The Girl of his Dreams - Brunetti 17 (23 page)

They all lapsed into silence. Occasionally, the dispatcher's voice spoke from the radio, but it was too low for anyone in the back seat to understand, and neither Steiner nor the driver seemed concerned with anything that was said. The driver took the ramp leading to the road to the airport. It had been some time since Brunetti had been to the airport in anything except a boat or taxi, so he was surprised at the sudden appearance of roundabouts in place of crossroads. He drove so infrequently, and so badly, that he had no way of telling whether they were an improvement or not, and he did not want to break the silence by asking.

They passed the airport on the right and soon pulled up at traffic lights. All at once, from the driver's side, a long-skirted woman holding something that might have been a baby or might have been a swaddled football approached the window. With one hand she pressed the side of her kerchief over her nose and mouth as if to protect herself from the fumes of the idling motors. She held the other out in a pleading gesture, hand cupped.

The five people in the car looked stonily ahead. Seeing the two men in uniform in the front seat, she swerved away from the car and went to the one behind it. The light changed and they moved off.

The silence in the car grew more leaden as time passed. From the autostrada they saw fields and trees, occasionally a single house or small group of farmhouses. Some trees were in blossom. Brunetti turned his attention from side to side, and he found that, regardless of the tension in the car, he could still enjoy the rare sight of vast swaths of burgeoning nature. They should go somewhere green this summer, spend their holidays amidst fields and forests: no beaches, no sand or rocks, no matter how much the children complained. Long walks, mountain air, streams, happy clouds beyond the glistening glaciers. Alto Adige, perhaps. Didn't Pucetti have an uncle who ran some sort of
agrituristno
near Bolzano?

He felt the car slowing. He looked up as they sailed through the exit of the autostrada, came to the end of the exit ramp, turned right, and found themselves on a highway that passed between low buildings on both sides: factories, used cars, petrol stations, a bar, a parking lot, another. At the second traffic light they turned right and drove by rows of single houses set back on both sides of the road, each in its patch of land. The houses disappeared, replaced by green fields.

More traffic lights, more houses, but now they were surrounded by wire fences. He saw dogs in many of the gardens, large dogs. They drove another kilometre and then the driver signalled, slowed, and turned to the right.

Brunetti saw that they had stopped in front of a metal gate. The driver sounded the horn once, twice, and when nothing happened, he got out of the car, leaving the door open, walked to the gate and opened it himself. Once he had driven through the gate, at a word from Steiner he stopped the car and went back and closed it.

Ahead of them Brunetti saw a ragged half-moon of cars and behind them a row of trailers parked any which way. Some were metal, some wooden, some quite modern and sleek. One had a short m
etal ch
imney in the middle of the peaked roof that made Brunetti think of the drawings in children's books. Objects piled up against the sides of the trailers spilled out into the spaces between them: plastic boxes, cardboard cartons, collapsible tables, metal barbecues, countless shredded and tattered plastic bags. Beyond them, a few footpaths appeared to
have been beaten down into the fi
eld of high grass and nettles behind the camp, though none appeared to extend far before petering out. Brunetti saw the odd piece of rusted metal jutting up amidst the weeds: a refrigerator, an old-fashioned washing machine with a hand wringer, at least two metal bedsprings, and an abandoned car.

The cars in front of the trailers were in far better shape, most of them apparently new, or at least they seemed that way to Brunetti, who was no judge of these things.

If such a disorderly arrangement of cars could be said to have a centre, the driver pulled the car into it, then turned off the engine. Brunetti heard the soft ticks and pings as it cooled, then the sound of Steiner's door being pushed back and yanking at the springs. Then birdsong, coming perhaps from the trees on the other side of the wire fence that surrounded the camp.

As he watched, first one, then another, then two more of the doors of the campers were pushed open and men stepped out and started down the steps. The men did not speak, and they seemed to have no communication with one another, but they came and stood in an uneven row in front of the car.

Vianello and then the driver pushed open their doors and got out of the police car. When Brunetti looked back at the men standing in front of them, three more had joined them. And the birdsong had stopped.

21

The men stood there, and slowly the sound of birdsong returned. The air was soft, as the gentle rays of the afternoon sun embraced them all. Beyond the fence Brunetti saw the field roiling up and away from them, gently green, to a stand of chestnut trees: surely, some of the birdsong came from there. How sweet life is, Brunetti thought.

He lowered his eyes from the trees and considered the men, now nine of them, who stood facing them. He was struck by the fact that all of them wore hats, dirty fedoras that might once have been different colours but now looked a dull, dusty brown. None of them was close shaven. With many Italian men of all ages, this look was considered a fashion statement - Brunetti had never been quite sure what the statement was, but he knew it was meant to be one. These men, however, looked as if they could not be bothered to shave or somehow considered it a sign of weakness.
Some of the beards were patchy,
some were longer than others; none of them looked particularly clean.

All of the men were dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and all of them wore woollen trousers, sweaters, and dark jackets. Some had shirts underneath. Their shoes were thick-soled and scuffed.

Steiner and his driver were in Carabiniere uniform, so the men of the camp kept their eyes on them, though an occasional curious glance was cast towards Brunetti and Vianello. A dull thud from his right made Brunetti flinch. He looked at Steiner and noticed that the Maresciallo, as he turned toward the noise, had put his hand on the butt of his revolver.

When Brunetti followed Steiner's eyes, he saw Dottoressa Pitteri standing at the side of the car, her hand still on the handle of the door she had slammed, a small smile on her lips.
‘I
didn't mean to startle you, Maresciallo,' she said, her smile turning acid. 'Do please forgive me.'

Steiner returned his attention to the men in front of them. His hand fell to his side, but his instinctive reaction had not passed unobserved. Two of them, indeed, could not stop themselves from smiling, though not at Steiner.

Dottoressa Pitteri moved away from the car and approached the men. They gave no hint of recognition, let alone pleasure, as she walked over. She stopped and said something Brunetti could not hear. When none of the men responded, she spoke a bit louder. Though this time Brunetti could hear her words, he could not understand what she said. She stood with her feet apart, and from the back he saw how thick her calves were. Her feet seemed anchored to the ground.

As he watched, one of the men, who was standing to the right, spoke to her. She turned to him and said a few words; the man responded in a louder voice, loud enough for the police to hear, 'Speak Italian. It's easier to understand you.' Though he was not the oldest man in the group, he spoke with the air of command. His accent was marked, but they could hear that he spoke Italian with ease.

Brunetti had the impression that the woman had sunk both feet more deeply into the ground-up earth in front of the caravans. Her hands hung by her sides - she had left her bag in the car - and he saw that she had drawn her fingers up into fists.

I'd like to speak to Bogdan Rocich,' Brunetti heard her say.

Beyond her, the man's face remained impassive, but Brunetti noticed that two of the others exchanged a glance, and a third glanced aside at the man who had spoken.

'He's not here,' the man answered.

'His car is here,' she said, and the man's eyes moved to a sun-faded blue Mercedes with a large dent in the right fender. 'He's not here,' he repeated.

'His car is here,' she said, as though the man had not spoken.

'He went with a friend,' one of the other men volunteered, and was about to say more but was cut off by a fierce glance from the leader. The man in charge took a sudden step towards the woman, then another, and Brunetti was impressed to see that she did not move back, did not flinch: if anything, she dug her feet more deeply into the earth.

The man stood less than an arm's length from her and, though he was not tall, seemed to loom above her. 'What do you want with him?' he demanded.

To talk to him
’
she answered calmly, and as Brunetti watched, her fists opened and her fingers stretched towards the ground.

'You can talk to me
’
the man said. 'I am his brother.'

'Signor Tanovic
’
she said, 'you are not his brother, and you are not his cousin.' Her voice was calm, relaxed, as if the two of them had met in the park for a chat. 1 have come to speak to Signor Rocich.'

'I told you he is not here.' His face could have been carved, so impassive did it remain all during this conversation.

'Perhaps he's come back
’
she suggested, offering him a way out. 'And no one told you.'

Brunetti, keeping his face as motionless as the man's, watched him consider the possibility being offered to him. The man looked at Dottoressa Pitteri, then ran his eyes across the faces of the men in front of him, two in uniform and the others no doubt bearing the unmistakable scent of police.

'Danis
’
he said, turning away from them and speaking to the man at the far left of the line. All Brunetti understood was the name 'Bogdan.'

The man peeled away silently and walked off towards the caravan behind the blue Mercedes. One of the men lit a cigarette, and when the man addressed as Tanovic said nothing, two others did as well. No one spoke.

Danis walked up the steps to the caravan and raised his hand, but before he could knock on the door it was pulled open and a man dressed like the others came out; they exchanged a few words, and he followed the other man down the steps. He left the door open, and a flash of something light behind it caused Brunetti to keep his eyes on the door while everyone else watched the man approach Tanovic and Dottoressa Pitted.

The interior of the camper was dark, but Brunetti thought he saw one side of a human figure, or the shadow of a human form, at the door. Yes, there was movement, some sort of swinging motion of the lower, lighter part of the figure.

He was conscious of the man as he came closer to them all, then of his stopping, not by Dottoressa Pitteri but by the man who had summoned him and who had taken a half-step back. Brunetti listened, but the men spoke to one another in a language utterly foreign to him. He risked a glance and saw that the attention of everyone in the circle around the two men was riveted on the conversation.

Brunetti glanced back at the door, and as he did, fingers emerged and wrapped themselves around it, pulling it open a bit more, and then just above the hand a woman's face appeared. He could not see her clearly, but he could see enough to observe that she was an old woman, perhaps the mother of the man who had emerged from the caravan, perhaps Ariana's grandmother.

She leaned forward, following the man with her eyes, and Brunetti saw the motion again as her skirt swung forward beneath her.

When the men seemed to have stopped talking, Dottoressa Pitteri said, 'Good afternoon, Signor Rocich
’
and Brunetti switched his attention to the man who had come out of the caravan.

He was shorter than the other men, and he was thicker-set. His hair was as black and dense as Steiner's, though longer, straight and slicked back from his forehead with pomade or grease. He had enormous black eyebrows under which his dark eyes disappeared: it was difficult to tell what colour they were. He looked more prosperous than the others: his beard was trimmed, his shoes were cleaner, as was the collar of the shirt he wore under his sweater.

He looked across at Dottoressa Pitteri, and his glance was so neutral that it was impossible to tell if he knew her; indeed, there was no telling if he had ever seen her before. 'What you want?' he finally asked.

'It's about your daughter
’
she answered. 'Ariana.'

'What happen Ariana?' he asked. When he spoke, he did not take his eyes from hers.

'I'm afraid I have to tell you that your daughter has died in an accident, Signor Rocich.'

His eyes turned slowly towards the caravan, and as the others followed his look the woman's form retreated inside, though everyone could still see her four fingers on the outside of the door.

'She die?' he asked. At the woman's nod, he asked, 'How? In car traffic?'

'No. She drowned.'

It was obvious from his expression that he did not understand the word. Dottoressa Pitteri repeated it a bit louder, then one of the other men said something, and the understanding came into his face. He looked at his shoes, then at her, then at the men who stood behind him, first to one side and then to the other. No one said anything for a long time.