'The school board, Commissario, is the equivalent of the dead-letter office for civil servants, or, if you prefer, the elephants' graveyard: the place where the hopelessly incompetent have always been sent or, on the other hand, a place to stick someone until a more lucrative position can be found for them. At least it was that way until four or five years ago, when even the administration of this city had to acknowledge that certain positions there should be given to professionals with some understanding of the way children can be helped to learn. Before that time, positions there served as political plums, though they were relatively small plums. And that was a reflection of how little… how can I say this without saying it?… how little opportunity there was for the people who worked there to augment their salaries’ It seemed to Brunetti that Galvani's phrasing was no less elegant than his own.
The judge raised his glass but set it down untouched. 'If you're thinking that Signora Battestini's bank accounts could have been created to receive bribes paid to her husband or son in connection with the place where they worked, I'd suggest you reconsider your hypothesis.' He sipped, set the glass down, and added, 'You see, Commissario, the accumulation of such a relatively small sum over such a long period hardly speaks of the sort of graft I'm used to encountering in this city.' Leaving no time for Brunetti to register the implications of this remark, the judge went on, 'But, as I said, it is a department in which I have never had to involve myself, so perhaps it is merely that things are done on a smaller scale there’ Again, that smile. 'And one must always keep in mind that corruption, like water, will always find a place, however insignificant, to collect’
For an instant, Brunetti found himself wondering if his own basilisk-eyed observations on local government would sound so profoundly dark to someone less well versed in their workings than he. Turning from this reflection as well as from the opportunity to comment on the judge's remarks, Brunetti asked only, 'Do you know who was in charge of the department during those years?'
Galvani closed his eyes, propped his elbows on the table, and lowered his forehead on to his palms. He remained like that for at least a minute, and when he looked up and across at Brunetti, he said, 'Piero De Pra is dead; Renato Fedi now runs a construction firm in, I think, Mestre; and Luca Sardelli has some sort of job in the Assessorato dello Sport. To the best of my memory, they were the men who ran the office up until the professionals were brought in.' Brunetti thought he had finished, but then Galvani added, 'No one ever seems to stay in the job for more than a few years. As I said, it's either a dumping ground or a launching pad, though in the case of Sardelli, he certainly wasn't launched very far. But in either case, there seems to be very little to be had from the position.'
Brunetti made a note of the names. Two of them rang familiarly in his memory: De Pra because he had a nephew who had gone to school with Brunetti's brother and Fedi because he had recently been elected as a deputy in the European Parliament.
Brunetti resisted the temptation to pose other offices and names to the judge and said only, 'You've been very generous with your time, sir.'
Again, that childlike smile transformed the judge's face. ‘I was glad to. I've wanted to meet you for some time, Commissario. It was my belief that anyone who provided so much discomfort to the Vice-Questore must be a man worth knowing.' Telling Brunetti that he had already paid for their wine, the judge excused himself by saying it was time he was home for dinner, said goodbye, and left.
14
Brunetti was at the ufficio postale at seven-thirty the next morning, located the person in charge of the postmen, showed his warrant card, and explained that he wanted to speak to the postino who delivered mail to the area in Cannaregio near the Palazzo del Cammello. She told him to go to the first floor and ask in the second room on the left, where the Cannaregio postini sorted their mail. The room was high-ceilinged, the entire space filled with long counters with sorting racks behind them. Ten or twelve people stood around, putting letters into slots or pulling them out and packing them into leather satchels.
He asked the first person he encountered, a long-haired woman with a strangely reddened complexion, where he could find the person who delivered the mail to the Canale della Misericordia area. She looked at him with open curiosity, then pointed to a man halfway along her table and called out, 'Mario, someone wants to talk to you’
The man called Mario looked at them, then down at the letters in his hands. One by one, merely glancing at the names and addresses, he slipped them quickly into the slots in front of him then walked over to Brunetti. He was in his late thirties, Brunetti guessed, his own height but thinner, with light brown hair that fell in a thick wedge across his forehead.
Brunetti introduced himself and started to take his warrant card out again, but the postino stopped him with a gesture and suggested they talk over a coffee. They walked down to the bar, where Mario ordered two coffees and asked Brunetti what he could do for him.
'Did you deliver mail to Maria Battestini at Cannaregio…'
Mario cut him off by reciting the number of the house, then raised his hands as if in fake surrender. ‘I wanted to, but I didn't do it. Believe me.'
The coffees came, and both men spooned sugar into them. While he stirred his, Brunetti asked, 'Was she that bad?'
Mario took a sip, put the cup down and stirred in a further half-spoonful of sugar, and said, still stirring, 'Yes.' He finished the coffee and set the cup back on the saucer. ‘I delivered her mail for three years. I must have taken her, in that time, thirty or forty raccomandate, had to climb all those steps to get her to sign for them’
Brunetti anticipated his anger at never having been tipped and waited for him to give voice to it, but the man simply said, 'I don't expect to be tipped, especially by old people, but she never even said thank you.'
'Isn't that a lot of registered mail?' Brunetti asked. 'How often did they come?'
'Once a month’ the postman answered. 'Regular as a Swiss watch. And it wasn't letters, but those padded envelopes, you know, the sort you send photos or CDs in.'
Or money, thought Brunetti, and asked, 'Do you remember who they came from?'
'There were a couple of addresses, I think’ Mario answered. 'They sounded like charity things, you know, Care and Share, and Child Aid. That sort of thing.'
'Can you remember any of them exactly?'
'I deliver mail to almost four hundred people’ he said by way of answer.
'Do you remember when they started?'
'Oh, she was getting them already when I started on that route.'
'Who had the route before you?' Brunetti asked.
'Nicolo Matucci, but he retired and went back to Sicily.'
Brunetti left the subject of the registered packages and asked, 'Did you bring her bank statements?'
'Yes, every month,' he said, and recited the names of the banks. 'Those and the bills were the only things she ever got, except for some other raccomandate.'
'Do you remember who those were from?'
'Most of them came from people in the neighbourhood, complaining about the television.' Before Brunetti could ask him how he knew this, Mario said, 'They all told me about them, wanted to be sure that the letters were delivered. Everyone heard it, that noise, but there was nothing they could do. She's old. That is, she was old, and the police wouldn't do anything. They're useless.' He looked up suddenly at Brunetti and said, 'Excuse me.'