Donna Leon - A Question of Belief

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, and took a sip of water. ‘It’s ingenious, isn’t it?’

Riverre couldn’t stop himself from smiling at Brunetti’s comment. ‘Only thing is, sir, I don’t think we can do it right now, what with the vacation to pay for: we’re going to Elba next week. Camping, but it’s still expensive, for the three of us.’

‘Oh,’ Brunetti said with mild interest, ‘how much does the class cost?’

‘Three hundred Euros,’ Riverre answered and looked at Brunetti to see how he responded to the price. When his superior raised his eyebrows by way of answer, Riverre explained, ‘That’s with the tests and all the grading, you see.’

‘Humm,’ Brunetti said and nodded; he reached into the bag for the other sandwich. ‘It’s not cheap, is it?’

‘No,’ Riverre said with a resigned shake of his head. ‘But he’s our only child, and we want the best for him. I guess that’s sort of natural, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes, I think it is,’ Brunetti said and took a bite. ‘He’s a good boy, isn’t he?’

Riverre smiled, frowned in thoughtful consideration, then smiled again. ‘I think he is, sir. And he does well in school. No trouble.’

‘Then maybe you could wait a while on that class.’ He finished the second sandwich, regretted that he had asked Riverre to bring him only two, and drank the rest of the water.

Looking around, Brunetti said, ‘Where does the bottle go?’

‘Over there by the door, sir. The blue bin.’

Brunetti walked over to the plastic bins, put the bottle in the blue one and the paper bag and napkins in the yellow. ‘I see the hand of Signorina Elettra at work here,’ he said.

Riverre laughed. ‘I thought she’d have to use force when she first told us about them, but we’re used to it by now.’ Then, as though revealing a truth he had been considering for some time, he said, ‘It’s really a shame she isn’t in charge here, isn’t it, sir?’

‘You mean the Questura?’ Brunetti asked. ‘The whole thing?’

‘Yes, sir. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it?’

Brunetti opened the second bottle of water and took a long drink. ‘My daughter has an Iranian classmate: sweet young girl,’ he said, confusing Riverre, who had perhaps expected a response to his question.

‘Whenever she wants to express happiness, the expression she uses is, “Much, much, too, very.” ’ He took another drink of water.

‘I’m not sure I follow you, sir,’ Riverre said, his words mirrored in his face.

‘It’s the only thing I can think of to say in response to the idea of Signorina Elettra taking over here: “Much, much, too, very.” ’ He twisted closed the bottle, thanked Riverre for his lunch, and went downstairs to ask Signorina Elettra to make the changes to Scarpa’s staffing plans.

For the next few days, it appeared that some cosmic governing force had heard Brunetti’s wish that a deal be made with the forces of disorder, for crime went on holiday in Venice. The Romanians who played three card monte on the bridges appeared to have gone home on vacation, or else they had moved their work site to the beaches. The number of burglaries declined. Beggars, in response to a city ordinance banning them and subjecting them to severe penalties, disappeared for at least a day or two before going back to work. Pickpockets, of course, remained at their posts: they could go on vacation only in the empty months of November and February. Though the heat often drove people to violence, that was not the case this year. Perhaps there was some point where heat and humidity made the effort to throttle or maim too exhausting to be considered.

Whatever the cause, Brunetti was glad of the lull. He used some of his free time to consult more sites that offered spiritual or other-worldly help to those in need of it. He had read so widely in the Greek and Roman historians that he found nothing strange at all in the desire to consult the oracles or to find some way to decipher the messages of the gods. Whether it was the liver of a freshly killed chicken or the patterns made in the air by a flock of birds, the signs were there for those who could interpret them: all that was necessary was someone willing to believe the interpretation, and the deal was done. Cumae or Lourdes; Diana of Ephesus or the Virgin of Fatima: the mouth of the statue moved, and the truth came forth.

The women of Brunetti’s family had told the rosary, and as a boy he had often returned home from school on a Friday afternoon to find them kneeling on the floor in the living room, reciting their incantations. The practice, and the faith that animated it, had seemed to him then, and still seemed to him now, two generations later, an ordinary and understandable part of human life. Thus, to transfer belief in the beneficent powers of the Madonna to belief in the power of a person to make contact with departed spirits seemed — at least to Brunetti — a very small step along the highway of faith.

Never having dealt with a case that involved the misrepresentation of faith — if this, indeed, was what was at work in the strange behaviour of Vianello’s aunt — Brunetti was uncertain about the laws that operated. Italy was a country with a state religion; thus, the law tended to take a tolerant attitude towards the Church and the behaviour of its functionaries. Charges of usury, involvement with the Mafia, the abuse of minors, fraud, and extortion: these all managed to disappear, as if waved off by the legal equivalent of aspergillum and incense.

These sites, however, represented the competition to the religion of the state, and so the law might well take a dimmer view of their activities. And if the promises made in the churches were just as valid as those made on the websites, where did truth lie? Brunetti’s speculations were halted by the telephone.

Happy at the interruption, he answered with his name.

‘It’s me, Guido,’ Vianello said. ‘Loredano just called me. The bank director called him: he’s got my aunt there. She just withdrew three thousand Euros. He asked her to come up to his office for a moment to sign some papers.’

‘Who’s on patrol?’

‘Pucetti and a new recruit are on the way to Via Garibaldi.’

Brunetti sent his memory down one side of Via Garibaldi, up the other. ‘Banco di Padova?’

‘Yes. Next to the pharmacy.’

‘Did he say how long he can keep her there?’

‘Ten minutes. He said he’ll ask how the family is doing: that ought to keep her talking for a while.’

‘Where are you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘On Murano. Someone tried to grab a woman’s bag, and a mob formed and threw him in a canal. We had to come over to get him out.’

‘I’ll go and have a look,’ Brunetti said and replaced the phone, but not before he heard Vianello say, ‘She’s wearing a green shirt.’

He was so preoccupied with Vianello’s call that he was not prepared for the heat that hit him as he emerged from the Questura. It flowed over him in a single wave, and for a moment Brunetti didn’t know if the attack of sodden air would permit him to breathe. He stopped, stepped back into the miserable shadow cast by the lintel of the door, and took out his sunglasses. They cut the light, but they did nothing to help against the heat. His jacket, lightweight blue cotton, clung to him like an Icelandic sweater.

So sudden had been the assault of heat and light that it took Brunetti a moment to remember why he had come outside and then another to remember the way to Via Garibaldi.

‘Lunacy,’ he muttered to himself and crossed the bridge. He had no choice but to keep his eyes lowered against the glare and leave it to his feet to find the way. He wove left and right, giving no conscious thought to where he was going. His feet took him over another bridge, then to the right, and then he emerged into Via Garibaldi and wished he had not. The paving stones had had hours to bake, and the heat they sent up seemed a form of protest at their own helplessness. Caught between the unrelenting sun and the radiant heat from below, Brunetti could think of no way to protect himself. A woman brushed past him, saying ‘ Con permesso ’ more forcefully than she might have, but he was, after all, standing motionless on the pavement and blocking her exit from the calle. Her remark unblocked him and he stepped back into the entrance to the calle, which offered the minimal protection of shade.