Donna Leon - The Golden Egg

‘What did he do?’ Brunetti asked.

‘He got off at the next stop. I never saw him again.’

‘And the girl?’

Rizzardi’s face lit up. ‘She said, “Thank you, Signore” and smiled at me.’ Rizzardi’s face was transformed by a smile. ‘I’ve never been so proud of myself in my entire life.’ He waited a few seconds before adding, ‘I know I should be ashamed, but I’m not.’

‘Would you do it again?’ Brunetti asked.

‘In a heartbeat,’ Rizzardi answered and laughed.

Pucetti arrived just then and stood amazed: like Brunetti, in all these years, he had never heard Rizzardi laugh.

Glad of the chance to move away from what Rizzardi had told him, Brunetti asked, ‘What did they say?’

‘The call came from a man who passed her on the street, over near the Zattere. He said there was a woman sitting on the steps of a building, with blood on her face. He tried to talk to her, but she didn’t seem to understand him, so he called for the ambulance.’

‘Do they have his name?’

‘Yes, sir. He stayed there until they came.’

‘Did he tell them anything else?’

‘Nothing. Just that he was on his way home, and he saw this woman.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘She told them she fell down.’

‘If I had ten Euros for every time I’ve heard that one, I could retire,’ Rizzardi interrupted to say and asked Pucetti if he’d like a coffee.

Pucetti stared at Rizzardi and did not answer, then said he didn’t want a coffee.

Brunetti paid and they left the bar, walked past the courtyard, and back to Pronto Soccorso. This time, Brunetti raised his hand to the man behind the window, who waved back and smiled.

Brunetti opened the door to the room and saw that the woman’s eyes were open. But by the time the three men were near the bed, they were closed again.

‘Signora,’ Brunetti said. There was no response.

Rizzardi, obviously deciding to stay out of this, said nothing.

Pucetti leaned down and said softly, ‘Signora Ana. It’s me, Roberto.’ He placed his right hand on her upper arm. ‘Signora, can you hear me?’

Slowly, she opened her eyes and, seeing his face so close to hers, smiled.

‘Don’t try to talk, Signora. Everything’s all right, everything’s going to be all right.’

‘Could you ask her . . .’ Brunetti began.

Pucetti stood upright and turned to Brunetti. ‘I think she’s had enough, Commissario. Don’t you?’ Then, including Rizzardi, he said, ‘I think we all ought to get out of here and let her rest.’

Brunetti backed away from him and raised his hands, palms open; in the voice of a man struggling to save face or reputation, he added, ‘She’s had too much. You’re right.’ He turned and headed for the door. As he passed Rizzardi, he said, ‘Come on, Ettore. Pucetti’s right.’

The two men went and stood by the door. Pucetti bent down and placed his hand on the woman’s arm again. ‘Try to get some sleep now, Signora. I’ll come back when I can.’ When she started to speak, he held up one finger, as if he wanted to place it gently on her lips, and said, ‘No, not now. Everything can wait. Just sleep now. And get better.’ He gave her arm the gentlest of squeezes and moved away from the bed, very slowly, turning at the door as if to see that she was still all right.

The three men left the room; Pucetti was careful to pull the door closed very quietly.

17

Brunetti didn’t know whether to laugh or to turn away from the young man. He had certainly deceived witnesses during his own career, but he had seldom been this good at it, though he wasn’t sure that was the adjective to describe what he had seen Pucetti do. The young man had a genius for deceit, the way another person had a gift for music or golf or knitting. The comparisons left him uncomfortable, if only because those other pursuits were neutral, whereas deceit was not. If this deceit led to an understanding of the circumstances of Signora Cavanella’s son’s death, it would surely help, and thus it was good. Oh, how very Jesuitical he had become.

He looked at the unlined face of the young officer and wondered where Dante would put him. Among the Evil Counsellors? The Evil Impersonators? Was Pucetti to be enveloped in a tongue of flame or preyed upon and rent to pieces by others like him?

Rizzardi saved him from the need to comment by saying, ‘You had me convinced.’ Then he added, ‘I saw you together this morning, and you were very good to her then.’

Pucetti looked at the floor, pressed his lips together, and said, ‘I’m not sure I like being able to do it, Dottore.’ He raised his eyes to watch a white-coated woman doctor approach and pass them by, then looked at Rizzardi. ‘Most people want so much to believe in what others say that it makes it too easy.’ Then, earnestly, ‘I’m not just saying this, you know. I really don’t like that it’s so easy.’ He paused, then added, ‘And it’s not easy to do it with her. He was her only child.’

Listening to Pucetti say this, Brunetti realized how much he wanted to believe him. His thoughts turned to Paola, as deceitful and duplicitous a person as one could hope to find, yet who remained one of the only truly honest people he had ever known.

Rizzardi interrupted. ‘I’ve got to get back. I’ll let you pick over this poor woman’s bones.’ Leaving them with that, he turned and walked away.

Brunetti and Pucetti continued towards the exit. Pucetti took this opportunity to tell Brunetti that the parocco had told him he had been at the parish only six months and had never heard of Signora Cavanella. At the front door, they looked out across the campo . The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing, so Brunetti would not need the umbrella. He realized then that he had left it somewhere, either at the entrance to Pronto Soccorso or in Signora Cavanella’s room, or in the bar. Where did they go, he wondered, all of those umbrellas he had forgotten on trains, in boats, in offices and stores during all of these decades?

He walked out into the cooler air: autumn had arrived. ‘Tell me what happened this morning,’ he asked Pucetti. Standing there, feeling the refreshed air, seeing the clouds scuttle west, he had no desire to return to the Questura. He started towards the bridge, heading for home and pulling Pucetti in his wake.

As they walked in front of the school, Pucetti caught up with him and began to explain what had happened. He had arrived on time at Signora Cavanella’s home and been careful to be formal and polite, nothing more. But at the second bridge, when she paused before starting up it, he slipped his arm under hers, careful to release it when they reached the other side. Because she had decided to walk, there were many more bridges, and by the time they got to the last one, the one in front of the hospital that he and Brunetti had just crossed, the habit was established that he would help her cross them.

It was she who asked Rizzardi if the young officer could come into the morgue with her, and it was Pucetti who held her arm and kept her from falling when Rizzardi pulled back the sheet that covered her son’s face.

Later, he had helped her fill in the forms and had all but sequestered an ambulance to take her home. Brunetti was curious about the reasons for Pucetti’s behaviour, but he didn’t know how to phrase the question. Without being asked, the young man said, just as they came out into Campo San Bortolo, ‘At first, I thought it would be a good idea to win her confidence any way I could, but I ended up feeling sorry for her, Commissario. His death’s destroyed her. No one can fake that.’

Brunetti stopped beneath the statue of the ever-dapper Goldoni; he resisted the impulse to point out to Pucetti that he himself had faked a strong emotion, and quite convincingly. Instead, he told the young man he had done well and could call it a day if he wished. But Pucetti decided he’d go back to the Questura. Brunetti raised a hand in an informal farewell and turned right towards home.