Donna Leon - About Face

‘He had no reason to be, did he?’ Brunetti asked, defending the dead man as much as the principle. ‘He was in over his head: first he cheated on his taxes, which forced him into doing something illegal, then he got caught by the Finanza, who turned him over to the Carabinieri, and they forced him into doing something dangerous. If he had reason to be anything, it wasn’t brave.’

‘You seem awfully sympathetic,’ Guarino said, making it sound like a criticism.

This time it was Brunetti who shrugged and said nothing.

In the face of Brunetti’s silence, Guarino chose to move away from the dead man’s character. ‘I told you. I’m not at liberty to provide you with full information about the cargoes,’ he said with more than a touch of asperity.

Brunetti resisted the urge to observe that everything Guarino had said since they began to talk made that evident. He turned his gaze away from his visitor and stared out the window. For some time, Guarino allowed the joint silence to continue. Brunetti played the conversation back from the beginning, and liked very little of what he heard.

The silence expanded, but Guarino gave no sign of being made nervous by it. After what seemed, even to himself, an inordinately long time, Brunetti removed his feet from the drawer and set them on the floor. He leaned towards the man on the other side of his desk. ‘Are you used to dealing with dull people, Filippo?’

‘Dull?’

‘Dull. Slow to understand.’

Guarino glanced, almost against his will, at Brunetti, who smiled at him blandly and then turned his attention back to he contemplation of the view beyond the window.

Eventually Guarino said, ‘I suppose I am.’

Brunetti said, quite amiably, though without bothering to smile, ‘It must become a habit, after a while.’

‘Believing that everyone is dull?’

‘Something like that, yes, or at least behaving as if they were.’

Guarino considered this. At last he said, ‘Yes, I see. And I’ve insulted you?’

Brunetti’s eyebrows rose and fell as if by their own volition; his right hand sketched a short arc in the air.

‘Indeed,’ Guarino said and went silent.

The two men sat in companionable silence for a number of minutes until Guarino broke it by saying, ‘I really do work for Patta.’ In the face of Brunetti’s failure to respond, Guarino added, ‘Well, my own Patta. And he hasn’t authorized me to tell anyone about what we’re doing.’

Lack of authorization had never worked as a strong impediment to Brunetti’s professional behaviour, and so he said, in an entirely friendly voice, ‘Then you can leave.’

‘What?’

‘You can leave,’ Brunetti repeated, with a wave towards the door just as pleasant as his voice had been. ‘And I’ll go back to doing my job. Which, for the administrative reasons I’ve already explained to you, does not include the investigation of Signor Ranzato’s murder.’ Guarino remained in his chair, and Brunetti said, ‘It’s been very interesting, listening to you, but I don’t have any information to give you, and I don’t see any reason to help you find whatever it is you might really be after.’

Had Brunetti slapped him, Guarino could have been no more astonished. And offended. He started to get to his feet, but then sank back on to the chair and stared at Brunetti. His face flushed a sudden red, either from embarrassment or anger: Brunetti neither knew nor cared. Finally Guarino said, ‘How about we think of someone we both know, and you call this person and I talk to him?’

‘Animal, vegetable, or mineral?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s a game my children used to play. What type of person should we call: a priest, a doctor, a social worker?’

‘A lawyer?’

‘That I trust?’ Brunetti asked, putting an end to that possibility.

‘A journalist?’

After some consideration, Brunetti said, ‘There are a few.’

‘Good, then let’s see if we can find one we know in common.’

‘Who trusts us both?’

‘Yes,’ Guarino answered.

‘And you think that would be enough for me?’ Brunetti asked, injecting disbelief into his voice.

‘That would depend on which journalist, I suppose,’ Guarino said mildly.

After running through a few names that were unknown to one or the other, they discovered that they both knew and trusted Beppe Avisani, an investigative journalist in Rome.

‘Let me call him,’ Guarino said, coming around to stand beside Brunetti.

Brunetti got an outside line on his office phone and dialled Avisani’s number. He pushed the button for the speaker phone.

The phone rang four times, and then the journalist answered with his name.

‘Beppe, ciao , it’s me, Filippo,’ Guarino said.

‘Good heavens. Is the Republic in peril and I have just one chance to save it by answering your questions?’ the journalist asked in a falsely ponderous voice. Then, with real warmth, ‘How are you, Filippo? I won’t ask what you’re doing, but how are you?’

‘Fine. You?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ Avisani said, his voice veering towards the despair that Brunetti had so often heard over the years. Then, brightening, he went on, ‘You never call without wanting something, so save us both time and tell me what it is.’ The words were harsh, but the tone was not.

‘I’m here with someone who knows you,’ Guarino said, ‘and I’d like you to tell him that I can be trusted.’

‘You do me too much honour, Filippo,’ Avisani said with arch humility. They heard the sound of paper rustling, and then the voice came through the speaker, saying, ‘ Ciao , Guido. My phone told me the number was from Venice, and my notebook just told me it’s the Questura, and God knows you’re the only person there who would trust me.’

Brunetti said, ‘Dare I hope you’ll say I’m the only person here you’d trust?’

Avisani laughed. ‘You might not believe this, either of you, but I’ve had stranger calls.’

‘And so?’ Brunetti asked, trying to save time.

‘Trust him,’ the journalist answered without hesitation and without explanation. ‘I’ve known Filippo for a long time, and he’s to be trusted.’

‘That’s all?’ Brunetti asked.

‘That’s enough,’ the journalist said and hung up. Guarino returned to his chair.

‘You realize what was also proven by that call?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, I know,’ Guarino said: ‘that I can trust you.’ He nodded, seemed to digest this new information, and then went on in a more sober voice, ‘My unit studies organized crime, specifically its penetration north.’ Even though Guarino spoke earnestly and was perhaps finally telling the truth, Brunetti remained cautious. Guarino covered his face with his hands and made a washing gesture. Brunetti thought of racoons, always trying to clean things off. Elusive creatures, racoons.

‘Because the problem is so multifaceted, it’s been decided to try to approach it by applying new techniques.’

Brunetti held up a monitory hand and said, ‘This isn’t a meeting, Filippo: you can use real language.’

Guarino gave a short laugh, not a particularly pleasant sound. ‘After seven years working where I do, I’m not sure I still know how to use it.’

‘Try, Filippo, try. It might be good for your soul.’

As if in an attempt to remove the memory of everything he had said so far, Guarino sat up straighter and began for the third time. ‘Some of us are trying to stop them coming north. There’s not much hope of that, I suppose.’ He shrugged, and went on. ‘My unit is trying to keep them from doing certain things after they get here.’