Unto Us a Son Is Given Read online

  Brunetti vaguely remembered the case and knew there had been no mention of Gonzalo, either in the newspapers or in anything official he’d ever read about the case.

  ‘How did he manage to stay out of it?’ he asked.

  Il Conte gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘I don’t know. But it’s not hard to imagine, is it?’

  No, not really, not for a man as well connected and wealthy as Gonzalo, Brunetti thought but did not say. One of the rules of his profession was never to reveal information to those with no official reason to know it. ‘We’ve never had a request – not from Rome or anywhere else – to keep an eye on Gonzalo. So whoever took care of him there did a good job.’

  Il Conte picked up the bottle. Brunetti shook his head and put his hand over the top of his glass. Il Conte replaced the bottle and said, ‘I want to protect him from a similar mistake.’ Then, before Brunetti could ask, he said, ‘Yes, and I’m asking you to do it for me.’

  3

  To stop the silence that expanded out after il Conte’s last remark, Brunetti asked, ‘Have any of your other friends said anything about him?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘What does “really” mean?’

  The question surprised the older man. ‘No one’s said anything to me about Gonzalo for some time. So far as I know, Lodo’s the only one he’s spoken to.’

  ‘Would his family know anything?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Elena’s the only one I could ask, and I’d rather not.’

  ‘Why not the others?’

  ‘They’re a family that’s grown very rich,’ il Conte said. ‘People like them don’t like trouble.’

  Brunetti restrained the impulse to say that all families didn’t like trouble. ‘Conservative?’

  Il Conte gave a sudden snort of laughter. ‘Gonzalo told me once his parents were worried I’d corrupt him.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ was the best Brunetti could think of to say.

  ‘Politically,’ il Conte clarified. ‘They’d heard rumours that neither my grandfather nor my father had been a Fascist.’

  Brunetti lacked the courage to ask if that was true.

  ‘A few years after I was born, but before the war, my grandfather realized what was going to happen, so he had my father declared insane,’ il Conte began, speaking easily, as if it were the most normal thing for a parent to do. ‘He took us all to live in the villa in Vittorio Veneto,’ he continued, opening up an entire volume of Falier family history about which Paola had never spoken.

  ‘That way, with the suspicion that it might be a family trait, there was no more pressure on them to join. Nor for my father to fight. My grandfather was too old, my father was a declared lunatic, and I was still a boy.’ He considered that list and then said, ‘So we stayed there and were forgotten about, all three generations.’

  ‘Your father? What happened to him?’

  ‘He learned how much work it was to farm and take care of the land.’

  ‘Did all of you stay there until the end of the war?’

  ‘That was my grandfather’s plan, but my father had other ideas.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Brunetti, intrigued.

  ‘He wanted to join the partisans,’ il Conte said. ‘I think he wanted to be a hero.’

  ‘Ah,’ Brunetti murmured.

  Il Conte smiled. ‘We surrendered to the Allies in ‘43, and my grandfather asked him to wait until things became clear before he did anything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Probably because he was older and wiser and had fought in the last war and seen how people behaved.’

  ‘Did your father agree?’

  Il Conte nodded. ‘Soon after the surrender, the partisans started to come to the farm to demand the animals that hadn’t been taken up into the hills. The workers had hidden most of the grain and corn and cheese, thank God, so there was something for us to eat.’ He broke into a sudden smile and said, ‘There was one old peasant woman – she must have been ninety – who refused to let any of them into her house. She had chickens in the attic: you could hear them from outside, but the partisans were afraid of her, so they left her alone.’ Voice sobering, he added, ‘The Germans came a year later. They took the chickens.’

  To put an end to this talk of the past, il Conte said, ‘Gonzalo’s parents would not have approved of what my grandfather did.’

  ‘Do you?’ Brunetti surprised himself by asking.

  ‘Absolutely,’ il Conte said with no hesitation. ‘He saw to it that his son wasn’t forced to join the army and be sent off to fight in Russia or Albania or Greece or Libya. And saved his life.’ After a protracted pause when he seemed to disappear into those long-gone years, he said, ‘My grandfather was right: people behaved badly.’

  ‘You were still a little boy then. How did you learn about what happened?’

  ‘The people who run the farm now told me they grew up hearing stories from their parents and grandparents. Over the years, they’ve told them to me.’ Before Brunetti could ask, il Conte said, ‘Yes, that’s one of the reasons I can’t bring myself to sell the villa.’ Straightening himself in his chair, he added, ‘Besides, it’s the first place I remember, so I suppose it’s a case of imprinting: it’s home to me.’

  ‘And this isn’t?’ Brunetti asked, waving his hand at the wall, the beams in the ceiling, the view through the windows to the palazzi on the other side of the Canal Grande.

  The older man’s face softened; he turned his eyes to follow Brunetti’s glance to the other side of the canal. ‘In a different way, it is,’ he said. After a long silence, he went on. ‘Doesn’t Saint Paul say something about having been a child and thinking like one? But now he is a man and has to put away childish things?’

  Brunetti knew the lines, but had forgotten the source.

  ‘So the villa is my childhood. But all this,’ il Conte said, repeating Brunetti’s inclusive gesture, ‘is what came to me as a man.’

  Brunetti stiffened with something approaching fear. Please don’t let him start banging on about how it will all pass to Paola one day, and then to Raffi and Chiara, he thought. I don’t want this to become a talk about the weight of centuries that is about to fall on our shoulders, the need to set an example to the hungry peasants and to treat them well. I don’t want to be reminded that I will not be the one to assure the future of my children, but that it will be this man and their mother.

  ‘Guido?’

  Brunetti looked towards il Conte and saw real concern on his face.

  He put on a smile and said, ‘Sorry, Orazio. I was thinking about something else.’ Then, realizing that his question would be the first step, he asked, ‘Will you tell me the young man’s name?’

  Il Conte pulled his lips together into a grimace of resignation. He finally said, strangely serious, ‘You have to promise not to laugh.’

  Struck by the thought of the possibilities that request suggested, Brunetti said, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Attilio Circetti, Marchese di Torrebardo.’

  His promise not to laugh had been wise because the name struck Brunetti as faintly risible, as did so many of the noble names he’d heard and read during his lifetime. Willing himself to overcome prejudice, he told himself that Attilio could easily turn out to be a modest and unassuming young man.

  ‘You think he’s the one?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably. He’s been living in Venice for two years,’ il Conte said.

  ‘Do you know anything for certain about him?’ Brunetti inquired mildly.

  ‘Very little. For certain, that is.’ Brunetti remained mute, forcing il Conte to continue. ‘I told you I don’t like gossip. But I hear a great deal of it. Because people know I’m Gonzalo’s friend, they might moderate what they say about him.’

  ‘About Gonzalo?’

  ‘No, about this other man.’

  ‘What little have you heard?’

  ‘That he’s often seen with Gonzalo, and that Gonzalo is very fond of him. There is often a su
btext, about how very clever he is and how charming. No one seems quite sure what his profession is, or even if he has one. He’s seen at dinners and parties everywhere, but no one seems to know much about him.’

  Brunetti’s experience suggested that this was a common type in certain circles of the city: the perfect man to invite to dinner if the number of gentlemen needed to be evened up. Discreet, affable, well-mannered, somehow familiar with almost everyone in the room, he could talk about most subjects and claim acquaintance with scores of Venetians. And yet, and yet, one never found out just what it was he did or exactly where his family lived, and he had a knack of making it seem rude to ask him.

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘I’ve been at two dinners where he was present, but I had no chance to speak to him,’ il Conte explained.

  ‘Is there other gossip?’

  Il Conte shook his head. ‘Nothing outright or clear. But there is a certain tone – more an undertone – when his name is mentioned.’ That said, he looked at Brunetti, who nodded. In a closing cadence, il Conte said, ‘I can’t tell you more than that, Guido.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, until il Conte said, ‘There’s one more thing.’

  Brunetti showed his curiosity by raising his chin.

  ‘I saw them on the street, about a year ago. Calle de la Mandola.’ He paused but, spurred by Brunetti’s silence, quickly resumed. ‘They were behaving in a way I thought … Well, I thought it was unsuitable for Calle de la Mandola at two in the afternoon.’ Then, by force of will, il Conte added, ‘I said something about it the next time I saw Gonzalo.’

  ‘You told him that?’

  ‘Well, something like that.’ Il Conte, like his daughter, had a memory that retained everything: he would remember exactly what he’d said.

  ‘How did he respond?’

  ‘He put his napkin beside his plate, got to his feet, and left.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  Il Conte looked out the window, but the palazzo across the way had nothing to tell him. ‘No.’

  ‘And since then, silence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Brunetti got to his feet and walked over to the window. He had already been with his father-in-law more than an hour and was eager to leave and go home. There were many reasons he could give to refuse the request: it was improper use of police resources; he was too busy with other cases. He knew, however, that the reason was entirely other: he didn’t want to be part of this, didn’t want to put his nose into Gonzalo’s private life.

  He thought of going home and talking to Paola about it, but he didn’t want her to be caught between her father and her husband, nor did he want to tell her the investigation concerned her godfather.

  The boats went by; he could hear them because the palazzo, as part of the artistic patrimony of the city, could not have double-glazed windows, so the sounds of the motors and the horns, as well as the occasional siren, were a normal backdrop to all conversation in the front rooms. The rooms in the back were darker and quieter.

  A taxi roared towards San Marco, wildly in excess of the speed limit, but there was nothing to be done about that. It occurred to Brunetti that there was nothing to be done about most things in the city.

  ‘There’s one thing I’d like you to do for me,’ il Conte interrupted his musings by saying.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Lodo’s giving a dinner tomorrow evening. I’d like you to go, you and Paola. I’ve spoken to Lodo, and you’re both invited.’

  Only by a hair’s breadth did Brunetti restrain himself from asking, ‘To spy?’ Instead, he asked, ‘Will Gonzalo be there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With this young man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Orazio, but I’d rather not do this.’

  Il Conte sighed, then said, ‘I thought that would be your reaction, but I wanted to ask you, anyway.’ Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added, ‘The dinner’s different. I want you to see them together and then decide if it’s worth trying to reason with …’ He let his voice wander away.

  Brunetti wondered if this was some sort of test of family loyalty. Would his father-in-law tell Paola how he had let the team down? Would this mark some change in his not-easily-achieved friendship with il Conte?

  The older man pushed himself to his feet and paused to shake one leg of his trousers down into place. He came over to Brunetti and joined him in looking at the traffic on the canal. Finally he said, ‘As more time passes, so much about this city seems stranger and stranger. Opposite us, there’s a palazzo that was built in the fifteenth century and still has the same columns and windows. A bit farther up that side, there’s a palazzo where Henry James wrote The Aspern Papers and that my daughter treats as though it were therefore the Holy Sepulchre. And I’ve just asked someone I love to spy on someone else I love.’

  The last words battered at Brunetti’s heart, robbing him of the power of speech. He reached out his right arm and embraced the shoulders of the man beside him. The frailty of those shoulders shocked him and stopped him from trying to pull il Conte nearer to him. He bent and kissed the older man on the temple and said, ‘I’ll give your love to Paola and the kids.’

  ‘Thank you, Guido,’ il Conte said, his attention directed rigidly at the boats below them.

  Brunetti turned away and left his father-in-law there, watching the past.

  4

  Brunetti walked home quickly, paying almost no attention to what or whom he passed, deaf to the sound of the returning birds, the only tourists no one resented. He failed, however, to keep from thinking about what had just happened. Over the years, il Conte had treated him with, first, civility and respect and then with growing affection, and finally with the love the older man extended to his closest friends and to his family. For decades, Conte Falier had been generous with his time and, equally important, with his connections to provide Brunetti with information that made straight his professional path through complicated investigations involving politicians and those who sat in positions of power. Il Conte had access to many of them and had never hesitated to make a phone call or to introduce Brunetti to a person in possession of information that might prove useful to him. Nor had he balked at the need to apply pressure to a reluctant acquaintance to reveal to Brunetti facts concerning an event in his – or her – past that might lead to embarrassing consequences were it to become common knowledge. All this, and more, Brunetti had sought, and found, under the protective wings of this man’s power.

  When he reached the second floor of their building, Brunetti’s heart was pounding, his breath coming in ever-shortening gasps. On the landing in front of the Lambrinis’ door, he stopped, pulled out his telefonino, and punched in il Conte’s number.

  Il Conte answered after only two rings. ‘Yes, Guido?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll have a look,’ Brunetti said. ‘And we’ll go to the dinner.’

  There was a long silence, and then il Conte said, ‘Thank you.’ The silence returned and extended, then Brunetti heard him say, in English, using a phrase he had hitherto heard him use only when addressing Raffi, his grandson, the hope of the family, the light of his eyes, ‘Dear boy.’

  By the time Brunetti reached their landing and put his key in the lock, his heart had returned to its normal beat, his breath to its normal rhythm. What was it Paola always said? ‘Love trumps principle?’ Yes. Well, perhaps.

  He let himself in, hung his jacket beside the door, only then registering how much its weight and warmth irritated him. He walked over to the terrace and looked through the glass doors. The tiles had been swept and washed, and two of the chairs put back in place, though not the table. He heard the chirping of birds. Joy leaped at him: it was springtime again, the birds were back. He was at peace with his father-in-law and had saved himself from behaving like an ungrateful lout. He wished it were still daylight so that he could step outside and take off his shirt and tie and let the sun fall on his che
st.

  He heard footsteps coming from the kitchen and turned to see his wife approaching. In that instant, he wanted to take some sort of emotional photograph so that he could, some time in the future when things were different, pull it out of his memory and look at it and say, ‘I’ve lived a happy life.’

  ‘Ah, you’re home early,’ Paola said, her delight evident.

  ‘Let’s sit on the terrace,’ he suggested, not caring that it was almost dark. He wanted to see if the day’s softness still lingered.

  They did just that, sat side by side, so close their thighs touched, listening to the birds across the way perhaps discussing where to build their nest this year, or perhaps bickering over a worm: it was hard for Brunetti to judge. Lights had been turned on in the windows below and beyond them, although enough light still came from the west to reflect from the rooftops and bell towers.

  Slowly, he told Paola about his conversation with her father, about his first response and his second, saying nothing about why he had revised his decision and then telling her about the dinner.

  ‘Poor Gonzalo,’ Paola said when he was finished. She reached out and took his hand. ‘He was so happy with Rudy, wasn’t he?’ she asked, naming Gonzalo’s former partner, Rudy Adler, who had left him four years before and moved to London, and since then had been heard of or seen only infrequently by people in the city. ‘He hasn’t been the same since he told him.’

  ‘Who? What?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Since Rudy told him he’d found someone new and said he was leaving.’

  Brunetti allowed a long time to pass before he said, ‘I didn’t know that was why.’ He thought about Rudy’s humour and gentleness of spirit but found only cliché: ‘I’m sorry.’

  Paola gave his hand a squeeze and released it to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘I didn’t know, either, not until I saw Rudy in London last year and he told me.’

  After saying that, she pushed herself up from her chair and tried to look down into the courtyard opposite, from which loud screeches were now audible. ‘What in God’s name are they doing?’ she demanded of no one in particular and walked to the end of the terrace, where there was a better view.