The Girl of his Dreams

14

The following day, Brunetti spent his first half-hour in the office reading the newspaper accounts of the discovery of the little girl's body. II Gazzettino had not learned of it early enough to put it on the front page, but there had been enough time for it to reach the second section, the front page of which screamed, in red, that it was 'A Mystery'. The account gave the incorrect time of the discovery of her body, misspelled Brunetti's name, and carried a photo of steps different from the ones where she had been found. Her age was given as five, while the national papers listed it as twelve and nine. The autopsy, it was stated, would take place that day. Further, the police asked that anyone who might have information about the possible identity of a child with dark hair and eyes call them.

His phone rang and he answered with his name.

'Ah, Guido,' he heard his mother-in-law say. 'I've been meaning to call you since we got back from the Occupied Territories, but there was simply too much to do here, and then Chiara and Raffi came to lunch and I had so much fun with them that I'm afraid I forgot about calling you, though having them here should have reminded me of you, shouldn't it?'

‘I thought you'd been to Palermo,' a literal-minded Brunetti said, relieved to know that the Contessa had not yet seen that day's papers. It confused him that Paola's parents could have managed another trip in the short time since they got back from Sicily.

Her laugh was musical, always brighter than her voice and very attractive. 'Oh, I'm sorry to confuse you, Guido. I should have told you. Orazio has taken to using that term to refer to Sicily and Calabria. Since both places belong to the Mafia and the government has no effective control over them, he thinks it's linguistically correct to refer to them as the Occupied Territories.' She paused for a moment, and then went on, 'And if you think about it, it's not far off the truth, is it?'

'Is this term only for domestic consumption, or does he use it in public?' Brunetti enquired, forbearing to pass judgement on the accuracy of the Count's choice of phrase and never willing to comment on his father-in-law's politics.

'Oh, I'm so seldom with him in public, I have no way of knowing about that. But you know how discreet Orazio is, so perhaps he uses it only with me. But now you know, too,' she said in a lowered tone, adding, 'Perhaps it would be wise to let Orazio decide how widespread the use of the term should be?'

Brunetti had never heard a more polite enjoinder to discretion. 'Of course,' he agreed. 'But what was it you called about?'

'That religious person’ she said. 'Leonardo Mutti?'

Yes’ she answered, then surprised him by adding, 'And the other one, Antonin Scallon.'

Brunetti thought back to his original conversation with the Contessa: he was sure he had not used Antonin's name, had referred to him only as an old friend of his brother. If he had used any name, it was Brother Leonardo's.

'Yes?' Brunetti enquired. 'And what have you heard?' He decided to leave for later the question of how the Contessa might have come to learn about his interest in Padre Antonin.

'It seems that a friend of mine has also become attracted to Brother Leonardo's teachings,' she began, then added, 'or, as one might say, fallen under his spell.' Again, Brunetti chose not to comment.

'And it also seems,' the Countess continued, 'that this Padre Antonin learned about her… shall we say, about her enthusiasm for Brother Leonardo.' Before Brunetti could ask, the Countess explained, 'He's a friend of her family, this Antonin; while he was in Africa he sent them those dreadful circular letters every Christmas, and I suppose they sent him money, though I don't know that for sure. At any rate, when I asked her about Brother Leonardo, she told me how surprised she had been when Padre Antonin spoke to her about him.'

'Saying what?'

'Nothing, really,' the Countess answered. 'But from what she told me, it sounded as if he were trying to suggest she be cautious about becoming too involved with him, but being very careful not to seem as if he was doing that.'

'Will she listen to him?' Brunetti asked.

'Of course not, Guido. You should know by now that, once people reach my age, it makes no sense to try to persuade them to abandon their – well – their enthusiasms.'

He had to smile at this, thinking how charitable it was of her to limit this wilfulness to people of her age. 'Do you know if he said anything specific about Brother Leonardo?' Brunetti asked.

She laughed again. 'Nothing that exceeded the limits of clerical solidarity and good taste. Or overstepped Orazio's admonition never to speak badly of a colleague.'

In a more serious voice, she went on, 'So that you can stop worrying about how I knew you were interested in Padre Antonin, Guido, I should explain that Paola told me that he was at your mother's funeral and that he went to see you.'

'Thank you,' Brunetti said simply and then asked, 'What did your friend say about Brother Leonardo?'

The Contessa took some time to answer. 'She lost a grandson two years ago and needs whatever comfort she can find. So if what this Brother Leonardo says can lessen her grief, then I think it's all to the good.'

'Has the subject of money been raised?' Brunetti asked.

'You mean by Brother Leonardo? With my friend?'

'Yes.'

'She didn't say, and it's certainly not anything I could ask.'

Hearing both the reproach and the warning in her voice, Brunetti said only, 'If you hear anything else…'

'Of course,' she said, cutting him off before he could finish the question. 'Please give my love to Paola and the children, will you?'

'Yes, of course,' he said, and then she was gone.

Just when he had thought himself free of all solicitation, Brunetti found himself reminded of Antonin and his request. Long experience had rendered Brunetti suspicious of protestations of disinterested goodwill, especially when those protestations were linked in any way to money. The only money he knew to be involved here was that given to Brother Leonardo by Patrizia's son. Brunetti went to the window and stared at the facade of San Lorenzo for some time: he found it difficult to attribute to Antonin a sincere concern for the well-being of this young man, and then came the thought that he found it difficult to attribute to Antonin a sincere concern for the well-being of anyone save himself.

The Contessa's words came back to him then, that it was difficult to persuade people her age away from their – what had she called them? – enthusiasms? He changed the word to 'prejudices', applied it to himself, and saw how apt her remark remained.

Brunetti, recalling his failure to find a Christian among his friends in the city, went downstairs to ask Signorina Elettra if she might have one among hers.

'A Christian?' she asked, surprised. She had made no reference to the newspaper accounts of the little girl's death, and Brunetti was glad enough to avoid discussion of it with her.

'Yes. That is, someone who believes and attends Mass.'

She glanced at the vase of flowers on the windowsill, perhaps to gather her thoughts, then returned her gaze to him and asked, 'May I ask what this is in aid of, sir?'

‘I want to find out about a member of the clergy.' When she remained silent for some time, he added, 'Private things.'

'Ah’ she answered.

'Which means?' he asked, smiling.

She answered the smile, and then the question. 'It means that I'm not sure it's believers who should be asked about the clergy. Not, that is, if you want to hear the truth.'

'Do you have someone in mind?' Brunetti asked.

She rested her chin in her palm for a moment. Her lips disappeared, evidence of thought. She looked up and her mouth sweetened into a smile. ‘I can think of two’ she said. 'One has what might be called unsympathetic opinions of the clergy.' Before he could comment, she added, 'The other has a milder view. No doubt because he has less exhaustive information.'

'May I ask who these people are?'

'One is a priest, and one used to be.'

'Which one holds which opinion?' he asked.

She sat up straight, as if trying to view this question from his perspective, and then said, ‘I suppose the less interesting configuration would be for the former priest to be antagonistic, wouldn't it?'

'It's certainly more predictable’ Brunetti said.

She nodded and said, 'But that's not the way it is: it's the one who is still a priest who… well, who has a more adversarial stance towards his colleagues.' Absently, she pulled the cuff of her jacket forward and covered the face of her watch with it, then said, 'Yes, I think he might have more useful information.'

'What sort of information would that be?'

'He has access to the files kept by the Curia, both here and in Rome. I suppose they correspond to the personnel files we have, though we're less concerned with the private lives of our employees than they seem to be.' She clarified this by adding, 'At least from what he tells me. I've never actually seen the files’

'But he's told you what's in them?'

'Some of it. But never using names’ Her smile became impish as she added, 'Only the titles, both of who is reported on and who is doing the reporting: Cardinal, Bishop, Monsignor, altar boy.'

It proved too much for him. 'May I ask why you're interested in them, Signorina?' Brunetti was never certain of the depth or breadth of her curiosity, nor of its purpose.

'It's like the files of the Stasi’ she surprised him by answering. 'Since the fall of the Wall, we've read about private citizens who went in and read their files and found out who had been keeping an eye on them or reporting on them. And occasionally the name of one of the people who was spying was made public, or at least was made public when people still cared about such things.'

She looked up at him as if this were sufficient, but he shook his head and she continued. 'That's why I like to learn what's in the files on the private lives of the clergy: not for what they're doing, poor devils, but for who's giving the information about them. I find that far more interesting.'

'I'm sure it must be’ Brunetti agreed, thinking of some of the things he knew to be buried in those files and who might have put the information there.

However tempting it might have been to continue this discussion, Brunetti forced himself away from it. 'I'm curious about two men’ he said. 'One of them is called Leonardo Mutti, said to be from Umbria. He is also said to be a member of the clergy, but I don't know if that's true. He lives here and directs some sort of religious organization known as the Children of Jesus Christ’

Her lips pursed at the name, but she wrote it down.

'The second is Antonin Scallon, Venetian, who is a chaplain at the Ospedale and lives with the Dominicans in SS. Giovanni e Paolo. He was a missionary in the Congo for about twenty years’

'Do you want to know anything specific about either one?' she asked, looking up at him.

'No’ Brunetti admitted. 'Just anything that might be interesting.'

‘I see’ she responded. 'If one's a priest, then there will be a file.'

'And the other? If he's not a priest?'

'If he's running something with a name like that’ she began, tapping one incarnadined nail on her notes, 'he should be easy to find’

'Would you be willing to ask your friend to have a look?'

'I'd be delighted’ she answered.

Questions crowded into Brunetti's mind, but he tried to flail them away. He would not ask her who this person was. He would not ask her what she might have discovered about other priests in the city. And most importantly, he would not ask her what she had given in return for this information. To stop himself, he asked, instead, 'Does he have files on all of them – priests, bishops, archbishops?'

She paused before she answered that. 'They're supposed to have a higher level of access to get a look at the prelates.'

'"Supposed to"?' he asked.

'Indeed.'

Brunetti put temptation behind him and said only, 'You'll ask him?'

'Nothing easier,' she answered, swinging around in her chair and tapping a few keys on her keyboard.

'What are you doing?' Brunetti asked.

'Sending him an email,' she said, not bothering to hide her surprise at his question.

'Isn't that risky?'

For a moment she didn't understand, but then he saw her get it. 'Oh, you mean for security?' she asked. 'Yes.'

'We always assume that our emails are recorded somewhere,' she said calmly, tapping a few more keys. 'So what are you asking him?' 'To meet me.' 'Just like that?'

'Of course,' she answered with a smile.

'And no one's suspicious? You send an email to a priest and ask him to meet you, and whoever is supposedly recording your messages won't be suspicious about this? About an email coming from the Questura?'

'Of course not, Cornmissario,' she said firmly. 'Besides, I'm using one of my private accounts.' Her growing smile told him she had not finished. 'And, you see, I have every reason to want to see him. He's my confessor.'