The Golden Egg

16

He called the officers’ squad room, only to be told that Pucetti was out on patrol. He asked for the young man’s telefonino number, entered it into his own, and called. Pucetti answered, said he was in San Marco, watching the pigeons and the tourists avoid the rain.

Brunetti told him about Rizzardi’s call and was surprised by the force of the young man’s response. ‘What happened? Is she badly hurt?’

Brunetti repeated that all he knew was what Rizzardi had told him: she was in the Emergency Room, and it looked as if she’d been attacked.

‘Can I meet you there, Commissario?’ Pucetti asked.

‘That’s why I’m calling,’ Brunetti said, surprised that Pucetti hadn’t assumed that. ‘I’m leaving now. Rizzardi will meet us there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes.’ The young man broke the connection before he did.

He looked out the window: no sign of Foa or his boat. He put on his raincoat, took his umbrella from the bottom of the cupboard, and left the Questura, telling the man

at the door that he was going to the hospital to talk to a witness.

The rain had intensified while he was inside, and his shoes were soon soaked at the toe and then along the sides. The rain had cleaned the pavement and had cleared the streets: although he saw few people on the way to the hospital, inside there was the usual back and forth of visitors, doctors and nurses, and bathrobed and slippered patients.

The automatic doors slid open as he approached them, and he walked into the waiting area of the Pronto Soccorso. He walked past the reception window and into the first corridor, intent on finding either Rizzardi or Pucetti.

‘Signore,’ a voice behind him called out. ‘You have to register.’ He took out his warrant card and went back to the door of the small cubicle where the receptionist sat behind his computer. He was an owl-like man with sparse hair who looked perfectly at home inside his glass-fronted box.

Brunetti held up his warrant card and said, ‘I’m looking for Dottor Rizzardi.’

Disgruntled, needing to score even this small point, the man behind the desk said, ‘You have to show me before you go in.’

Brunetti was about to snap back at him when he recalled the mantra Paola had been beating into his head for two decades: ‘This is the only power this man has, and it is the only power he will ever have in his life. Either you show him that you respect it, or he will cause you more trouble than it’s worth.’

‘Ah, sorry,’ Brunetti said, putting his card back in his wallet. ‘I forgot.’

The man nodded, apparently mollified. ‘She’s in the third room on the left.’

‘One of our men in uniform should be here soon. Would you send him down to us?’ Brunetti asked and then, invoking the wisdom of Paola, added, ‘Please.’

The man raised his hand, glad now to help. ‘Of course, Signore.’

Brunetti knocked at the door, waited a few seconds, and went in. Rizzardi was standing at the foot of the bed, reading a form attached to a thick plastic clipboard. How strange, Brunetti thought, to see Rizzardi with a live patient; but then he remembered that he was, after all, a doctor.

Rizzardi glanced at Brunetti and used the clipboard to wave him forward.

Brunetti approached. Rizzardi held up the clipboard to indicate it was the source of whatever he could tell

him. Speaking softly, the doctor said, ‘She might have a concussion, but very slight, a lot of bruising on her face, a cut over her left eye. Two fingers on her left hand are crushed, and there’s a hairline fracture to one of her ribs.’

Brunetti looked at the woman in the bed and was shocked to see how much smaller she had grown. She hardly seemed as long as she had been tall; the sheet dipped down at her shrunken waist. She was asleep; her eyes were curiously deep-set, a reddish-grey halo already in place around the left one. Her cheeks seemed to have collapsed into her mouth, or perhaps it was a trick of light that played the clear skin of her cheeks against the darker skin around and under her eyes. He recognized her chiefly by her hair, the only thing that had not changed.

Her left hand lay outside the covers, two fingers splinted and taped.

‘What happened?’ Brunetti asked.

Rizzardi lowered the clipboard and returned it to its place at the foot of the bed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All I’ve seen is this.’ He tapped the paper. Taking Brunetti by the arm, he moved him away from the bed.

‘Favaro said it looked as if she had been beaten. Her injuries are consistent with that idea.’ His voice was soft, cool, instructive.

Brunetti glanced across the room and took another look at the woman’s face and hand. ‘And if I said it, too?’ he asked, having seen the results of many beatings in his career.

Rizzardi gave a relaxed shrug and said, voice warming in response to Brunetti’s question, ‘I’d agree with you.’

Before Brunetti could add anything, the door opened and Pucetti came in. He looked at the two men, at the woman, then back at Rizzardi. The doctor nodded to him, reminding Brunetti they had met that morning, when Pucetti had accompanied Signora Cavanella to the morgue.

‘What happened, Dottore?’ the young officer asked, voice lowered. ‘Is she all right?’ His concern could not have been more audible.

‘The ambulance crew brought her in three hours ago. She might have a concussion: she hit her head. You see her fingers: they’ve been crushed. And she hit her face,’ Rizzardi said. ‘She might have fallen.’ Brunetti was interested in the description he gave, which was utterly devoid of reference to human agency of any sort.

‘Oddio,’ Pucetti said. He remained motionless, just inside the door. Then, with a shake, as if bringing himself back to normal, he asked Brunetti, ‘Should I go and talk to the crew?’

‘Good idea,’ Brunetti said, then to Rizzardi, ‘Is she all right alone?’

‘Of course,’ Rizzardi said, with that complete confidence with which doctors comment on uncertain things.

Realizing it would be difficult to talk in the same room as the woman, Brunetti said, ‘Let’s get a coffee,’ then, to Pucetti, ‘Come and find us in the bar after you talk to them, all right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Pucetti said and, with one more glance in the woman’s direction, was gone as hurriedly as he had entered.

Both men left the room very quietly, as people always do when they are in a hospital. As they went along the hallway, back towards the bar in the entrance corridor, Brunetti asked, his voice returned to normal volume, ‘What do you think happened?’ Rizzardi said nothing for a while until Brunetti added, ‘Between us, that is.’

Rizzardi smiled and answered, ‘I don’t mind telling you. I’m thinking about the possibilities, not about the risk of giving an opinion.’ He paused when they reached the courtyard, where the rain had grown even heavier.

The trees were still fully leaved; the rain had not succeeded in bringing down many of them. It occurred to Brunetti that the leaves should all be on the ground by this time of year.

‘I suppose you’ve seen similar cases,’ Rizzardi said, standing with his hands in his pockets and watching two cats sleeping on the low stone wall. ‘They could be defence wounds, or perhaps she hurt her fingers trying to break her fall. There’s the blow to the head, but it could be that her head hit the wall, or a step, when she fell. There are the wounds on her face: on the left side, which means they came from a right-handed person – if someone did hit her – but that sort of bruising is common in a fall.’

One of the cats opened its eyes, stood, and arched its back before lying down again and lapsing instantly into profound sleep. ‘There might be some other explanation. The ambulance crew might know something, or she might tell us when she wakes up.’ Turning to Brunetti, he asked, ‘What’s it look like to you?’

Brunetti ran his right hand through his hair and found it still damp. He wiped his hand on his trousers and continued towards the bar. ‘I’ve seen enough of them, usually women who get beaten by their boyfriends or husbands. This could be one of scores of cases. It’s got all the signs: the head, the face, the fingers.’

In the bar he ordered two coffees without having to ask Rizzardi what he wanted.

When the coffee came, Rizzardi took a sip, then said, ‘I hit a man once. Once in my life. But I can’t imagine hitting a woman.’

‘Why’d you hit him?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Oh, it was just a thing,’ Rizzardi said.

Brunetti turned and stared at him. ‘Everything’s a thing, Ettore. Why’d you hit him?’

‘I was on a vaporetto,’ Rizzardi began. He picked up his coffee, studied what was left in the cup, swirled it around a few times, and finished it. ‘There was a man standing to my left. And in front of him was a little girl. Well, maybe not so little. She was maybe thirteen, so, yes, she was still a little girl. When he thought no one was looking, he leaned sideways and put his hand on her ass and squeezed it. And he left his hand there. I watched her, pretty little girl, wearing a dress. It was summer, so it was a light dress.’

Rizzardi set his cup back in the saucer and turned to look at Brunetti. ‘The girl looked at him, but he kept his hand there and smiled at her. She was terrified, embarrassed, ashamed.’ He turned to the barman and asked for a glass of mineral water, then turned back to Brunetti. ‘So I hit him. Made a fist and hit him in the stomach. I’m a doctor, so I didn’t want to risk hitting his head or his face: didn’t want to break anything, or my hand, so I guess I didn’t hit him very hard. But hard enough.’

The water came. Rizzardi picked it up and drank half. ‘He doubled over, and when his head was about the level of my knees, I bent down and said, “You ever do that again, I’ll kill you.”’ He sighed. ‘I never did anything like that in my life, let myself lose control.’

‘What did he do?’ Brunetti asked.

‘He got off at the next stop. I never saw him again.’

‘And the girl?’

Rizzardi’s face lit up. ‘She said, “Thank you, Signore” and smiled at me.’ Rizzardi’s face was transformed by a smile. ‘I’ve never been so proud of myself in my entire life.’ He waited a few seconds before adding, ‘I know I should be ashamed, but I’m not.’

‘Would you do it again?’ Brunetti asked.

‘In a heartbeat,’ Rizzardi answered and laughed.

Pucetti arrived just then and stood amazed: like Brunetti, in all these years, he had never heard Rizzardi laugh.

Glad of the chance to move away from what Rizzardi had told him, Brunetti asked, ‘What did they say?’

‘The call came from a man who passed her on the street, over near the Zattere. He said there was a woman sitting on the steps of a building, with blood on her face. He tried to talk to her, but she didn’t seem to understand him, so he called for the ambulance.’

‘Do they have his name?’

‘Yes, sir. He stayed there until they came.’

‘Did he tell them anything else?’

‘Nothing. Just that he was on his way home, and he saw this woman.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘She told them she fell down.’

‘If I had ten Euros for every time I’ve heard that one, I could retire,’ Rizzardi interrupted to say and asked Pucetti if he’d like a coffee.

Pucetti stared at Rizzardi and did not answer, then said he didn’t want a coffee.

Brunetti paid and they left the bar, walked past the courtyard, and back to Pronto Soccorso. This time, Brunetti raised his hand to the man behind the window, who waved back and smiled.

Brunetti opened the door to the room and saw that the woman’s eyes were open. But by the time the three men were near the bed, they were closed again.

‘Signora,’ Brunetti said. There was no response.

Rizzardi, obviously deciding to stay out of this, said nothing.

Pucetti leaned down and said softly, ‘Signora Ana. It’s me, Roberto.’ He placed his right hand on her upper arm. ‘Signora, can you hear me?’

Slowly, she opened her eyes and, seeing his face so close to hers, smiled.

‘Don’t try to talk, Signora. Everything’s all right, everything’s going to be all right.’

‘Could you ask her . . .’ Brunetti began.

Pucetti stood upright and turned to Brunetti. ‘I think she’s had enough, Commissario. Don’t you?’ Then, including Rizzardi, he said, ‘I think we all ought to get out of here and let her rest.’

Brunetti backed away from him and raised his hands, palms open; in the voice of a man struggling to save face or reputation, he added, ‘She’s had too much. You’re right.’ He turned and headed for the door. As he passed Rizzardi, he said, ‘Come on, Ettore. Pucetti’s right.’

The two men went and stood by the door. Pucetti bent down and placed his hand on the woman’s arm again. ‘Try to get some sleep now, Signora. I’ll come back when I can.’ When she started to speak, he held up one finger, as if he wanted to place it gently on her lips, and said, ‘No, not now. Everything can wait. Just sleep now. And get better.’ He gave her arm the gentlest of squeezes and moved away from the bed, very slowly, turning at the door as if to see that she was still all right.

The three men left the room; Pucetti was careful to pull the door closed very quietly.