Donna Leon - A Question of Belief

‘We met in liceo . That was almost forty years ago,’ Penzo said and picked up his water. He put his head back and swallowed it all in four long gulps. Then, as if the water had restored his conversation with Brunetti to the most businesslike of events, he asked, ‘What did you want to know about him, Commissario?’

Just as if he had not asked Penzo his previous question, Brunetti asked, ‘Do you have any idea why Signor Fontana argued with his neighbours?’

Instead of answering, Penzo said, ‘Could you get me another glass of water, please?’ When Brunetti started to move towards the bar, Penzo added, ‘You can bring the Inspector back with you.’

Brunetti did both things. When Penzo had drunk half of the water he set the glass down and said to Brunetti, ‘Araldo told me that he thought the people who lived in those apartments — both of them — had got them in return for doing favours for the landlord.’

‘Signor Puntera?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes.’

Penzo looked at the ground and said, ‘It’s very complicated.’

Brunetti lifted his chin in Vianello’s direction, and the Inspector said, ‘We’re not in any hurry, Avvocato. Take all the time you need.’

Penzo, his lips tight, nodded. He looked at Brunetti and said, ‘I’m not sure where to begin.’

‘With his mother,’ Brunetti suggested.

‘Yes,’ Penzo said with a bitter little shrug, ‘with his mother.’ He went on. ‘She’s a widow. If ever a woman had a profession, hers was widowhood. Araldo was only eighteen when his father died, and because he was the only child, he assumed that it was his responsibility to take care of his mother. His father had been a clerk; at first there was some money, but his mother quickly went through that. She spent it to keep up appearances. Araldo was supposed to go to university: we were both going to study law. But when the money was gone, he had to take a job, and his mother thought the safest thing was to become a civil servant, as his father had been.’

‘So he became a clerk at the Tribunale?’ supplied Brunetti.

‘Yes. And worked and rose and was promoted and became — even he knew this — something of a joke for the seriousness with which he took his job. But there was never enough money, and then five years ago his mother got sick, or she thought she was sick. And then they needed more money for doctors and exams and tests and cures.

‘It became difficult for him to pay her bills and still pay the rent. I offered to help, but he wouldn’t let me. I knew he wouldn’t, but I still wanted him to. So they moved, from Cannaregio down to a dark little apartment in Castello. And she got sicker and sicker, had more and more tests.’

‘Was there anything wrong with her?’ Vianello broke in to ask.

Penzo shrugged, quite an eloquent gesture. ‘Something is wrong with her, but the tests found nothing.’

He stopped speaking for so long that Brunetti was finally moved to ask, ‘What happened?’

‘He went to his bank to try to borrow money to pay the bills. He knew enough people to be able to get to talk to the director, but he told Araldo it would be impossible to lend him any money since there was no guarantee that he could ever pay it back.’

‘Was the bank director Signor Fulgoni?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Who else?’ Penzo asked with a bitter laugh.

‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘And then?’

‘And then, one day, like Venus arising from the seas or descending on a cloud, Judge Coltellini appeared in Araldo’s office — I think this was about three years ago — and told him she’d heard that he was looking for a new apartment.’

Penzo glanced at them to check that they had registered the significance of the name, then continued, ‘Araldo told her that he was not looking, not at all, and she said how very disappointed she was because a friend of hers had an apartment on the Misericordia that he wanted to rent to what he called “decent people”. She said he wasn’t interested in the rent, that he simply wanted people in the apartment who were reliable, good people.’

Penzo gave them a look that asked if they had ever heard of such a thing. ‘Before he spoke to me, Araldo made the mistake of talking to his mother about it.’

‘She wanted to move?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Their apartment was fifty metres: two rooms, for two people, one of them a sick woman. The boiler was at least forty years old, and Araldo said they were never sure when there would be hot water,’ Penzo said.

‘Did you ever see it?’ Vianello asked.

‘I never saw any of their apartments,’ Penzo answered in a voice that cut off discussion of that topic.

‘The apartment on the Misericordia had a lower rent, and it had been restored two years before: new heating system, and the utilities were included. The way she presented it to them, she made it sound like they would be doing the landlord a favour. Which was exactly the right tack to take with Araldo’s mother. She’s always considered herself a cut above everyone else.’ Penzo’s voice took on a bitter edge when he said, ‘Just the person to condescend to a landlord.’

‘So he took it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Once he told her about it,’ Penzo said with a resigned shake of his head, ‘he had no choice. She would have driven him mad if he hadn’t taken it.’

‘And when they’d moved?’

‘She was happy with it, at least at the beginning.’ Penzo looked at the sandwich he had abandoned. ‘But she was never able to be happy for long.’ He put one finger on the springy white bread and pressed down, then removed his finger. The bread remained compressed. He pushed the plate to the back of the counter and took a sip of water.

Brunetti and Vianello waited.

‘After they had been living there for about six months, Judge Coltellini gave a file back to Araldo after a hearing. He took the file back to his office and checked through the documents to see that they were all there. I think he’s the only one in the Tribunale who bothers — bothered — to do such a thing. A paper was missing, the deed to a house. So he took the file back to the judge and told her it was missing, and she said she knew nothing about it, that it had not been in the file when she read through it, or at least she had no memory of having seen it.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘He believed her, of course. She was a judge, after all, and he had been raised to respect rank and authority.’

‘And then?’ prompted Vianello.

‘A few months later, the judge postponed a hearing because the file on the case was missing,’ he said and stopped.

‘And where was it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘On her desk, buried under some others. Araldo found it when he went back in the afternoon to retrieve the case files.’

‘Did he speak to her?’

‘Yes. And she apologized and said she hadn’t seen it there, that it must have been stuck inside one of the others.’

‘And this time?’ It was Vianello who asked.

‘He still thought nothing of it. Or that’s what he told me.’

‘And then?’ Brunetti asked.

‘And then he stopped telling me about it.’

‘How do you know there was anything to tell?’

‘I told you, Commissario. We went to liceo together. Forty years. You learn to know what a person is thinking in that time, when something’s bothering them.’

‘Did you ask about it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, a few times.’

‘And?’

‘And he told me to leave him alone, that it was something at work and he didn’t want to talk about it.’ Penzo returned his attention to his abandoned sandwich. This time, he used his thumbnail to score an X in the lingering fingerprint, then returned to Brunetti.