Beastly Things (23 page)

He repeated, ‘Yes. Tomorrow we can start from the beginning and talk it all through.’ It was hardly sufficient justification for their going home at this hour, but Brunetti didn’t care, so strongly had he been infected with Vianello’s visceral need to leave. He could tell himself that any lingering smell was merely a phantom of his imagination, but he wasn’t fully convinced. He could tell himself that what he had seen in Preganziol was merely the way some things were done, but that changed nothing.

* * *

An hour later, a pink-skinned Brunetti stood, a towel wrapped around his waist after his second shower of the day, in front of a mirror in which he did not appear, or if he did, it was as a damp mirage dimly visible behind the condensation. Occasionally a group of water droplets coalesced and raced downwards, opening up a pink slit on the surface. He wiped his hand across the mirror, but the steam instantly covered the place he had swept clean.

Behind him, someone knocked on the door. ‘You all right?’ he heard Paola ask.

‘Yes,’ he called back and turned to open the door, allowing a sudden flood of cold, stinging air into the room. ‘
Oddio!
’ he said and grabbed his flannel bathrobe from the back of the door. Not until he was safely wrapped in it did he let the towel fall to the ground. As he reached for it, Paola said from the hall, ‘I wanted to see if your skin had started to peel off.’

Then, perhaps seeing the glance he shot her, she came a step forward, saying, ‘I was kidding, Guido.’ She took the towel from him and draped it over the radiator, saying, ‘If you spend half an hour in the shower, I know enough to realize something’s wrong.’ Slowly, she reached up and pushed his still-wet hair back from his forehead, running her hand over his head and down across his shoulder. ‘Here,’ she said, opening the linen cupboard and pulling down a smaller towel, ‘lean towards me.’

He did; she spread the towel in her hands and placed it over his head. He raised his own hands to cover hers and began to rub it back and forth. Face hidden, he said, ‘Would you put the clothes I wore yesterday in a plastic bag for me? And the shirt.’

‘Already done,’ she said in her most amiable voice.

For a moment, he was tempted to play the scene for all it was worth and tell her to give it to Caritas, but then he
remembered
how much he liked the jacket, so he uncovered his face and said, ‘It should all go to the cleaners.’

Brunetti had told her, yesterday morning, where he and Vianello were going, but she hadn’t asked him about it and still did not. Instead, she asked, ‘Would you like that sweater you got in Ferrara last year?’

‘The orange one?’

‘Yes. It’s warm; I thought you might like to wear it.’

‘After parboiling myself, you mean?’ he asked. ‘And opening up all my pores?’

‘Thus weakening your entire system for the attack of the germs,’ she continued, speaking the last phrase with the same silent capital letters with which his mother, for decades, had maintained her belief in the dangers of the body’s exposure to excessive temperatures of any sort, especially those caused by hot water.

‘At least an assault by those that aren’t on perpetual duty outside the open windows of trains so they can launch their attack from
un corrente d’aria
,’ he continued, smiling at the memory of his mother’s insistence on preaching these two gospels and of the good spirit in which she had always endured his joking and Paola’s obvious refusal to believe them.

Stepping back into the hallway, she said, ‘When you’re dressed, come and tell me about it.’

25

BRUNETTI WAS AWAKENED
the next morning by a smell; by two of them, in fact. The first was the smell of springtime, a soft sweetness that drifted through the window they had left open for the first time the night before, and the second, quickly dominating and replacing the first, was the smell of coffee, brought to him by Paola. She was dressed to go out, though he could see that her hair was not yet fully dry.

She stood by the bed until he sat up against his pillow, when she handed him the cup and saucer. ‘I thought someone should do something nice for you after the days you’ve had,’ she explained.

‘Thank you.’ Dulled by sleep, that was all he could think of to say. He took a sip, enjoying the mingled bitterness and sweetness. ‘You’ve saved my life.’

‘I’m off,’ she said, unmoved by his compliment, if that was what it was. ‘I have a class at ten, and then the appointments committee meets.’

‘Do you have to go?’ he asked, wondering what the effect of this would be on his lunch.

‘You’re so transparent, Guido,’ she said and laughed.

He studied the liquid in his cup and saw that she had taken the time to froth the milk she added to his coffee.

‘It’s a meeting I want to attend, so you’re on your own for lunch.’

Stunned, he blurted out, ‘You
want
to attend a meeting of your department?’

She glanced at her watch then sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Remember I asked you what you had to do if you knew about something illegal that was going to happen?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s why I have to go.’

He finished the coffee and set the empty cup on the night table. ‘Tell me,’ he said, suddenly fully awake.

‘I have to go so I can vote no about someone who’s being considered for a professorship.’

After trying to figure this out, Brunetti said, ‘I don’t understand how your vote is criminal.’

‘It’s not my vote that’s criminal. It’s the person we’re voting about.’

‘And so?’ he prodded.

‘Though not in this country, at any rate. He’s been caught in France and Germany, stealing books – and maps – from university libraries. But because he’s so well connected politically, they decided not to press charges. But his teaching position in Berlin was cancelled.’

‘And he’s applied here?’

‘He’s teaching already, but only as an assistant, and that contract ends this year. He’s applied for a permanent position, and today the appointments committee meets to decide whether to appoint him or, indeed, to renew his temporary contract.’

‘Teaching literature, I take it?’ he asked.

‘Yes, something called “The Semiotics of Ethics”.’

‘Does the syllabus include theft?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No doubt.’

‘And you’re going to vote against him?’

‘Yes. And I’ve convinced two other members of the committee to vote with me. That should suffice.’

‘You said he’s politically well connected,’ Brunetti said. ‘Aren’t you afraid of that?’

She smiled the shark smile he had come to recognize when she was at her most dangerous. ‘Not at all. My father is far better connected than his patrons are, so he can’t touch me.’

‘And the others who are voting with you?’ he asked, worried that her crusade would put other people at risk.

‘One of them is his father’s lover, who loathes him, and there’s nothing he can do to her.’

‘And the other?’

‘Four of his ancestors were doges, he owns two
palazzi
on the Grand Canal, as well as a chain of supermarkets.’

Brunetti recognized immediately the man she meant. ‘But you’ve always said he’s an idiot.’

‘I said he’s a lousy teacher. They are not the same thing.’

‘Are you sure he’ll vote with you?’

‘I told him about the theft of books from a library. I don’t think he’s recovered yet.’

‘Is he still stealing books?’ Brunetti inquired.

‘For a while, but I had him stopped.’

‘How?’

‘The library has changed its policy. To enter the stacks, anyone less than a full professor has to have a card. His contract is not permanent, so he has no card and will not be issued one. So if he wants to use a book, he has to ask
for
it at the main desk, and after he’s used it, the librarians keep him there while they check the condition of the book.’

‘Condition?’

‘In the Munich Library, he sliced out pages.’

‘And this man is teaching at the university? Ethics?’

‘Not for long, dear,’ she said and got to her feet.

Brunetti ambled – there is no better word for it – into the Questura at eleven and went directly to Signorina Elettra’s office. ‘Ah, Commissario,’ she said, ‘I’ve called you twice this morning.’

‘Delayed by official business,’ he said with a smile.

‘I’ve some information for you, sir,’ she said, pushing a few sheets of paper across her desk towards him. Before he could pick them up, however, she added, ‘First you might like to look at this,’ and hit a few keys on her computer.

Leaving the papers, he came around her desk to look at the screen. He saw a head shot of a woman: dark, sultry, with hair that fell below her shoulders and out of the photo. Her expression was one of mild dissatisfaction, the sort of look which, if seen on the face of a woman as pretty as this one, triggers a masculine impulse to remove it. On a less attractive woman, it would appear as the warning sign it was. Brunetti recognized Giulia Borelli instantly: longer haired, younger, but unconfoundably the same.

He had not heard the sigh that escaped him, but he did hear Signorina Elettra observe, ‘She was younger when the photo was taken.’

‘What have you found?’

‘As you said, sir, she was previously employed by a firm called Tekknomed, where she worked in the accounts department until she left to become the assistant to Dottor
Papetti
. This is the photo used for her company ID. I’ll have a look at him this afternoon.’ Brunetti had no doubt about this.

She touched a few keys, and a document appeared on the screen. From what he could make of what he read, it appeared to contain a series of other Tekknomed internal documents, starting with an email from the head of the accounts department, reporting ‘certain irregularities’ in the accounts kept by Signorina Giulia Borelli. This was followed by an exchange of emails between the head of the department and the president of the company, ending with the president’s order that Signorina Borelli be relieved of her duties immediately and that she be denied access to her computer as of the time of receipt of his email. The last was a letter to her from the personnel department, saying that her contract had been cancelled as of the date of the letter.

‘They took no legal action,’ Signorina Elettra said, ‘so I don’t know what she was up to.’ She hit a few keys, and a chart filled with numbers came on to the screen. ‘As you can see,’ she said, tapping at one of the numbers, ‘their turnover is seventeen million a year.’

‘Lots of opportunity there,’ Brunetti observed, then, ‘Anything else?’

Nodding towards the papers, she said, ‘Her contract of employment with the
macello
guarantees her a car, six weeks of vacation, and a salary of forty thousand Euros, plus a very generous expense account.’

‘As a personal assistant?’ he asked. ‘I tremble at what Papetti must be getting.’

She held up a hand. ‘Not until this afternoon, Commissario.’

‘Of course,’ Brunetti answered and then added, deciding in the instant, ‘Vianello and I are going out to see the
widow
again. Can you have a car at Piazzale Roma in half an hour?’

‘Of course, Signore. Should I call her and tell her?’

‘Yes, I think we should let her know we’re coming this time,’ he said and went to get Vianello.

The woman who opened the door to them might have been the elder sister of the woman they had spoken to before. This was evident in the droop of her mouth and the darkness under her eyes as well as in the elderly deliberation with which she moved, like a person under sedation or one recovering from a serious illness. Signora Doni nodded in recognition when she saw the two men. A few beats passed before she extended her hand to them. And then, after that, it took her some time to ask them to come inside. Brunetti noticed how dusty the lenses of her glasses were.

They followed her into the same room. The table in front of the sofa was covered with newspapers neither man had to study to know were opened to the articles about her husband’s murder. Littering the open papers were cups. All appeared to have once held coffee; some still did. A kitchen towel lay across the arm of the sofa, with a plate with a desiccated sandwich beside it.

She sat on the sofa this time, absently picking up the abandoned towel, which she spread on her lap and began to fold longitudinally in three. She kept her eyes on the towel while the two men sat on the chairs facing her.

Finally she said, ‘Are you here about the funeral?’

‘No, Signora,’ Brunetti answered.

Eyes still lowered, she seemed to have run out of things to say.

‘How is your son, Signora?’ Brunetti finally asked.

She looked across at him and made a motion with her
mouth
that she probably thought was a smile. ‘I’ve sent him to stay with my sister. And his cousins.’

‘How did he bear the news?’ Brunetti asked, pushing away the idea that someone might some day ask Paola the same question. This was the sister he’d spoken to, who had confirmed Signora Doni’s account of their where-abouts on the night of her husband’s death.

She gestured with her right hand; the towel waved in the air, calling attention to itself. She lowered it to her lap and started to fold it again, and finally said, ‘I don’t know. I told him his father had gone to Jesus. I don’t believe it, but it’s the only thing I could think of to tell him.’ She ran her hand along the two creases in the towel. ‘It helped him, I think. But I don’t know what he’s thinking.’ She turned abruptly and replaced the towel on the arm of the sofa.

‘Did you come about Teodoro?’ she asked, her confusion audible in the emphasis she put on the last word.

‘Partly, Signora. He’s a nice little boy, and I’ve thought about him in these days.’ This, the Lord be praised, was at least true. ‘But we’ve come, I’m afraid, to ask you more questions about your husband and how he was behaving in the last few months,’ he said, having managed to avoid ‘the months before he died’, which came to the same thing, in the end.

Again, there was a longer lapse than there should have been between question and response. ‘What do you mean?’