The Girl of his Dreams Read online

  'Berlin?' Brunetti asked.

  'From the notes the Vice-Questore has given me for his report to the Questore about the conference, I am led to that conclusion.'

  '"Multi-cultural sensitivity"?'

  'Indeed.'

  'Does that have a meaning in Italian?' Brunetti enquired.

  She reached absently for a pencil, which she held by the tip, tapping the eraser against a sheet of paper on her desk. 'From the notes he gave me, I suspect it means that there will be some new directives issued concerning the behaviour of officers in situations involving extra-comunitari.'

  'All foreigners or just extra-comunitari?' Brunetti asked. 'No, not Europeans or Americans, sir. I think the expressions formerly used were "Third World", or poor .

  'Now replaced by "extracomunitari"

  'Exactly.'

  ‘I see,' Brunetti said, wondering if the piece of paper beneath the eraser was part of Patta's report. 'Is there a precise form that this sensitivity is meant to take?'

  'I think it concerns the way the arresting officer is supposed to speak to the person he's arresting, sir’ she said blandly.

  'Ah’ Brunetti returned, his question disguised as a noise.

  'It seems the current philosophy’ she began, placing an unduly heavy emphasis on that word, as if she were posting it on a wall, the better to take a few shots at it, 'is that the members of minority groups are the victims of a stance of -' She broke off and pulled the sheet of paper forward. 'Ah yes, here it is’ she continued, using the eraser to point at the centre of the page. "'... a stance of undue verbal aggression on the part of the arresting officers’" she finished.

  'What's a verbal stance?' Brunetti asked.

  'Well might you ask, sir’ she said then leaned forward to consult the paper again. "'The damage caused by the memory of suppression is such that even those who have no active memory of that suppression carry the damage of such treatment in their psychic vocabulary, and thus any reintroduction of oppressive behaviour is bound to damage their sense of self-worth, especially in cases where that self-worth is tied to tribal, religious, racial, or cultural traditions.'"

  She glanced up. 'Shall I go on, sir?'

  'If you think there's any sense in it, please do,' Brunetti said.

  'I'm not sure that there is, but there's at least one paragraph you might find interesting.'

  'I am attention itself’ Brunetti said.

  She lifted the page aside and ran the eraser down the one below it. 'Ah, yes’ she said. "'Because of the ongoing ethnic and cultural enrichment of our society, it is now doubly important that the forces of order accept with tolerance and patience the cultural diversity of our newest residents. Only by a policy of broadminded acceptance of cultural multiplicity can we demonstrate the sincerity of our willingness to welcome those who have chosen to seek their future among us.'" She looked up and smiled.

  'Are you able to translate that?' he asked.

  'Well’ she began, 'I've seen all of his notes, so I know how it continues. But I think what it really means is that it's soon going to become even more difficult to arrest extra-comunitari.'

  The frankness and clarity of her explanation, two qualities absent from most of the documents that crossed Brunetti's desk, momentarily stunned him. ‘I see’ he said. ‘Is he in?' he asked, nodding towards Patta's office, though it was, given her recent phone call, hardly necessary to enquire.

  'In and waiting,' Signorina Elettra answered, giving no sign of contrition that she had delayed Brunetti from answering his superior's summons.

  Brunetti knocked on the door and entered at the sound of Patta's voice. The Vice-Questore sat behind his desk, his pose so monumental that he seemed to have been sculpted there. 'Ah, good morning, Commissario’ Patta said. 'Please, have a seat.'

  Seeing that there were some papers in front of Patta, Brunetti chose the chair closest to his desk. Patta had addressed him by his rank: this could be a good thing because of its suggestion of respect; it could just as easily be a bad thing because of its implication of inferior position. Patta's expression seemed cordial enough, though from past experience Brunetti knew this was meaningless: vipers liked to bask on rocks in the sunshine, did they not?

  'Did you have a profitable time at the conference, Dottore?' Brunetti asked.

  'Ah, yes, Brunetti,' Patta said, sitting back in his chair and extending his legs to cross his ankles. 'Yes, I did. It's a good thing to get out of the office every so often and get in touch with our colleagues from other countries. Get an idea of how they look at things, what their problems are.'

  'Were there many interesting presentations?' Brunetti asked, for want of anything else to say.

  'It's not the presentations where you learn things, Brunetti: it's from talking to your colleagues in private, listening to what they have to say about what's actually happening in their countries, on the streets’ This said, Patta appeared to grow even more expansive. 'That's how you learn what's going on. Networking, Brunetti: that's the secret. Networking.'

  Brunetti knew that Patta spoke Italian and a particularly impenetrable Palermitano dialect; after that he had a smattering of English words, as well as the odd French phrase, especially those related to food. Beyond that, however, Brunetti was at a loss to understand in what language his superior's networking might have been conducted.

  'Indeed, sir. I understand’ Brunetti answered, curious to see where Patta's amiability was going to lead. In the past, it had usually led to ambitious new projects that would produce statistical evidence of increased efficiency on the part of the police.

  ‘I don't have to remind you’ Patta said, his voice leaking affability, 'how important it is that we expand our concern with sectoral issues here.' Brunetti's sensors began to quiver at the sound of 'sectoral issues', which Patta pronounced in something resembling English. 'We need an innovative approach to issues of acculturation, and we have to develop a hands-on methodology that will allow us to implement effective methods of taking our message to the broader community.'

  Brunetti nodded and then took his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, a gesture he had observed actors use in films when they wanted to give evidence of deep thought. The gesture, however, seemed not to suffice, for Patta kept his eyes pn him and did not resume speaking. Brunetti measured out a very thoughtful, 'Uh-huh.'

  This apparently was enough. 'In order to implement this, I'm going to establish a task force to deal with these issues’ Patta declared.

  It was natural enough for Brunetti to leap from films to books: he found himself recalling one of the final scenes in 1984, where Winston Smith screams, in order to spare himself from the final horror, 'Do it to Julia, do it to Julia!' At the thought of being named for this task force, Brunetti too would have fallen to his knees and pleaded, 'Do it to Vianello, do it to Vianello’ had Patta not resumed. 'In this case, I think it's necessary for us to respond in a truly innovative fashion, and so I've decided to appoint someone from the ranks to head this new unit. We need a man who has been on the force for some time and who best represents the city.' Brunetti nodded in full agreement.

  'Alvise’ the Vice-Questore proceeded, gazing off at the middle distance, as if seeing the realization of this innovative project, 'fills both of these requirements’ Patta brought his gaze back to Brunetti, who had by then managed to wipe all trace of astonishment from his face. 'As I'm sure you agree, Commissario’

  'Indeed, he does,' Brunetti said, making no reference to intelligence, nor yet to common sense.

  'Good’ Patta said with what sounded like real satisfaction, I'm glad to hear you agree with me.' So pleased was the Vice-Questore with Brunetti's apparent assent that he failed to add the 'for once’ which Brunetti expected.

  'It will, of course, require that Officer Alvise be relieved of his normal duties’ Patta went on, then asked, in a rare moment of camaraderie, 'Do you think he'll need a separate office?'

  Brunetti tried to give the appearance of thought, then replied,
'No, Vice-Questore. I think Officer Alvise would prefer to remain with his colleagues.' As if the Vice-Questore was sure to agree, Brunetti added, 'That way, he can profit from their input.'

  'I'd thought of that, of course. He's a team player, Alvise, isn't he?' Patta asked.

  Brunetti said, 'Yes, he is’ trying to work out where on earth Patta could possibly have got Alvise's name. Why, of all the officers at the Questura, would he have chosen Alvise for this job? Indeed, for any job?

  'Has he come highly recommended?' Brunetti asked with real curiosity.

  'Yes’ Patta answered. 'The Lieutenant - who will be his overseeing officer in this - thought he would be the ideal choice.'

  The mention of Lieutenant Scarpa - for Patta would speak of no other lieutenant with the same easy familiarity - made Brunetti instantly wonder why the Lieutenant wanted to be in command of a dunce like Alvise, but then he realized he had no idea what the project was or, indeed, whether its failure might be the Lieutenant's objective. 'Will the task force be a European project?' he asked.

  'Of course,' Patta said. "These are expansive ideas, expansive projects. It's time this sleepy city joined the rest of Europe, don't you think?'

  'Without question,' Brunetti answered with his best smile, remembering a poet who had once said that it was a good thing the causeway existed, or Europe would have been isolated. 'So the funding will be European?' he asked.

  'Yes,' Patta said, not without pride. 'It was one of the prizes I was able to bring home from the conference.' He glanced across at Brunetti, eager for his approval.

  This time Brunetti's smile was a real one, the sort that comes with having solved a problem. European money, governmental funds, the golden shower from the coffers of a generous and prodigiously uninterested Brussels, the careless largesse of bureaucrats.

  'How very clever,' Brunetti said, in acknowledgement of the Lieutenant's skill. 'And I've no doubt Alvise will turn out to have been the perfect choice.'

  Patta's smile, if possible, broadened. 'I'll be sure to tell the Lieutenant you said that,' the Vice-Questore said.

  Brunetti's smile could not have been more gracious had it been genuine.

  12

  Signorina Elettra's consternation, when she heard of Alvise's appointment, was complete; her reaction proved to be the common one as the news spread through the Questura during the next few days. Alvise to head a task force, Alvise to head a task force: those who heard it were as compelled to repeat it as was the boy who first learned that Midas had ass's ears. Yet by the end of the following week, no news was forthcoming about the precise duties, indeed the precise nature, of the task force: the staff stood breathless as Alvise took his first tentative steps up the ladder of success.

  Alvise was frequently seen in the company of Lieutenant Scarpa, and he was overheard using the familiar tu with his superior, a liberty none of the other members of the uniformed branch was permitted, or would much want. Strangely, the usually verbose Alvise was reticent about his new duties and unwilling - or unable - to

  discuss the nature or purpose of the task force. He and Scarpa spent a great deal of time in the Lieutenant's tiny private office, where they were observed going over papers, often while the Lieutenant spoke on his telefonino. Reticence or discretion were two words not habitually associated with Alvise, and yet they soon came to characterize his behaviour.

  Novelty could never long survive at the Questura, and within days most people returned to the habit of paying no attention to Alvise and what he did. Brunetti, however, was tantalized by the thought of that money from Brussels and curious about where it would end up. He did not for a moment - given Scarpa's supervision of the project - doubt that it would be the Lieutenant who decided its destination: he wondered only to whom and for what declared purpose the money would be allocated.

  Berlin seemed to have unplugged something in Patta, for memos, reminders, notes, and suggestions flowed from his office. His requests for statistical information regarding crime and those accused of it created entire new waves of reports: because Patta was a man of the old school, none of this was done by email, and so tides of papers ebbed up and down the stairs and into and out of the offices of the Questura. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the tide of words retreated and things went back to normal, though Alvise remained singled out, in charge of his one-man task force.

  During this time, Brunetti became complicit in his own forgetting of Don Antonin's request. Indeed, he and Paola had dinner with her parents one evening, the older couple about to leave for Palermo, and Brunetti refrained from asking the Contessa if she had learned anything. Nor did she volunteer any information.

  The morning after that dinner, Brunetti arrived at the Questura at eight-thirty. It was a rainy Thursday morning. Before he could enter, Vianello hurried out the front door, still pulling on his jacket. 'What is it?' Brunetti asked.

  ‘I don't know,' the Inspector answered, grabbing him by the arm and turning him around to face the dock, where the pilot Foa stood on the deck of a police launch, unwrapping the mooring line. He raised his hand to his cap when he saw Brunetti but spoke to Vianello. 'Where to, Lorenzo?'

  'Up near Palazzo Benzon,' Vianello answered.

  The pilot put out a hand and helped them both on board, then turned to the wheel and pulled the boat away from the dock. At the Bacino, he pulled to the right, but by that time Brunetti and Vianello had moved down into the cabin to avoid the rain.

  'What is it?' Brunetti asked, voice tight with the nervousness that radiated from the other man.

  'Someone saw a body in the water.'

  'Up there?'

  'Yes.'

  'What happened?'

  ‘I don't know. We got the call a few minutes ago. A man on the Number One, as it was leaving Sant'Angelo. He was standing outside, and just before they got to Palazzo Volpi, he saw something in the water near the steps. He said it looked like a body’

  'And he called here?'

  'No, he called 911, but the Carabinieri don't have a boat free, so they called us.' 'Did anyone else see it?'

  Vianello looked out of the windows on his side; the rain was falling harder now, and a wind from the north was driving it against the windows. 'He was outside, he said’ Few people, he didn't bother to add, would choose to stand outside on a morning like this.

  'I see,' Brunetti said. 'The Carabinieri?'

  'They'll send a boat as soon as they have one free.'

  Brunetti, suddenly unwilling to stay inside, got to his feet, pushed open the door, and stood on the first step, still at least partially protected from the rain. They passed Palazzo Mocenigo, then the imbarcadero of Sant'Angelo, and then they came abreast of the stairs running down into the water to the left of Palazzo Benzon.

  It occurred to Brunetti that it might be better to stop the engine, but before he could say anything, Foa cut it and they continued to drift towards the stairs. The silence lasted only a few seconds before Foa started the engine and slipped it into reverse, slowing them, and then coming to a dead stop a few metres from the steps that led up to the pavement.

  The pilot moved to the side of the boat and leaned forward. After some time, he raised his arm and indicated the surface of the water. Brunetti, followed closely by Vianello, moved out into the rain. They joined Foa at the side, looking where he pointed.

  Something messy and light, swirling like seaweed, floated in the water about a metre to the left of the steps. The rain splashing on the surface of the water disguised it, whatever it was. A plastic bag? A newspaper? Then, not far from it, something else. A foot.

  They saw the foot, small, and, above it, an ankle.

  'Take me down to Calle Traghetto’ Brunetti told the pilot, 'and I'll come back.'

  Silently, the pilot backed away from the stairs, out into the canal, then pulled in at the bottom of the stairs at the end of the next calk. The tide was low, and the two steps up to the pavement were covered with seaweed. Brunetti had the choice of trying to leap to the p
avement, though that was slick with rain, or of holding on to Vianello's arm and stepping down on to the seaweed-covered surface of the step. He made the second choice, felt a moment's panic as his right foot slid away from him as it touched the surface, banging into the back of the stair. He lurched forward, but Vianello grabbed his arm and stopped him from falling into the water. Brunetti tried to brace himself with his free hand, but it slithered through the seaweed and hit the back of the step. He felt the rain on his back as he stepped up on to the pavement; he paused to let the shaking in his knees subside.

  Brunetti heard the heavy thud as a cross-wave banged the boat against the embankment. He turned back to Vianello and helped him on to the lower step. He did not slip, and Brunetti held him steady as he climbed up beside him.

  They walked down to the first crossing, turned right, then immediately right again and back towards the water. By the time they got there, the shoulders of their jackets were soaked through. Foa had the boat standing off from them, in the Canal.

  Brunetti moved up beside the wall of the building and leaned forward to look into the water. The floating mass was still there, off to his right, about a metre from the bottom step. It would be within his reach if he went down to the bottom step and Vianello anchored him as he reached out.

  He moved away from the wall and placed a tentative foot in the water and then moved down to the second step; the water rose to his knees. Vianello was suddenly beside him, grabbing his left wrist. Brunetti leaned far to his right, stretched out, and grabbed at the lighter shadow in the water. He heard the right side of his jacket splash into the water and felt the gelid water reach up his thighs.

  Silk. It felt like silk. He latched his fingers around the strands and pulled gently. Brunetti felt no resistance, and he straightened up, pulling it effortlessly closer. As he backed up one step it floated closer, and the silk spread out and wrapped itself around his wrist. A boat loaded with boxes of fruit passed, heading towards Rialto: the man at the tiller did not bother to turn aside to look at the men at the edge of the water.

  He turned to Vianello, who released him and stepped back into the water beside him. Brunetti gave a gentle tug, and it floated closer. They saw the foot, not far from the silk; then the waves of the boat reached them and the foot swung around and made its way slowly towards Vianello.