Donna Leon - The Golden Egg

He locked his eyes on his hat while he answered. ‘My friends and I try to play there in the afternoons, Signora. When we’re free. And I thought I remembered your son playing with us a couple of times.’ His grasp grew more nervous, and suddenly he was crushing the fabric of the hat, bending the stiff brim until it made a creaking noise they all could hear. Then, pointlessly, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You play there?’ she demanded.

‘When I can, Signora,’ Pucetti said, not looking at her.

When Brunetti’s eyes moved back to her face, he saw that it had softened in a way that was all but miraculous. Her mouth had relaxed and her lips grown much larger and softer. The hand of ease had smoothed the lines on either side of her eyes, which were directed at Pucetti’s. Seeing her face in repose for the first time, Brunetti could reconstruct how attractive she must once have been.

‘ Sì ,’ she said to the younger man. ‘It made him happy.’

Brunetti remained as motionless as a snake on a stone, leaving the next move to her. She stepped back and, using the plural, invited them in. Brunetti stepped inside and stopped, turning to the other two men, only to discover that Vianello had evaporated. He had barely time to register this before Pucetti, muttering ‘Permesso’, stepped in beside him.

Signora Cavanella turned and walked towards a dimly lit flight of stairs. They followed, rigorously avoiding any spoken or glanced communication, Pucetti careful to remain two steps behind Brunetti.

At the top of the stairs, she used her key to open the door to her apartment, but even that strange cautiousness did not cause Brunetti and Pucetti to exchange a glance. Inside, she moved along a very narrow corridor that led to what must be the back of the building. Along one windowless wall was a low, glass-fronted cabinet, similar to one Brunetti’s grandmother had had in her home. He could see small cardboard boxes stacked inside, or rather stuffed in randomly, for none of the piles were straight, and no concession was made to size. The top was covered by dolls, the sort of cheap souvenirs picked up at kiosks in any city of the world: he saw a flamenco dancer, an Eskimo, a basket-carrying Nubian woman, a man in a large hat who could as easily have been an American Pilgrim as a Dutch farmer. They stood or lay on top of a shabby lace runner that was no longer white, no longer smooth.

She led them into a small sitting room, and again Brunetti had the feeling that a time machine had taken him back to his grandmother’s home. There was the same over-plump sofa, covered in green velvet corduroy, the top of all three back cushions protected by small, greying antimacassars. Though neither of the lamps was illuminated, Brunetti noticed that they had faded onion-coloured lampshades, both with woven tassels. A small television with rounded corners was placed directly in front of an overstuffed chair. Over the arm hung a small dark green blanket in some material that made a bad attempt to look like wool. Lodged between the cushion and the side of the chair, were a few decades of a rosary, the crucifix trapped out of sight.

Brunetti glanced out of the single window at the wall of the house on the other side of the calle , little more than two metres distant.

The Signora grabbed the chair by both arms and turned it to face the sofa, to which she pointed, and then sat in the chair. Brunetti sat at the right end, Pucetti at the left, as if hoping to give physical evidence of the abyss in sentiment that lay between them.

Brunetti unbuttoned his jacket; Pucetti sat upright, his hat on his thighs, hands carefully folded on top of it. ‘Thank you for letting us come in, Signora. I’ll try to be as brief as I can,’ Brunetti said. He did not waste a smile, letting his face show interest and amiability and nothing else: leave the charm to Pucetti.

‘I’d like to ask a few questions about your son,’ he said and paused, but she did not ask about that. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you the law requires that someone identify him. It is usually a member of his family, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be. His doctor or someone who knew him well can also do this.’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said in an even voice.

‘He’s at the Ospedale Civile. You can go there any time from eight until five: Dottor Rizzardi or his assistant will be there. The assistant will help you with the paperwork, I’m sure.’

‘What paperwork?’ she asked. The softness had disappeared from her face, and the lines were back where they had been the first time Brunetti spoke to her.

‘They need to notify the Ufficio Anagrafe of any death in the city: the usual process is to take the information from his documents. This way, they can cancel his health card and have his name removed from the various registers in the city.’ Brunetti decided not to mention his allowance, which would stop at his death, as would hers for taking care of a handicapped person.

He raised his hands in what he hoped would appear to be a calming gesture. ‘It’s more or less routine, Signora. All they need is some information and your signature, and they should take care of dealing with the various offices.’ This, he knew, was a lie: the bureaucratic clean-up after the death of a family member could sometimes be as bad as the long road to death itself. Death consigned the family to grief and then to the seemingly endless chasing from office to office. Arrange for the Mass and the funeral, the plot in the cemetery, close bank accounts, stop the allowance payments, cancel subscription payments for the television, stop the phone service, close the water, close the gas, stop the postal delivery. Each transaction usually required at least one trip to the appropriate office: many were at the Commune, but others were up at Piazzale Roma or at other far-flung bastions of officialdom in the city. Officials spread misinformation with cavalier disregard for the time it would take the person they were advising to go and find out they were in the wrong office and asking for the wrong certificate or form. Mistaken addresses were dispensed like chocolates to greedy children.

She would learn all of this, if the death of a parent had not already taught her. How many millions of hours were sacrificed every day to the gods of laziness and incompetence? How much was sacrificed each working day on the altar of Eris, goddess of chaos? He thought the Indians, whose bureaucracy, he had heard, made Naples seem like Helsinki, had Kali to stir things round for them.

Pucetti’s voice called him back. The young officer was saying, ‘. . . teams of only four or five players, Signora, so we were all very happy to have him’.

‘He knew the rules?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Pucetti answered. He lowered his head, as if preparing for confession. ‘None of us likes much to be goalie, to be honest. But Davide was very good at stopping the ball and tossing it back to us.’ He smiled here and raised his hands, as if imitating the catches her son had made. Then, voice suddenly serious, he said, ‘I’m really sorry, Signora. We all liked him. And we’ll miss him.’

The compliments worked the same transformation and smoothed away some of the traces of age. Signora Cavanelli’s lips moved, and Brunetti was curious to see how a smile would transform her, but she did not smile, only spoke. ‘I’ll come tomorrow morning.’

‘Thank you, Signora,’ Brunetti said. ‘And it would save a lot of trouble for everyone if you could bring his papers.’

‘I can’t,’ she said suddenly, as if she had just realized the impossibility.

‘Why is that, Signora?’ Brunetti inquired.

‘They were stolen, all of them.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ was the only thing Brunetti could think of to say.