Death at La Fenice

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I could, I suppose, give it to someone else to investigate. Perhaps then we’d have some real progress.’

‘I don’t think Mariani’s working on anything at the moment.’

It was only with the exercise of great self-restraint that Patta kept himself from wincing at the mention of the name of the younger of the two other commissarios of police, a man of unimpeachable character and impenetrable stupidity who was known to have gotten his job as part of his wife’s dowry, she being the niece of the former mayor. His other colleague, Brunetti knew, was currently involved in the investigation of the drug traffic at the port of Marghera. ‘Or perhaps you could take it over yourself,’ he suggested, and then added with tantalizing lateness, ‘sir.’

‘Yes, that’s always a possibility,’ Patta said, either not registering the rudeness or deciding to ignore it. He took a package of dark-papered Russian cigarettes from his desk and fitted one into his onyx holder. Very nice, Brunetti thought; color coordinated. ‘I’ve called you in because I’ve had some phone calls from the press and from People in High Places,’ he said, carefully emphasizing all the capitals. ‘And they’re very concerned that you’ve done nothing.’ This time, the enunciation fell very heavily upon the singular. He puffed delicately at the cigarette and stared across at Brunetti. ‘Did you hear me? They’re not pleased.’

‘I can see how that would be, sir. I’ve got a dead genius and no one to blame for it.’

Was he wrong, or did he see Patta mouth that last one silently to himself, perhaps preparing to toss it off himself at lunch today? ‘Yes, exactly,’ Patta said. His lips moved again. ‘And no one to blame for it.’ Patta deepened his voice. ‘I want that to change. I want someone to blame for it.’ Brunetti had never before heard the man so clearly express his idea of justice. Perhaps Brunetti would toss that off at lunch today.

‘From now on, Brunetti, I want a written report on my desk each morning by’—he paused, trying to remember when the office opened—’by eight,’ he said, getting it right.

‘Yes, sir. Will that be all?’ It made little difference to Brunetti whether the report had to be spoken or written; he would still have nothing to report until he had a clearer idea of the man who had been killed. Genius or not, the answer always lay there.

‘No, that’s not all. What do you plan to do with yourself today?’

I’m going to go to the funeral. That’s in about twenty minutes. And I want to have a look through his papers myself.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Patta snorted. ‘No wonder we’re getting nowhere.’

That seemed to signal the end of the interview, so Brunetti got to his feet and went toward the door, wondering how close he would get before Patta would remind him of the written report. He estimated he was still three steps from the door when he heard: ‘Remember, eight o’clock.’

His meeting with Patta kept Brunetti from getting to the church of San Moise until just a few minutes before ten. The black boat carrying the flower-covered casket was already moored to the side of the canal, and three blue-suited men were busy placing the wooden casket on the wheeled metal platform they would use to take it to the door of the church. In the host of people who crowded around the front of the church, Brunetti recognized a few familiar Venetian faces, the usual reporters and photographers from the papers, but he didn’t see the widow; she must already have entered the church.

As the three men reached the doors, a fourth man joined them, and they lifted the coffin, placed it with practiced ease on their shoulders, and ascended the two low steps of the church. Brunetti was among the people who followed them inside. He watched the men carry the casket up the center aisle and place it on a low stand before the main altar.

Brunetti took a seat at the end of a pew at the rear of the crowded church. With difficulty, he could see between the heads of the people in front of him to the first row, where the widow, in black, sat between a man and a woman, both gray-haired, probably the people he had seen with her in the theater. Behind her, alone in a pew, sat another woman in black, whom Brunetti assumed to be the maid. Though he’d had no expectations regarding the mass, Brunetti was surprised by the starkness of the ceremony. The most remarkable thing about it was the complete absence of music, even an organ. The familiar words floated over the heads of the crowd, the ageless sprinklings and blessings were performed. Because of its simplicity, the mass was quickly over.

Brunetti waited at the end of the pew as the casket was carried past, waited until the chief mourners left the church. Outside, cameras flashed and reporters surrounded the widow, who cringed back against the elderly man who accompanied her.

Without thinking, Brunetti pushed his way through the crowd and took her other arm. He recognized a few of the photographers, saw that they knew who he was, and ordered them to move away. The men who had surrounded the widow backed off, leaving a path open toward the boats that stood at the side of the campo. Supporting her, he led the widow toward the boat, helped her as she stepped down onto the deck, and then followed her into the passenger cabin.

The couple who had been with her in the theater joined her there; the gray-haired woman put her arm around the shoulder of the younger woman, and the man contented himself with sitting beside her and taking her hand. Brunetti placed himself at the cabin door and watched as the boat carrying the casket cast off and began moving slowly up the narrow canal. When they were safely away from the church and the crowds, he ducked his head and went back into the cabin.

‘Thank you,’ Signora Wellauer said, making no attempt to hide her tears.

There was nothing he could say.

The boat moved out into the Grand Canal and turned left, toward San Marco, which they would have to pass in order to get to the cemetery. Brunetti went back to the cabin door and looked forward, taking his intrusive gaze away from the grief within. The campanile flowed by them, then the checkered rectangularity of the Ducal Palace, and then those happy, carefree domes. When they were approaching the Arsenale canal, Brunetti went up on deck and asked the boatman if he could stop at the embarcadero of the Palasport. He went back into the cabin and heard the three people there conversing in low voices.

‘Dottor Brunetti,’ the widow said.