‘We work in a profession that has consequences for the heart,’ was Signorina Elettra’s deadpan reply; then she asked, ‘What happens now?’
‘I’m going to take the weeks of medical leave the doctor gave me,’ Brunetti said, aware that each time he said it he was more fully persuaded that it was the right – even the necessary – thing to do.
‘And do what?’ she inquired.
‘Nothing. Read. Go to bed early. Get some exercise.’ He’d added this last when he remembered that Paola had said there might be a boat at the house on Sant’Erasmo. Two weeks of rowing was nothing, he knew, but perhaps it would begin to get him back into shape. Even as he thought this, Brunetti knew he would not persist in any routine of rowing once he left the island, but it made him feel better to tell himself that he wanted to.
‘Is there anything really wrong with you?’ Signorina Elettra asked.
‘I hope not,’ was Brunetti’s cheerful reply. Before he could explain the details of the doctor’s findings, he heard footsteps approaching the door, and when he turned he saw their superior, Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta.
If rude good health and masculine vitality could be combined and somehow transformed into a sellable product, the Vice-Questore’s photo would be on the packet. The whites of his eyes made the irises shine a deeper brown; his hair was boyishly thick and just turning white at the temples, apparently having decided to eschew the telltale ageing displayed by grey. His teeth were obviously his own and glowingly white; his walk was a combination of easy glide and irrepressible bounce. Brunetti knew from Signorina Elettra that Patta was only three years from retirement; no one, seeing him, would believe it.
In the time it took Patta to cross the room and reach Signorina Elettra’s desk, Brunetti had managed to hunch himself over and sink his head lower on his neck in the very likeness of ill health. Patta, in his ineffable way, displaying the tact and discretion that had for years endeared him to his colleagues, seeing Brunetti, stopped dead and demanded, ‘What’s wrong with you now?’
‘My doctor thinks it’s my heart, Signore,’ came the response from a newly timid Brunetti.
‘You look terrible. He’s probably right. What are you going to do?’
Brunetti sighed, as though the thought of having to respond to any of this was too taxing for him. ‘He’s told me to rest completely for two weeks, Vice-Questore,’ he said, agreeing to Patta’s change of the doctor’s sex to one that would not lead Patta instantly to suspect a plot of some sort, or at least professional incompetence. Brunetti permitted himself to take out his handkerchief and wipe at his brow, then stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘He thinks I should get out of the city.’
‘And go where?’ Patta demanded.
‘Sant’Erasmo, Signore.’
‘Where’s that?’ Patta asked, although he had been working in Venice for decades. The severity of his voice suggested he thought this was all a hoax and that Brunetti was going off to Cortina for fresh air and lounging around a hotel pool.
‘Out there, sir,’ Brunetti said, waving a hand in the general direction of the east.
‘How long did you say?’
‘Two weeks, Signore.’
‘Good. That’s enough to set anyone straight,’ Patta declared and turned towards his office, leaving Signorina Elettra to see to Brunetti, now no doubt reclassified in Patta’s mind from troublemaker to malingering troublemaker.
When their superior was gone, Brunetti returned to his normal height and stature, and Signorina Elettra asked, ‘Sant’Erasmo?’
‘Yes. There’s a place where I can stay.’
‘You’re going alone?’ she asked. ‘What about your family?’
‘They’ll stay here,’ he said, nothing more.
His voice must have warned her, for she asked no more personal questions, only when he was going and how it would be possible to get in touch with him. Just in case. He didn’t have a phone number for Davide, nor, for that fact, a surname. ‘I’m taking my phone with me.’ Should it happen that she could not reach him, he added, she could always call Paola: she’d know where he was.
She started to ask something, stopped, then asked, ‘You’re as well as ever?’
Brunetti resisted the impulse to pat her arm, fearing that the gesture would seem condescending. ‘I’m fine, Signorina. It was all a confused mess, but I’m going to take advantage of it and try to …’ words fled him for a moment, then he retrieved the right one … ‘decompress.’ He smiled as he said this, and she smiled in return, no doubt relieved that her concern had not passed over some border of deportment or rank.
He quickly turned to business and explained that, for the moment, any documents concerning the investigation into what Avvocato Ruggieri had or had not given to the girl at the party should be handed over to Commissario Griffoni.
Seeing the change in Signorina Elettra’s expression, he inquired, ‘Yes, Signorina?’
Her smile was modest, almost self-effacing. ‘Pucetti spoke to me yesterday about the interview with Avvocato Ruggieri. I took the liberty of having a look at him.’
‘And learned?’
‘That he lives with the daughter of Sandro Bettinardi,’ she said, naming a powerful member of Parliament. She gave him a few moments to consider the wisdom of pursuing a case against the companion of this man’s daughter and then added, ‘She’s seven months pregnant.’