About Face

27
He slept. Paola, about to leave for class, tried to wake him at nine, but she managed no more than to shift him to her side of the bed. Some time later, the phone rang, but it did not penetrate to wherever Brunetti had gone, a place where Pucetti had two good hands, where Guarino was not lying dead in the mud, nor Terrasini on the marble floor, and where Franca Marinello was a lovely woman in her thirties whose whole face moved when she smiled or laughed.
After eleven Brunetti woke, looked out the window and saw that it was raining. He slept again. When next he woke there was bright sun, and for the first moments, Brunetti wondered if he were still asleep and this was a dream. He lay still for at least a minute, and then he pulled one hand slowly from under the covers, happy to hear the rustling of the sheets. He tried to snap his fingers, but all he managed to create was the sound of two fingers rubbing together. But he heard it clearly, with no buzz, and then he shoved back the covers, delighted by the slithery sound of them.
He stood, smiled at the sun, and accepted the fact that he needed a shave and a shower, but more than that, he needed coffee.
He took the coffee back to bed with him and set the cup and saucer on the night table. Kicking off his slippers, he got back under the covers and reached over to pull out his old copy of Ovid from the books beside him. He had found it two days ago but had had no time, no time. Fasti. What had she said, ‘The Something of the King’? He flipped through the table of contents and found it, ‘The Flight of the King’, for 24 February. He pulled up the covers, shifted the book to his right hand, and took a sip of coffee. He replaced the coffee and began to read.
After a paragraph he recognized the story: he thought it was also told in Plutarch, and hadn’t Shakespeare used it for something? Wicked Tarquin, the last king of Rome, driven from the kingdom by the populace at the head of which strode the noble Brutus, outraged by the death of his wife, the fair Lucrezia, who had been driven to suicide by her rape by the even more wicked son of the king, who had threatened to destroy her husband’s reputation.
He read the passage again, then closed the book very softly and placed it on the covers beside him. He finished his coffee, allowed himself to slide lower in the bed, and looked out the bedroom window at the clear sky.
Antonio Terrasini, nephew of a Camorra boss. Antonio Terrasini, arrested for rape. Antonio Terrasini, photographed by a man who was later shot to death in an apparent robbery, the photo in the possession of a man who died in similar fashion. Antonio Terrasini, apparent lover of the wife of a man somehow involved with the first victim. Antonio Terrasini, shot to death by that same woman.
As Brunetti looked out the window he moved these people and facts around on the surface of his memory, prodding them here and there with a recalled detail, then shoving one possibility aside to replace it with some new speculation that lined them up in a different order.
He recalled the scene at the gaming table: the man’s hand on her hip and the look she gave him then; his hands on her breasts and the way she failed to move away, though her entire body seemed to shrink from him. She had been in profile to Brunetti when she shot him, not that her face was capable of indicating much. Her words, then: what words had lit the man’s anger, then quelled it, then set it flaming again?
Brunetti reached for the phone and dialled the number of the home of his parents-in-law. One of the secretaries answered, and he gave his name and asked to speak to the Contessa. Brunetti had learned over the years that the speed with which his call was transferred seemed related to his use of their titles.
‘Yes, Guido?’ she asked.
‘I wonder if I might stop by on my way to work and speak to you,’ Brunetti said.
‘Come along whenever you can, Guido,’ she said.
He turned to look at the bedside clock, amazed to see that it was after one. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour or so; if that’s convenient for you, that is.’
‘Of course, Guido, of course. I’ll expect you, then.’
When she was gone, Brunetti pushed back the covers and went down to shower and shave. Before he left the house, he opened the refrigerator and found the remains of the leftover lasagne. He set it on the counter, took a fork from the cabinet, and ate most of what remained, put the fork in the sink, pulled the plastic wrap back over the ravaged lasagne, and put it back in the refrigerator.
Ten minutes later, he rang the bell to the palazzo and was taken, by some dark-suited person he did not recognize, to the Contessa’s study.
She kissed him when he came in, asked if he wanted coffee, insisted until he agreed, and asked the man who had accompanied Brunetti to bring coffee and biscotti for them both. ‘You can’t go to work without coffee,’ she said. She took her usual place in the easy chair that allowed her to see out over the Grand Canal and leaned over to pat the seat of the chair beside her.
‘What is it?’ she asked when he sat down.
‘Franca Marinello.’
She did not seem surprised. ‘Someone called and told me,’ she said in a sober voice that grew softer as she added, ‘The poor girl, the poor girl.’
‘What did they say?’ he asked, wondering who had called but unwilling to ask.
‘That she was involved in something violent at the Casinò last night and was taken to be questioned by the police.’ She waited for Brunetti to explain and when he did not, she asked, ‘You know about this?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
‘She shot a man.’
‘And killed him?’
‘Yes.’
She closed her eyes, and Brunetti heard her whisper what might have been a prayer, or something else. He thought he heard the word ‘dentist’, but that made no sense. She opened her eyes and looked at him directly. In a voice that had regained its force, she said, ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘She was there in the Casinò with a man. He threatened her, and she shot him.’
She considered this and asked, ‘Were you there?’
‘Yes. But for the man, not for her.’
Again, the Contessa paused a long time before asking, ‘Was it this Terrasini man?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re sure it was Franca who shot him?’
‘I saw her do it.’
The Contessa closed her eyes and shook her head.
There was a knock on the door, and this time it was a woman who came in. She wore sober and formal clothes, though there was no tiny white apron. She set two cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar cubes, two small glasses of water, and a plate of biscotti on the table in front of them, nodded to the Contessa, and left.
The Contessa handed Brunetti his coffee, waited while he dropped in two cubes of sugar, then picked up her own, which she drank without sugar. She set her cup back on the saucer and said, ‘I met her – oh, it was years ago – when she came here as a student. Ruggero, a cousin of mine, had a son who was Franca’s father’s best friend. They were related on the mother’s side, as well,’ she began, then made an exasperated noise and stopped.
‘It doesn’t matter, does it, if we’re related? When she came here to study, Ruggero’s son called and asked me if I’d keep an eye on her.’ She picked up a biscotto, but set it back on the plate untouched.
‘Orazio said you became friends.’
‘Yes, we did,’ the Contessa said promptly and tried to smile. ‘And we still are.’ Brunetti did not ask about this, and the Contessa went on. ‘Paola was gone,’ she said, then smiled. ‘Married to you. It had been years, but I suppose I still missed having a daughter in the house. She’s younger than Paola, of course, so perhaps I missed having a granddaughter. Well, a young person.’ She paused a moment and added, ‘She knew almost no one here and was so terribly shy then; one wanted so much to help her.’ She glanced at Brunetti and said, ‘Still is, don’t you think?’
‘Shy?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I think so, yes,’ Brunetti said, just as if he had not watched Franca Marinello shoot a man to death the previous evening. At a loss for what to say, the best Brunetti could think of was, ‘Thank you for seating me opposite her. I never have anyone to talk to about books. Other than you, I mean.’ Then, in justice to his wife, he added, ‘Well, the ones I like.’
The Contessa’s face brightened. ‘That’s what Orazio said. That’s why I put you with her.’
‘Thank you,’ he repeated.
‘But you’re here for work, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘Not for books.’
‘No, not for books’ he said, though that was not the entire truth.
‘What do you need to know?’ she asked.
‘Anything you can tell me that might help,’ he said. ‘You knew this Terrasini?’
‘Yes. No. That is, I never met him, and Franca never talked about him. But other people did.’
‘Saying that they were lovers?’ Brunetti asked, fearing it was too soon to be so direct but wanting to know.
‘Yes, saying that.’
‘Did you believe it?’ Brunetti asked.
Her look was as cool as it was level. ‘I don’t want to answer that question, Guido,’ she said with surprising force. ‘She’s my friend.’
He thought of what she had whispered before and asked in honest confusion, ‘Did you say something about a dentist?’
Her surprise was real. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘No. I don’t know anything about her. Or about a dentist.’ The second part was true.
‘The dentist who did that to her face,’ she said, adding to his confusion. When his expression did not change, she continued heatedly, ‘I could understand if she had shot him. But it was too late. Someone already did.’ Saying that, she stopped speaking and looked across the canal.
Brunetti leaned back in his chair and put both hands flat on the arms. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’ When her face remained impassive, Brunetti said, ‘Please tell me.’
She pushed herself back in her chair, mimicking his posture. She studied his face for some time, as though trying to determine how and what and how much to tell him. ‘Soon after she married Maurizio, whom I’ve known for most of my life,’ she began, ‘they made plans to go on vacation – I suppose it was a kind of honeymoon. Somewhere in the tropics, I don’t remember now where it was. About a week before they were to leave, she started having trouble with her wisdom teeth. Her dentist was on holiday, so some friend from the university told her about one she went to in Dolo. No, not Dolo: somewhere out there. So she went to him and he said that both teeth had to come out. He took X-rays and told her it wouldn’t be difficult, that he could do it in his surgery.’
The Contessa looked at him, then closed her eyes for a moment. ‘So she went there one morning and he did it, extracted them both, gave her some painkillers and an antibiotic in case of infection and told her she could leave on vacation in three days. The next day she had some pain, but when she called him he told her that was normal and told her to take more of the painkillers he’d given her. The next day it was no better, so she went to see him, and he told her there was nothing wrong, gave her more painkillers, and off they went on vacation. To wherever it was, some island somewhere.’
She was silent for so long that Brunetti finally asked, ‘What happened?’
‘The infection continued, but she was young and she was in love – they were both in love, Guido. I know that to be true – and she didn’t want to ruin their vacation, so she kept taking the painkillers, and when the pain still didn’t go away, she kept taking them.’
This time, Brunetti sat quietly and waited for her to go on. ‘After five days on the island, she collapsed, and they took her to a doctor – there wasn’t much in the way of medical attention there. He said there was an infection in her mouth, something he wasn’t able to treat, so Maurizio hired a plane and took her to Australia. That was the nearest place where he thought she could get help. Sydney, I think.’ Then, absently, ‘Not that it matters.’
She picked up the water, drank half of it and set the glass down. ‘She had one of those terrible hospital infections. Apparently it had spread from where the teeth had been and gone into the tissue of her jaw and face.’ The Contessa covered her own face in her hands, as if trying to protect it from what she was saying.
‘The doctors there had no choice. They had to go in and try to save what they could. It was one of those infections that doesn’t respond to antibiotics, or she was allergic to them. I really don’t remember now.’ The Contessa uncovered her face and looked at Brunetti. ‘She told me once, years ago. It was terrible to hear her talk about it. She was such a lovely girl. Before it happened. But they had to do so much, destroy so much. To save her.’
‘So that explains it,’ said a bemused Brunetti.
‘Of course,’ the Contessa said fiercely. ‘Do you think she’d want to look like that? For the love of God, do you think any woman would?’
‘I had no idea,’ Brunetti said.
‘Of course you didn’t. And no one else does.’
‘But you do.’
She nodded sadly. ‘Yes, I do. When they came back, she looked like she looks now. She called me and asked to come to see me, and I was overjoyed. It had been months, and all I knew was what Maurizio told me on the phone, that she had been very sick, but he didn’t say what. When she called me, Franca told me she had had a terrible accident, and I wasn’t to be shocked when I saw her.’ Then, after a moment, ‘At least she tried to prepare me. But nothing could, could it?’ she asked, but Brunetti had no answer to give her.
He sensed that the Contessa was bringing it all back by speaking of it. ‘But I was shocked, and I couldn’t hide it. I knew she’d never want to do something like that. And she was so pretty, Guido: you can have no idea how pretty she was.’
The photo in the magazine had given him an idea, and so he did know.
‘I started to cry. I couldn’t help myself: I simply started to cry. And Franca had to comfort me. Guido, think about it – she came back like that, and I was the one who broke down.’ She stopped talking and blinked her eyes a few times, but she managed to fight back tears.
‘It was the best the surgeons in Australia could do. Because the infection had gone on for too long.’
Brunetti cast his attention out the window and studied the buildings on the other side of the canal. When he looked back, tears ran down the Contessa’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Mamma,’ he said, quite unconscious of calling her that for the first time.
She gave herself a shake. ‘I’m sorry too, Guido, so sorry for her.’
‘But what did she do?’
‘What do you mean, what did she do? She tried to live her life, but she always had that face and the assumptions people made about it.’
‘She didn’t tell anyone?’
The Contessa shook her head. ‘I told you: she told me, and she asked me not to tell anyone. And until today, I haven’t. Only Maurizio and I know, and the people in Australia who saved her life.’ She gave a sigh and sat up straighter. ‘For there’s that to say, Guido: they saved her life.’
‘What about the dentist?’ he asked, and then added, ‘And how did he die?’
‘It turned out he wasn’t a dentist after all,’ she said, voice moving closer to anger. ‘Just one of those odontotechnici you read about all the time: they start making false teeth, then they set themselves up as dentists and do that until they get caught, but nothing happens to them.’ He saw her hands grip tight on the arms of the chair.
‘You mean he wasn’t arrested?’
‘Finally,’ she said tiredly. ‘The same thing happened to another patient. This one died. So the inspectors from ULSS went in, and they discovered his whole surgery – the tools and the furniture – filled with that hospital infection. It’s a miracle he killed only one person and that any of the others survived. So this time someone did go to prison. The sentence was six years, but the trial had taken two – and he was at home for that, of course – so he was supposed to be there for four years, but he was released with the indulto.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘He went back to work, it seems,’ she said with a bitterness he had seldom heard her express.
‘Work?’
‘As an odontotechnico, not a dentist.’
He closed his eyes at the folly of it. Where else could something like this happen?
‘But he didn’t get a chance to hurt many people,’ she said neutrally.
‘Why?’
‘Someone killed him. In Montebelluna – he’d moved there to open a new surgery. There was a break-in and someone killed him and raped his wife.’
Brunetti remembered the case. Two summers ago, a break-in, a murder that was never solved.
‘He was shot, wasn’t he?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ever talk to her about this?’ he asked.
Her eyes widened. ‘What for? To ask if she felt better because he was dead?’ She saw how stunned he was by her question and softened her tone to say, ‘I read about it and ecognized his name, but I couldn’t ask her.’
‘Did you ever discuss it – him – with her?’
‘Once, just after he was sentenced, I think. At any rate, years ago.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked if she had read about his conviction and that he would go to prison, and she said she had.’
‘And?’
‘And I asked her what she thought about it.’ Without waiting for Brunetti, she went on, ‘She said it didn’t make any difference. Not to her and not to any of the people he’d injured. And certainly not to the person he’d killed.’
Brunetti considered this for some time and then asked, ‘Do you think she meant that she had forgiven him?’
She looked at Brunetti, a long, thoughtful glance. ‘She could have meant that,’ she said and then added, coldly, ‘But I hope she didn’t.’