The Death of Faith (36 page)

When a weakened Brunetti and a glowing Paola emerged into the corridor, they found Vianello waiting. ‘Good morning, Signora,’ he said to Paola.

‘Good morning, Vianello. How nice of you to come,’ she said with manufactured surprise. Brunetti smiled at her vain attempt to appear casual, certain as he was that she had arranged with Vianello that he be there, just as he was sure that Bonsuan would have the police launch at the side entrance, motor running.

‘You’re looking very well, sir,’ Vianello said by way of greeting.

When he dressed, Brunetti had been surprised to notice how loose his trousers felt. Apparently the fever had burned away a good deal of the weight he had put on that winter, and his lack of appetite had seen to even more of it. ‘Thanks, Vianello,’ he said, leaving it at that. Paola started down the corridor, and Brunetti turned to the sergeant and asked, ‘Where are they?’ not needing to explain.

‘Gone. Both of them.’

‘Where?’

‘Signorina Lerini was taken to a private clinic.’

‘Where?’

‘Rome. At least that’s what we were told.’

‘Did you check?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Signorina Elettra confirmed it.’ And even before Brunetti could ask, he explained, ‘It’s run by the Order of the Sacred Cross.’

Brunetti didn’t know which name to use. ‘And Maria Testa?’ he finally asked, voting with that name for the decision he hoped she had made.

‘She’s disappeared.’

‘What do you mean, disappeared?’

‘Guido,’ Paola said, coming back to them, ‘can’t this wait?’ She turned away from them and started down the corridor, toward the side exit of the hospital and the waiting police launch.

Brunetti followed her, Vianello falling into step beside him.

‘Tell me,’ Brunetti said.

‘We kept the guard there for the first few days after you came in here.’

Brunetti interrupted him. ‘Did anyone try to see her?’

‘That priest, but I said there were orders that she wasn’t allowed any visitors. He went to Patta.’

‘And?’

‘Patta stalled for a day, then he said that we should ask her if she wanted to see him.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘I never asked her. But I told Patta that she said she didn’t want to see him.’

‘Then what happened?’ Brunetti asked. But then they arrived at the door of the hospital. Paola stood just outside, holding it open for him, and as he stepped outside, she said, ‘Welcome to springtime, Guido.’

And so it was. During the ten days he had been inside, spring had advanced magically and conquered the city. The air smelled of softness and growth, the mating calls of small birds filled the air above their heads, and a spray of forsythia thrust its way out of a metal grating in the brick wall across the canal. As Brunetti had known he would, Bonsuan stood at the helm of the police launch that was drawn up to the steps leading down to the canal. He greeted them with a nod and with what Brunetti suspected was a smile.

Muttering, ‘
Buon giorno,’
the pilot helped Paola aboard, then assisted Brunetti, who almost stumbled, so blinded was he by the explosion of sunlight. Vianello flipped the mooring rope free and stepped aboard, and Bonsuan took them out into the Canal of the Giudecca.

‘And then what?’ Brunetti asked.

‘And then one of the nurses told her that the priest wanted to see her but that we’d kept him out. I spoke to the nurse later, and she said that she — the Testa woman, that is — seemed troubled that he wanted to see her. And the nurse said she seemed glad that we hadn’t let him in.’ A speedboat cut quickly past them on the right side, splashing water up toward them. Vianello jumped aside, but the water splashed harmlessly against the side of the launch.

And then?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Then the mother superior of her order called and said she wanted her to be sent to one of their clinics. And then she was gone. We’d taken the guard off, though some of the boys and I still sort of hung around during the nights, just to keep an eye on things.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘About three days ago. The nurse went in one afternoon, and she wasn’t there. Her clothes were gone and there was no sign of her.’

‘What did you do?’

‘We asked around the hospital, but no one had seen her. She’s just disappeared.’

‘And the priest?’

‘Someone from their motherhouse in Rome called the Vice-Questore the day after she disappeared — this was before anyone except us knew about it — and asked if it was true that her confessor was being kept from her. He still thought she was there, so he caved in, said that he’d see to it personally that she speak to her confessor. He called me in to tell me she had to see him, and that’s when I told him she was gone.’

‘What did he do? Or say?’

Vianello thought about this for a while before he answered. ‘I think he was relieved, sir. The man from Rome must have frightened him with something, he was so insistent that she see the priest. But when I told him she was gone, he seemed almost happy to hear it. In fact, he called the man in Rome while I was still there. I had to speak to him myself and tell him she was gone.’

‘Do you know who he was, the man in Rome?’

‘No, but when they called, the operator said the call was coming from the Vatican.’

‘Do you have any idea where she’s gone?’ Brunetti asked.

‘None.’ Vianello’s answer was immediate.

‘Did you call that man out on the Lido? Sassi?’

‘Yes. It was the first thing I did. He told me not to worry about her, but he wouldn’t say anything more than that.’

‘Do you think he knows where she is?’ Brunetti asked. He had no desire to hurry Vianello and looked up toward Paola, who stood at the wheel of the boat, talking easily with Bonsuan.

Finally Vianello answered him. ‘I think he must, but he doesn’t trust anyone enough to tell them, not even us.’

Brunetti nodded and turned away from the sergeant and then looked out over the waters, toward San Marco, just now coming into sight on their left. He remembered that last day in the hospital with Maria Testa, remembered the fierce determination in her voice, and at the memory, he felt a surge of relief that she had decided to run. Brunetti would try to find her, but he hoped it would be impossible — for him and for anyone else. God keep her safe and give her strength for her
Vita Nuova.

Paola, seeing that he was finished talking to Vianello, moved back toward them. Just then, a gust of wind came from behind her and blew her hair back across her face, wrapping the blonde waves around from both sides.

Laughing, she raised both hands to her face and swept the hair up and away, then shook her head from side to side, as if surfacing from a long dive. When she opened her eyes, she saw Brunetti watching her and laughed again, this time even louder. With his good arm, he reached around her shoulder and pulled her toward him.

Reduced by surging love to adolescence, he asked, ‘Did you miss me?’

Catching his mood, she answered, ‘I pined desperately. The children haven’t been fed. My students languish for lack of intellectual stimulation.’

Vianello left them to it and went up to stand beside Bonsuan.

‘What have you been doing?’ Brunetti asked, as if she hadn’t spent most of her time at the hospital with him for the last ten days.

He felt her change of mood register in her body and pulled her around to face him. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I don’t want to disturb your homecoming,’ she said.

‘Nothing could do that, Paola,’ he said and smiled at the simple truth of that. ‘Tell me, please.’

She studied his face for a moment and then said, ‘I told you that I was going to ask my father for help.’

‘About Padre Luciano?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘And he’s spoken to some people, friends of his in Rome. I think he’s found an answer.’

‘Tell me.’

She did.

* * * *

The housekeeper answered the door to the rectory at Brunetti’s second ring. She was a plain woman in her late fifties, with the smooth, flawless skin that he had often observed on the faces of nuns and other women of long preserved virginity.

‘Yes?’ she asked. ‘How may I help you?’ She might have once been pretty, with dark brown eyes and a broad mouth, but time had made her forget about that sort of thing or she had lacked the will for beauty, and so her face had faded and gone dull and soft.

‘I’d like to speak to Luciano Benevento,’ Brunetti said.

‘Are you a parishioner?’ she asked, surprised at the use of the priest’s name without his title.

‘Yes,’ Brunetti answered after only a moment’s hesitation and giving an answer that was at least geographically true.

‘If you’ll come into the study, I’ll call Father Luciano.’ She turned away from Brunetti, who closed the front door and followed her down the marble-paved hall. She opened the door to a small room for him, then disappeared down the hall, off in pursuit of the priest.

Inside, there were two armchairs placed close beside one another, perhaps to facilitate the intimacy of confession. A small crucifix hung on one wall, a picture of the Madonna of Cracow opposite it. A low table held copies of
Famiglia Christiana
and a few postal contribution forms for those who might be encouraged to make a donation to
Primavera Missionaria.
Brunetti ignored the magazines, the images, and the chairs. He stood in the centre of the room, mind clear, and waited for the priest to arrive.

The door opened after a few minutes, and a tall, thin man came into the room. Dressed in the long skirts and high collar of his office, he seemed taller than he was, an impression that was intensified by his erect posture and long-legged stride.

‘Yes, my son?’ he said as he came in. He had dark grey eyes, and from them radiated lines caused by frequent smiles. His mouth was broad, his smile one that invited confidence and trust. He smiled at Brunetti and came forward, offering his hand in brotherhood.

‘Luciano Benevento?’ Brunetti asked, hands at his side.

With a soft smile, he corrected Brunetti. ‘Padre Luciana Benevento.’

‘I’ve come to speak to you about your new assignment,’ Brunetti said, consciously refusing to address the man by his title.

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. What new assignment?’ Benevento shook his head and made no attempt to disguise his confusion.

Brunetti pulled a long white envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it silently to the other man.

Instinctively, the priest took it, glanced down, and saw his name written across the front. He was comforted to see that, this time, his title was used. He opened it, glanced up at the silent Brunetti, and pulled out a sheet of paper. Holding it away from him a bit, he read through the paper. When he finished it, he looked at Brunetti and then back down at the paper, and then read it through a second time.

‘I don’t understand this,’ he said. His right hand, the one which held the paper, fell to his side.

‘I think it should be very clear.’

‘But I don’t understand. How can I be transferred? They’re supposed to ask me about that, get my consent, before they do anything like this.’