‘At what price?’ Brunetti asked.
Bianchi’s head moved a bit to the left so that his face was pointing in the general direction of Brunetti. ‘Do I have to answer that, Signor … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. And your rank.’
‘Brunetti. Commissario. And no, you don’t have to answer any of our questions.’ He knew there was no wisdom in saying anything more, but said it anyway. ‘At least legally, you don’t have to say anything.’
‘Ah, the policeman as philosopher?’
Instead of answering, Brunetti thought about these two men: Pozzi reading about painting and the history of art, and Bianchi rich in metaphors and conscious of the seriousness of their conversation.
‘It’s hard to believe that either of you worked in a factory,’ Brunetti said.
‘You mean Pozzi and his paintings?’
‘Yes.’
‘And me with my speculation?’
‘Also.’
‘We’ve had more than two decades to … develop new interests,’ he concluded ironically.
‘Not everyone would have spent the time that way.’
‘Not everyone is crippled.’
Brunetti thought it better to let some time pass before he said, ‘What did Casati have to do?’
‘We had to be certain that he wouldn’t say anything.’
‘“We”?’ Brunetti inquired harshly, tired of Bianchi’s posturing.
Bianchi lowered his head so that his voice was directed at Bardo. ‘Now’s when I have to tell the truth, Bardo. And luckily you won’t understand it, because you wouldn’t love me any more if you knew.’ He placed his palms over the dog’s ears and went on. ‘I told them. Years ago, when I first came here and he’d gone to live on Sant’Erasmo, I asked him what he was going to do, and he told me he had no desire to cause trouble. He said that what had happened to us was punishment for what we’d done, and that was the end of it for him.’ He paused, then added, voice moving from irony to pain, ‘He’d never lie to me.’
‘Did you tell them what he’d said?’ Brunetti asked, not certain but willing to risk the question.
‘I told them what he’d told me, that he’d never talk about what we did.’
‘How?’
‘What do you mean, how?’
‘How did you contact them?’
‘I’d call Signor Maschietto every few months, or he’d call me, and when he retired, I started to speak to his son.’
‘To pass on everything Casati told you?’
The sharpness of the question surprised, but appeared not to offend, Bianchi. He paused for a while in silent thought and finally said, ‘If it regarded the company, yes.’
‘What was the last thing you told them?’ Brunetti asked.
‘That he’d found …’ Bianchi began, and then cleared his throat a few times before starting again. ‘That he’d found what was killing his bees. He had lab reports, and he understood what it was doing to the soil and the water.’ Bianchi stopped and turned his face aside, a gesture that no longer had a purpose. ‘He said that was the end of it for him. That he couldn’t stand it any more.’
‘What did that mean?’
‘That’s what I asked him,’ Bianchi answered defensively. ‘First he said he wanted to call you.’
‘Me?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The police,’ Bianchi explained. ‘But then he said he wasn’t sure any longer.’
‘What did you do, Signor Bianchi?’
Bianchi took his hands from the sleeping dog and gripped the arms of his chair. ‘I called Maschietto and told him.’
30
Well, Bianchi hadn’t wasted any time, had he? Brunetti asked himself. No sooner had a confidence been entrusted to him than Bianchi was on the phone to exchange it for … for what? Some grilled chicken breast for Bardo?
Fighting down his disgust, Brunetti asked, ‘You called the son and told him what you just told me?’
Bianchi sat silent and then suddenly made a short moaning sound. ‘I didn’t tell him that Davide had talked about calling the police. Believe me,’ he cried. With no warning, he pulled off his glasses and pressed the elbow of his sleeve against his eyes, held it there a moment and then pulled it away. Equally without warning, Brunetti and Griffoni saw what the exploding waste had done to his face and eyes all those years ago, and the sight turned away Brunetti’s wrath.
Brunetti sat quietly for a long time, trying to think of something to say or ask and fighting the temptation to refer to thirty pieces of silver.
In ordinary circumstances, Brunetti would have assaulted Bianchi with sarcasm, but the flashing sight of Bianchi’s face had made that impossible.
‘I warned Davide,’ Bianchi said in a firm voice. ‘I told him not even to think about telling anyone.’ He raised a hand and waved it in the general direction of Brunetti and Griffoni. ‘Especially the police.’
‘Who else would he tell?’
Bianchi tossed up his hands in exasperation. ‘For all I knew, he’d go and tell his wife.’ The words were no sooner said than Bianchi stopped, stunned, hands still raised. He slowly lowered them to the arms of his chair, careful not to disturb the sleeping dog.
Brunetti glanced at Griffoni but said nothing. She raised her eyebrows faintly, unable to overcome the habit of making no evident response to whatever a witness said. Brunetti patted the air with his right hand, enjoining her to patience.
Moments passed and all of them were silent until Bianchi finally said, ‘That’s what he’d do, go and talk things over with her. It’s crazy, but he did it all the time.’ He nodded in affirmation and then went on, his voice slowing, as though his words were feet, growing heavier as each step took him up a long staircase. Exhausted, he reached the top. ‘And she’d tell him what to do.’
He turned his face towards where they were sitting; his mouth remained open, as if only this way could he find enough air to breathe.
When the sound of his heavy breathing became unbearable, Griffoni asked with perfect timing and oh, so casually, ‘Did you know her?’
Bianchi pulled his lips into his mouth and took a few deep breaths through his nose. ‘I met her a few times over the years.’
‘What was she like?’ Griffoni asked.
Bianchi thought about this, then answered, ‘All I remember is that she was small and I thought at the time that she was very pretty. I have another memory of very big, dark eyes. But it’s only a verbal memory.’ A long time passed before he said, ‘Davide loved her. From the first time he saw her, he was lost for her. And it stayed like that all the time they were married. I think he forgot there were other women in the world.’