Griffoni turned to Brunetti and smiled, and he saw a new person hiding behind her face.
From behind them, Signora degli Specchi said, ‘Come in and at least have something to drink.’ Griffoni started towards the building, and Brunetti followed. The driver bent down to tear up more grass.
She led them through the house to the back, passing through rooms where the furniture all seemed to have served as resting places for Hector and whatever dogs had preceded him. Saddles occupied two chairs in the kitchen, where a large fire burned to challenge the cold that seeped up from the stone floor. It blazed and succeeded in making it warmer than outside, but not by much.
They both said coffee would be fine, and she surprised them by going to a small Gaggia machine. With the ease of familiarity, she made three coffees quickly and brought them back to the table, where she’d told them to take seats.
As they stirred sugar into their coffee, Brunetti asked, ‘If you knew nothing about Manuela, why did you tell us to come out here?’
Keeping her eyes on her hands as she stirred her coffee, the owner said, ‘I had the idea that you were going to bring her.’
‘Her?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Manuela,’ she said, still not looking at him.
‘But what sense would that make if you never knew her, and no one who knew her is still working here?’ Brunetti asked. Halfway through his sentence, he realized how irritated he sounded and so moderated his tone until, by the end of it, he was merely asking a simple question.
Clink and clink and clink, until she set the spoon down on the saucer. She took a sip, set the cup back and used the spoon to make a few more clinks. Finally, she tired of the attempt to delay and said, ‘Her horse is still here.’
Brunetti set his own cup down, and Griffoni asked, ‘How old is she?’
‘She’s twenty-one.’
‘And you thought . . .’ Griffoni started to ask but then ran out of ideas.
‘I thought she’d remember her.’
The pronouns refused to make sense to Brunetti. ‘That the horse would remember her?’ he asked.
‘No. My husband told me about what happened to her. In the water.’
Brunetti still didn’t understand. He waited.
‘I hoped she’d remember the horse.’
16
‘My husband told me, before he died, that she’d suffered brain damage – people in the city told him – but he didn’t know how bad it was. Because he was so fond of her, I thought that, hoped that . . . well, that she’d be well enough to remember her horse or recognize her, and it might . . . it might help her. Somehow.’ As she spoke, she picked at a tiny flap of skin near one of her fingernails, reminding Brunetti of a much younger Chiara when she had to confess having done something stupid or wrong.
Entirely at a loss, he looked at Griffoni, who held up her palm to silence him. ‘Did your husband say anything else about her?’ she asked.
The silence expanded so much that Brunetti thought the woman was not going to answer. He leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. It was much cleaner than the other rooms, the counters uncluttered, plates and glasses neatly stored in open cabinets on either side of the sink. The stone floor was spotless. The walls were filled with group photographs of horses and humans. He was close enough to see that some of them showed people with the haircuts and clothing of decades before. He saw young people wearing glasses with thick, rectangular plastic frames, a style so old it was on its way back. Other photos showed fashions closer to those of today. The horses always looked the same.
The woman got to her feet and left the room without saying anything to them. Brunetti stood and walked over to the photos, some in colour and some older ones in black and white, wondering if Manuela was in any of them and forced to accept the fact that, even if she were, he might not recognize her. The likelihood would depend on his ability to carbon-date clothing and hairstyles. What had young people – for most of the people in the photos were young – worn fifteen years ago? How had their hair been cut? In the photo he’d seen, she’d worn jeans and had long hair: that description would fit most of the people in these photos.
He recognized, in a photo that must be recent, the young journalist who read the 8.30 news on local television. Usually he appeared wearing suit and tie, but here he was, looking not much younger, in sweatshirt and jeans, with tousled hair and his arms around the shoulders of the boy and girl on either side of him. Brunetti looked more closely at the photos. He saw a very faded photo of a light-haired girl who looked a bit like Paola, but with a smaller nose. She stood beside a long-haired young man who was not much taller, as smiling and fresh-faced as she. He looked familiar, but Brunetti couldn’t place him. Perhaps this one had grown up to become the weatherman.