Donna Leon - Friends in High Places

Because he was not in the habit of broadcasting the fact that he was a policeman, Brunetti answered only, ‘I studied law.’

‘I see,’ replied Rossi. ‘I shouldn’t think our terminology would be very different from yours.’

‘Perhaps it’s no more than my unfamiliarity with the civil codes referred to in your letter,’ Brunetti said smoothly.

Rossi considered this for a moment and then answered, ‘Yes, that’s entirely possible. What is it, though, that you don’t understand?’

‘What it means,’ Brunetti answered directly, no longer willing to pretend that he understood.

Again that puzzled look, so frank that it made Rossi look almost boyish. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘What it means. I read it, but because I have no idea, as I told you, of the nature of the regulations to which it refers, I don’t know what it means, what it all applies to.’

‘Your apartment, of course,’ Rossi answered quickly.

‘Yes, I understood that much,’ Brunetti said in a voice he had to force to sound patient. ‘Since it came from your office, I gathered at least that. What I don’t understand is what interest your office could take in my apartment.’ Nor, for that fact, did he understand why an employee of that office should choose to visit him on a Saturday.

Rossi looked down at the folder on his lap and then up at Brunetti, who was surprised suddenly to notice how long and dark his lashes were, much like a woman’s. ‘I see, I see,’ Rossi said, nodded, and looked back down at the folder. He opened it and pulled out a smaller one, studied the label on its cover for an instant, and handed it across to Brunetti, saying, ‘Perhaps this will help to make it clear.’ Before he closed the folder that was still on his lap, he carefully aligned the papers that lay inside.

Brunetti opened the folder and removed the papers from it. Seeing how close-set the type was, he leaned to the left and picked up his glasses. At the top of the first page was the address of the building; below it appeared plans of the apartments beneath his own. On the next page was a list of past owners of each of those spaces, beginning with the storerooms on the ground floor. The next two pages contained what appeared to be capsule histories of the restorations done to all of the apartments in the building since 1947, listing the dates when certain permissions were requested and given, the date work actually began, and the date when final approval was given of the completed work. No mention was made of his own apartment, which suggested to Brunetti that this information must be contained in the papers Rossi still held.

From what he could make out, Brunetti realized that the apartment directly below them had last been restored in 1977, when the current owners moved in. Last restored officially, that is. They’d had dinner with the Calistas more than a few times and had been pleased with the almost unimpeded view that spread out from the windows of their living room, yet the windows indicated on the plans looked quite small, and there seemed to be only four, not six. He saw that the small guest bathroom to the left of the Calistas’ entrance hall was nowhere indicated. He wondered how that could be, but Rossi was certainly not the man to ask. The less the Ufficio Catasto knew about what got added to or shifted around inside the building, the better it would be for everyone living there.

Glancing across at Rossi, he asked, ‘These records go back a long time. Have you any idea how old the building is?’

Rossi shook his head. ‘Not precisely. But from the location and the windows on the ground floor, I’d say the original structure dates from the late fifteenth century, not earlier.’ He paused and considered this for a moment, then added, ‘And I’d say the top floor was added in the early nineteenth century.’

Brunetti looked up from the plans, surprised. ‘No, it’s much later than that. From after the war.’ When Rossi didn’t respond, he added, ‘The Second World War.’

When Rossi still didn’t comment, Brunetti asked, ‘Wouldn’t you say that’s true?’

After a moment’s hesitation, Rossi said, ‘I was talking about the top floor.’

‘So am I,’ Brunetti said sharply, annoyed that this functionary of an office that dealt with building permits didn’t understand something as simple as that. He softened his voice and continued, ‘When I bought it, it was my understanding that it was added after the last war, not in the nineteenth century.’

Instead of answering him, Rossi nodded toward the papers that were still in Brunetti’s hand. ‘Perhaps you could take a closer look at the last page, Signor Brunetti.’

Puzzled, Brunetti read again through the last paragraphs, but as far as he could make out, they still concerned only the two apartments below him. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to see, Signor Rossi,’ he said, looking up and removing his glasses. ‘This concerns the apartments below us, not this apartment. No mention is made of this floor.’ He turned the paper over to see if something was written on the other side, but it was blank.

‘That’s why I’ve come,’ Rossi said, sitting up straighter in his chair as he spoke. He bent down and set his briefcase on the floor to the left of his feet, keeping the folder on his lap.

‘Yes?’ Brunetti said, leaning forward to hand the other one back to him.

Rossi took it from him and opened the larger folder. He carefully slipped the smaller one back in place and closed the file. ‘I’m afraid there is some doubt as to the official status of your apartment.’

‘ “Official status”?’ Brunetti repeated, looking off to the left of Rossi, to the solid wall and then up to the equally solid ceiling. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’

‘There’s some doubt about the apartment,’ Rossi said with a smile that Brunetti thought looked a bit nervous. Before Brunetti could again ask for clarification, Rossi went on, ‘That is, there are no papers in the Ufficio Catasto to show that building permits were ever granted for this entire floor, or that they were approved when it was built or,’ and here he smiled again, ‘that, in fact, it was ever built.’ He cleared his throat and added, ‘Our records show the floor below this one as the top floor.’

At first Brunetti thought he was joking, but then he saw the smile disappear and realized that Rossi was serious. ‘But all of the plans are in the papers we got when we bought it,’ Brunetti said.

‘Could you show them to me?’

‘Of course,’ Brunetti answered and got to his feet. Without excusing himself, he went down to Paola’s office and stood for a moment, studying the spines of the books that lined three walls of the room. Finally he reached to the top shelf and pulled down a large manila envelope filled with papers and took it back to the other room. Pausing inside the door to open the envelope, he pulled out the grey folder they’d received, almost twenty years ago, from the notary who had handled the purchase of the apartment for them. He came back to Rossi and handed this folder to him.

Rossi opened it and began to read, his finger tracing slowly down each line. He turned the page, read the next and thus until the end. A muffled ‘Hmm’ escaped his lips, but he said nothing. He finished the file, closed it, and left it lying on his knees.

‘Are these the only papers?’ Rossi asked.

‘Yes, only what’s in there.’

‘No plans? No building permissions?’

Brunetti shook his head. ‘No, I don’t remember anything like that. Those are the only papers we were given at the time of the purchase. I don’t think I’ve looked at them since then.’

‘You said you studied law, Signor Brunetti?’ Rossi finally asked.