mother Superior, I’d like to say hello to Suor’Immacolata,’ Brunetti said, then hastened to add, ‘If it’s possible, that is. I wouldn’t want to take her away from her duties.’
‘Suor’Immacolata is no longer here,’ Sister Clara said in a tight voice.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. My mother will be so disappointed. So will my brother.’ He tried to make his voice sound philosophical and resigned when he said, ‘But the Lord’s work must be done, no matter where we are sent.’ When the nun said nothing to this, Brunetti asked, ‘Has she been sent to work in another nursing home, Sister?’
‘She is no longer with us,’ Sister Clara said.
Brunetti stopped in his tracks, as if astonished. ‘Dead? Good heavens, Sister, that’s terrible.’ Then, as though remembering piety and its dictates, he whispered, ‘May God have mercy on her soul.’
‘May God have mercy on her soul, indeed,’ Sister Clara said, turning to him. ‘She’s left the order. She hasn’t died. She was caught by one of the patients stealing money from his room.’
‘Good heavens,’ Brunetti exclaimed, ‘that’s shocking.’
‘When he caught her, she pushed him to the ground and broke his wrist, and then she left, just disappeared.’
‘Were the police called?’
‘No, I don’t think so. No one wanted to cause scandal.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘Well, I think the police should be informed. A person like that ought not to be left walking around free. Taking advantage of the trust and weakness of old people. It’s disgusting.’
Sister Clara made no comment in response to this. She led him down a narrow hall, turned right, and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. She knocked once, heard a voice from within, opened the door and went inside. A few moments later, she came outside and said, ‘Mother Superior will see you.’
Brunetti thanked her. ‘Permesso?’ he said as he stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, the better to legitimize his presence in the room, and turned to look around him.
It was virtually empty, its only decoration an immense carved crucifix on the far wall. Beside that stood, though she looked as though she had just risen from the prie-dieu in front of it, a tall woman in the habit of the order. She wore a companion cross on her broad bosom and looked at Brunetti with neither curiosity nor enthusiasm.
‘Yes?’ she said, speaking as though he’d interrupted her from a particularly interesting conversation with the gentleman in the loincloth.
‘I asked if I might speak to the Mother Superior.’
‘I am the Mother Superior of the order. What is it you’d like?’
‘I’d like some information about the order.’
‘For what purpose?’ she asked.
‘The better to understand your holy mission,’ Brunetti said in an entirely neutral tone.
She moved away from the crucifix and toward a stiff-backed chair that stood to the left of an empty fireplace. She lowered herself into it and gestured toward a smaller chair that stood to her left. Brunetti took his seat in it, facing her.
The Mother Superior said nothing for a long time, a tactic with which Brunetti was familiar, for it generally provoked the other person into speech, often rash speech. He sat and studied her face, the dark eyes bright with intelligence, the thin nose that bespoke either the aristocrat or the ascetic.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘Commissario Guido Brunetti.’
‘Of the police?’
He nodded.
‘It is not often that the police come to visit a convent,’ she finally said.
‘It would depend upon what’s going on in the convent, I should think.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘Precisely what it sounds like, Mother Superior. My presence here is prompted by what might be going on among members of your order.’
‘Such as?’ she asked scoffingly.
‘Such as criminal slander, defamation of character, and the failure to report a felony, but that is only to mention those crimes of which I am a
witness and prepared to testify.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said. Brunetti believed her.
‘A member of your order today told me that Maria Testa, formerly known as Suor’Immacolata, formerly a member of your order, was expelled for attempting to steal money from one of her patients. I was further told that, in the attempt to commit this crime, she pushed the victim to the floor, breaking his wrist.’ He paused, waiting for her to make a comment, but when she did not, Brunetti continued. ‘If these things did happen, then a crime has been committed, and another crime has been committed by the failure to report the original crime to the police. In the event that these things did not happen, then the person who told me is subject to a charge of criminal slander.’
‘Did Sister Clara tell you this?’ she asked.
‘That is irrelevant. What is important is that the accusation must reflect popular belief among the members of your order.’ Brunetti paused and then added, ‘If not fact.’
‘It is not fact,’ she said.
‘Then why is this rumour current?’
She smiled for the first time, not a particularly attractive sight. ‘You know how women are; they gossip, especially against one another.’ Brunetti, who had always believed this to be true, but of men and not women, listened but made no response. She continued, ‘Suor’Immacolata is not, as you suggest, a former member of our order. Quite the contrary. She is still bound by her vows.’ Then, as if Brunetti might not be aware of what they were, she enumerated them, raising the fingers of her right hand as she spoke. ‘Poverty. Chastity. Obedience.’
‘If she has chosen to leave, by what law is she still a member of your order?’
‘By the law of God,’ she answered in a sharp voice, as if she was more familiar with that sort of thing than he.
‘Does this particular law have any legal force?’
‘If it does not, then there is something wrong with a society that permits it not to.’
‘I will gladly concede that there is a great deal that is wrong with our society, Mother Superior, but I will not concede that one of them is a law that permits a woman of twenty-seven to change her mind about a decision she made as an adolescent.’
‘And how is it that you come to be aware of her age?’
Ignoring her question, Brunetti asked, ‘Is there some reason why you maintain that Maria is still a member of your order?’
‘I do not “maintain” anything,’ she said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I merely speak the truth of God. It is He who will forgive her sin; I will merely welcome her back to our order.’
‘If Maria did not do the things of which she is being accused, why did she choose to leave the order?’
‘I have no knowledge of this Maria of whom you speak. I know only Suor’Immacolata.’
‘As you will,’ Brunetti conceded. ‘Why did she choose to leave your order?’
‘She has always been wilful and rebellious. She has always found it difficult to submit herself to the will of God and the greater wisdom of her superiors.’
‘Those, I assume, are meant to be synonyms?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Make jokes if you wish, but you do so at your peril.’
‘I am not here to make jokes, Mother Superior. I am here to find out why she left the place where she was working.’
The nun considered this demand for a long time. As Brunetti watched, one hand rose up to finger the crucifix on her bosom, an entirely unconscious and involuntary gesture. ‘There was talk of. . .’ she began but didn’t finish the sentence. She lowered her eyes, saw what her hand was about, and took it away from the cross. She glanced back at Brunetti. ‘She refused to obey an order given to her by her superior, and when I suggested spiritual penance for her sin, she left.’
‘Did you speak to her confessor?’
‘Yes. When she left.’
‘And did he tell you anything that she might have said to him?’
She managed to look shocked by this question. ‘If she spoke to him in confession, of course he couldn’t tell me. The vow is sacred.’
‘Only life is sacred,’ Brunetti shot back, regretting his words immediately.
He saw her bite back a reply and got to his feet. ‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said. If she was surprised by the abruptness with which he seemed to be terminating their interview, she gave no sign of it. He went to the door and opened it. When he glanced back to say goodbye, she was still sitting stiff in her chair, her hand fingering the crucifix.
* * * *
Chapter Twelve
He cut his way back toward the apartment, stopped and got some mineral water, and was home by seven-thirty. When he opened the door, he knew immediately that everyone else was at home: Chiara and Raffi were in the living room, laughing at something on television, and Paola was in her study, singing along with Rossini.
He took the bottles to the kitchen, said hello to the children, and went down the hall to Paola’s study. A small CD player stood on the bookshelf; Paola sat with the small, square libretto in her hand, sat and sang.
‘Cecilia Bartoli?’ he asked as he went in.
She looked up, astonished that he had recognized the voice of the singer she was helping with the aria, not suspecting that he had seen the singer’s name on the new CD of Barbiere she had bought a week ago.
‘How’d you know that?’ she asked, forgetting for a moment about singing along with ‘Una voce poco fa’.
‘We keep an eye on everything,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘An ear, that is.’
‘Oh, don’t be a fool, Guido,’ she said but laughed in the saying. She closed the libretto and tossed it on the desk beside her, leaned over, and switched off the music.
‘You think the kids would like to go out to dinner?’ he asked.
‘No, they’re watching some stupid movie that won’t be over until eight, and I’ve already got something cooking.’
‘What?’ he asked, realizing that he was very hungry.
‘Gianni had some beautiful pork today.’
‘Good. How are you cooking it?’
‘With porcini.’
‘And polenta?’
She smiled at him. ‘Of course. No wonder you’re getting that stomach.’
‘What stomach?’ Brunetti asked, pulling in the one he had. When she didn’t answer, Brunetti said, ‘It’s the end of the winter.’ To divert her, perhaps to divert himself from discussion of his stomach, he explained the events of the day, since he had received the phone call from Vittorio Sassi that morning.
‘Have you called him back?’ Paola asked.
‘No, I’ve been too busy.’
‘Why don’t you do it now?’ she asked. She left him there to do it from the phone in her study and went down to the kitchen to put on water for the polenta.
He came out about ten minutes later.
‘Well?’ she asked when he came in, handing him a glass of Dolcetto.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured and took a small sip. ‘I told him how she was and where she was.’
‘What kind of man does he sound like?’
‘Decent enough to help her find a job and a place to live. And worried enough to call me when this happened.’
‘What do you think it was?’
‘It could have been an accident, or it could have been something worse,’ Brunetti said, sipping at his wine.
‘You mean somebody trying to kill her?’
He nodded.
‘Why?’
‘That would depend on whom she’s been to see since she spoke to me. And what she told them.’
‘Would she be that rash?’ Paola asked. The only things she knew about Maria Testa had come from what Brunetti had said about Suor’Immacolata over the years, and they had always been in praise of her patience and charity as a nun, hardly the sort of information that would give her any idea of how the young woman might behave in a situation such as the one Brunetti had described.
‘I don’t think she’d even
think it was rash. She’s been a nun most of her life, Paola,’ he said as though that would explain everything.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘That she doesn’t have a very clear idea of how people behave. She probably hasn’t been exposed to human evil or to deceit.’
‘You said she was Sicilian, didn’t you?’ Paola asked.
‘That’s not funny.’