Donna Leon - The Golden Egg

Though they realized early on that no one was going to talk to them, they still persisted. Most people said they did not know Ana Cavanella or her son, but some of them repeated a variation of the response of the man at the bar, a fact that led Brunetti to suspect that phones had been ringing ever since they left the bar.

As they walked out of the last shop, Griffoni said, ‘It’s just like being at home.’

‘Where nobody talks to the police?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Why should it be any different?’

She could not disguise her surprise, as if she had never considered the possibility that Venetians, too, might be suspicious of the police and have strict ideas about omertà.

Deciding that it was futile to continue, Brunetti dialled Foa’s number and asked him if he was still in the area. Sounding relieved to hear his superior’s voice, Foa said he was and, without being asked, said he’d be at the boat in ten minutes.

Just as they started walking down the bridge to the side of the canal where the boat was moored, Foa appeared in the calle ahead of them, his smile visible even at this distance. The three of them arrived at the boat at the same time. ‘I talked to my aunt, Commissario,’ he said, his smile now even broader.

‘And she knows Ana Cavanella, I assume?’ Brunetti said, unable to hide his own smile.

‘Yes, sir. Or at least she knows her to see and knows what’s said about her.’

‘Which is?’

Foa looked around the small campiello , as if he had picked up the neighbourhood’s nervousness about talking to a policeman. ‘Let’s go on board,’ he suggested, turning towards the boat. He jumped on to the deck, which now lay lower in the water than when they arrived. He held out his hand, first for Griffoni and then for Brunetti, who took it gladly as he stepped down.

Foa switched on the engine and pulled away from the riva , then put the motor into reverse and backed up and into the canal on the right to turn back the way they had come. When they emerged into the Grand Canal, he slowed and Brunetti and Griffoni moved up to stand on either side of him.

With no urging, Foa began. ‘The story is that the mother moved here ages ago, when Ana was a little girl. The mother rented a house, but then later Ana got hold of it, no one knows how.’ How very Venetian, Brunetti thought, to begin a story like this with talk of real estate.

‘When she was still a young girl, Ana got a job as a servant somewhere else in the city and went to live there during the week, though she came home to visit her mother when she could. Then after a couple of years she came home to live with her.’ Foa paused and said, ‘You have to understand, my aunt’s almost ninety.’ He saw their surprise and added, ‘She’s my father’s aunt, really. But she’s still an aunt.’ He laughed, ‘My father’s always said she was his eredità from that side of the family, and I guess I’ve inherited her.’

‘And Ana?’ Brunetti prodded, not interested in the particulars of Foa’s relationship with his great-aunt.

‘The story that’s told is that she went away on a trip and came back with this son of hers.’

‘What?’ Griffoni asked.

Foa glanced at her, perhaps relieved to find someone else who found the story strange. ‘That’s what she told me. She said it’s what the local people say: she went away for some time – my aunt didn’t know how long – I think they didn’t have a lot of friends in the neighbourhood – and came back with the son.’

‘How old was he?’ Griffoni asked.

‘No one knew. Exactly, that is. He wasn’t a young child any more, though. Maybe twelve or so. And deaf. That’s what my aunt said Ana and her mother told people, but most people thought something else was wrong with him because he was so simple.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Griffoni said. Foa, confused, slowed the boat. She laughed. ‘No, I mean wait a minute with this story. Did she have this boy stuck in a parking lot somewhere, and when he reached a certain age, she went and picked him up?’ She shook her head repeatedly. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘My aunt said she told people he lived with relatives in the country, and then when he was old enough, she brought him home.’

‘Old enough for what?’ Brunetti asked in a soft voice, as if speaking to himself. The others heard him, but neither had any suggestion to make.

Surprising both men, Griffoni asked, ‘Why don’t we try the Lembos?’ When neither opposed her suggestion, she said, ‘She worked for them for years. Lucrezia’s a few years older than she is, so she would have been a teenager then, and maybe she remembers her.’

Brunetti glanced at his watch and saw that it was after six. ‘You can drop us off there, Foa, if you like, then take the boat back.’

‘Do you want to hear what else my aunt said?’ Foa asked, failing to disguise how much he was offended by their having cut off his story.

Brunetti put a hand on his arm and said, ‘Of course. I’m sorry. What else did she say?’

‘That she was a beautiful girl, and all the boys in the neighbourhood were crazy for her. But she never had anything to do with them, like she thought she was too good for them or something.’ He reflected on this, then asked, as though the question had no suitable answer, ‘She’s a girl from San Polo, and she’s too good for the local boys?’

‘My daughter’s a girl from San Polo,’ Brunetti said lightly, ‘and I certainly think she’s better than most of the boys I’ve seen in the neighbourhood.’

It took a moment, but when Foa understood, he laughed and increased the speed to get them to the Lembo palazzo .

22

Foa pulled up at the place where he had taken Brunetti the last time but showed no desire to linger, perhaps still smarting from their apparent lack of interest in his aunt’s story. He helped them up from the boat, waved, and proceeded on towards the Canale of the Giudecca.

The wind had dropped, but it had grown colder, and Brunetti wished he had brought a scarf with him or had thought to wear a heavier jacket. Griffoni, he noticed, wore a padded coat that came to just above her knees and seemed not to notice the cold at all.

As they walked up the calle , she asked, ‘How do we play this?’

‘We see what happens and we react to that,’ was the only thing he could think of suggesting.

There was no response. A boat was passing in the canal at the end of the calle , and he waited to ring the bell again until it passed out of hearing. He pushed and kept his finger on the bell; both of them heard the far-off echo from inside.

If no one comes, he told himself, then that’s it, and I’ll forget all about it. Let the dead rest. Let them all rest. He allowed a full minute to pass and then rang the bell again, holding his finger there for a long time.

Inside, a door slammed, and Brunetti flushed with relief. Someone was there, and he could go on with this.

Suddenly the door was pulled open. No warning, no sound from inside: it was closed, and then it was open. A tall woman who might have been the older sister of the woman who had been wearing the bikini in the photos Signorina Elettra had shown him stood before them. She wore a grey tracksuit that appeared to have been bought for a thinner person.

Time had passed since the photos had been taken, but more time had passed for her, or harder time. One glance told Brunetti that her face had been lifted, perhaps a number of times, but at some point she had abandoned the attempt or the trouble and had accepted the inevitable. Wrinkles had accumulated under her chin like thick batter poured too slowly from a bowl. Her hair was a rusty red, pulled back in a ponytail, frayed hairs curling away from her head.