A Noble Radiance (15 page)

As he walked down
Rughetta towards Rialto, Brunetti realized that he felt better than at any time
since his lunch with his father-in-law. He still had no idea what was bothering
Paola, but the ease of their last interchange had convinced him that, whatever
it was, the substratum of their marriage would survive. Up and down, up and
down the bridges he walked, just as his spirits had gone up and down all day,
first with the excitement of a new case, then the Count's upsetting confidence,
and the peace given by Paola's confession that she had bribed their son.

To get through the
interview with the Lorenzonis, he had only the hope of the dinner which awaited
him, yet how willingly he would have eaten a month of Chiara's dinners, if he
could have avoided being the bearer of grief and misery once again.

The
palazzo
was
near the Municipio, though he had to cut past the Cinema Rossini and come back
towards the Grand Canal to get to it. He paused for a moment on Ponte del
Teatro and studied the rebuilt foundations of the buildings that lined the
canal on either side. When he was a boy, the canals had undergone a perpetual
process of cleaning, and the waters were kept so clear that people could swim
in them. Now, the cleaning of a canal was a major event, so rare that it was
greeted with headlines and talk of good city management. And contact with
their waters was an experience many people might choose not to survive.

When he found the
palazzo,
a
looming four-storey building whose front windows looked out over the Grand
Canal, he rang the bell, waited a minute, then rang it again. A man's voice
came through the intercom, 'Cornmissario Brunetti?'

'Yes.'

'Please come in,' the
voice said, and the door snapped open. Brunetti walked through and found
himself in a garden far larger than he would have expected to see in this part
of the city. Only the most wealthy could have afforded to build their
palazzo
around
so much empty space, and only descendants of equal wealth could continue to
maintain it

‘Up here’ a voice
called from a door at the top of a flight of stairs to his left He turned and
started to climb. At the top waited a young man in a double-breasted blue suit.
He had dark brown hair with a pronounced widow's peak, which he attempted to
hide by brushing his hair across his forehead. As Brunetti approached, he
extended his hand and said, 'Good evening, Commissario. I'm Maurizio Lorenzoni.
My uncle and aunt expect you’ His grip was one of those limp contacts which
always left Brunetti wanting to wipe his palm on his trousers, but it was
offset by the young man's glance, which was direct and even. 'Have you spoken
to Dottore Urbani?' As neat a way of asking as Brunetti could imagine.

‘Yes, we have, and
I'm afraid the identification has been confirmed. It's your cousin, Roberto’

There can't be any
question?' he asked in a voice that already knew the answer.

'No. None’

The young man jammed
his fists into the pockets of his jacket and pressed down, pulling the jacket
forward on his shoulders. 'This will kill them. I don't know what my aunt will
do’

'I'm sorry’ Brunetti
said, meaning it 'Would it be better if you told them?'

‘I
don't think I could do that’ Maurizio answered, eyes on the
ground.

In all the years he
had been bearing news like this to the families of the slain, he had never
encountered a person who was willing to do it for him. 'Do they know I'm here?
Who I am?'

The young man nodded
and looked up.
‘I
had to tell them. So they know what to expect. But if s
..
‘
Brunetti
finished the sentence for him: ‘It’s different to expect and then to have it
confirmed. Perhaps you could take me to your aunt and uncle’ The young man
turned and led Brunetti into the building, leaving the door open behind them.
Brunetti stepped back and closed it, but the young man didn't notice. He led
Brunetti down a marble-floored corridor to an immense pair of walnut doors.
Without knocking, he pushed them open and stepped back to allow Brunetti to go
into the room before him.

Brunetti recognized
the Count from photos he had seen of him: the silver hair, the erect posture,
and the square jaw that he must have long since tired of hearing compared to
Mussolini's. Although Brunetti knew the Count to be in his late fifties, the
air of vibrant masculinity that emanated from him created the aura of a man
almost a decade younger. The Count stood in front of a large fireplace,
staring down at the spray of dried flowers that filled it, but turned to look
at Brunetti when he came in.

Dwarfed by the
armchair in which she huddled, a sparrow-like woman stared across at Brunetti
as though he were the devil come to take her soul away. As indeed he had,
Brunetti thought, filled with sudden pity by the sight of the thin hands nervously
folded in her lap. Although the Countess was younger than her husband, the
agony of the last two years had drained all youth and all hope from her and
left behind an old woman who might more easily have been the Count’s mother
than his wife. Brunetti knew she had been one of the great beauties of the
city: certainly the elegant bones of her face were still perfect. But there was
little other than bone visible in her face.

Even before her
husband could speak, she asked, voice so soft it would have been lost in the
room had it not been the only sound, 'Are you the policeman?'

'Yes, Contessa, I
am.'

The Count came
forward from the fireplace then and extended his hand to Brunetti. His grasp
was as firm as his nephew's was limp, forcing Brunetti's fingers against one
another. 'Good evening, Commissario. Excuse me if I don't offer you something
to drink. I think you'll understand.' His voice was deep but surprisingly soft,
almost as soft as his wife's had been.

‘I bring you the
worst of news, Signor Conte’ Brunetti said.

'Roberto?'

'Yes. He's dead. His
body has been found near Belluno.'

From across the room,
the boy's mother asked, 'Are you sure?' Brunetti looked towards her and was
amazed to see that she appeared to have grown even smaller in the few moments
that had passed, sat even more deeply huddled between the two tall wings of the
chair.

‘Yes, Contessa. We've
shown X-rays of his teeth to his dentist, and he confirms that they are the
same as Roberto's’

'X-rays?' she asked.
'What about his body? Hasn't anyone identified it?'

'Cornelia,' her
husband said softly, 'let him finish, and then we can ask questions.'

'I want to know about
his body, Ludovico. I want to know about my baby’

Brunetti turned his
attention back to the Count, looking for a sign that he should proceed, and how.
The Count nodded at Brunetti, who continued, 'He was buried in a field. It
looks like he's been there for some time, more than a year.' He stopped, hoping
that they would understand what happened to a body in a year under the earth
and not make him have to tell them.

'But why the X-rays?'
the Contessa demanded. Like so many people Brunetti had encountered in the same
circumstances, there were things she did not want to understand.

Before Brunetti could
mention the ring, the Count interrupted, looking across at his wife. 'It means
that the body has deteriorated, Cornelia, and they have to identify it that
way.'

Brunetti, who was
watching the Countess as her husband spoke, saw the instant when his explanation
penetrated whatever defences she had left. Perhaps it was the word
'deteriorated' that did it; whatever it was, at the moment when she understood,
she put her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Her lips
moved, either in prayer or protest. The Belluno police would give them the ring,
Brunetti knew, and so he spared himself the pain of telling them about it.

The Count turned away
from Brunetti and redirected his attention to the flowers in the fireplace.
For a long time, no one in the room said anything, until finally the Count asked,
not looking at Brunetti, 'When can we have him back?'

'You'll have to
contact the authorities in Belluno, sir, but I'm sure they’ll do whatever you
want’

'How do I contact
them?'

'If you call the
Questura in Belluno,' Brunetti started to say but then offered, 1 can do it for
you. Perhaps it would be easier that way.'

Maurizio, who had
been silent through all of this, interrupted, addressing the Count, 'I'll do
it,
Zio’
Catching Brunetti's eye, he nodded towards the door, but
Brunetti ignored him.

'Signor Conte, as
soon as possible, I'd like to speak to you about the original kidnapping’

'Not now,' the Count
said, still not looking at him.

'I realize how
terrible this is, sir,' Brunetti said, ‘But I will need to talk to you.'

'You'll talk to me
when I please, Commissario, and not before’ the Count said, still not bothering
take his eyes from the contemplation of the flowers.

In the silence
created by this, Maurizio moved away from the door and went over to his aunt’s
chair. He bent down and placed a hand briefly on her shoulder. Straightening,
he said. ‘I’ll show you out, Commissario.'

Brunetti followed him
from the room. In the hall, he told the young man how to go about reaching the
people in Belluno who would see to releasing Roberto's body and returning it to
Venice. Brunetti did not ask him when he might speak to Count Ludovico again.

13

The dinner, when they
finally sat down to eat it, lived up to his every expectation, which fact he
bore with a stoicism that would have done credit to his favourite Roman
writers. He both asked for and ate a second helping of ravioli, covered in something
he thought had once been butter, charred sage leaves mashed about in its midst.
The chicken was as salty as threatened, so much so that he found himself
opening a third bottle of mineral water before the meal was finished. For once,
Paola said nothing When he opened a second bottle of wine and did more than her
fair share to help him finish it.

^‘
What
^’
s for dessert?' he asked, earning the most
tender look he'd seen on Paola's face in weeks.

‘I didn't have time
to make anything,' Chiara said, failing to see the look that passed among the other
three people at the table. No doubt the Dormer Party had exchanged such a
glance at hearing the first calls of the men come to rescue them.

‘I think there's
still some
gelato’
Raffi volunteered, living up to his part of the bargain
with his mother.

'No, I finished it
this afternoon,' Chiara confessed.

'Would you two like
to go over to Campo Santa Margarita and get some more?' Paola asked. 'And bring
it back here?'

'But what about the
dishes,
Mamma?'
Chiara asked. 'You said because I cooked dinner, Raffi had
to do them.'

Even before Raffi
could protest, Paola said, If you two will go and get the ice cream, I'll do
the dishes.' Amidst their shouted acceptance, Brunetti took out his wallet and
handed Raffi twenty thousand lire. They left, already negotiating over
flavours.

Paola got up from the
table and started to gather the plates. 'You think you'll survive?' she asked.

'If I can drink
another litre of water before we go to bed, and if I get to keep a bottle by
the bed tonight.'

‘Pretty dreadful,
wasn't it?' Paola conceded.

'She was happy,'
Brunetti temporized and then added, 'But it really is another strong argument
in favour of the education of women, isn't it?'

Paola laughed at this
and stacked the dishes in the sink. Easily, then, they discussed the dinner,
both taking pleasure in the fact that Chiara had been so thoroughly pleased
with herself, sure proof of the success of familial deception. And, he found
himself thinking, familial love.