‘That your husband was involved in transvestism.’ Why not just say the word, ‘transvestite’, and have done with it?
‘That’s impossible.’
Brunetti didn’t say anything, waiting for her.
All she did was repeat, stolidly, ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Signora, has your husband ever received strange phone calls or letters?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Has anyone ever called and spoken to him, after which he seemed worried or preoccupied? Or perhaps a letter? Or had he seemed worried lately?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ she said.
‘If I might return to my original question, Signora, did your husband ever give any indication that he might have been drawn in that direction?’
‘Towards men?’ she asked, voice high with disbelief, and with something else. Disgust?
‘Yes.’
‘No, nothing. That’s a horrible thing to say. Revolting. I won’t let you say that about my husband. Leonardo was a man.’ Brunetti noticed that her hands were drawn into tight fists.
‘Please be patient with me, Signora. I am merely trying to understand things, and so I need to ask you these questions about your husband. That does not mean that I believe them.’
‘Then why ask them?’ she asked, voice truculent.
‘So that we can find out the truth about your husband’s death, Signora.’
‘I won’t answer any questions about that. It’s not decent.’
He wanted to tell her that murder wasn’t decent, either, but, instead, he asked, ‘During the last few weeks, had your husband seemed different in any way?’
Predictably, she said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘For example, did he say anything about his trip to Messina? Did he seem eager to go? Reluctant?’
‘No, he seemed like he always did.’
‘And how was that?’
‘He had to go. It was part of his job, so he had to do it.’
‘Did he say anything about it?’
‘No, just that he had to go.’
‘And he wouldn’t call you during these trips, Signora?’
‘No.’
‘Why was that, Signora?’
She seemed to sense that he wasn’t going to let this one go, so she answered, ‘The bank wouldn’t allow Leonardo to put personal calls on his expense account. Sometimes he’d call a friend at the office and ask him to call me, but not always.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Brunetti said. Director of a bank, and he wouldn’t pay for a phone call to his wife.
‘Do you and your husband have any children, Signora?’
‘No,’ she answered quickly.
Brunetti dropped that and asked, ‘Did your husband have any special friends at the bank? You mentioned a friend you called; could you give me his name?’
‘Why do you want to talk to him?’
‘Perhaps your husband said something at work, or perhaps he gave some indication of how he felt about the trip to Messina. I’d like to speak to your husband’s friend and see if he noticed anything unusual about your husband’s behaviour.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘I’d nevertheless like to speak to him, Signora, if you could give me his name.’
‘Marco Ravanello. But he won’t be able to tell you anything. There was nothing wrong with my husband.’ She shot Brunetti a fierce glance and repeated, ‘There was nothing wrong with my husband.’
‘I don’t want to trouble you any more, Signora,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet and taking a few steps towards the door. ‘Have the funeral arrangements been made?’
‘Yes, the Mass is tomorrow. At ten.’ She didn’t say where it was to be held, and Brunetti didn’t ask. That information was easily enough obtained, and he would attend.
At the door, he paused. ‘Thank you very much for your help, Signora. I’d like to extend my personal condolences, and I assure you that we will do everything in our power to find the person responsible for your husband’s death.’ Why did ‘death’ always sound better than ‘murder’?
‘My husband wasn’t like that. You’ll find out. He was a man.’
Brunetti did not extend his hand, merely bowed his head and let himself out of the door. As he went down the steps, he remembered the last scene of The House of Bernardo Alba, the mother standing on stage, screaming at the audience and at the world that her daughter had died a virgin, died a virgin. To Brunetti, only the fact of their deaths mattered; all else was vanity.
At the Questura, he asked Vianello to come up to his office. Because Brunetti’s was two floors higher, it was more likely to catch whatever wisp of breeze was available. When they got inside and Brunetti had opened the windows and taken off his jacket, he asked Vianello, ‘Well, did you get anything on the Lega?’
‘Nadia expects to be put on the payroll for this, Dottore,’ Vianello said as he sat down. ‘She spent more than two hours on the phone this weekend, talking to friends all over the city. Interesting, this Lega della Moralità.’
Vianello would tell the story in his own way, Brunetti knew, but he thought he’d sweeten the process and said, ‘I’ll stop at Rialto tomorrow morning and get her some flowers. Will that be enough, do you think?’
‘She’d rather have me home next Saturday,’ Vianello said.
‘What are you scheduled for?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I’m supposed to be on the boat that brings the Minister of the Environment in from the airport. We all know he’s not going to come to Venice, that he’s going to cancel at the last minute. You think he’d dare come here in August, with the algae stinking up the city, and talk about their great, new environmental projects?’ Vianello laughed scornfully; interest in the new Green Party was another result of his recent medical experiences. ‘But I’d like not to have to waste the morning going out to the airport, only to get there and be told he isn’t coming.’
His argument made complete sense to Brunetti. The Minister, to use Vianello’s words, wouldn’t dare present himself in Venice, not in the same month when half the beaches on the Adriatic coast were closed to swimming because of high levels of pollution, not in a city that had recently learned that the fish that made up a major part of its diet contained dangerously high levels of mercury and other heavy metals. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Brunetti said.
Pleased with the prospect of something better than flowers, though he knew Brunetti would bring them as well, Vianello pulled out his notebook and began to read the report compiled by his wife.
‘The Lega was started about eight years ago, no one quite knows by whom or for what purpose. Because it’s supposed to do good works, things like taking toys to orphanages and meals to old people in their homes, it’s always had a good reputation. Over the years, the city and some of the churches have let it take over and administer vacant apartments: it uses them to give cheap, sometimes free, housing to the elderly and, in some cases, to the handicapped.’ Vianello paused for a moment, then added, ‘Because all of its employees are volunteers, it was allowed to organize itself as a charitable organization.’
‘Which,’ Brunetti interrupted him, ‘means that it is not obliged to pay taxes and that the government will extend the usual courtesy to it, and its finances will not be examined closely, if at all.’
‘We are two hearts that beat as one, Dottore.’ Brunetti knew Vianello’s politics had changed. But his rhetoric, as well?
‘What is very strange, Dottore, is that Nadia wasn’t able to find anyone who actually belonged to the Lega. Not even the woman at the bank, as it turns out. Lots of people said they knew someone who they thought was a member, but, after Nadia asked, it turned out that they weren’t sure. Twice, she spoke to the people who were said to be members, and it turned out that they weren’t.’
‘And the good works?’ Brunetti asked.