Drawing Conclusions

them filled to the gunwales with the possessions, and perhaps the hopes, of an entire family that was moving house. Down to Castello? Or turn in to the left and back into San Marco? A shaggy black dog stood on a table precariously balanced on a pile of cardboard boxes at the prow of the boat, its nose pointing forward as bravely as that of any figurehead. How dogs loved boats. Was it the open air and the richness of scents passing by? He couldn’t remember whether dogs saw at long distance or only very close, or perhaps it differed according to what breed they were. Well, there’d be no determining breed with this one: he was as much Bergamasco as Labrador, as much spaniel as hound. He was happy, that was evident, and perhaps that’s all a dog needed to be and all Brunetti needed to know about a dog.

The arrival of the vaporetto cut off his reflections but did not remove Morandi from his mind. ‘People don’t change.’ How many times had he heard his mother say that? She had never studied psychology, his mother. In fact, she had never studied much at all, but that did not prevent her from having a logical mind, even a subtle one. Presented with an example of uncharacteristic behaviour, she would often point out that it was merely a manifestation of the person’s real character, and when she reminded people of events from the past, she was often proven right.

Usually people surprised us, he reflected, with the bad they did, when some dark impulse slipped the leash and brought them, and others, to ruin. And then how easy it became to find in the past the undetected symptoms of their malice. How, then, find the undetected symptoms of goodness?

When he got to his office, he tried the phone book again and found that Morandi was listed, but the phone rang unanswered until the eighth ring, when a man’s voice said he was not at home but could be reached on his telefonino. Brunetti copied the number and dialled it immediately.

‘Si,’ a man’s voice answered.

‘Signor Morandi?’

‘Si. Chi e?’

‘Good day, Signor Morandi. This is Guido Brunetti. We spoke two days ago in the room of Signora Sartori.’

‘You’re the pension man?’ Morandi asked, and Brunetti thought he heard rekindled hope, knew he heard civility, in his voice.

Without answering the question, Brunetti said, ‘I’d like to speak to you again, Signor Morandi.’

‘About Maria’s pension?’

‘Among other things,’ Brunetti answered blandly. He waited for the question, the suspicion about what those other things could be. But they did not come.

Instead, Morandi asked, ‘When can we talk? Do you want me to come to your office?’

‘No, Signor Morandi; I don’t want you to trouble yourself. Perhaps we could meet somewhere nearer to you.’

‘I live behind San Marco,’ he said, unaware that Brunetti knew much more about his house than its location. ‘But I have to be at the casa di cura at five-thirty; perhaps we could meet near there?’

‘In the campo?’ Brunetti suggested.

‘Good. Thank you, Signore,’ the old man said. ‘Fifteen minutes?’

‘Good,’ Brunetti said and hung up. There was enough time, so he first went down to the evidence room and then started towards the campo. The late autumn sun smacked him in the back of the head but cheered him by doing so.

The old man sat on one of the benches in front of the the casa di cura, bent forward from the waist, tossing something to a mini-flock of sparrows dancing around his feet. Oh God, was Brunetti to find himself seduced by a few breadcrumbs tossed to hungry birds? He steeled himself and approached the older man.

Morandi heard him coming, tossed the rest of whatever he had in his hands to the birds, and pushed himself to his feet. He smiled, all memory of their first meeting erased or ignored, and put out his hand; Brunetti took it and was surprised at how weak the other man’s grasp was. This close, he was much taller than the old man. Looking down, Brunetti could see the pink skin of his head shining through the strands of dark hair pasted across it. ‘Shall we sit down?’ Brunetti asked.

The old man bent, bracing himself with one hand, and lowered himself slowly on to the bench. Brunetti left a space between them and sat, and the birds scuttled up to Morandi’s feet. Automatically, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out some pieces of grain, which he tossed far out into the campo. Startled by the motion of his arm, some of the birds took flight, only to land amidst the grains just as the ones that had decided to run arrived. They did not squabble or dispute but all set to picking up as much as they could.

Morandi glanced at Brunetti and said, ‘I come here most days, so they know me by now.’ As he spoke, the birds began to approach, but he sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘No more. I have to talk to this gentleman now.’ The birds peeped their protest, waited a moment, then abandoned him in a group on the arrival of a white-haired woman on the other side of the campo.

‘I think I should tell you, Signor Morandi,’ Brunetti began, believing it best to clear his conscience, ‘I wasn’t there about the pension.’

‘You mean she’s not going to get an increase?’ he asked, leaning forward and turning to Brunetti.

‘There was no mistake: she’s already getting her pension for those years,’ Brunetti said.

‘So there won’t be an increase?’ Morandi asked again, unwilling to believe what he heard.

Brunetti shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Signore.’

Morandi’s shoulders sank, then he pushed himself upright against the back of the bench. He looked across the campo, dappled in the afternoon sun, but to Brunetti it seemed as though the old man was looking across a wasteland, a desert.

‘I’m sorry to have got your hopes up,’ Brunetti said.

The old man leaned aside and placed a hand on Brunetti’s arm. He gave it a weak squeeze and said, ‘That’s all right, son. It’s never been right since she first started to get it, but at least this time we were able to hope a little bit.’ He looked at Brunetti and tried to smile. There were the same broken veins, the same battered nose and ridiculous hair, but Brunetti wondered where the man he had seen in the casa di cura had gone, for surely this was not the same one.

The anger or fear or whatever it was had disappeared. Here in the sunlight, Morandi was a quiet old man on a park bench. Perhaps, in the manner of a bodyguard, Morandi reacted only in defence of whom he was sent to guard and for the rest was content to sit and toss seeds to the little birds.

What then to make of his criminal record? After how many years did a record cease to matter?

‘Are you a policeman?’ Morandi surprised him by asking.

‘Yes,’ Brunetti said. ‘How did you know?’

Morandi shrugged. ‘When I saw you there in the room, that was the first thing I thought, and now that you tell me you weren’t there for the pension, that’s what I go back to thinking.’

‘Why did you think I was a policeman?’ Brunetti wanted to know.

The old man glanced at him. ‘I thought you’d come. Sooner or later,’ he said, speaking in the plural. He shrugged, placed his palms on his thighs, and said, ‘I didn’t think it would take you this long, though.’

‘Why? How long has it been?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Since she died,’ Morandi answered.

‘And why did you think we’d come?’

Morandi looked at the backs of his fingers, at Brunetti, and then again at his hands. In a much softer voice, he said, ‘Because of what I did.’ That said, he stiffened his elbows and leaned forward, arms braced on his thighs. He wasn’t getting ready to get to his feet, Brunetti could see: he looked at the ground. Suddenly the birds were back, looking up at him and peeping insistently. Brunetti thought he didn’t see them.

The old man, with visible effort, pulled himself up and leaned against the back of the bench once again. He looked at his watch and abruptly got to his feet. Brunetti stood. ‘It’s time. I have to go and see her,’ Morandi said. ‘Her doctor came at five, and the sisters said I could see her after he spoke to her. But only for a few minutes. So she doesn’t have to worry about anything he said.’

He turned and walked in the direction of the casa di cura, just on the other side of