Donna Leon - The Golden Egg

Brunetti limited himself to shaking his head in sage acknowledgement of humanity’s weaknesses. Turning to the proprietor, he said, making himself sound puzzled and not really curious, ‘I’m not sure I understand, Signora. If he was deaf, how did you make him understand that he was supposed to carry the bags home for her?’

Maria Pia shrugged and answered, ‘I picked up the bags and handed them to him, and then I pointed to the woman and made walking movements with my fingers.’ She then did just that, walking her first two fingers halfway across the counter.

‘I’d done it before. Or he’d done it with other clients, so he understood. He took the bags and went and stood by the door, the way he always did.’

‘And then?’ prodded Brunetti.

‘He went out with her and came back, and I thought everything was all right. I should have known better. With her.’ Another huffing noise from Renata.

‘And what did you do, Signora?’ Brunetti asked, wondering if Signora Callegaro’s complaint had been enough to frighten her.

‘What could I do? I apologized to her and said he was perfectly harmless. She’d seen him here for years: she should have known that,’ she said with mounting anger.

‘Did you think about telling him not to work here any more?’ Brunetti asked before he realized how habitual it was to use that word: ‘tell’.

‘No, of course not,’ she said, the anger now veering in his direction. ‘He’d been here a long time, and he was a good boy. He tried to help; he wanted to help.’ Brunetti saw Renata nod in agreement. ‘I couldn’t just toss him away because someone didn’t like the way he behaved. Let her take her husband’s jacket somewhere else to have it cleaned.’

Brunetti smiled. ‘Good for you, Signora,’ he said without thinking.

They both smiled: Renata’s nod of approval pleased him.

‘Did she ever come in again when he was here?’ he asked, again directing the question to both of them.

‘Only once,’ Maria Pia answered.

‘What happened?’

Renata interrupted. ‘I saw her come in: I can see a lot from back there,’ she said, waving towards the curtain. ‘So when she came in, I grabbed Davide’s arm and told him to move back, out of sight.’ She raised her hands, palms inward, and made brushing motions that would cause anyone to move back from her.

‘Did he understand?’

‘Of course,’ she said, surprised. ‘He understood a lot of things.’

About sleeping pills? Brunetti wondered.

He decided to risk a question about the mother. ‘That woman, Signora Callegaro, said something about Davide’s mother. It sounded like she knew her. And had a bad opinion of her.’

‘She has a bad opinion of everyone,’ Renata said angrily.

Brunetti turned towards Maria Pia. This was enough to encourage her to say, ‘The mother, Ana, doesn’t have a very good reputation.’ Neither, it seemed, did Signora Callegaro, though Brunetti chose not to say this. His silence induced her to add, ‘Most of us around here have known her a long time, and once you know a little about her . . . well, then you have some sympathy for her.’

‘Why is that, Signora?’ Brunetti asked, unable to disguise his real curiosity.

Maria Pia looked at her colleague, as if to ask her how it happened that she had already said this much.

The opening of the door distracted them all and turned their attention to the new arrival. It was a young girl, no more than thirteen, pink slip in hand. ‘ Ciao , Graziella,’ Maria Pia said, and turned to the long row of clothing. In a moment she was back with two silk dresses far too mature in style to be for the girl and a pair of black silk slacks equally unsuitable in size. The girl stood, looking around at the three adults, silent.

When the parcel was wrapped, she handed the pink slip and a fifty Euro note to Maria Pia, took the change, nodded her thanks, picked up the parcel, and left.

‘What were you saying about the mother, Signora?’ Brunetti asked.

The look Maria Pia gave him told Brunetti that time had run out, even before she said, ‘It’s just gossip, Commissario, and I don’t think it’s right to repeat it.’ She turned to Renata and asked, ‘Isn’t that right?’

Renata looked at her employer, at Brunetti, and nodded. ‘Yes. People are saying he choked on something: that’s how he died. So she’s had enough, I’d say.’

‘Was he her only child?’ Brunetti managed to inject sufficient pathos into the question for Maria Pia to answer, ‘Yes.’ But nothing more.

Brunetti accepted the futility of trying to learn anything else from the women: to continue to ask questions would only irritate them. ‘Thank you for your help, Signore,’ he said. Then, in a lighter tone, ‘I’m not going home now. I’ll ask my wife to send one of the kids over.’

‘Good,’ Renata said. ‘It’s always good to see them. Is your son still with that nice girl?’

‘Sara?’

‘Yes.’

‘Years, it’s been,’ Renata said. ‘Good family. Good girl.’

‘I think so, too,’ Brunetti said, thanked them both again, and left.

9

As he walked towards the vaporetto stop at San Tomà, Brunetti considered what the three women had said about Ana Cavanella: Signora Callegaro had cast doubt on her love for her son; Renata had defended her; and Maria Pia had said anyone familiar with her story would feel sympathy for her. But what was the story?

Maria Pia had also said that the people around there had known her for a long time. It should therefore be easy enough to find out about her: all he had to do was find someone who could begin to ask questions. But it had to be the right person, and they had to be the right questions. A woman, one who spoke Veneziano, not young and not flashy: a woman who looked and sounded like a lower middle-class housewife and mother, the sort of woman who would have stayed home to raise her children while her husband went out to work. Who more likely to feel sympathy with a woman who had lost her son? Who more likely to be honestly interested in the woman and her story?

He stopped at the squad room and found Vianello, asked him to come up to his office for a moment. Pucetti started to get to his feet when he saw his superior, but Brunetti held up a hand and patted the air a few times, signalling that he would talk to him later.

On the stairs, Brunetti asked, ‘You read the report on the man they found in Santa Croce yesterday?’

‘The suicide?’ Vianello asked.

‘He was a deaf mute,’ Brunetti said. Vianello paused in mid-step, then his foot hit the stair at an odd angle and he shifted off balance for a second.

‘You think it’s strange, too?’ Brunetti asked.

On the landing, Vianello stopped again. ‘It’s not that it’s strange: it’s just that I’ve never heard of a deaf person killing himself.’ He gave this some thought, then added, ‘Maybe that’s because there are so few of them.’

They went into the office, and when they were seated, Brunetti asked, as if posing a theoretical question, ‘Do you think Nadia would be willing to do a favour?’

Vianello smiled and said, ‘You’re an evasive devil, aren’t you?’ When Brunetti made an interrogative face, Vianello laughed and said, ‘Aren’t favours usually done for someone?’

Brunetti, found out, could do nothing but nod.

‘Who’s this one for?’ Vianello inquired. ‘Specifically?’

‘Me,’ Brunetti answered, then changed it to, ‘All of us.’

‘Justice in person, sort of?’ Vianello asked.

‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’

‘What’s the favour?’

‘I spoke to the women at the dry cleaner’s near my house. I’ve known them for years: it’s where I used to see the man who died. They let him help them there.’