Authors: Donna Leon
When at last he arrived at the door to his apartment, he paused, hoping that some remnant of humanity would be waiting for him inside. What if he came home to a son like Paolo? How to praise a son like that without having first created him? He opened the door and let himself into the apartment.
‘I will not buy you a
telefonino
because they create a race of spineless weaklings; it would make you even more dependent than you already are,’ he heard Paola say and rejoiced in the heartless rigour with which she denied her children their desires.
Her voice came from the direction of the kitchen, but Brunetti went, instead, down the hall towards Paola’s study. He knew that years of lying awake for the sound of the footsteps of returning children would alert her to his arrival,
so
he had no doubt that she would soon come and find him.
She did, and they talked. Rather, he talked and she listened. After a long time, when he had explained everything and named the choices open to him, he asked, ‘Well?’
‘The dead can’t suffer,’ was all she said, an answer that confused him at first.
Familiar with her habits of thought, he considered the remark for some time and finally asked, ‘And the living can?’
She nodded.
‘Filippi and his father,’ he said, then added, ‘who should. And Moro and his wife.’
‘And daughter, and mother,’ Paola added, ‘who shouldn’t.’
‘Is this a contest of numbers?’ he asked soberly.
She flicked this away with a quick motion of her hand. ‘No, no, not at all. But I think it matters, not only because of the number of people who will be affected but for the amount of good it would do.’
‘Neither choice will do anyone any good,’ he insisted.
‘Then which will do less harm?’
‘He’s dead,’ Brunetti said, ‘no matter what the official verdict is.’
‘This isn’t about the official verdict, Guido.’
‘Then what is it about?’
‘It’s about what you tell them.’ The way she spoke, she made it sound self-evident. He had shied away from accepting that, had almost
succeeded
in preventing himself from thinking about it, yet the instant the words fell from her lips, he realized that it was the only thing any of this was about.
‘You mean what Filippi did?’
‘A man has the right to know who killed his child.’
‘You make that sound so simple. Like something from the Bible.’
‘It’s not in the Bible, to the best of my knowledge. But it is simple. And true.’ Her tone was a stranger to uncertainty.
‘And what if he does something about it?’
‘Like what? kill Filippi? Or his father?’
Brunetti nodded.
‘From what I know of him and what you’ve said, I doubt that he’s the kind of man who would do something like that.’ Before he could say that one never knew, she said, ‘But you never know, do you?’
Once again, Brunetti had the strange sensation of being adrift in time. He looked at his watch and was stunned to see that it was almost ten. ‘Have the kids eaten?’
‘I sent them out to get a pizza when I heard you come in.’
He had gradually, as he told her the story of his meeting with the Filippis and their lawyer, sunk lower and lower on the sofa until he was now lying with his head on a pillow. ‘I think I’m hungry,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Paola agreed. ‘Me, too. Stay here for a while and I’ll make some pasta.’ She got to her
feet
and went to the door. ‘What will you do?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have to speak to him,’ Brunetti said.
He did so the next day, at four in the afternoon, a time chosen by Dottor Moro, who had insisted on coming to the Questura rather than have Brunetti come to his home. The doctor was on time to the minute, and Brunetti stood up when a uniformed officer ushered him into his office. Brunetti came around his desk and extended his hand. They exchanged strained courtesies and then, as soon as he was seated, Moro asked, ‘What is it you want, Commissario?’ His voice was level and calm, devoid of curiosity or, for that fact, interest. Events had washed him clean of such things.
Brunetti, who had retreated behind his desk more out of habit than choice, began by saying, ‘There are some things I think you should know, Dottore.’ He paused, waiting for the doctor to respond, perhaps with sarcasm, perhaps with anger. But Moro said nothing.
‘There are certain facts regarding the death of your son that I think …’ Brunetti began, then flailed to a stop. He looked at the wall behind Moro’s head, then began again. ‘That is, I’ve learned some things and want you to know them.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they might help you decide.’
‘Decide what?’ Moro asked tiredly.
‘How to proceed.’
Moro shifted to one side in the chair and crossed his legs. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Commissario. I don’t think there are any decisions I can make, not now.’
‘About your son, I think.’
Brunetti saw something flash into Moro’s eyes.
‘No decision can affect my son,’ he said, making no attempt to disguise his anger. And then, to hammer the message home, he added, ‘He’s dead.’
Brunetti felt the moral heat of what Moro had just said sweep over him. Again, he looked away, then back at the doctor, and again he spoke. ‘I’ve come into the possession of new information, and I think you should be aware of what it is.’ Without giving Moro a chance to comment, he went on. ‘Paolo Filippi, who is a student at the Academy, maintains that your son died by accident and that, to avoid embarrassment for him, and for you, he arranged it to look like suicide.’
Brunetti waited for Moro to ask if that would not also be an embarrassment, but instead the doctor said, ‘Nothing my boy did would embarrass me.’
‘He maintains your son died as the result of homosexual activity.’ Brunetti waited for the other man to respond.
‘Even though I’m a doctor,’ Moro said, ‘I have no idea of what that can mean.’
‘That your son died in an attempt to increase his sexual excitement by near-strangulation.’
‘Autoerotic asphyxiation,’ Moro said with clinical detachment.
Brunetti nodded.
‘Why should that embarrass me?’ the doctor said calmly.
After a long silence, Brunetti realized that Moro was not going to prompt him, so he said, ‘I don’t think what he told me is true. I think he killed your son because his father had persuaded him that Ernesto was a spy or a traitor of some sort. It was his influence, perhaps even his encouragement, that led the boy to do what he did.’
Still Moro said nothing, though his eyes had widened in surprise.
In the face of the other man’s silence, the best Brunetti could do was say, ‘I wanted you to know what story Filippi will give if we pursue the case.’
‘And what is this decision you’ve called me in here to make, Commissario?’
‘Whether you want us to bring a charge of involuntary manslaughter against Filippi.’
Moro studied Brunetti’s face for some time before he said, ‘If you think he killed Ernesto, Commissario, then involuntary manslaughter is not much of a charge, is it?’ Before Brunetti could reply, Moro added, ‘Besides, this should be your decision, Commissario. Not mine.’ His voice was as cool as his expression.
‘I wanted to give you the choice,’ Brunetti said in what he thought was a calm voice.
‘So you wouldn’t have to decide?’
Brunetti bowed his head but turned the motion into a nod. ‘In part, yes, but it’s also for you and your family.’
‘To spare us embarrassment?’ Moro asked with heavy emphasis on the last word.
‘No,’ Brunetti asked, worn down by Moro’s contempt. ‘To spare you danger.’
‘What danger?’ Moro asked, as though he were really curious.
‘The danger that would come to all of you if this went to trial.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Because the report you suppressed would have to be produced as evidence, or at least you would have to testify as to its existence and contents. To justify Filippi’s behaviour and his father’s anger. Or fear, or whatever it was.’
Moro put a hand to his forehead in what seemed to Brunetti an artificial gesture. ‘My report?’ he finally asked.
‘Yes. About military procurement.’
Moro took his hand away. ‘There is no report, Commissario. At least not about the Army or procurement or whatever it is they’re afraid I’ve done. I abandoned that when they shot my wife.’
Brunetti was amazed to hear Moro speak so calmly, as though it were a truth universally acknowledged that his wife had been shot deliberately.
The doctor went on. ‘I started doing research on their spending and where the money went as soon as I was appointed to the committee. It was
obvious
where all the money was going; their arrogance makes them very sloppy bookkeepers, so their trail was very easy to follow, even for a doctor. But then they shot my wife.’
‘You say that as though there’s no question,’ Brunetti said.
Moro looked across at him and said in a cold voice, ‘There’s no question. I was called even before she reached the hospital. And so I agreed to abandon my research. The suggestion was made at the time that I retire from politics. And I did. I obeyed them, Commissario.’
‘You knew they shot her?’ Brunetti asked, though he had no idea who ‘they’ were, at least no idea so clear that a specific name could be attached.
‘Of course,’ Moro said, his voice slipping back towards sarcasm. ‘I’d done at least that much research.’
‘But then why arrange the separation from your wife?’ Brunetti asked.
‘To be sure they left her alone.’
‘And your daughter?’ Brunetti asked with sudden curiosity.
‘In a safe place,’ was the only answer Moro was willing to provide.
‘Then why put your son there, at the Academy?’ Brunetti asked, but as he did it came to him that perhaps Moro had thought it would be best to hide the boy in plain sight. The people who shot his wife might think twice about creating bad publicity for the Academy; or perhaps he had hoped to fool them.
Moro’s face moved in something that might once have been a smile. ‘Because I couldn’t stop him, Commissario. It was the greatest failure of my life that Ernesto wanted to be a soldier. But that’s all he ever wanted to be, ever since he was a little boy. And nothing I could ever do or say could change it.’
‘But why would they kill him?’ Brunetti asked.
When Moro eventually spoke, Brunetti had the sense that he was relieved, at long last, to be able to talk about this. ‘Because they are stupid and didn’t believe that it was so easy to stop me. That I was a coward and wouldn’t oppose them.’ He sat thinking for a long time and added, ‘Or perhaps Ernesto was less of a coward than I am. He knew I had once planned to write a report, and perhaps he threatened them with it.’
Though his office was cool, Brunetti saw that sweat stood on Moro’s brow and was slowly sliding down his chin. Moro wiped at it with the back of his hand. Then he said, ‘I’ll never know.’
The two men sat for a long time, the only motion Moro’s occasional attempt to wipe the sweat from his face. When, finally, his face was dry again, Brunetti asked, ‘What do you want me to do, Dottore?’
Moro raised his head and looked at Brunetti with eyes that had grown even sadder in the last half-hour. ‘You want me to make the decision for you?’
‘No. Not really. Or not only. To make it for yourself. And for your family.’
‘You’ll do whatever I say?’ Moro asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Regardless of the law or justice?’ Moro’s emphasis, a very unkind emphasis, was on the last word.
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Don’t you care about justice?’ Moro’s anger was undisguised now.
Brunetti had no taste for this, not any longer. ‘There’s no justice here, Dottore,’ he said, frightened to realize that he meant not only for this man and his family, but for this city, and this country, and their lives.
‘Then let it be,’ Moro said, exhausted. ‘Let him be.’
Everything that was decent in Brunetti urged him to say something that would comfort this man, but the words, though summoned, failed to come. He thought of Moro’s daughter and then of his own. He thought of his own son, of Filippi’s son, and of Moro’s, and then the words came: ‘Poor boy.’
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Copyright © Donna Leon and Diogenes Verlag AG, Zurich, 2003
Donna Leon has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First published in Great Britain in 2003 by William Heinemann
First published in paperback in 2004 by Arrow Books
This edition published in 2009 by Arrow Books
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ISBN 9780099536659