think that what they say is interesting and that someone will remember it.’ Brunetti wondered if she included herself among those who would listen to and remember their stories, or if it would make her feel important to have someone remember what she said.
‘Did she treat them all the same way?’ Brunetti asked.
He saw that she wasn’t prepared for this question and didn’t like it when she heard it. Perhaps she disapproved of friendships with the old people; perhaps she simply disapproved of friendships. ‘Yes. Of course,’ she said; Brunetti noticed that she clenched the rosary in her fist: no more easy flow of beads.
‘No special friends?’ Brunetti enquired.
‘No,’ she said instantly. ‘Patients aren’t friends. She knew the danger of that.’
Confused, Vianello asked, ‘What danger?’
‘Many of them are lonely,’ she said. ‘And many of them have families that are waiting for them to die so they can have their money or their homes.’ She waited for a moment, as if to see if they would be shocked that a nun could speak with this bleak clarity. In the face of their silence, she continued, ‘So the danger is that they will become too attached to people who treat them well. Costanza…’ she began but did not finish whatever it was she intended to say. Instead, she changed back to her original subject and said, ‘They can be very difficult, old people.’
‘I know,’ Brunetti agreed, omitting any reference to how he had learned this truth. Then, after a short pause, he said, ‘But I’m afraid – and I say this with all respect – that you haven’t told us very much about her.’
Madre Rosa gave a wry grimace. ‘I shouldn’t say this, Signore, and I hope the Lord will pardon me for having thought it, but if you knew how difficult many of the people here can be, perhaps you’d understand. It’s very easy to be kind to people who are kind themselves or who are appreciative of kindness, but that is not always the case.’ From the tired resignation with which the nun said this, Brunetti realized hers was the voice of long experience. He also realised that this was all she was going to say.
Brunetti and Vianello exchanged a look and, as if by mutual agreement, got to their feet. In a way, Brunetti’s thoughts also shook themselves out and stood up straight. They had come all the way down here, and all this woman had done was speak of Signora Altavilla’s patience and had been anything but forthcoming in doing so. For their purposes, they had learned next to nothing about Signora Altavilla, though peace be on her soul. ‘Thank you, Madre,’ Brunetti said, not sure whether he should offer his hand to her or not. She made the decision for him, confining herself to a nod, first to him and then to Vianello, her hands safely tucked under her scapular, then turned and led them towards the front entrance.
She paused at the door as she said, ‘I hope you’ll convey my condolences to her son. I never met him, but Costanza spoke about him from time to time and always had good things to say.’ Then, as if answering some unspoken question on their part, she added, ‘It sounds as though he’s inherited her terrible honesty.’
‘What do you mean by that, Madre?’ Brunetti asked.
It took her a long time to answer, so long that she had to shift her weight to her left side as she stood there. When she finally spoke, she answered with a question. ‘You hear I’m from the South, don’t you?’
Both men nodded.
‘We have different ideas about honesty than you do up here,’ she said obliquely.
Vianello smiled and said, ‘To say the least of it, Madre.’
She had the grace to return his smile and spoke to the Inspector as she continued. ‘Just because our ideas are different doesn’t mean we don’t have as great a respect for honesty as you do, Signori.’
Neither man spoke, curious to learn where this was going to lead. ‘But we are…’ she stopped and glanced from one face to the other. ‘How can I say this? We are more frugal with the truth than you are.’
Frankly curious, Brunetti asked, ‘And why is that, Madre?’
Again, to get a better look at them, she stepped back awkwardly. ‘Perhaps because it costs us more to be honest than it does you,’ she said. Her accent had become more pronounced. She went on, ‘So we’ve come to value reticence, as well.’
‘Are you talking about Signora Altavilla?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes. She believed that one should always tell the truth, regardless of the cost. And I assume, from some of the things she told me, that she taught this to her son.’
‘Do you think that’s an error?’ Brunetti asked with real curiosity.
‘No, gentlemen,’ she said and smiled again, a smaller smile. ‘It’s a luxury.’
She reached behind her and opened the door; she held it as they passed through, and they heard it close as they started down the steps.
9
As they emerged into the sunlight, Vianello said, ‘I never know what to do in situations like this.’
‘Situations like what?’ Brunetti asked, starting across the
‘When someone pretends to know less than they do.’
Brunetti turned to the left and towards the church. ‘Hmmm,’ he muttered, letting Vianello know that he agreed.
‘All that talk about honesty,’ Vianello said. He stopped at the top of the bridge and rested his forearms on the parapet. He stared down at a boat moored to the side of the canal and continued, ‘It’s clear she knows – or suspects – more than she’s willing to let on. She’s a nun, so she probably believes it’s not right to raise unfounded suspicions or pass on gossip.’ Then, in a lower voice, he added, ‘Though I can’t imagine a convent where that doesn’t happen.’
Brunetti let that pass, waiting.
‘She’s a southerner,’ Vianello said. ‘And a nun.’ Brunetti grew alert to hear just what sort of generalization was coming. Vianello went on, ‘So that means she wanted us to know or suspect something but couldn’t bring herself to say it directly.’
Brunetti had to agree. Who knew what went on the mind of a nun, much less one from the South? They drank discretion with the first taste of mother’s milk and grew up with frequent examples of the consequences of indiscretion. He remembered the recent shock-video of a very ordinary, very casual, daytime murder in Naples: one shot, then the second to the back of the head, while people continued about their business. No one saw anything; no one noticed a thing.
It was hard-wired into them: to talk indiscreetly or say anything that might cause suspicion was to endanger not only yourself but everyone in your family. This was the Truth, no matter how many years a person had spent in a convent in Venice. Brunetti was as likely to sprout angel wings and fly off to Paradise as Madre Rosa was to speak openly to the police.
‘She made truth sound like a handicap, didn’t she?’ Vianello shoved himself away from the parapet. He raised his arms and let them fall to his sides in a gesture of complete confusion, but before Brunetti could speak, they were interrupted by the ringing of his phone.
‘Guido? It’s me,’ Rizzardi said.
‘Thanks for calling.’
Wasting no time, Rizzardi went on: ‘The mark on her throat,’ he said, but then stopped. When Brunetti said nothing, the pathologist continued, ‘It could be a thumbprint.’
Brunetti tried to imagine where the other fingers could have been when the thumbs were on her throat, but he permitted himself only, ‘Ah.’ And then, “Could be”?’
Rizzardi ignored the provocation and continued. ‘There are three faint marks that are probably bruises on the back of her left shoulder, and two on her right. And another one – barely visible – in front.’
Brunetti tilted his head to the side and trapped the phone against his shoulder. He raised his cupped hands in front of him, then he positioned his thumbs and bent his hands into claws. ‘Are the marks in the right places?’ he asked, not thinking it necessary, with Rizzardi, to say more than that.
‘Yes,’ the pathologist answered, then slipped back into his usual mode to continue, ‘They are not inconsistent with her having been grabbed from the front.’
