Another reason Brunetti had been reluctant to go to the mountains was that this was his Sunday to visit his mother: he and his brother Sergio alternated weekends or went in the other’s place when necessary. But this weekend, Sergio and his family were in Sardinia, so there was no one but Brunetti to go. It made no difference, of course, whether he went or not, but still he went, or Sergio went. Because she was in Mira, about ten kilometres from Venice, he had to take a bus and then either a taxi or a long walk to get to the Casa di Riposo.
Knowing that he was to go, he slept badly, kept awake by memory, heat, and the mosquitoes. He finally woke at about eight, woke to the same decision that he had to make every second Sunday: whether to go before or after lunch. Like the visit itself this made no difference whatsoever and today was influenced only by the heat. If he waited until the afternoon, it would only be more infernal, so he decided to go immediately.
He left the house before nine, walked to Piazzale Roma and was lucky to get there only minutes before the bus for Mira left. Because he was one of the last people to get on, he stood, rocked from side to side as the bus crossed the bridge and entered on to the maze of overpasses that carried traffic above or around Mestre.
Some of the faces on the bus were familiar to him; often some of them would share a taxi from the station in Mira or, in better weather, walk together from the station, seldom talking about anything more than the weather. Six people climbed down from the bus at the main station; two of them were women familiar to him, and the three of them quickly agreed to share a taxi. Because the taxi was not air-conditioned, they could talk about the weather, all of them glad of that distraction.
In front of the Casa di Riposo, each pulled out five thousand lire. The driver used no meter; everyone who made the trip knew the fare.
They went inside together, Brunetti and the two women, still expressing hope that the wind would change or that rain would come, all protesting that they had never known a summer like this one, and what would happen to the farmers if it didn’t rain soon?
He knew the way, walked to the third floor, the two women going their separate way on the second floor, where the men were kept. At the top of the stairs, he saw Suor’Immacolata, his favourite of the sisters who worked here.
She smiled at this, as she did every time he joked with her about it. ‘Ah, you Northerners, you don’t know what real heat is. This is nothing, just a taste of springtime in the air.’ Suor’Immacolata was from the mountains of Sicily, had been transferred here by her community two years before. In the midst of the agony, madness, and misery which engulfed her days, the only thing she minded was the cold, but her remarks about it were always wry and casually dismissive as if to say that, exposed to real suffering, it was absurd to discuss her own. Seeing her smile, he saw again how beautiful she was: almond-shaped brown eyes, a soft mouth, and a thin, elegant nose. It made no sense. Worldly, believing himself to be a man of the flesh, Brunetti could see only the renunciation and could make nothing of the desires that might have animated it.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘She’s had a good week, Dottore.’ That could, to Brunetti, mean only negative things: she hadn’t attacked anyone, she hadn’t destroyed anything, she had done no violence to herself.
‘Is she eating?’
‘Yes, Dottore. In fact, on Wednesday, she went and had lunch with the other ladies.’ He waited to learn what disaster that might have brought, but Suor’Immacolata said nothing more.
‘Do you think I could see her?’ he asked.
‘Oh, certainly, Dottore. Would you like me to come with you?’ How beautiful, the grace of women; how soft their charity.
‘Thank you, Sister. Perhaps she would be more comfortable if she could see you with me, at least when I first went in.’
‘Yes, that might take away the surprise. Once she gets accustomed to another person, she’s usually all right. And once she senses that it’s you, Dottore, she’s really quite happy.’
This was a lie. Brunetti knew it, and Suor’Immacolata knew it. Her faith told her it was a sin to lie, and yet she told this he to Brunetti and his brother each and every week. Later, on her knees, she prayed to be forgiven for a sin she could not help committing and knew she would commit again. In the winter, after she prayed and before she slept, she would open the window of her room and remove from her bed the single blanket she was allowed. But, each week, she told the same lie.
She turned and led the way, the well-known way, down towards room 308. On the right side of the corridor, three women sat in wheelchairs pushed up against the wall. Two of them beat rhythmically against the arms of their wheelchairs, muttering nonsense, and the third rocked back and forth, back and forth, a mad human metronome. As he passed, the one who always smelled of urine reached out and grabbed at Brunetti. ‘Are you Giulio? Are you Giulio?’ she asked.
‘No, Signora Antonia,’ Suor’Immacolata said, leaning down and stroking back the old woman’s short white hair. ‘Giulio was just here to see you. Don’t you remember? He brought you this lovely little animal?’ she said, taking a small chewed teddy bear from the woman’s lap and putting it into her hands.
The old woman looked at her with puzzled, eternally confused eyes, eyes from which only death could remove the confusion, and asked, ‘Giulio?’
‘That’s right, Signora. Giulio gave you the little
Suor’Immacolata took his arm and led him away, saying, ‘Your mother took Communion this week. That seemed to help her a great deal.’
‘I’m sure it did,’ Brunetti said. When he thought about it, it seemed to Brunetti that what he did when he came here was similar to what a person who was going to experience physical pain – an injection, exposure to sharp cold – did with his body: he tensed his muscles and concentrated, to the exclusion of all other sensation, on resisting that anticipated pain. But, instead of tightening his muscles, Brunetti found himself, if such a thing could be said to be, tightening his soul.
They stopped at the door of his mother’s room, and memories of the past crowded around and beat at him like the Furies: glorious meals filled with laughter and singing, his mother’s clear soprano rising up above them all; his mother breaking into angry, hysterical tears when he told her he wanted to marry Paola, then coming into his room that same night to give him her gold bracelet, her only remaining gift from Brunetti’s father, saying that it was for Paola, for the bracelet was always supposed to belong to the wife of the eldest son.
A twist of his will, and all memory fled. He saw only the door, the white door, and the white back of Suor’Immacolata’s habit. She opened the door and went in, leaving the door open.
‘Signora,’ she said, ‘Signora, your son is here to see you.’ She moved across the room and went to stand near the bent old woman sitting by the window. ‘Signora, isn’t that nice? Your son’s come to visit you.’
Brunetti stood by the door. Suor’Immacolata nodded to him, and he stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him, as he had learned to do.
‘Good morning, Dottore,’ the nun said loudly, enunciating clearly. ‘I’m so glad you could come to see your mother. Isn’t she looking well?’
He came a few more steps into the room and stopped, holding his hands well away from his body. ‘
The old woman grabbed at the nun’s arm and pulled her down, whispered something into her ear, never taking her eyes off Brunetti.
‘Oh, no, Signora. Don’t say such things. He’s a good man. It’s your son, Guido. He’s come to see you and see how you are.’ She stroked the old woman’s hand, knelt down to be closer to her. The old woman looked at the nun, said something else to her, then looked back at Brunetti, who hadn’t moved.
‘He’s the man who killed my baby,’ she suddenly shouted. ‘I know him. I know him. He’s the man who killed my baby.’ She pushed herself from side to side in her chair. She raised her voice and began to shout, ‘Help, help, he’s come back to kill my babies.’
