‘And other times?’
‘Other times I see how strange it all is. Everyone in my building is very friendly if we meet on the stairs, but no one’s invited me into their home, not even for a coffee, and I’ve been there for several years. The young people call me tu, but the old ones never will. I find the food insipid. I’ve almost died from every one of the pizzas I’ve tried to eat here. And I know the sun is going to disappear in about two months and we won’t see it again until March, except for a one-week break in January, usually about the end of the first week.’
Brunetti laughed out loud, as he suspected she wanted him to. ‘And at home, you’d be walking around in a sweater and eating pizza at every meal?’
‘No, not really. I’d probably be trying to figure out a way to get around the magistrates who are working for the Mafia; the same with my colleagues. And I’d be in the habit of carrying my pistol. Here,’ she began and pulled open her jacket to show that she was not wearing one, ‘I forget to carry it most of the time.’
Brunetti, who did the same, said nothing.
‘What’s in the envelope?’ she asked, pointing to the one he was carrying.
‘It’s what the hospital gave her mother when she took Manuela home.’ He turned it over and showed her the sealed flap.
‘And she couldn’t open it,’ she said, sounding as if she understood such reluctance. ‘How awful it must be for her.’ She turned away from Brunetti and looked at the buildings on the other side of the canal, but they offered little solace.
‘Why?’ Brunetti asked, curious about Griffoni’s concern for the mother when she had spent most of her time with the daughter.
‘Because she understands. And the daughter doesn’t.’
He turned and walked into the imbarcadero, and she followed him. ‘You heard it coming, didn’t you?’ she asked as she noticed the boat approaching. When it tied up, they moved on board and towards the back of the cabin, where some seats were empty.
‘I suppose I did. I’ve been listening to them all my life, so maybe my body feels their vibrations before I hear them. Never thought about it before.’
He stood back and let her pass in front of him to take the seat by the window. When he turned to speak to her, he saw only the back of her head: she was glued to the window as if she were a tourist seeing these palazzi for the first time.
He stuck his finger under the flap and prised it up. It opened easily, noiselessly. He reached in and pulled out a dark blue manila folder. Having heard the sound, Griffoni turned and watched him read.
She gave him plenty of time. When he turned to the second page, she said, ‘Well?’
‘It gives a general description of her condition when she was brought to the Emergency Room: she was unconscious, but breathing; an X-ray showed there was still water in her lungs; there was a wound on the side of her head.’ Brunetti had gradually been moving the papers farther away from him as he read but finally reached into the inner pocket of his jacket for his reading glasses.
He read quickly down the second page then told Griffoni: ‘Aside from the wound on her head – there is no speculation here about what the cause might have been – there were bruises on her arms and neck.’ He flipped back to the first page. ‘These were written when she was admitted. It seems their chief concern was the water in her lungs.’
He turned back to where he had been and again read quickly, skimming the text, searching for the point when the doctors began to understand the extent of her injuries.
He took his eyes from the paper and stared ahead, blind to the people sitting in front of them, blind to the glory on both sides of the boat.
‘What is it?’ Griffoni asked.
He pointed to the third paragraph and passed the papers to her, saying, ‘The second day. Look.’
Griffoni read it and, just as Brunetti had, looked away from the page blankly in front of her.
‘Bloodstains seen on patient’s sheets necessitated a pelvic exam, performed in place on the still-unconscious patient. Evidence of recent sexual activity of a violent nature, very likely rape.’