The Girl of his Dreams

18

Later in the same day on which Pucetti had distributed the photos of the Gypsy girl, Brunetti found himself at his desk, the file with the remaining photos placed consciously to one side, as if that would help him to put them to the back of his mind. Almost with relief, he heard someone knock on his door and called, 'Avanti.'

Signorina Elettra entered, saying, 'Do you have a moment, Commissario?'

'Of course, of course,' he said, gesturing to a chair.

She closed the door and crossed the room, and sat down, crossing her legs. She carried no papers, but her posture suggested she planned to be there for some time.

'Yes, Signorina?' Brunetti said with an easy smile.

'I've done what you asked, Dottore, and been busy finding out about that priest.

'Which one?' he asked.

'Ah, there's only one: Padre Antonin’ she answered, then, before he could enquire, she added, 'The other one, Leonardo Mutti, is a member of no religious order, at least not one that has the sanction of the Vatican.'

'May I ask how you discovered this?'

'It was easy enough to get his date and place of birth: he's resident here, so all I had to do was check the files at the Comune.' A minimal gesture of her right hand indicated the surpassing ease of this. 'And then all my friend had to do was run his name and date of birth through their files.' She paused here to add, 'The recordkeeping at the Vatican is a marvel: they keep track of everything.'

Brunetti nodded.

'There's no sign of anyone called Leonardo Mutti either as a member of the regular clergy or in any recognized order of monks or priests.'

'Recognized?'

'My friend tells me they've got files on all of the acknowledged orders – that is, the ones they control -as well as on some of the fringe groups – those Lefevre lunatics and people like that – but Mutti's name doesn't appear as a member of any of them, either.'

'Were you able to check those records yourself?' Brunetti asked, more from politeness than from any clear understanding of what this might entail.

'Ah, no,' she said, hand raised to wave off the very thought. "They're too good for me. I told you, they're a marvel: it's almost impossible to get into their system. Only with the proper authorization.'

'I see,' he said, as though he did. 'And Antonin? What did your friend find out about him?'

'That he was removed from his parish in Africa four years ago and sent to some small town in Abruzzo, but then it looks like some strings got pulled for him, and he ended up here, chaplain in the hospital’ 'What sort of strings?'

'I don't know, and he couldn't find out. But Antonin was in what you might call internal exile for a year or so before he was transferred here.' When Brunetti remained silent, she said, 'Usually, when they're sent back like that – under a cloud, as it were – they stay where they've been sent for far longer, often for the rest of their careers.'

'Why was he removed?' Brunetti asked.

'He was accused of running a scam’ she said, then added, 'I should have told you that to begin with, I suppose.'

'What sort of scam?'

'The usual thing they do in Africa and in lots of the missions in the Third World: letters back home, telling how great the need for help is, how little they have, and how poor the people are.' To Brunetti it sounded so very much like the letters Antonin had sent to Sergio.

'But Padre Antonin's mission moved into the modern age’ she said with something like admiration in her voice. 'He set up a website with photos of his jungle parish and his happy congregation filing into church for Mass. And the new school that had been built with donors' money’ She tilted her chin and asked, 'When you were a boy, Signore, did you get to ransom babies?'

'Ransom?'

'With the little cardboard collection box that you put your pocket money in, and the money went to ransom a pagan baby and save him for Jesus?'

‘I think they had them at school, but my father wouldn't let me give them anything’ Brunetti said.

'We had them, too,' she said, failing to say whether she had or had not contributed to the salvation of pagan souls for Jesus. There was something she wasn't telling him; he had no idea what it was, but he had no doubt that it would soon be revealed. 'Padre Antonin used the same tactic on his website’ she explained. 'By sending money to a bank account, you could pay for the education of a child for one year.'

Brunetti, who had a number of Indian orphans in his fiscal care, found himself growing uncomfortable.

'He spoke of education and vocational training, not about religion, at least on the website’ she explained. Then, before he could ask, she said, ‘I suppose he assumed that people who consulted a website would be more interested in education than in religion.'

'Perhaps’ Brunetti said, then asked, 'And?'

'And then the whole thing blew up when someone looking at the website noticed that the photos of Antonin's happy congregation were also used on the site of a school run by some bishop in Kenya. Not only that, but the pious stories of hope and faith were the same, as well.' She smiled. ‘I suppose they thought there would be no ecclesiastical cross-checking, if I might call it that.' Then, her cynicism slipping through, she asked, 'Besides, all Black people look alike, don't they?'

Ignoring this last, Brunetti enquired, 'What happened?'

'The person who noticed it was a journalist working on an article about these missionary groups.'

'A journalist with or without sympathy?' Brunetti asked.

'Luckily for Antonin, with.' 'And so?'

'And so he reported it to someone at the Vatican, who had a quiet word with Antonin's bishop, and Padre Antonin found himself suddenly transferred to Abruzzo.'

'And the money?'

'Ah, here it becomes interesting,' she said. 'It turns out that Antonin had nothing to do with the money: it all went to an account his bishop had set up in his own name, along with a percentage of the money raised by the bishop in Kenya who was using Antonin's photos. Antonin never had any idea how much money they raised: he didn't care so long as they had enough to run the school and feed the children.' She smiled at the simplicity of the man.

'He served as a kind of front man, I suppose you could say,' she went on. 'He was European, had contacts in Italy, knew people here who could design a website, and he knew how to appeal to people's generosity.' She smiled again, a cooler smile. 'If it hadn't been for the journalist, he'd probably still be there, saving souls for Jesus.'

Indignant, as much for Antonin as because of what his initial response to the story revealed about his own prejudices, Brunetti said, 'Didn't he protest? He was innocent.'

'Poverty. Chastity. Obedience’ She paused after each word. 'It seems Antonin takes them all seriously. So he obeyed the command of Rome and came back, did his job in Abruzzo. But then it seems someone found out what had really happened – the journalist probably told someone – and Antonin was sent here.'

'Has he told anyone the truth?' Brunetti asked.

She shrugged. 'He does his job, takes care of the people in the hospital, buries the dead.'

'And tries to stop people from being caught up in similar scams?' Brunetti ventured.

'So it would seem’ she said reluctantly, preferring, regardless of the evidence, to keep her suspicions of the clergy intact. She leaned forward and began to get to her feet. 'Do you want me to continue looking into Leonardo Mutti?'

Though Brunetti's best instincts warned him not to waste more time on this, he now felt he owed Antonin a favour. 'Yes, please. Antonin kept insisting that he was from Umbria, so perhaps you could see if you can find anything there.'

'Yes, Commissario’ she said, finally getting to her feet. 'Vianello told me about the little girl. Terrible.'

Did she mean the death, or the disease, or the fact that she probably died while robbing an apartment, or that no one had come to claim her? Rather than answer this, Brunetti said, ‘I can't get rid of the sight of her.'

'Vianello said the same, sir’ she said. 'Perhaps it will be better when it's settled.'

'Yes. Perhaps’ Brunetti replied. When he said no more, she left his office and went back to her own.

Three days later, a phone call from the Carabinieri substation at San Zaccaria was transferred to him. 'You the one looking for the Gypsy?' a man's voice asked. 'Yes.'

'They told me to call you.' 'And you are?'

'Maresciallo Steiner’ the man answered, and at the name Brunetti realized that the accent lurking in the man's voice was German.

'Thank you for calling, Maresciallo’ Brunetti said, opting for politeness, though he had a feeling it might not cut much ice.

‘Padrini showed me the photo your guy left, said you wanted to know about her’

'Yes, that's correct.'

'My boys brought her in here a couple of times. Usual stuff: call a female officer, wait for her to get here, then search the kid. Search the other ones that got brought in with her, too. That happened twice. Then get in touch with their parents.' A pause followed, then Steiner added, 'Or the people who say they're the parents. Then wait for the parents to come, or if they don't show up, take the kids out to the camp and hand them over. That's the procedure. No comments, no charges, and not even a little tap on the back of the wrist to remind them not to do it again.' Steiner's words suggested sarcasm, but his tone expressed only tired resignation.

'Could you tell me exactly who recognized her?' Brunetti asked.

'As I told you, two of my men. Pretty girl: didn't look like one of them. So they remembered her.'

'Could I come down there and talk to them?' Brunetti asked.

'Why? You guys going to handle the case?'

Immediately on his guard to avoid whatever turf war the Maresciallo might be imagining, Brunetti said amicably, 'I'm not sure there's much of a case to handle, Maresciallo. What I'd like to do is get a name and, if possible, an address from your records, then get a positive identification from her parents…' Brunetti paused here, then added in a tone of complicit camaraderie,'… or the people claiming to be her parents.'

All Brunetti heard was a muffled grunt from Steiner, perhaps of agreement, perhaps of appreciation. He went on. 'As soon as we have that, we can consign her body to them and close the case.'

'How'd she die?' the Carabiniere asked.

'Drowned. Just as it said in the papers,' Brunetti answered, then added, 'for once.' This time Brunetti heard a short grunt of agreement. 'No signs of violence: I figure she fell into the canal. Probably didn't know how to swim’ he said, without a thought of adding, 'poor thing.'

'Yeah, it's not like they spend a lot of time at the beach, is it?' Steiner asked, and Brunetti mumbled something that might sound like agreement.

'You still want to bother coming down here?' Steiner asked. ‘I can give you all the information on the phone.'

'No, it'll look better on my report if I can say I came down and talked to you about it’ Brunetti said, as if confiding in an old friend. 'Any chance I could talk to your men, too?'

'Wait a minute and I'll see who's here’ Steiner said and set the phone down. After a long time, he picked it up. 'No, both of them have gone off duty. Sorry.'

'Could I get the information from you, then, Maresciallo?'

'I'll be here.'

Brunetti thanked him, said he'd be there in ten minutes, and replaced the phone.

Because he was in a hurry, he didn't stop to tell anyone where he was going. It might be better, in any case, to visit Steiner alone, if only to make it appear to him that the police had no great interest in the death of the child and were merely trying to clear their records. Brunetti had no particular reason to want to keep information from the Carabinieri: his urge towards secrecy was entirely atavistic.

On his walk to the Carabinieri station, Brunetti's imagination conjured up a picture of Steiner as a kind of Tyrolean Ubermensch: tall, blond, blue-eyed, firm of chin and purpose. The man into whose office he was shown, however, was so short and dark that he must often be mistaken for a Sardinian or a Sicilian. He had black hair so dense and wiry Brunetti thought he would have the devil's own time finding anyone able to cut it for him. Strangely enough, his eyes were clear grey and looked out of place on his dark-skinned face.

'Steiner,' he said as Brunetti entered. The two men shook hands, and Brunetti, after turning down the ritual offer of a coffee, asked the Maresciallo to tell him whatever he could about the girl or her family.

'I've got the file here,' the Maresciallo said, picking up a manila folder and putting on a pair of thick-lensed glasses. He waved the file in the air. 'They're busy people.' Setting it down on his desk, he added, 'Everything's here: our reports, more from the squad in Dolo, also from the social services.'

Steiner opened the file; he picked up the first few pages and began to read: 'Ariana Rocich, daughter of Bogdan Rocich and Ghena Michailovich.' Steiner glanced at Brunetti over the top of his glasses, and when he noticed that he was taking notes, said, "The file is yours. I had copies made of everything.'

'Thank you, Maresciallo,' Brunetti said and replaced the notebook in his pocket.

Steiner returned his attention to the papers and went on, as though there had been no interruption, 'Or at least those are the names on their papers. Doesn't mean much.'

'Fake?' Brunetti asked.

'Who knows?' Steiner asked in return and let the pages flutter to his desk. 'Most of the ones we have here come from ex-Yugoslavia: they've come in with UN refugee status, or their documents are from countries that don't exist any more.' With a finger that was surprisingly long and delicate, he pushed the folder forward on his desk, saying, 'Some of them already have Italian passports: been here so long. This bunch, though, came from Kosovo. Or said they did. No way of knowing. Probably doesn't make any difference, anyway. Once they're here, there's no getting rid of them, is there?'

Brunetti muttered something, then asked, 'You said that your men brought other children in with her.' Steiner nodded. 'Same parents? What's their name? Rocich?'

Steiner leafed quickly through the papers and placed some to the side, face down. Finally he pulled one out and read through it, then said, 'There are three of them. That is, this girl Ariana, and two others.' He looked up and said, 'You know we can't keep records for children, but I asked around: that's what's in here.' At Brunetti's nod, Steiner went on. 'My boys told me they've caught her twice, both times during a burglary.' Brunetti knew that no one under the age of fourteen could be arrested by the police, only taken into protective custody until they could be returned to their parents or the adult in whose care they were. No records could be kept, but memory was not yet illegal.

'The other two kids,' the Maresciallo continued, 'belong to the same family – at least the same surname is on their papers – though with them you never know who the real father is.'

'Do they live in the same place?' Brunetti asked.

'You don't mean in a house, do you, Commissario?' Steiner asked.

'Of course not. I mean camp. Do they all live in the same one?'

'It would seem so,' Steiner said. 'Outside of Dolo. It's been there about fifteen years, ever since things fell apart in Yugoslavia.'

'How many people are there?'

'You mean in that camp or altogether?'

'Both, I suppose.'

'It's impossible to say, really,' Steiner answered, removing his glasses and tossing them down on the open file. 'In the camp, there can be from fifty to a hundred, sometimes more if they have a party or a meeting: a wedding or some sort of celebration. The best we can do is count the caravans or the cars and then multiply by four.' Steiner smiled and ran one hand through his hair: Brunetti thought he could hear the noise it made. 'No one knows why we use that number,' Steiner confessed, 'but we do.'

'And in total? In Italy, I mean.'

This time Steiner ran both hands through his hair, and Brunetti really did hear the noise. 'That's anyone's guess. The government says forty thousand, so it could be forty thousand. But it could just as easily be a hundred thousand. No one knows.'

'No one counts?' Brunetti asked.

Steiner looked across at him. ‘I thought you were going to ask if no one cares,' he said.

'That, too, I suppose,' Brunetti answered, no longer feeling so distant from the man.

'Certainly no one counts,' Steiner said. 'That is, they count the people in the camps, if you can call what we do counting. And then they count the camps all over the country. But the numbers change every day. They move around a lot, so some never get counted and some get counted more than once. Sometimes they move when it begins to be dangerous for them to stay in one camp.' Steiner gave him a long look and then added, 'And if you'd like me to say something I shouldn't say, I'll add that the people who see them – or who want them to be seen – as a danger to society tend to count more of them than people who don't.'

'Why is that?' Brunetti asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

'The neighbours get tired of having their cars stolen or their houses broken into or having their children beaten up in school by the kids from the camps. That is, the ones who go to school. So groups, or you could call them gangs, start to form outside the camps, and if the number of nomads in the country is a high one, then these groups feel justified in wanting to get rid of them. And they begin to make life uncomfortable for them.'

Seeing that Brunetti was following his explanation, he decided not to describe how life was made uncomfortable and went on, 'So one morning there are fewer campers and fewer Mercedes. And for a while no one breaks into houses in the area and their kids go to school and behave better while they're there.' Steiner gave Brunetti a long look and then asked, 'You want me to speak frankly?'

'It's what I most want.'

'Another thing that makes them move is if we start coming around too often with their kids, bringing them back after we've found them in houses or coming out of houses or walking around with screwdrivers stuck in their socks or in the waistbands of their skirts. After we've brought them back five or six times, they move.' 'And then what happens?'

'They go somewhere else and begin to break into houses there.'

'Just like that?' Brunetti asked.

Steiner shrugged. 'They pack up and move and continue living as they always have. It's not as if they've got rent or mortgages to pay or jobs to go to, like the rest of us.'

'It sounds like you have very little sympathy for them,' Brunetti risked saying.

Steiner gave a shrug. 'No, it's not that, Commissario, but I've been arresting them and taking their children home for years, so I don't have any illusions about them.'

'And you think people do?' Brunetti asked.

'Some do. About equality and respect for culture and different traditions.' Much as he listened for it, Brunetti could detect no hint of sarcasm or irony.

'There's also guilt about what happened to them during the war,' the Carabiniere continued, adding, 'Understandably so. As a consequence, they get treated differently'

'Which means what?'

'Which means if you or I refused to send our children to school and, instead, sent them out to rob houses, we wouldn't keep those children very long.'

'And that's not the case for them?'

‘I hardly think you have to ask me that, Commissario,' Steiner said, more than a bit of asperity in his tone. He ran his right hand through his hair again then changed the subject by asking, 'Now that you know who she is, what do you plan to do?'

'Her parents have to be informed’ Steiner nodded.

After giving the Maresciallo some time to comment, an opportunity the other man ignored, Brunetti said, ‘I found the body, so I suppose I should be the one to tell them’

Steiner studied Brunetti for a moment, then said, 'Yes’ 'Is there someone from the social services who knows them?' Brunetti asked.

'There's a number of them.'

'I'd prefer it to be a woman,' Brunetti said. 'To tell the mother.'

Brunetti thought he saw Steiner grimace, but then the Maresciallo got to his feet. He picked up the file, came around the desk, and held it out to Brunetti. 'Some of the reports of the social workers are in here.' Brunetti looked at the folder but made no move to take it.

Steiner gave a smile and a small shake of the folder. ‘I need a cigarette, but I have to go outside to smoke it,' he said. 'Read this while I'm gone, and when I come back, tell me what you'd like to do, all right?'

Brunetti reached up and took the file. Steiner left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.