Donna Leon - Drawing Conclusions

‘What did she tell you?’ Brunetti asked.

Niccolini’s hands, almost against his will, began to pull at one another. The sound, rough and dry, was strangely loud. ‘That she’d gone down to tell Mamma she was home and to get her post. And when she went in, she found… her.’

He cleared his throat and suddenly pulled his hands apart and stuffed them under his thighs, like a schoolboy during a difficult exam. ‘On the floor. She said she knew when she looked at her that she was dead.’

The doctor took a deep breath, looked off to Brunetti’s right, and then went on. ‘She said that when it was all over and they’d taken her away – my mother – she decided to wait to call me. Then she did. This morning, that is.’

‘I see.’

The doctor shook his head, as if Brunetti had asked a question. ‘She said that I should call you – the police. And when I did, they – I mean you – I mean the person I spoke to at the Questura – he said that I had to call the hospital to find out anything.’ He pulled out his hands and folded them in his lap, where they remained motionless. He studied them, then said, ‘So I called here. But they wouldn’t tell me anything about it. All they did was tell me to come here.’ Then he added, ‘That’s why I was surprised when you called me.’

Brunetti nodded, as if to suggest that the police were not involved, all the while considering how very intent Niccolini was on distancing the police from his mother’s death. But what citizen would not do the same? Brunetti tried to free his head of suspicion and of a bureaucracy capable of inviting this man to this place at this time, and said, ‘I apologize for the confusion, Dottore. In these circumstances, it must be doubly painful.’

Silence fell between them. Niccolini returned his attention to his hands, and Brunetti decided it would be wiser to say nothing. The circumstances, the location, the awfulness in course in the other room – all of these things oppressed them and weakened their desire to speak.

It was not too long, though Brunetti had no idea of how much time elapsed, before Rizzardi, having changed from his lab jacket into his usual suit and tie, appeared at the door. ‘Ah, Guido,’ he said when he saw Brunetti. ‘I wanted to…’ he began, but then noticed the other man, and Brunetti watched him realize that this had to be a relative of the woman whose autopsy he had just finished. Seamlessly, he turned his attention to him and said, ‘I’m Ettore Rizzardi, medico legale .’ He went over and extended his hand. ‘I’m sorry to see you here, Signore.’ Brunetti had seen him do it countless times, but each time it was new, as though the doctor had only this moment discovered human grief and wanted to do his best to comfort it.

Niccolini got to his feet and clung to Rizzardi’s hand. Brunetti saw Rizzardi’s lips tighten at the force of the other man’s grip. In response, the pathologist moved closer and put his left hand on the man’s shoulder. Niccolini relaxed a bit, then gasped for air, tightened his lips and bent his head back. He took a few deep breaths through his nose, then slowly released Rizzardi’s hand. ‘What was it?’ he asked, almost begged.

Rizzardi seemed not at all disturbed by Niccolini’s tone. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we went to my office,’ the pathologist said calmly.

Brunetti followed them towards Rizzardi’s office, at the end of the corridor on the left. Halfway there, Niccolini stopped and Brunetti heard the veterinarian say, ‘I think I have to go outside. I don’t want to be in here.’ It was obvious to Brunetti that Niccolini was having trouble breathing, so he moved past Rizzardi and led the other two men through the various halls and courtyards, back to the main entrance and out into the campo , where he discovered that the beauty of the day lay in wait for them.

Returned to the sun and to the live world, Brunetti was overcome by a craving for coffee, or maybe it was sugar he wanted. As the three of them descended the low steps of the hospital and started across the campo , Niccolini put his head back again and let the sun wash over his face in a gesture Brunetti found almost ritualistic. They stopped near the statue of Colleoni, Brunetti eyeing with longing the row of cafés on the other side of the campo . Without asking, Rizzardi broke away from them and headed towards Rosa Salva, then turned and waved them both into motion.

Inside, Rizzardi ordered a coffee, and when the others joined him, they nodded to the barman for the same. People stood around, eating pastry, some already eating tramezzini , or drinking coffee, others having a late-morning spritz . How wonderful, and yet how terrible, to emerge from there and enter here, amidst the hiss of the coffee machine and the click of cups on saucers, and come face to face with this reminder of what we all know and feel uncomfortable knowing: that life plugs along, no matter what happens to any of us. It puts one foot in front of the other, whistling a tune that is dreary or merry by turn, but it always puts one foot in front of the other and moves on.

When the three coffees were on the bar in front of them, Rizzardi and Brunetti ripped open envelopes of sugar and stirred them into their cups. Niccolini stood looking at the cup as though uncertain just what it was. It was not until he was nudged by a man reaching past to replace his cup and saucer on the counter that he took a packet of sugar and poured it into his coffee.

When they were finished, Rizzardi put money on the counter, and the three men went back into the campo . A little boy, seeming no higher than Brunetti’s knee, whizzed past on a scooter, pushing with one foot, screaming with the wild thrill of it. A moment later, his father pounded past, out of breath and shouting, ‘Marco, Marco, fermati .’

Rizzardi walked to the railing surrounding the base of the statue of Colleoni and leaned back against it, looking down Barbaria delle Tole, the basilica on his left. Brunetti and Niccolini arranged themselves on either side of him. ‘Your mother died of a heart attack, Dottore,’ Rizzardi said with no introduction, eyes looking straight ahead of him. ‘It would have been very fast. I don’t know how painful it was, but I can assure you that it was very quick.’

Behind them they could hear Marco’s continued shouts and his delight at the day and the discovery of speed.

Niccolini took a deep breath in which Brunetti heard the relief anyone would feel at the doctor’s words. The three men listened to the voice of the child and the antiphon of the father’s caution.

Niccolini cleared his throat and said, his voice hesitant, raw, ‘Signorina Giusti – my mother’s neighbour – said she saw blood.’ That said, he stopped, and when Rizzardi did not answer, he asked, ‘Is that true, Dottore?’ Brunetti looked at Niccolini’s hands and saw that they were drawn into fists that shook with tension.

The little boy screamed as he whizzed past them, and when he reached the other end of the campo , Rizzardi turned to Brunetti, as if asking him to contribute in some way, but Brunetti offered no help, curious to know how the pathologist would answer Niccolini.

Rizzardi reached back to grab the top of the railing and propped his weight against it. ‘Yes, there was some physical indication to explain that, but nothing inconsistent with a heart attack,’ Rizzardi said. The doctor’s lapse into medical jargon, Brunetti noticed, made no mention of the faint mark he had seen on Signora Altavilla. He excluded the possibility that the pathologist thought it meaningless: had that been the case, Rizzardi would surely have mentioned it, only to dismiss it.

Brunetti turned to see how Niccolini would respond to this non-answer, but he merely nodded to acknowledge that he had heard. Rizzardi continued, ‘If you like, I could try to explain to you exactly what happened. In the medical sense, that is.’ Seeing Rizzardi’s affable smile, Brunetti realized the pathologist had no idea of Niccolini’s profession, nor of the medical training that would have prepared him for it, and so could have no idea of the effect his condescension might provoke.