‘I see a number of people doing what people do in Campo San Luca.’
‘Which is?’ she asked, looking up at him, eyes sharp now.
‘Meeting by chance or arrangement and talking, then going to have a drink, the way we did, and then going home to lunch, the way we will.’
‘And those two?’ she asked, tilting her chin toward the thin man and the old woman.
‘She looks like she’s on her way home to lunch, just back from a long mass at one of the smaller churches.’
‘And he?’
Brunetti looked over towards them again. They were still deep in conversation. ‘It looks like she’s trying to save his soul and he doesn’t want any part of it,’ Brunetti said.
‘He has none to save,’ Franca said, surprising him that such a judgement should come from a woman he’d never heard speak badly of anyone. ‘Nor does she,’ she added in a cool, unforgiving voice.
She turned a half-step back toward the bookstore and looked into the window again. Keeping her back to Brunetti, she said, ‘That’s Angelina Volpato, and her husband, Massimo. They’re two of the worst moneylenders in the city. No one has any idea when they started, but for the last ten years, they’ve been the ones most people have used.’
Brunetti sensed a presence at their side: a woman had come up to look into the window. Franca said nothing. When she moved off, Franca continued, ‘People know about them and know they’re here most mornings. So they come and talk to them, and then Angelina invites them to their home.’ She paused and then added, ‘She’s the real vampire’, then paused again. When she had grown calm, she went on. ‘It’s there that she calls in the notary and they make up the papers. She gives them the money, and they give her their houses or their businesses or their furniture.’
‘And the sum?’
‘That depends on how much they need and how long they need it for. If it’s only a few million, then they agree to give her their furniture. But if it’s a significant sum, fifty million or more, then she works out the interest – people have told me she can calculate interest in an instant, though the same people have told me she’s illiterate; so’s her husband.’ She stopped here, lost in her own account, then resumed, ‘If it’s a large sum, then they agree to give her title to their house if they haven’t paid her a certain sum by a certain date.’
‘And if they don’t pay?’
‘Then her lawyer takes them to court, and she’s got the paper, signed in front of a notary.’
As she spoke, always keeping her eyes on the covers of the books in the window, Brunetti examined his memory, and his conscience, and was forced to admit that none of this was news to him. The precise details were unknown, perhaps, but not the fact that this sort of thing went on. But it belonged to the Guardia di Finanza, or it had until now, until circumstance and dumb chance had called his attention to Angelina Volpato and her husband, still standing there, across from him, deep in conversation on a bright spring day in Venice.
‘How much do they charge?’
‘It depends on how desperate people are,’ Franca answered.
‘How do they know that?’
She took her eyes away from the little piggies driving fire engines and looked up at him. ‘You know as well as I do: everyone knows everything. All you have to do is try to borrow money from a bank, and everyone in the bank knows it by the end of the day, their families by the morning, and the whole city by the afternoon.’
Brunetti had to admit the truth of this. Whether because people in Venice were all related to one another by blood or friendship, or simply because the city was in reality nothing more than a tiny town, no secret could survive long in this intense, incestuous world. It made perfect sense to him that financial need would quickly become public information.
‘What sort of interest do they charge?’ he asked again.
She started to answer, stopped herself, then continued, ‘I’ve heard people talk of twenty per cent a month. But I’ve also heard them talk of fifty.’
The Venetian in Brunetti had it worked out in an instant. ‘That’s six hundred per cent a year,’ he said, unable to disguise his indignation.
‘Much more if it’s compound interest,’ Franca corrected, demonstrating that her family’s roots in the city extended deeper than Brunetti’s.
Brunetti turned his attention back to the two people on the other side of the
As he drew near, Brunetti saw the bulbous forehead, the skin rough and dangling in flakes as from some untreated disease, the full lips and heavy-lidded eyes. The man had a strange, bird-like walk and with each step lightly placed each foot down flat, as if concerned about wearing down the heels of his much-repaired shoes. His face bore the burdens of age and sickness, but the gangling walk, especially as Brunetti saw it from behind as the man turned into the
When he looked back, the old woman had disappeared, but the image of a marsupial, or some sort of upright rat, remained in Brunetti’s memory. ‘How do you know about all of this?’ he asked Franca.
‘I work in a bank, remember,’ she answered.
‘And those two are the court of last resort for the people who can’t get anything from you?’ She nodded. ‘But how do people find out about them?’ he asked.
She studied him, as if considering how much she could trust him, then said, ‘I’ve been told that sometimes people in the bank recommend them.’
‘What?’
‘That when people try to borrow money from a bank and are refused, occasionally one of the employees will suggest they try talking to the Volpatos. Or to whichever moneylender is paying them a percentage.’
‘How much of a percentage?’ Brunetti asked in a level voice.
She shrugged. ‘I’m told that depends,’
‘On what?’
‘On how much they finally borrow. Or on the sort of deal the banker has with the usurers.’ Before Brunetti could ask anything else, she added, ‘If people need money, they’ll get it somewhere. If not from friends or family, and if not from a bank, then from people like the Volpatos.’
The only way Brunetti could ask the next question was to be direct, and so he asked, ‘Is this connected with the Mafia?’
‘What isn’t?’ Franca asked in return, but when she saw his irritated response to this, she added, ‘Sorry, that was just a wisecrack. I’ve no direct knowledge that they are. But if you think about it for a while, you’ll realize how good a way it would be to launder money.’
Brunetti nodded. Only Mafia protection could allow something as profitable as this to go on unquestioned, unexamined by the authorities.
‘Have I ruined your lunch?’ she asked, suddenly smiling, her mood changing in a way he remembered.
‘No, not at all, Franca.’
‘Why are you asking about this?’ she finally asked.
‘It might be connected with something else.’
‘Most things are,’ she added but asked him nothing, another quality he had always prized in her. ‘I’ll get home, then,’ she said, and leaned up to kiss him on both cheeks.
‘Thanks, Franca,’ he answered, pulling her a bit closer to him, comforted by the feel of her strong body and even stronger will. ‘It’s always a joy to see you.’ Even as she patted his arm and turned away, he realized that he had not asked her about the other moneylenders, but he couldn’t call her back now and ask. All he could think of was to go home.
17
