The Girl of his Dreams

14

The following day, Brunetti spent his first half-hour in the office reading the newspaper accounts of the discovery of the little girl's body. II Gazzettino had not learned of it early enough to put it on the front page, but there had been enough time for it to reach the second section, the front page of which screamed, in red, that it was 'A Mystery'. The account gave the incorrect time of the discovery of her body, misspelled Brunetti's name, and carried a photo of steps different from the ones where she had been found. Her age was given as five, while the national papers listed it as twelve and nine. The autopsy, it was stated, would take place that day. Further, the police asked that anyone who might have information about the possible identity of a child with dark hair and eyes call them.

His phone rang and he answered with his name.

'Ah, Guido,' he heard his mother-in-law say. 'I've been meaning to call you since we got back from the Occupied Territories, but there was simply too much to do here, and then Chiara and Raffi came to lunch and I had so much fun with them that I'm afraid I forgot about calling you, though having them here should have reminded me of you, shouldn't it?'

‘I thought you'd been to Palermo,' a literal-minded Brunetti said, relieved to know that the Contessa had not yet seen that day's papers. It confused him that Paola's parents could have managed another trip in the short time since they got back from Sicily.

Her laugh was musical, always brighter than her voice and very attractive. 'Oh, I'm sorry to confuse you, Guido. I should have told you. Orazio has taken to using that term to refer to Sicily and Calabria. Since both places belong to the Mafia and the government has no effective control over them, he thinks it's linguistically correct to refer to them as the Occupied Territories.' She paused for a moment, and then went on, 'And if you think about it, it's not far off the truth, is it?'

'Is this term only for domestic consumption, or does he use it in public?' Brunetti enquired, forbearing to pass judgement on the accuracy of the Count's choice of phrase and never willing to comment on his father-in-law's politics.

'Oh, I'm so seldom with him in public, I have no way of knowing about that. But you know how discreet Orazio is, so perhaps he uses it only with me. But now you know, too,' she said in a lowered tone, adding, 'Perhaps it would be wise to let Orazio decide how widespread the use of the term should be?'

Brunetti had never heard a more polite enjoinder to discretion. 'Of course,' he agreed. 'But what was it you called about?'

'That religious person’ she said. 'Leonardo Mutti?'

Yes’ she answered, then surprised him by adding, 'And the other one, Antonin Scallon.'

Brunetti thought back to his original conversation with the Contessa: he was sure he had not used Antonin's name, had referred to him only as an old friend of his brother. If he had used any name, it was Brother Leonardo's.

'Yes?' Brunetti enquired. 'And what have you heard?' He decided to leave for later the question of how the Contessa might have come to learn about his interest in Padre Antonin.

'It seems that a friend of mine has also become attracted to Brother Leonardo's teachings,' she began, then added, 'or, as one might say, fallen under his spell.' Again, Brunetti chose not to comment.

'And it also seems,' the Countess continued, 'that this Padre Antonin learned about her… shall we say, about her enthusiasm for Brother Leonardo.' Before Brunetti could ask, the Countess explained, 'He's a friend of her family, this Antonin; while he was in Africa he sent them those dreadful circular letters every Christmas, and I suppose they sent him money, though I don't know that for sure. At any rate, when I asked her about Brother Leonardo, she told me how surprised she had been when Padre Antonin spoke to her about him.'

'Saying what?'

'Nothing, really,' the Countess answered. 'But from what she told me, it sounded as if he were trying to suggest she be cautious about becoming too involved with him, but being very careful not to seem as if he was doing that.'

'Will she listen to him?' Brunetti asked.

'Of course not, Guido. You should know by now that, once people reach my age, it makes no sense to try to persuade them to abandon their – well – their enthusiasms.'

He had to smile at this, thinking how charitable it was of her to limit this wilfulness to people of her age. 'Do you know if he said anything specific about Brother Leonardo?' Brunetti asked.

She laughed again. 'Nothing that exceeded the limits of clerical solidarity and good taste. Or overstepped Orazio's admonition never to speak badly of a colleague.'

In a more serious voice, she went on, 'So that you can stop worrying about how I knew you were interested in Padre Antonin, Guido, I should explain that Paola told me that he was at your mother's funeral and that he went to see you.'

'Thank you,' Brunetti said simply and then asked, 'What did your friend say about Brother Leonardo?'

The Contessa took some time to answer. 'She lost a grandson two years ago and needs whatever comfort she can find. So if what this Brother Leonardo says can lessen her grief, then I think it's all to the good.'

'Has the subject of money been raised?' Brunetti asked.

'You mean by Brother Leonardo? With my friend?'

'Yes.'

'She didn't say, and it's certainly not anything I could ask.'

Hearing both the reproach and the warning in her voice, Brunetti said only, 'If you hear anything else…'

'Of course,' she said, cutting him off before he could finish the question. 'Please give my love to Paola and the children, will you?'

'Yes, of course,' he said, and then she was gone.

* * *

Just when he had thought himself free of all solicitation, Brunetti found himself reminded of Antonin and his request. Long experience had rendered Brunetti suspicious of protestations of disinterested goodwill, especially when those protestations were linked in any way to money. The only money he knew to be involved here was that given to Brother Leonardo by Patrizia's son. Brunetti went to the window and stared at the facade of San Lorenzo for some time: he found it difficult to attribute to Antonin a sincere concern for the well-being of this young man, and then came the thought that he found it difficult to attribute to Antonin a sincere concern for the well-being of anyone save himself.

The Contessa's words came back to him then, that it was difficult to persuade people her age away from their – what had she called them? – enthusiasms? He changed the word to 'prejudices', applied it to himself, and saw how apt her remark remained.

Brunetti, recalling his failure to find a Christian among his friends in the city, went downstairs to ask Signorina Elettra if she might have one among hers.

'A Christian?' she asked, surprised. She had made no reference to the newspaper accounts of the little girl's death, and Brunetti was glad enough to avoid discussion of it with her.

'Yes. That is, someone who believes and attends Mass.'

She glanced at the vase of flowers on the windowsill, perhaps to gather her thoughts, then returned her gaze to him and asked, 'May I ask what this is in aid of, sir?'

‘I want to find out about a member of the clergy.' When she remained silent for some time, he added, 'Private things.'

'Ah’ she answered.

'Which means?' he asked, smiling.

She answered the smile, and then the question. 'It means that I'm not sure it's believers who should be asked about the clergy. Not, that is, if you want to hear the truth.'

'Do you have someone in mind?' Brunetti asked.

She rested her chin in her palm for a moment. Her lips disappeared, evidence of thought. She looked up and her mouth sweetened into a smile. ‘I can think of two’ she said. 'One has what might be called unsympathetic