The Girl of his Dreams

Vianello appeared at the door to Brunetti's office. 'You hear anything about this fight?' Brunetti asked, using the pages of the report to wave the Inspector to a seat.

'You mean those two idiots who ended up in hospital?'

'Yes.'

'One of them used to work in Porto Marghera, unloading boats, but I heard they had to get rid of him.' 'Why?' Brunetti asked.

'Usual stuff: too much alcohol and too few brains, and too much gone missing from what he was unloading.' 'Which one is he?'

'The one who lost an eye,' Vianello answered. 'Carlo Ruffo. I met him once.'

'You sure?' Brunetti asked. The medical report in the file had said only that the eye was in danger. 'About the eye, I mean.'

'It seems so. He picked up some sort of infection in the hospital, and the last I heard there was no hope they could save the eye. The infection seems to have spread to the other one.'

'So he'll be blind?' Brunetti asked.

'Perhaps. Blind and violent.'

'Odd combination.'

'Didn't stop Samson, did it?' Vianello asked, surprising Brunetti with the reference, before going on, 'I know this guy. Being blind and deaf and dumb wouldn't stop him from being violent.'

'You think he started it?'

Vianello's shrug was eloquent. 'If he didn't, then the other one did. In the end, it's the same thing.'

'Another violent man?'

'So I'm told, only he usually takes it out on his wife and kids.'

Brunetti paused then said, 'You make it sound like it's common knowledge.' 'On the Giudecca, it is.' 'And no one says anything?'

Again, that shrug. 'They figure it's none of their business, which is the way they think, and they also figure we wouldn't be able to do anything about it, and that's probably true.' Vianello crossed his legs and pushed himself back in the chair. 'If I ever raised a hand to Nadia, she'd have me pinned to the wall of the kitchen with the bread knife in two seconds.' After a reflective pause, he added, 'Maybe more women ought to respond like that.'

Brunetti was not in the mood for this sort of discussion and so he asked, 'You got a favourite for the owner of the knife?'

'My guess is that it was Ruffo's. He always carried one, at least that's what I was told.'

'The other one, Bormio?' Brunetti asked, recalling the name from the file.

'Just what people say.'

'Tell me.'

'That he's a troublemaker, especially with his family, as I told you, but that he'd never start anything with someone stronger than he is.' Vianello folded his arms across his chest and said, 'So my money's on Ruffo.'

'Why does it always seem to happen there?' Brunetti asked, not thinking it necessary to name the Giudecca.

Vianello raised his hands in a gesture of incomprehension then let them fall to his lap. 'Beats me. Maybe it's because they're workers, most of them. They do hard physical work, and that makes them less self-conscious about using their bodies to do violent things. Or maybe it's because that's the way things have always been settled: you hit someone or you pull a knife.'

There seemed nothing for Brunetti to add to this. 'You came up about the new orders?' he asked.

Vianello nodded but did not roll his eyes. 'Yes. I wondered what you thought would come of it?'

'You mean, other than finding a soft job for Scarpa?' Brunetti asked with a cynicism that surprised even himself. If Patta was going to take advantage of the current market flurry in the Mafia, then he was sure to see that his assistant and fellow Sicilian, Lieutenant Scarpa, got in on the ground floor.

'Something almost poetic in Scarpa's being assigned to a special unit dealing with the Mafia, don't you think?' Vianello enquired with feigned innocence.

A sense of his position pulled Brunetti back. 'We can't be sure about that,' he answered. Though he was.

'No,' Vianello said, savouring the chance for comment. 'We can't be sure about him at all.' Then, more seriously, 'You think anything will come of this thing in the newspapers?'

'Paola commented on our 'triumph',' Brunetti said.

'It is pathetic, isn't it?' Vianello admitted. 'Forty-three years to catch this guy. The papers said today that he went to France for surgery, even sent a claim for the bill to the ULSS office in Palermo.'

'And they paid it, didn't they?' Brunetti asked.

'What do you think he was doing for forty-three years?'

'Well’ Brunetti said, his voice suddenly grown tight, almost as if it wanted to slip beyond his control, 'it seems he was running the Mafia in Sicily. And I assume he was leading a completely undisturbed life, surrounded by his wife and family; helping his kids with their homework, seeing that they received First Communion. And I have no doubt that, when he dies, he will be given a truly moving funeral, again surrounded by his family, and that some bishop, or even a cardinal, will come to say the Mass, and then he will be buried with great pomp and ceremony, and prayers will be said in perpetuity for the peace of his soul’ By the end of his long answer, Brunetti's voice was shaking with something between disgust and despair.

Vianello, voice calm, asked, 'You think he got fingered by one of his own?'

Brunetti nodded. 'It makes sense. Some young boss – well, younger boss – decided he'd like to have a taste of it all – run the whole show – and the old man was an obstacle; inconvenient to have him there. They're running a multi-national corporation, using computers; their own lawyers and accountants. And they've got this old guy, living in what sounds like a glorified chicken coop, writing messages on scraps of paper. Sure, they want to get rid of him. All it would take is a phone call.'

'And now what?' Vianello asked, as if trying to plumb the depths of his superior's cynicism.

'Now, as Lampedusa told us, if we want things to stay as they are, then things will have to appear to change.'

'That's pretty much the history of everything in this country, isn't it?' Vianello asked.

Brunetti nodded, then slapped his palms down on the top of his desk. 'Come on, let's get a coffee.'

As they stood at the bar, drinking their coffee, Brunetti told Vianello about his conversations with the two priests.

When Brunetti had finished, Vianello asked,'You going to do it?'

'Do what? Try to find out about this Mutti guy?' 'Yes.' Vianello swirled the last of his coffee around and finished it. ‘I suppose so.'

'It's interesting, the way you're approaching it,' Vianello observed. 'What do you mean?'

'That this Padre Antonin comes to ask you to find out about Mutti, and all you've done so far – or so it seems to me – is try to find out about Padre Antonin.'

'Why is that so strange?' asked Brunetti.

'Because you're assuming there's something suspicious, or at least strange, in his request. Or in him.'

'Well, I think there is,' Brunetti insisted.

'What? Precisely, that is. Why is it so strange?'

It took Brunetti some time to find an answer to this. At last he said, ‘I remember…'

'From when you were a kid?' Vianello interrupted, then added, 'I'd hardly want anyone to make judgements about me from the way I was then. I was an idiot.'

The underlying seriousness of what Vianello was trying to tell him prevented Brunetti from making a joke about Vianello's choice of tense. Instead, he said, ‘I know this sounds evasive, but it was the way he spoke, more than anything else.' Unsatisfied with that as soon as he said it, he added, 'No, it's more than that. I suppose it was his casual assumption that this other man had to be a thief or a swindler of some sort, but the only evidence he could give me was the fact that the young man was giving him money.'

'Why is that so strange?' Vianello asked.

'Because I had the feeling, all the time Antonin was talking, that if the young man had been giving him the money, everything would have been all right’

‘I hope you aren't expecting me to be surprised by the presence of greed in a priest.'