The Waters of Eternal Youth (14 page)

‘Did he tell you anything else?'

‘No, only that she had the gift with horses.' She looked at Griffoni, who nodded in understanding.

Griffoni asked, ‘Is there anyone working here who might have been here then?'

‘Let me think,' the woman said, and Brunetti watched as she started counting. She got to seven, extending a finger for each, then closed them all back into her palm until everyone had been eliminated.

She looked at Brunetti. ‘No. They're all gone.' Her eyes drifted off to a field behind the house, where he saw a few horses grazing on the remaining grass. ‘Most of the horses are gone, too, I'm afraid.' It sounded to Brunetti as though that were the part she regretted.

‘Are you still in contact with any of them?'

She didn't bother to use her fingers to count the possibilities. ‘No, I'm not.' Then, with mixed explanation and apology she added, ‘People don't stay a long time at this sort of job.'

Brunetti saw that the driver was standing at the wooden fence, rubbing the head of one of the horses. As he watched, the driver bent down and ripped up a few tufts of grass on his side of the fence and held them out to the horse, who took them from his hand and munched on them. When she'd eaten them, the horse bumped her head against the man's hand, and he obeyed by bending down for more grass.

‘They're very smart,' Griffoni said and walked towards the railing. Brunetti followed her, and the woman followed Brunetti. When the humans were all standing in a line, the horses in the field started to drift in their direction, and within five minutes the four humans were all busy pulling up grass to feed them.

Griffoni stood on the bottom rung of the fence and leaned over towards the horses, two of whom responded and nuzzled at her hands and then her neck and then her face. She embraced them, arms spread, a hand on each of their necks, and then began slowly to scratch at the place just under their ears. The three of them seemed to enter into a trance, and only when a third horse approached and nipped at the flank of one of the others did they jerk away from Griffoni and, losing interest, turn and trot away.

Griffoni turned to Brunetti and smiled, and he saw a new person hiding behind her face.

From behind them, Signora degli Specchi said, ‘Come in and at least have something to drink.' Griffoni started towards the building, and Brunetti followed. The driver bent down to tear up more grass.

She led them through the house to the back, passing through rooms where the furniture all seemed to have served as resting places for Hector and whatever dogs had preceded him. Saddles occupied two chairs in the kitchen, where a large fire burned to challenge the cold that seeped up from the stone floor. It blazed and succeeded in making it warmer than outside, but not by much.

They both said coffee would be fine, and she surprised them by going to a small Gaggia machine. With the ease of familiarity, she made three coffees quickly and brought them back to the table, where she'd told them to take seats.

As they stirred sugar into their coffee, Brunetti asked, ‘If you knew nothing about Manuela, why did you tell us to come out here?'

Keeping her eyes on her hands as she stirred her coffee, the owner said, ‘I had the idea that you were going to bring her.'

‘Her?' Brunetti asked.

‘Manuela,' she said, still not looking at him.

‘But what sense would that make if you never knew her, and no one who knew her is still working here?' Brunetti asked. Halfway through his sentence, he realized how irritated he sounded and so moderated his tone until, by the end of it, he was merely asking a simple question.

Clink and clink and clink, until she set the spoon down on the saucer. She took a sip, set the cup back and used the spoon to make a few more clinks. Finally, she tired of the attempt to delay and said, ‘Her horse is still here.'

Brunetti set his own cup down, and Griffoni asked, ‘How old is she?'

‘She's ­twenty-­one.'

‘And you thought . . .' Griffoni started to ask but then ran out of ideas.

‘I thought she'd remember her.'

The pronouns refused to make sense to Brunetti. ‘That the horse would remember her?' he asked.

‘No. My husband told me about what happened to her. In the water.'

Brunetti still didn't understand. He waited.

‘I hoped she'd remember the horse.'

‘My husband told me, before he died, that she'd suffered brain damage – people in the city told him – but he didn't know how bad it was. Because he was so fond of her, I thought that, hoped that . . . well, that she'd be well enough to remember her horse or recognize her, and it might . . . it might help her. Somehow.' As she spoke, she picked at a tiny flap of skin near one of her fingernails, reminding Brunetti of a much younger Chiara when she had to confess having done something stupid or wrong.

Entirely at a loss, he looked at Griffoni, who held up her palm to silence him. ‘Did your husband say anything else about her?' she asked.

The silence expanded so much that Brunetti thought the woman was not going to answer. He leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. It was much cleaner than the other rooms, the counters uncluttered, plates and glasses neatly stored in open cabinets on either side of the sink. The stone floor was spotless. The walls were filled with group photographs of horses and humans. He was close enough to see that some of them showed people with the haircuts and clothing of decades before. He saw young people wearing glasses with thick, rectangular plastic frames, a style so old it was on its way back. Other photos showed fashions closer to those of today. The horses always looked the same.

The woman got to her feet and left the room without saying anything to them. Brunetti stood and walked over to the photos, some in colour and some older ones in black and white, wondering if Manuela was in any of them and forced to accept the fact that, even if she were, he might not recognize her. The likelihood would depend on his ability to ­carbon-­date clothing and hairstyles. What had young people – for most of the people in the photos were young – worn fifteen years ago? How had their hair been cut? In the photo he'd seen, she'd worn jeans and had long hair: that description would fit most of the people in these photos.

He recognized, in a photo that must be recent, the young journalist who read the 8.30 news on local television. Usually he appeared wearing suit and tie, but here he was, looking not much younger, in sweatshirt and jeans, with tousled hair and his arms around the shoulders of the boy and girl on either side of him. Brunetti looked more closely at the photos. He saw a very faded photo of a ­light-­haired girl who looked a bit like Paola, but with a smaller nose. She stood beside a ­long-­haired young man who was not much taller, as smiling and ­fresh-­faced as she. He looked familiar, but Brunetti couldn't place him. Perhaps this one had grown up to become the weatherman.

He heard footsteps behind him; when he turned, the woman was back with papers in her hand. She went over to the table and laid them, only two of them, on the table: they were photos.

‘This is Manuela,' she said. ‘The only thing my husband ever said was that she was as good as she was beautiful and what happened to her was horrible.' After a long pause, she added, ‘He cried about it once.' Then, pointing to the photos, she said, ‘You can see why.'

Brunetti and Griffoni joined her beside the table and looked at the photos, one in black and white and one in colour. It was the same girl he'd seen in the photo in the newspaper, looking just as young – or old. But here she sat on the fence where they had stood a ­half-­hour before, her face raised to the sun, eyes closed, apparently unaware of the camera.

In the second, she was mounted, high boots and helmet, tight jeans, sweater and scarf. She was as radiant and as beautiful as in the other, her face a collection of perfections.

The horse was a dark chestnut, quite as beautiful – at least to Brunetti's ignorant eye – as the girl. The hair on its left flank gleamed, the light creating shadows among the muscles and tendons of the leg. From under the saddle peeped the edge of a red saddle blanket. The girl looked serious, and the horse looked happy.

‘Is that her horse?' Brunetti asked.

‘She's beautiful,' Griffoni said. Brunetti somehow knew she was talking about the horse.

‘Yes. My husband always liked her because she was so ­sweet-­tempered, so when Manuela didn't come back and the family said they didn't want her any more, he kept her, and she became the beginners' horse.' Then, reflectively, she added, ‘She was here when I came, and she's the only one left – horse or human – who was. Nobody much rides her now.' In answer to their evident curiosity, she went on. ‘There's not a lot of work for me today. I board a couple of horses, but the days are gone when people could afford lessons for their children. Or to keep a horse.'

‘But you still keep her?' Griffoni asked.

The woman smiled. ‘She knew my husband.'

Griffoni nodded and said, ‘Of course.' Then, ‘Could I ride her?'

‘Now?' the woman asked, surprised.

‘No, some other time. If I came out.'

‘Of course. She'd love the company, I'm sure.' Then, after a moment's reflection, she added, ‘She's a bit slow, I'm afraid, but it's a joy to ride her. She's not what she was.'

‘None of us is,' Griffoni said, then laughed out loud. She got to her feet. ‘We have the number, so I'll call, all right?'

‘Yes. Oh, she'll be so happy.'

‘Me, too,' Griffoni said and turned away to go back to the car.

When they emerged into the sunlight they saw the driver standing on the first railing and scratching the space between the eyes of a dark brown horse.

‘Let's go,' Brunetti called over to him.

The officer jumped down and came towards the car. Hector was still asleep and did not wake when the officer stepped over him. Brunetti and Griffoni gave their thanks to the woman and made their farewells. As they started to get into the car, Signora degli Specchi said, speaking to Griffoni, ‘You'll really come back, won't you?'

‘Is that her?' Griffoni asked, pointing to the horse the driver had been scratching. Brunetti looked over at the horse, who was looking back at them. She was thinner than in her photo, her coat less glossy: he supposed this made horses look older, but he wasn't sure.

‘Yes. Petunia.' As if to prove it, she called over to the horse, ‘Petunia, who's a pretty girl?'

The horse gave an answering whinny.

‘I'll be back,' Griffoni said and got into the car.

The return journey to Venice was subdued, but there was an atmosphere of satisfaction and complicity that made speech unnecessary. As they started across the bridge leading to Piazzale Roma, the driver said, ‘Petunia,' and laughed at the memory. Neither of the people in the back said anything; the car pulled up in front of the landing, where the driver had ordered a boat to pick them up.

Away from the freedom provided by a day in the country, back into routine, the driver came around to open Griffoni's door. As she got out, he raised a hand in what might have been a salute but might have been the friendly wave of one colleague to another.

She followed Brunetti down the steps and on to the police launch. When they were seated in the cabin, Brunetti said, ‘Do we bother to look for the people who were working there fifteen years ago?'

Her answer was immediate. ‘The fact that you didn't ask her for a list of names means you don't think it's worth it, I'd say,' but she said it with a smile, then asked, ‘What's left for us to do?'

‘Talk to the mother,' he said, already dialling the number the Contessa had given him.

‘
Pronto
,' a woman's voice answered on the seventh ring, sounding anything but pronto.

‘Signora ­Magello-­Ronchi?'

‘Sì,'
she answered, as if she found this an interesting question and might like to discuss it further.

‘This is Commissario Guido Brunetti,' he said. ‘I realize this must come as a surprise to you, but I've been asked by the Public Magistrate to examine the circumstances of your daughter's accident in case something was overlooked in the original handling of the event.' Brunetti decided that was sufficiently confusing to sound convin­cing. ‘And I wondered if you'd be kind enough to speak to me about it.'

He thought of the way, as a child, he'd dropped stones down the ­still-­uncovered wells in the city and waited to hear the answering splash, often long delayed. Finally it came. ‘Ah, yes, the accident.' A pause extended out from that last word, until she was back to ask, ‘What did you say your name was?'

‘Brunetti.'

‘The Public Magistrate, you say?'

‘Yes, Signora.'

‘Then I suppose I should talk to you?'

‘It would be a great kindness.'

She spent some time considering this before saying, ‘Then I suppose I must.'

‘Would it be convenient for us to come to see you now, by any chance?' he asked. ‘My colleague, Commissario Claudia Griffoni, is with me.'

‘A woman?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

‘In the police?'

‘Yes.'

‘How very interesting,' she said, then asked, ‘Where did you say you were?'

He looked out of the window of the launch and saw the familiar façade. ‘At Ca' d'Oro.'

‘Can you get to Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini from there?' she asked.

Entirely at a loss for words, Brunetti decided on a simple ‘Yes.'

‘Then why don't you come here? I never get to see anyone.'

‘We can be there in about fifteen minutes,' Brunetti said, knowing they could be there sooner, but not wanting to frighten her by appearing too eager.

‘Oh, fine. I'll expect you, then. It's just to the left of the church. Top floor.'

When the call was over, he turned to Griffoni and said, ‘She asked me if I could get to Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini from here.'

‘She's Venetian?'

‘Yes.'

Brunetti told himself, but did not say aloud, that Manuela might not be the only one who was brain damaged.

The pilot of the launch slowed down when Brunetti explained that they had fifteen minutes to get there, allowing them a slow passage up the Grand Canal: taxis passed them, a boat loaded with washing machines left them in its wake, until finally the pilot made a U-turn and went back to Rio delle Due Torri and proceeded slowly towards the Campo. While they moved, Brunetti used Google Earth to locate the house: he recognized it to the left of the church. How did tourists find things, with only street addresses to guide them? He didn't like this new age, much preferred having someone tell him the address he was looking for was the house with the new shutters to the right of the greengrocer opposite the flower shop that had the cacti in the window. Any Venetian would understand that.

The
campo
threw windows at them, as it always did: a Byzantine and a Gothic
quadrifora
competed with one another, and straight ahead two
pentafore
, one on top of the other, battled it out for public admiration. The lower, Gothic one always won Brunetti's vote, even if two of the windows were bricked up.

Just beyond the house was the church: poor little church, Brunetti always thought, to have such a lovely façade wasted in such a narrow
calle
. No one could stand back far enough to see it all from the proper perspective, but past builders knew nothing of zoning laws, and so it could be seen only from close up.

He found ‘
BMR
' on the top bell on the right and rang. After a full minute, he rang again, and this time the door snapped open.

The staircase was surprisingly grand for a house with such a modest exterior: low marble steps rubbed smooth by centuries of climbing and descending feet. The marble balustrade had been worn down by the hands that had sought its help. The walls were unplastered brick, completely free of adornment or decoration. What he was seeing was the ancient, barefaced Venice of working merchants who had no desire that their wealth be seen beyond their homes.

They continued to the top, where they saw an open door. Brunetti stopped in front of it and knocked a few times, calling out, ‘Signora? Signora?'

A tall young woman emerged from a room on the left side of the corridor, turned and came towards them. She had ­shoulder-­length dark hair, pulled back by pink barrettes on both sides. She wore a grey sweater, dark blue jeans, and red tennis shoes above which peeped pink socks.

Brunetti studied her face as she approached them and found the same perfections he'd seen in her photo, frozen into place as if carved on the face of a statue. Manuela – for this must be Manuela – approached them, her entire bearing showing confusion, though Brunetti wasn't sure what made him think that.

‘Are you the policemen?' she asked in a tentative voice. She managed to move her lips and tried to smile.

‘Yes, we are,' Brunetti said in as pleasant a voice as he could muster.

‘But you don't have uniforms. And she's not a man,' she said, pointing an agitated finger at Griffoni.

‘But I do work for the police,' Griffoni said calmly. ‘We're called policewomen, and we don't have to wear a uniform.' She produced a smile, warm and large enough for a person to plunge into.

Manuela nodded, but Brunetti wondered if her mental capacities had a category for policewomen.

She turned to Brunetti and pointed at him, but spoke to Griffoni. ‘He isn't wearing a uniform, either.'

‘He doesn't have to wear one,' Griffoni said smoothly. ‘We're bosses, and bosses don't have to wear them.'

‘But you can if you want?'

‘Of course.' Then, with real interest, Griffoni asked, ‘Do you think it would be better if we wore them?'

Manuela stopped to consider this. Brunetti watched her face as she tried to decide. First her lips tightened, and then her eyes. She brought her right hand to her forehead, the way a bad actor would, to show indecision. Then her face flushed, and her breathing quickened. A low humming noise came from her mouth.