Donna Leon - Beastly Things

Brunetti opened his middle drawer, took out a box of Fisherman’s Friend, and poured them out. He shoved the box across to Meucci and watched as he stubbed out the cigarette.

‘Who was it that told you the degree wasn’t necessary?’

‘Signorina Borelli,’ Meucci said and lit another cigarette.

‘SHE’S PAPETTI’S ASSISTANT, isn’t she?’ Brunetti asked, as if unfamiliar with her.

‘Yes,’ Meucci said.

‘Who brought up the subject of your degree?’

‘I did,’ Meucci said, removing his cigarette from his mouth. ‘I suppose I was nervous that she would find out, though Rub…’ he stopped before pronouncing his predecessor’s full name, as if too stunned by what was happening to realize his name would be public information. ‘My colleague assured me it wouldn’t matter. But I couldn’t believe it. So I asked her if she had checked my file and if it was satisfactory.’ He gave Brunetti a look that asked for his comprehension. ‘I suppose I needed to know, really, that they knew I didn’t have the licence, and that it didn’t matter and wouldn’t come back to haunt me.’ Meucci looked away from Brunetti and out the window.

‘And did it?’ Brunetti asked with what sounded like real concern.

Meucci shrugged, crushed out his cigarette and reached for another, only to be stopped by Brunetti’s glance.

‘What do you mean?’ Meucci asked, stalling.

‘Did anyone at the macello ever try to make use of that information?’

Again Brunetti watched the fat man consider lying, saw him weigh the alternatives: which was the greater danger? Which would cost him less, the truth or a lie?

Like a drunkard who pours a bottle of whisky down the kitchen sink as proof of reformation, Meucci placed the crumpled packet of cigarettes on Brunetti’s desk and lined it up carefully beside the tape recorder. ‘It happened during my first week,’ he said. ‘A farmer from Treviso brought in some cows: I don’t remember now how many: maybe six. Two of them were more dead than alive. One looked like it was dying of cancer: it had an open sore on its back. I didn’t even bother to do an exam: anyone could see it was sick: skin and bones and saliva dripping from its mouth. The other one had viral diarrhoea.’

Meucci looked at the cigarettes, and went on. ‘I told the knacker, Bianchi, that the farmer would have to take those two cows back and destroy them.’ He looked at Brunetti and raised one of his hands towards him. ‘After all, it was my job. To inspect them.’ He stopped and made a heaving motion that could have been a shrug or an attempt to extricate himself from the constriction of the chair.

‘What happened?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Bianchi told me to wait there with the cows and went to get Signorina Borelli. When she came and asked me what was going on, I told her to look at the cows and tell me if she thought they were healthy enough to be slaughtered.’ His voice was filled with the sarcasm he could not use with Brunetti.

‘And what did she say?’

‘She barely looked at them.’ Meucci, Brunetti could see, was back there, at the macello , having this conversation again. ‘And she said,’ he began, moving forward to bring his mouth closer to the tape recorder, ‘she said, “They’re as healthy as your application, Signor Meucci.”’ He closed his eyes at the memory. ‘She’d always called me Dottor Meucci before that. So I knew she knew.’

‘And?’ Brunetti asked after some time.

‘And I knew that it had,’ Meucci answered.

‘Had what?’

‘Come back to haunt me.’

‘What did you do about the cows?’ Brunetti asked.

‘What do you think I did?’ Meucci demanded indignantly. ‘I certified them.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, forbidding himself to allow the words ‘safe for human consumption’ to pass his lips. He remembered then that Nava’s wife had said her husband ate fruit and vegetables. ‘And after that?’ he asked calmly.

‘After that I did what I was told to do. What else did you expect me to do?’

Ignoring that, Brunetti asked, ‘Who told you what that was?’

‘Bianchi was the one who told me that the average rate of rejection was about three per cent, so that’s where I stayed: some months a little more, some a little less.’ He paused to hoist himself up in his chair. ‘At least I tried to condemn the worst of them. But so many of them were sick. I don’t know what they feed them, or what medicines they pump into them, but some were disgusting.’

Ignoring the temptation to comment that this had not prevented Meucci from approving their entry into the food chain, Brunetti said, ‘Bianchi told you, but someone must have told him.’ When Meucci said nothing, Brunetti prodded him. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Of course,’ Meucci answered, snatching back the cigarettes and lighting one. ‘It was Borelli who gave him the orders: that’s obvious. And that’s what I did. Three per cent. Sometimes a little bit more, sometimes a little bit less. But always right around there.’ It sounded, this time, like a kind of incantation.

‘Did you ever speculate about who might be giving Signorina Borelli the orders?’ Brunetti asked.

Meucci shook his head quickly, then said, ‘No. That wasn’t my business.’

Brunetti let a suitable amount of time pass and then asked, ‘For how long did you do this?’

‘Two years,’ Meucci snapped, and Brunetti wondered how many kilos that represented in cancerous and diseased meat.

‘Until what?’

‘Until I went into the hospital and they had to hire someone else,’ Meucci said.

He cared nothing about the cause, but aware of how useful a display of concern would seem, Brunetti asked, ‘Why were you in the hospital, Signor Meucci?’

‘Diabetes. I collapsed at home, and when I woke up I was in Intensive Care; it took them a week to find out what was wrong with me, and then two weeks to get me stabilized, and then a week at home.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, unable to say that he was sorry.

‘At the end of the first week, they hired Nava.’ He looked at Brunetti and said, ‘You didn’t believe me, did you? When I said I never met him? Well, I didn’t. I don’t know how they found him or who recommended him.’ Meucci took visible pleasure in being able to say this.

‘But you were lying when you said you didn’t know I had been out to the macello , which means you were lying when you said you didn’t keep in touch with anyone there.’ He waited for Meucci to respond, and when he didn’t, Brunetti snapped the whip. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘She called me,’ Meucci said.

Brunetti thought it unnecessary to ask him whom he meant.

‘She said she wanted me to go and work in Verona,’ Meucci said with lowered eyes. ‘But I told her about the diabetes and told her my doctor said I couldn’t work until they had me stabilized.’

‘Is that true?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No, but it got me out of having to go to Verona,’ he said, sounding pleased with himself.

‘To do the same thing?’ Brunetti asked. ‘In Verona?’

‘Yes,’ Meucci said. He opened his mouth to proclaim his virtue in having refused, but when he saw Brunetti’s expression, he said nothing.

‘Is she still in touch with you?’ Brunetti asked, keeping to himself his knowledge that Meucci had called her.

Meucci nodded, and Brunetti pointed to the tape recorder. ‘Yes.’

‘What for?’

‘She called me last week and said that Nava was gone and said I had to come back until they could find someone suitable.’

‘What do you think she meant by “suitable”?’ Brunetti asked calmly.

‘What do you think she meant?’ Meucci asked, finally using sarcasm with Brunetti.