‘Sì,’ she answered, as if she found this an interesting question and might like to discuss it further.
‘This is Commissario Guido Brunetti,’ he said. ‘I realize this must come as a surprise to you, but I’ve been asked by the Public Magistrate to examine the circumstances of your daughter’s accident in case something was overlooked in the original handling of the event.’ Brunetti decided that was sufficiently confusing to sound convincing. ‘And I wondered if you’d be kind enough to speak to me about it.’
He thought of the way, as a child, he’d dropped stones down the still-uncovered wells in the city and waited to hear the answering splash, often long delayed. Finally it came. ‘Ah, yes, the accident.’ A pause extended out from that last word, until she was back to ask, ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Brunetti.’
‘The Public Magistrate, you say?’
‘Yes, Signora.’
‘Then I suppose I should talk to you?’
‘It would be a great kindness.’
She spent some time considering this before saying, ‘Then I suppose I must.’
‘Would it be convenient for us to come to see you now, by any chance?’ he asked. ‘My colleague, Commissario Claudia Griffoni, is with me.’
‘A woman?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘In the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘How very interesting,’ she said, then asked, ‘Where did you say you were?’
He looked out of the window of the launch and saw the familiar fa?ade. ‘At Ca’ d’Oro.’
‘Can you get to Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini from there?’ she asked.
Entirely at a loss for words, Brunetti decided on a simple ‘Yes.’
‘Then why don’t you come here? I never get to see anyone.’
‘We can be there in about fifteen minutes,’ Brunetti said, knowing they could be there sooner, but not wanting to frighten her by appearing too eager.
‘Oh, fine. I’ll expect you, then. It’s just to the left of the church. Top floor.’
When the call was over, he turned to Griffoni and said, ‘She asked me if I could get to Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini from here.’
‘She’s Venetian?’
‘Yes.’
Brunetti told himself, but did not say aloud, that Manuela might not be the only one who was brain damaged.
The pilot of the launch slowed down when Brunetti explained that they had fifteen minutes to get there, allowing them a slow passage up the Grand Canal: taxis passed them, a boat loaded with washing machines left them in its wake, until finally the pilot made a U-turn and went back to Rio delle Due Torri and proceeded slowly towards the Campo. While they moved, Brunetti used Google Earth to locate the house: he recognized it to the left of the church. How did tourists find things, with only street addresses to guide them? He didn’t like this new age, much preferred having someone tell him the address he was looking for was the house with the new shutters to the right of the greengrocer opposite the flower shop that had the cacti in the window. Any Venetian would understand that.
The campo threw windows at them, as it always did: a Byzantine and a Gothic quadrifora competed with one another, and straight ahead two pentafore, one on top of the other, battled it out for public admiration. The lower, Gothic one always won Brunetti’s vote, even if two of the windows were bricked up.
Just beyond the house was the church: poor little church, Brunetti always thought, to have such a lovely fa?ade wasted in such a narrow calle. No one could stand back far enough to see it all from the proper perspective, but past builders knew nothing of zoning laws, and so it could be seen only from close up.
He found ‘BMR’ on the top bell on the right and rang. After a full minute, he rang again, and this time the door snapped open.
The staircase was surprisingly grand for a house with such a modest exterior: low marble steps rubbed smooth by centuries of climbing and descending feet. The marble balustrade had been worn down by the hands that had sought its help. The walls were unplastered brick, completely free of adornment or decoration. What he was seeing was the ancient, barefaced Venice of working merchants who had no desire that their wealth be seen beyond their homes.
They continued to the top, where they saw an open door. Brunetti stopped in front of it and knocked a few times, calling out, ‘Signora? Signora?’
A tall young woman emerged from a room on the left side of the corridor, turned and came towards them. She had shoulder-length dark hair, pulled back by pink barrettes on both sides. She wore a grey sweater, dark blue jeans, and red tennis shoes above which peeped pink socks.
Brunetti studied her face as she approached them and found the same perfections he’d seen in her photo, frozen into place as if carved on the face of a statue. Manuela – for this must be Manuela – approached them, her entire bearing showing confusion, though Brunetti wasn’t sure what made him think that.