CB14 Blood From A Stone (2005) (25 page)

Carlo was festooned with badly drawn tattoos and moved about the city with the nervous eagerness of a crab, while Fabio often stank of urine and was a stranger to reason. In all the years he had known them, Brunetti had
never given them money and longed to see them removed from the streets, but passing by them filled him with a vague unease, as though he were somehow responsible for their plight.

To distract himself from thoughts of the two doomed men, Brunetti checked the internal police phone list and dialled Moretti’s number.

‘Ah, Commissario,’ he said when Brunetti gave his name. ‘I’ve wanted to call you all day, but we’ve been invaded.’

‘Tourists?’ Brunetti asked, intending it as a joke.

‘Gypsies. There must be a gang in town: we’ve had nine people in here this morning, all telling the same old story: the little kids with the newspapers.’

‘I thought they used that in Rome,’ Brunetti said, remembering what it was like to be surrounded by a band of small children, all waving papers in front of their faces and yelling to distract the victim long enough for another one of them to grab wallet or purse.

‘They do, but they use it here now, too, it seems.’

‘Have you got any of them?’ Brunetti asked.

‘So far, three, but they’re all minors or look as though they are, so all we can do is ask their names and record them. Then they make a phone call, and soon someone with the same last name comes and picks them up and takes them away.’ Moretti let out a disgusted sigh and added, ‘I don’t even bother any more to tell them they have to send the kids to school, just
like I don’t bother to tell the adults we arrest that they have to leave the country within forty-eight hours. The last time I told someone that, he laughed at me, right in my face.’ Another pause. ‘It’s a good thing I didn’t hit him.’

‘No sense in that, is there?’ Brunetti asked neutrally.

‘Of course not. But there are times when it would feel so good to be able to do it.’

‘Not worth it, though, is it?’

‘Of course not. But that doesn’t stop me wanting to.’

Thinking it better to change the subject, Brunetti said, ‘Was it about that black man? Did you remember where you saw him?’

‘No, I didn’t, but Cattaneo did.’ Before Brunetti could ask, he continued, ‘We were out on a call one night about two months ago. Late, maybe two in the morning, and some guy came out of a bar and came running after us. He said he wanted us to come back with him because there was going to be a fight. It was over near Campo Santa Margherita. But by the time we got there, there wasn’t much left of the argument.’

‘And he was there?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, and I’d say it was a good thing it was stopped before it got any worse.’

‘Why?’

‘The other two. Both of them were twice his size. The only thing that stopped it going any further, I think, was the other people in the bar. Well, and then we walked in, and that helped quiet things down.’

‘This was at two in the morning?’ Brunetti asked, making no attempt to disguise his astonishment.

‘Times have changed, Commissario,’ Moretti said, but then qualified that by adding, ‘or maybe it’s only the area around Campo Santa Margherita that’s changed. All those bars, the pizzerias, the music places. It’s never quiet there at night any more. Some of them are open until two or three in the morning.’

Brunetti interrupted him by asking, ‘And the black man?’

‘There were a couple of men in the bar, standing between him and two others, the ones I’d say he’d been arguing with, keeping them apart.’ Moretti considered this, then added, ‘I don’t think it was much of anything, really. As I said, it looked like things had quieted down before we got there: no chairs turned over, nothing broken. Just this atmosphere in the air and three other men – might have been four of them – standing between them and sort of holding them apart.’

‘Did you learn what the argument was about?’

‘No. One of the others – I guess I could call him one of the peacekeepers – said the men had been sitting at a table, talking, when they started to argue. He said the black guy got up and headed for the door, and the men with him went after him and tried to pull him back to the table. That’s when this guy saw us walk by and came out to get us.’

‘How long before you went inside?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Couple of minutes, I’d say.’

‘You said Cattaneo remembered him?’

‘Yes. I showed him the picture, and he recognized him immediately. And then I did, too, once he reminded me. It was the same guy.’

‘What did you do?’ Brunetti asked.

‘We asked to see their papers.’

‘And.’

‘And he had a
permesso di soggiorno
.’

‘What did it say?’ Brunetti asked.

‘It gave his name and place of birth,’ Moretti said, and then added, ‘I suppose.’

‘Why only suppose?’

‘Because I don’t remember any of the details.’ Before Brunetti could question this, Moretti said, ‘I must look at a hundred of them a week, sir. I look to see that the seal is right and the photo matches the person and hasn’t been tampered with, but the names are strange, and I usually don’t pay attention to the country where they’re from.’ Then he added, ‘Cattaneo can’t remember, either.’ Sensing Brunetti’s disappointment, the sergeant said, ‘All I remember is the accent.’

‘What accent?’

‘When this guy spoke Italian – he spoke it pretty well – he had an accent.’

‘And?’ Brunetti asked, then, ‘He was an African, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, of course, but his accent was different. I mean the
Senegalesi
all sound pretty much the
same: some French, some of their own language. We all recognize the accent by now; those of us who arrest them. But this guy’s was different.’

‘Different how?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It just sounded strange.’ Moretti hesitated, as if trying to recapture the sound, but the memory was clearly beyond his reach, and all he said was, ‘No, I can’t describe it better than that.’

‘And Cattaneo?’

‘I asked. He said he wasn’t even aware of it.’

Brunetti let this go and asked, ‘And the other men? Were they black, too?’

‘No. Italian. Both of them had
carte d’identità
,’ Moretti answered.

‘Do you remember anything about them?’

‘No, only that they weren’t Venetian.’

‘Where did they come from?’

‘Rome.’

Like most Italians, Brunetti had mixed feelings about Rome. As a city he loved it, himself a willing victim of the excess of its beauty, in no way reluctant to admit that its majesty equalled that of his own city. As a metonym, however, he viewed it with jaundiced suspicion as the source of most of what was filthy and corrupt in his country. Power resided there, power gone mad, like a ferret at the taste of blood. Even as this exaggerated abhorrence registered, his more logical self told him how mistaken it was: surely his career had revealed to him the countless honest bureaucrats and officials who worked there; and surely there were politicians who were motivated by something other than greed and personal vanity. Surely there were.

He looked at his watch, unwilling to let himself continue along this too familiar train of thought. It was long after noon, so he called Paola and said he was just leaving, would take the vaporetto, but not to wait lunch for him. She said only that of course they would wait and hung up.

When he emerged from the Questura, it had begun to rain heavily, sheets of it skidding almost horizontally across the surface of the canal in front of the building. He noticed one of the new pilots just stepping on to the deck of his launch and called out, still huddled at the entrance, ‘Foa, which way are you going?’

The man turned back towards him and looked – even at this distance – guilty. This prompted Brunetti to add, ‘I don’t care if you’re going home to lunch, just tell me which way.’

Foa’s face seemed to relax and he called back, ‘Up towards Rialto, sir, so I can take you home.’

Brunetti pulled the collar of his coat over his head and made a dash for the boat. Foa had raised the canvas cover, so Brunetti chose to stay on deck with him: if they were going to abuse the power of office by using a police boat for private transportation, then they had better do it together.

Foa dropped him at the end of Calle Tiepolo, but even though the tall buildings on either side offered some protection from the rain, his coat was soaked by the time he reached the front door of the building. In the entrance hall, he took it off and shook it, spattering water all around.
As he climbed the stairs, he could feel the dampness seeping through the wool of his jacket, and the sound of repeated squelching told him, even before he looked, that his shoes were sodden.

He had removed his shoes and hung up his coat and jacket before he became conscious of the warmth or the scent of his home, and when both penetrated, he finally allowed himself to relax. They must have heard him come in, for Paola called out a greeting as he went down the corridor to the kitchen.

When he entered, shoeless, he found a stranger at his table: a young girl sat in Raffi’s place. She got to her feet as he came into the kitchen. Chiara said, ‘This is my friend, Azir Mahani.’

‘Hello,’ Brunetti said and put out his hand.

The girl looked at him, at his hand, and then at Chiara, who said, ‘Shake his hand, silly. He’s my father.’

The girl leaned forward, but she did so stiffly, and put out her hand as if suspecting Brunetti might not give it back. He took it and held it briefly, as though it were a kitten, a particularly fragile one. He was curious about her shyness but said nothing more than hello and that he was glad she could join them for lunch.

He waited for the girl to seat herself, but she seemed to be waiting for him. Chiara reached up and yanked at the bottom of the girl’s sweater, saying, ‘Oh, sit down, Azir. He’s going to eat his lunch, not you.’ The girl blushed and sat down. She looked at her plate.

Seeing this, Chiara got up and went over to Brunetti. ‘Azir, look,’ she said. As soon as she had her friend’s attention, Chiara bent down and stared directly into Brunetti’s eyes, saying, ‘I am going to hypnotize you with the power of my gaze and put you into a deep sleep.’

Instantly, Brunetti closed his eyes.

‘Are you asleep?’ Chiara asked.

‘Yes,’ Brunetti said in a sleepy voice, letting his head fall forward on his chest. Paola, who had had no time to greet Brunetti, turned back to the stove and continued filling four dishes with pasta.

Before she spoke again, Chiara made a business of waving her open hand back and forth in front of Brunetti’s eyes, to show Azir that he was really asleep. She leaned down and spoke into his left ear, dragging out the final syllable in every word. ‘Who is the most wonderful daughter in the whole world?’

Brunetti, keeping his eyes closed, mumbled something.

Chiara gave him an irritated glance, bent even closer and asked, ‘Who is the most wonderful daughter in the whole world?’

Brunetti fluttered his eyelids, indicating that the question had finally registered. In a voice he made intentionally indistinct, he began, speaking as slowly as had Chiara, ‘The most wonderful daughter in the world is . . .’

Chiara, triumph at hand, stepped back to hear the magic name.

Brunetti raised his head, opened his eyes, and
said, ‘Is Azir,’ but as a consolation prize, he grabbed Chiara and pulled her close, kissing her on the ear. Paola chose this moment to turn from the stove and say, ‘Chiara, would you be a wonderful daughter and help serve?’

As Chiara set a dish of pappardelle with porcini in front of Brunetti, he sneaked a glance across the table at Azir, relieved to see she had survived the ordeal of being mentioned by name.

Chiara took her place and picked up her fork. Suddenly she looked suspiciously at her pasta and said, ‘There isn’t any ham in this, is there, Mamma?’

Surprised, Paola said, ‘Of course not. Never, with porcini.’ Then, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because Azir can’t eat it.’ Hearing this, Brunetti consciously kept his eyes on his own daughter and did not glance at the most wonderful one in the whole world.

‘Of course she can’t, Chiara. I know that.’ Then, to Azir, ‘I hope you like lamb, Azir. I thought we’d have broiled lamb chops.’

‘Yes, Signora,’ Azir said, the first words she had spoken since what Brunetti had come to think of as her ordeal began. There was a trace of an accent, but only a trace.

‘I was going to try to make
fessenjoon
,’ Paola said, ‘but then I thought your mother probably makes it much better than I could, so I decided to stick with the chops.’

‘You know about
fessenjoon
?’ Azir asked, her face brightening.

Paola smiled around a mouthful of pappardelle. ‘Well, I’ve made it once or twice, but it’s hard to find the right spices here, and especially the pomegranate juice.’

‘Oh, my mother has some bottles my aunt brought her. I’m sure she’d give you one,’ Azir said, and as her face took on animation, Brunetti saw how lovely she was: sharp nose, almond eyes, and two wings of the blackest hair he had ever seen swinging down alongside her jaw.

‘Oh, that would be lovely. Then maybe you could come and help me cook it,’ Paola said.

‘I’d like that,’ Azir said. ‘I’ll ask my mother to write it down, the recipe.’

‘I can’t read Farsi, I’m afraid,’ Paola said in what sounded very much like an apologetic tone.

‘Would English be all right?’ Azir asked.

‘Of course,’ Paola said, then looked around the table. ‘Would anyone like more pasta?’

When no one volunteered, she started to reach for the plates, but Azir got to her feet and cleared the table without being asked. She attached herself to Paola at the counter and happily carried the platter of lamb to the table, then a large bowl of rice and after that a platter of grilled radicchio.

‘How is it that your mother speaks English?’ Paola asked.

‘She taught it at the university in Esfahan,’ Azir said. ‘Until we left.’

Though the word hung in the air, no one
asked Azir why her family had decided to leave or if, in fact, it had been their decision.