The Girl of his Dreams

21

The men stood there, and slowly the sound of birdsong returned. The air was soft, as the gentle rays of the afternoon sun embraced them all. Beyond the fence Brunetti saw the field roiling up and away from them, gently green, to a stand of chestnut trees: surely, some of the birdsong came from there. How sweet life is, Brunetti thought.

He lowered his eyes from the trees and considered the men, now nine of them, who stood facing them. He was struck by the fact that all of them wore hats, dirty fedoras that might once have been different colours but now looked a dull, dusty brown. None of them was close shaven. With many Italian men of all ages, this look was considered a fashion statement – Brunetti had never been quite sure what the statement was, but he knew it was meant to be one. These men, however, looked as if they could not be bothered to shave or somehow considered it a sign of weakness. Some of the beards were patchy, some were longer than others; none of them looked particularly clean.

All of the men were dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and all of them wore woollen trousers, sweaters, and dark jackets. Some had shirts underneath. Their shoes were thick-soled and scuffed.

Steiner and his driver were in Carabiniere uniform, so the men of the camp kept their eyes on them, though an occasional curious glance was cast towards Brunetti and Vianello. A dull thud from his right made Brunetti flinch. He looked at Steiner and noticed that the Maresciallo, as he turned toward the noise, had put his hand on the butt of his revolver.

When Brunetti followed Steiner's eyes, he saw Dottoressa Pitteri standing at the side of the car, her hand still on the handle of the door she had slammed, a small smile on her lips. ‘I didn't mean to startle you, Maresciallo,' she said, her smile turning acid. 'Do please forgive me.'

Steiner returned his attention to the men in front of them. His hand fell to his side, but his instinctive reaction had not passed unobserved. Two of them, indeed, could not stop themselves from smiling, though not at Steiner.

Dottoressa Pitteri moved away from the car and approached the men. They gave no hint of recognition, let alone pleasure, as she walked over. She stopped and said something Brunetti could not hear. When none of the men responded, she spoke a bit louder. Though this time Brunetti could hear her words, he could not understand what she said. She stood with her feet apart, and from the back he saw how thick her calves were. Her feet seemed anchored to the ground.

As he watched, one of the men, who was standing to the right, spoke to her. She turned to him and said a few words; the man responded in a louder voice, loud enough for the police to hear, 'Speak Italian. It's easier to understand you.' Though he was not the oldest man in the group, he spoke with the air of command. His accent was marked, but they could hear that he spoke Italian with ease.

Brunetti had the impression that the woman had sunk both feet more deeply into the ground-up earth in front of the caravans. Her hands hung by her sides – she had left her bag in the car – and he saw that she had drawn her fingers up into fists.

I'd like to speak to Bogdan Rocich,' Brunetti heard her say.

Beyond her, the man's face remained impassive, but Brunetti noticed that two of the others exchanged a glance, and a third glanced aside at the man who had spoken.

'He's not here,' the man answered.

'His car is here,' she said, and the man's eyes moved to a sun-faded blue Mercedes with a large dent in the right fender. 'He's not here,' he repeated.

'His car is here,' she said, as though the man had not spoken.

'He went with a friend,' one of the other men volunteered, and was about to say more but was cut off by a fierce glance from the leader. The man in charge took a sudden step towards the woman, then another, and Brunetti was impressed to see that she did not move back, did not flinch: if anything, she dug her feet more deeply into the earth.

The man stood less than an arm's length from her and, though he was not tall, seemed to loom above her. 'What do you want with him?' he demanded.

To talk to him’ she answered calmly, and as Brunetti watched, her fists opened and her fingers stretched towards the ground.

'You can talk to me’ the man said. 'I am his brother.'

'Signor Tanovic’ she said, 'you are not his brother, and you are not his cousin.' Her voice was calm, relaxed, as if the two of them had met in the park for a chat. 1 have come to speak to Signor Rocich.'

'I told you he is not here.' His face could have been carved, so impassive did it remain all during this conversation.

'Perhaps he's come back’ she suggested, offering him a way out. 'And no one told you.'

Brunetti, keeping his face as motionless as the man's, watched him consider the possibility being offered to him. The man looked at Dottoressa Pitteri, then ran his eyes across the faces of the men in front of him, two in uniform and the others no doubt bearing the unmistakable scent of police.

'Danis’ he said, turning away from them and speaking to the man at the far left of the line. All Brunetti understood was the name 'Bogdan.'

The man peeled away silently and walked off towards the caravan behind the blue Mercedes. One of the men lit a cigarette, and when the man addressed as Tanovic said nothing, two others did as well. No one spoke.

Danis walked up the steps to the caravan and raised his hand, but before he could knock on the door it was pulled open and a man dressed like the others came out; they exchanged a few words, and he followed the other man down the steps. He left the door open, and a flash of something light behind it caused Brunetti to keep his eyes on the door while everyone else watched the man approach Tanovic and Dottoressa Pitted.

The interior of the camper was dark, but Brunetti thought he saw one side of a human figure, or the shadow of a human form, at the door. Yes, there was movement, some sort of swinging motion of the lower, lighter part of the figure.

He was conscious of the man as he came closer to them all, then of his stopping, not by Dottoressa Pitteri but by the man who had summoned him and who had taken a half-step back. Brunetti listened, but the men spoke to one another in a language utterly foreign to him. He risked a glance and saw that the attention of everyone in the circle around the two men was riveted on the conversation.

Brunetti glanced back at the door, and as he did, fingers emerged and wrapped themselves around it, pulling it open a bit more, and then just above the hand a woman's face appeared. He could not see her clearly, but he could see enough to observe that she was an old woman, perhaps the mother of the man who had emerged from the caravan, perhaps Ariana's grandmother.

She leaned forward, following the man with her eyes, and Brunetti saw the motion again as her skirt swung forward beneath her.

When the men seemed to have stopped talking, Dottoressa Pitteri said, 'Good afternoon, Signor Rocich’ and Brunetti switched his attention to the man who had come out of the caravan.

He was shorter than the other men, and he was thicker-set. His hair was as black and dense as Steiner's, though longer, straight and slicked back from his forehead with pomade or grease. He had enormous black eyebrows under which his dark eyes disappeared: it was difficult to tell what colour they were. He looked more prosperous than the others: his beard was trimmed, his shoes were cleaner, as was the collar of the shirt he wore under his sweater.

He looked across at Dottoressa Pitteri, and his glance was so neutral that it was impossible to tell if he knew her; indeed, there was no telling if he had ever seen her before. 'What you want?' he finally asked.

'It's about your daughter’ she answered. 'Ariana.'

'What happen Ariana?' he asked. When he spoke, he did not take his eyes from hers.

'I'm afraid I have to tell you that your daughter has died in an accident, Signor Rocich.'

His eyes turned slowly towards the caravan, and as the others followed his look the woman's form retreated inside, though everyone could still see her four fingers on the outside of the door.

'She die?' he asked. At the woman's nod, he asked, 'How? In car traffic?'

'No. She drowned.'

It was obvious from his expression that he did not understand the word. Dottoressa Pitteri repeated it a bit louder, then one of the other men said something, and the understanding came into his face. He looked at his shoes, then at her, then at the men who stood behind him, first to one side and then to the other. No one said anything for a long time.

Finally Dottoressa Pitteri said, 'I'd like to tell your wife’ and turned to take a step towards the caravan.

The man's hand shot out like a snake, and he grabbed her upper arm, stopping her on the spot. ‘I no like’ he said in a tight voice, though he spoke no more loudly. ‘I tell’ he said, and took his hand from her arm. Brunetti could see that the cloth of her sleeve still bore the imprint of his hand.

'She mine’ he said decisively to Dottoressa Pitteri, as if to put an end to any possibility of discussion, and turned towards the caravan. His wife or his daughter, Brunetti found himself wondering, to which of them was he staking a claim? Probably both, from the sound of him.

The man continued walking towards the caravan, but then he turned and came back. He stopped in front of Dottoressa Pitteri and said in an openly belligerent voice, 'How I know? How I sure she Ariana?'

The woman turned to Steiner and said, ‘I think this question is for you, Maresciallo’ Brunetti saw the looks that passed among the line-up of men at the sound of her voice, saw how their attention turned to the man in uniform to whom a woman spoke in this manner.

Brunetti stepped forward, pulling the photos from his pocket. He handed the envelope to the man, saying nothing. The man opened it and pulled them out, looked at all three, once, and then again. He slid them back into the envelope and turned back towards the caravan. He went up the steps.

Dottoressa Pitteri returned to the car. Speaking to the policemen, she said, ‘I think our work here is finished.' She did not bother to wait for agreement or dissent from them but climbed into the back seat, slamming the door after her.

The leader of the men turned away from them silently and went inside his caravan. The others dissolved.

Keeping his voice low, though there was no longer anyone to hear him, Brunetti walked up beside Steiner and said, 'Well?'

Before the Carabiniere could answer, a high-pitched keening broke from the still open door of the Rocich caravan. Brunetti's eyes swung towards it and then were diverted by a sudden motion from beyond it, at the top of the hill. The sound had startled the birds into flight, and a cloud of them circled the clump of chestnuts like a restless, dark halo. The sound went on, rising, falling, but never growing softer. His eyes on the branches of the trees, Brunetti thought of Dante and of the way he had broken off a branch, only to hear the agonized cry of the suicide to whose pain he had added, 'Is there no pity left in any soul?'

By silent agreement, the men turned back towards the car. Steiner and the driver got into the front seat, and Brunetti was just ducking his head to climb into the back seat when the door of the caravan slapped open with a slam like a pistol shot.

The woman who had been hiding inside and listening leaped through the door, appeared to fly down the steps, and stopped at the bottom as if blinded by the sudden light. One hand held the crushed envelope and the other the three photos, cupped delicately in her palm as if she feared damaging them in some way.

Brunetti had seen moles dug up, and they had been as startled by the light as she. At no time in all of this did her wailing cease. Suddenly she hurled the envelope to the ground and fell to her knees. She threw her head back and began to howl. With her free hand, she began to rake at her cheek. Brunetti, who was closest to her, saw the red trails appear, as though they were being slashed on with a row of red crayons.

Without thinking, he ran to her and grabbed her hand, holding it out to the side. He saw her start to swing at him with the other hand, but then she remembered the photos and stopped, though she reeled back and spat at him, again and again, spattering his shirt and the front of his trousers with her spittle.

'You kill my baby!' she shrieked. 'You kill my baby. In water, you kill her. My baby.' Her face was distorted by rage, and Brunetti saw that she was not an old woman, only a young one who had been aged by life. Both cheeks had caved in to fill the places of her missing teeth; two of the remaining front ones were chipped. Her hair was dry and pulled roughly under a kerchief, and her dark skin was oily and coarse.

Suddenly Dottoressa Pitteri was beside him, leaning over the woman. She said some words to her again and again, always the same phrase. She put her hand beside Brunetti's on the kneeling woman's arm, then gestured to him to let her go.

Brunetti obeyed, and as soon as his hand was removed, the woman seem to grow calmer. Her shrieks stopped and she bent forward, one arm wrapped around her stomach, the other holding the photos safely to the side. Her moans continued, and she muttered something Brunetti had no way of understanding. Dottoressa Pitteri took a handkerchief from the pocket of her jacket and pressed it against the woman's cheek, holding it there, saying nothing. There was no change in the woman's sobs, and she continued to mutter the same words. Dottoressa Pitteri turned the handkerchief to a fresh side, and Brunetti saw the streaks of blood.

Strong hands gripped Brunetti's upper arms, and he was thrust aside with force. He turned, crouching into a defensive stance, but it was the girl's father. Brunetti stood upright and watched as he approached the two women.

When he reached them, he put his hands on Dottoressa Pitteri's arms. As Brunetti watched, he actually lifted her from the ground and stepped aside to set her down a metre from his wife.

He went back to the keening woman and said something to her. She ignored him or didn't hear him and continued moaning, like an animal in pain. The man reached down and grabbed her by the upper arm. She was so thin that he had no trouble in pulling her to her feet.

She gave no sign that she saw him or knew what was happening to her. He swung her around until she was facing the caravan and used his other hand to give her a strong push in the middle of her back. She staggered forward and, almost losing her balance, instinctively put both hands out to steady herself. As Brunetti watched, the three photographs fluttered to the ground. The man, either seeing them or not seeing them, followed the woman. His foot came down on the face of one of the photos, sinking it into the dirt and mud. The other two fell face down.

As they watched, the woman stumbled up the steps and into the caravan. The man followed and slammed the door. Again, at the sound, the birds fled the branches of the trees and fluttered helplessly, filling the air with a higher-pitched version of the woman's cries.

Brunetti stooped and picked up the photos. The one the man had stepped on was beyond saving, crushed under the weight of the foot that had pressed mud into every crease. He slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. He walked over to the caravan and placed the other two on the top step, then went back to the car.

They drove back to Venice in silence.