‘His mother says he’s fifteen, but of course there are no documents, no birth certificate and no school records, so he could be any age from fifteen to eighteen. So long as she maintains he’s fifteen, he can’t be prosecuted, and he’s guaranteed a few more years of getting away with anything he wants to.’ Brunetti once again noted the quick flame of her anger and did his best to turn away from it.
‘Hmm,’ he muttered, closing the file. ‘What does the Vice-Questore want to talk to me about? Do you have any idea?’
‘Probably something that came out of his meeting with the Questore.’ Her voice revealed nothing.
Brunetti sighed audibly and got to his feet; though the issue of the gypsies remained unresolved between them, his sigh was enough to bring a smile to her lips.
‘Really, Dottore, I have no idea. All he did was ask me to tell you he’d like to see you.’
‘Then I’ll go and see what he wants.’ He paused at the door to allow her to go through first, then side by side they went down the stairs and toward Patta’s office and her own small alcove just outside of it.
Her phone was ringing as they entered, and she leaned across her desk to answer it. ‘Vice-Questore Patta’s office,’ she said. ‘Yes, Dottore, he is. I’ll put you through.’ She pressed one of the buttons at the side of the phone and replaced the receiver. Looking up at Brunetti, she pointed at Patta’s door. ‘The Mayor. You’ll have to wait until…’ The phone rang again, and she picked it up. From the quick look she gave him, Brunetti guessed that it was a personal call, so he picked up that morning’s edition of
He had picked up the second section of the paper, which he hadn’t had time to read that morning. The top half of the first page was dedicated to the ongoing examination – it was so half-hearted that one could hardly call it an investigation – of the process by which the contract for the rebuilding of the La Fenice Theatre had been awarded. After years of discussion, accusation, and counter-accusation, even those few people who could still keep the chronology straight had lost all interest in the facts and all hope in the promised rebuilding. Brunetti unfolded the paper and glanced at the articles at the bottom of the page.
To the left was a photo; he recognized the face but couldn’t place it until he read the name in the caption: ‘Francesco Rossi, city surveyor, in a coma after falling from scaffolding.’
Brunetti’s hands tightened on the pages of the newspaper. He glanced away and then back to the story below the photo.
Francesco Rossi, a surveyor in the employ of the Ufficio Catasto, fell on Saturday afternoon from the scaffolding in front of a building in Santa Croce, where he was conducting the inspection of a restoration project. Rossi was taken to the emergency room at the Ospedale Civile, where his condition is given as ‘riservata’.
Long before he became a policeman, Brunetti had abandoned any belief he had ever had in coincidence. Things happened, he knew, because other things had happened. Since becoming a policeman, he had added to this a conviction that the connections between events, at least such events as it became his duty to consider, were seldom innocent. Franco Rossi had failed to make much of an impression on Brunetti, save for that one moment of near-panic when he had raised his hand defensively as if to press away Brunetti’s invitation that he step out on to the terrace to have a look at the windows below. In that one instant, and for that one instant, he had ceased to be the dedicated, colourless bureaucrat able to do little more than recite the regulations of his department and had become, for Brunetti, a man like himself, filled with the weaknesses that make us human.
Not for a moment did it occur to Brunetti that Franco Rossi had
These certainties fixed in his mind, Brunetti stepped back into Signorina Elettra’s office and placed the newspaper on her desk. Her back was still to him, and she laughed softly at something said to her. Without bothering to attract her attention and without giving a thought to Patta’s summons, Brunetti left the Questura, heading for the Ospedale Civile.
6
As he approached the hospital, Brunetti found himself thinking of all the times his work had brought him here; not so much recalling the specific people he had been called to visit as the times when he’d passed, Dante-like, through the yawning portals beyond which lurked pain, suffering, and death. Over the course of the years, he’d come to suspect that, no matter how great the physical pain, the emotional suffering which surrounded that pain was often far worse. He shook his head to clear it of these thoughts, reluctant to enter with these miserable reflections already in his care.
At the porter’s desk Brunetti asked where he’d find the man, Franco Rossi, who had been injured in a fall during the weekend. The porter, a dark-bearded man who looked faintly familiar to Brunetti, asked if he knew which ward Signor Rossi had been taken to: Brunetti had no idea but guessed he was probably in Intensive Care. The porter made a call, spoke for a moment, then made another call. After speaking briefly, he told Brunetti that Signor Rossi was neither in Intensive Care nor in Emergency.
‘Neurology, then?’ suggested Brunetti.
With the calm efficiency of long experience, the porter dialled another number from memory, but with the same result.
‘Then where could he be?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Are you sure he was brought here?’ the porter asked.
‘That’s what was in
If the porter’s accent had not already told Brunetti he was Venetian, the look he gave in response to this would have. All he said, however, was, ‘He hurt himself in a fall?’ At Brunetti’s nod, he suggested, ‘Let me try Orthopaedics, then.’ He made another call and gave Rossi’s name. Whatever he heard made him glance quickly toward Brunetti. He listened for a moment, covered the phone with his hand, and asked Brunetti, ‘Are you a relative?’
‘No.’
‘Then what? A friend?’
Without hesitation, Brunetti made the claim. ‘Yes.’
The porter said a few more words into the phone, listened, then set it down. He kept his eyes on the phone for a moment, then looked up at Brunetti. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but your friend died this morning.’
Brunetti felt the shock and then a hint of the sudden pain he would have felt had it been a real friend who had died. But all he could say was, ‘Orthopaedics?’
The porter gave a small shrug to distance himself from any information he had been given or had passed on. ‘They told me they took him there because both his arms were broken.’
‘But what did he die of?’
The porter paused, giving death the silence it was due. ‘The nurse didn’t say. But maybe they’d give you more information if you went and talked to them. Do you know the way?’
He did. As he stepped back from the desk, the porter said, ‘I’m sorry about your friend, Signore.’
Brunetti nodded his thanks and started through the high-arched entrance hall, blind to its beauty. By a conscious effort of will, he prevented himself from counting over, like the beads on the rosary of myth, the stories he’d heard of the legendary inefficiency of the hospital. Rossi had been taken to Orthopaedics, and there he had died. And that was all he needed to think about right now.
In London and New York, he knew, there were musical shows that had been running for years. The casts changed, new actors took over the roles from those who retired or went on to different shows, but the plots and the costumes remained the same, year after year. It seemed to Brunetti that much the same happened here: the patients changed, but their costumes and the general air of misery that surrounded them did not. Men and women shuffled through the arcades and stood at the bar in their dressing gowns and pyjamas, supporting themselves on casts and crutches, while the same stories were played out endlessly: some of the players went on to other roles. Some, like Rossi, left the stage.
