‘The tourists?’ Brunetti asked, surprised that they would show such initiative.
‘No, it’s us, Signore,’ the man said, obviously meaning Venetians. ‘The tourists are like sheep, really: very gentle, and all you have to do is tell them where to go. The bad ones, really the worst, are the old ladies: they complain about the tourists, but most of them are riding for free, if they’re old enough, or not paying for a ticket anyway, if they’re younger.’ As if to prove him right, an old woman appeared behind Brunetti and Vianello and, ignoring all three of them, pushed past them and planted herself directly in front of the point where passengers would disembark.
The sailor who worked on the boat tied it to the bollard then waited with his hand on the sliding gate while he asked the old woman to step aside to let the passengers off; she ignored him. He asked her again, and still she stood there. Finally, giving in to the pressure and muttering of the people blocked behind him, he slid the gate open, and the mass surged forward. The old woman, like a piece of flotsam, was moved to one side by pressure and blows from shoulders, arms, and backpacks.
She responded in kind, though verbally, letting fly a long stream of abuse in Veneziano that had the accent of Castello, towards which the boat was headed. She condemned the ancestry of tourists, their sexual habits and state of personal hygiene, until finally the path was free, the deck clear, and she could walk into the cabin and take a seat, surrounding herself with a cloud of muttered complaints against the bad manners of these foreigners who came to ruin the lives of decent Venetian folk.
When the boat had left the dock, Brunetti slipped the doors to the cabin closed, cutting off the sound of her voice. Finally Vianello said, ‘She’s a nasty old cow, but she has a point.’
It wasn’t a point Brunetti could bear talking about or listening to, so fundamental had it become as a subject of small talk in the city. ‘You decide where we can go?’ he asked, quite as if Vianello’s response to the tourist mass had not interrupted their conversation.
‘Let’s go out to the Lido and eat fish,’ the Inspector said with all the enthusiasm of a boy playing hooky.
Andri was only a ten-minute walk from the landing at Santa Maria Elisabetta, and the owner, a schoolmate of Vianello’s, found them a table in the crowded restaurant. Without being asked, he brought them a half-litre of white wine and a litre of mineral water, and told Vianello he should have the salad with shrimp, raw artichoke and ginger and then the zuppe di pesche. Vianello nodded; Brunetti nodded.
‘So, Mestre,’ Brunetti said.
Before Vianello could speak, the owner was back with some bread. He set it on the table, asked if they’d like some artichoke bottoms, and was gone as soon as they said yes.
‘I don’t want to get into some territorial squabble about this,’ Vianello finally said. ‘You know the rules better than I do.’
Brunetti nodded. ‘I think I’ll use Patta’s tactic of simply assuming that because I want to do something, I have the right to do it.’ He poured them each some wine and some water and took a long drink of water. He opened a package of grissini and ate one of them, then another, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. ‘But for the sake of correctness, I’ll call them and say we’re coming out to ask if anyone in the shoe shop recognizes the man in the photo.’
Vianello helped himself to a package of breadsticks.
The owner came back with the artichokes, set them down, and hurried away. It was one o’clock, and the place was full. Both men were happy to see that it seemed to be full of local people: three tables were crowded with dust-covered workmen with thick clothing and heavy boots.
‘You think there are places where everyone cooperates?’ Vianello asked.
Brunetti finished his first artichoke and set his fork down. ‘Is that a rhetorical question, Lorenzo?’ he asked, sipping at his wine.
The Inspector tore off some bread and wiped up the olive oil from his plate. ‘These are good. I like them without garlic.’ Apparently, it had been a rhetorical question.
‘We go out in a car, be back in no time.’
The owner replaced their empty plates with the salad: slivers of artichoke, quite a large number of tiny shrimp, sprinkled with slivers of ginger.
‘If no one at the shop recognizes him, then we ask the guys there to give us a hand,’ Brunetti said.
Vianello nodded and speared a few shrimp.
‘I’ll call Vezzani and tell him we’ll stop by after we go to the shop,’ Brunetti said and pulled out his phone.
If Mestre had not had its city centre, small but attractive, any Venetian forced to move there would have seen his fate as tragic, or so Brunetti had always thought. ‘To fall from high to low estate,’ Aristotle had written, establishing the rules. Kings crashed down to become blind beggars; queens murdered their children; the powerful died for hopeless causes or went to live in abject misery. Had Mestre been a slum, had it contained only skyscrapers separated by bleak desolation; had it resembled Milano more and Venice less, then to be forced, or to choose, to move there from Venice would indeed have been the stuff of tragedy. The city centre, however, though it still allowed the move to be painful, even laceratingly sad, prevented it from being wholly tragic.
The shoe shop was as tasteful as its sister shop in Venice, and the shoes on display looked the same. So did the two women working there: an older one who was obviously in charge and a younger one who viewed their arrival with a smile. Brunetti, wise to the rules of precedence, approached the woman he took to be the manager and introduced himself. She seemed unsurprised by his arrival and had apparently received a call from Venice.
‘I’d like to ask you, and your colleague, to look at the photo of a man and tell me if you recognize him.’
‘You the men who went to the other shop?’ the younger one asked as she came across the store, a remark that earned her a sharp look from her superior.
‘Yes,’ Brunetti answered. ‘The woman we spoke to there said the man tried to buy the shoes here, but you didn’t have his size.’ He knew that they knew the man was the dead man in the canal, and they knew he knew, so none of them said anything.
The older woman, thin to the point of emaciation and with a bosom perhaps not placed there by the hand of nature, asked to see the photo. Brunetti gave it to her to acknowledge that she was in charge. ‘Yes,’ she said when she saw the photo of the dead man. She passed it to the younger woman and folded her arms under that bosom.
At the sight of the dead man, the young woman said, ‘Yes, he’s been here a few times. The last time was about two months ago.’
‘Did you serve him, Signorina?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, I did. But we didn’t have his size, and he didn’t want anything else.’
Turning to the other woman, Brunetti inquired, ‘Do you remember him, Signora?’
‘No, I don’t. We get so many clients in here,’ she said, and indeed just then two women, their arms laden with bags, entered the shop. Without bothering to excuse herself, the manager went over and asked if she could help them.
Brunetti asked the young woman – really little more than a girl – ‘Do you remember anything about him, Signorina? You said he’d been in before?’
Brunetti’s hopes were still set on a credit card purchase. The young woman thought for a moment and then said, ‘A few times. In fact, once he came in wearing a pair of shoes and bought the same ones.’
Brunetti glanced at Vianello, whose manner was often better at encouraging responses. ‘Do you remember anything special about him, Signorina? Or did he strike you in a particular way?’ the Inspector asked.
‘You mean that he had got so big and was so sad?’
‘Was he?’ Vianello asked with every appearance of deep concern.
Before answering, she seemed to think back to the man’s time in the shop. ‘Well, he’d gained weight: I noticed that, even under his winter jacket, and he didn’t really say anything that would make me think he was lonely or sad or anything. But he seemed it; sort of quiet and not paying much attention to things.’ Then, to make things clear to both of them, she said, ‘He tried on about eight pairs of shoes, and the boxes were lying all around him on the floor and on the chair next to him. When he was finished, and he still couldn’t find the ones he wanted, he said – I guess he felt guilty about making me go and get so many of them. Maybe that’s why I remember him – he said that he’d help me put them back in the boxes. But he put a black one in with a brown one, and then when there was only one shoe left, a black one, and the only box left had a brown shoe in it, we had to open them all up again and put the right shoes in.
‘He was very embarrassed and apologized for it.’ She thought about this for some time and said, ‘No one ever
