The Death of Faith (34 page)

‘Thanks,’ Brunetti repeated, and Vianello left.

Alone, Brunetti went back to his raincoat and pulled out a bottle of painkillers and went down to the men’s room at the end of the corridor to get himself a glass of water. He swallowed down two pills, then a third, and put the bottle back into the pocket of his raincoat. He had had no sleep the night before and felt it now, the way he always did, in his eyes, which burned with grainy irritation. He leaned back in his chair but winced as the back of his arm hit the chair, forcing him forward.

Signorina Lerini had said ‘both’ men were sinners. Had da Prè, on one of his rare visits to his sister, seen her come from her father’s room on the day he died? And had Brunetti’s visit and the questions he asked set him thinking about that? If so, then the little man had overlooked, in his attempt to blackmail her, the sense of divine mission which filled and animated her, and in so doing had condemned himself. He had menaced God’s plan and so he had to die.

Brunetti played the conversation with Signorina Lerini back in his mind. He had not dared, not standing in front of her and confronted with the madness in her eyes, to name the priest, and so he had only her assertion that the ‘holy father’ had told her what to do. Even her confession of the murders of her father and da Prè had been garbled with the ravings of her religious mania, so much so that the two witnesses to what was nothing less than a confession had no idea what they had heard. How, then, convince a judge to issue an order for her arrest? And, as he remembered those wild eyes and the tones of outraged sanctity with which she had spoken, he wondered if any judge would be willing to commit her for trial. Although he had seen his fair share of it, Brunetti hardly considered himself an expert on the subject of madness, but what he had seen last night felt like the real thing. And with the woman’s lost sanity fled any chance of making a case against her or against the man Brunetti was sure had sent her about her sacred mission.

He called the hospital, but he could not succeed in being put through to the ward where Maria Testa was. He tilted forward and allowed his weight to pull him to his feet. A glance out the window told him that, at least, it had stopped raining. With his right arm, he draped his raincoat over his shoulders and left his office.

When Brunetti saw the out-of-uniform Pucetti sitting outside the door to Maria Testa’s room, he remembered that, now that someone had tried to murder her, police protection could be provided.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Pucetti said, jumping to his feet and snapping out a formal salute.

‘Good morning, Pucetti,’ Brunetti responded. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Doctors and nurses have been going in and out all morning, sir. None of them will answer me when I ask them anything.’

‘Is there anyone in there now?’

‘Yes, sir. A nurse. I think she took some food in. At least it smelled like that.’

‘Good,’ Brunetti said. ‘She needs to eat. How long has it been?’ he asked, really, for an instant, incapable of remembering how long this had been going on.

‘Four days, sir.’

‘Yes, yes. Four days,’ Brunetti said, not really remembering but willing to believe the young man. ‘Pucetti?’

‘Yes, sir?’ he asked, not saluting, though it was difficult for him to stop himself.

‘Go downstairs and call Vianello. Tell him to get someone over here to relieve you, and tell him to put it on the duty roster. Then get yourself home and have something to eat. When are you on duty again?’

‘Not until the day after tomorrow, sir.’

‘Was today your day off?’

Pucetti looked down at his tennis shoes. ‘No, sir.’

‘Well, what was it?’

‘I had some vacation time coming. So I took a couple of days. I thought I’d, er, I thought I’d give Vianello a hand here. No place to go in this rain, anyway.’ Pucetti studied a speck on the wall to the left of Brunetti’s head.

‘Well, when you call Vianello, see if you can get him to change that and put you back on duty. Save your vacation for the summer.’

‘Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Then goodbye, sir,’ the young man said and turned away toward the steps.

‘And thanks, Pucetti,’ Brunetti called after him. The only acknowledgement Pucetti made was to raise one hand in the air, but he didn’t look back, and he didn’t otherwise acknowledge Brunetti’s thanks.

Brunetti knocked on the door.

‘Avanti,
’ a voice called from inside.

He pushed the door open and went in. A nun he didn’t recognize, wearing the now-familiar habit of the Order of the Sacred Cross, stood by the side of the bed, wiping Maria Testa’s face. She glanced across at Brunetti but didn’t speak. On the table beside the bed lay a tray, a half-eaten bowl of something that looked like soup in its centre. The blood — his blood — was gone from the floor.

‘Good morning,’ Brunetti said.

The nun nodded but said nothing. She took a half-step forward until, perhaps accidentally, she stood between him and the bed.

Brunetti moved to the left until Maria could see him. When she did, her eyes opened wide, and her brows pulled together as she fought to recall him. ‘Signor Brunetti?’ she finally asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What are you doing here? Is something wrong with your mother?’

‘No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I’ve come to see you.’

‘What’s wrong with your arm?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’

‘But how did you know I was here?’ Hearing the panic that came creeping into her own voice, she stopped and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said, in a voice that trembled with her effort to force it to remain calm, ‘I don’t understand anything.’

Brunetti drew nearer the bed. The nun shot him a glance and shook her head, a warning, if that’s what it was, that Brunetti didn’t heed.

‘What is it you don’t understand?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know how I got here. They said I was hit by a car while I was riding a bicycle, but I don’t have a bicycle. There are no bicycles at the nursing home, and I don’t think we’re supposed to ride them, even if there are. And they said I was out at the Lido. I’ve never been to the Lido, Signor Brunetti, never in my life.’ Her voice grew higher and higher.

‘Where do you remember being?’ he asked her.

The question seemed to startle her. She raised a hand to her forehead, just as he had seen her do in his office that day, and again she was surprised not to find the comforting protection of her wimple. With the tips of her first two fingers, she rubbed at the bandage that covered her temple, summoning thought.

‘I remember being at the nursing home,’ she finally said.

‘The one where my mother is?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Of course. That’s where I work.’ The nun, perhaps responding to the increasing agitation in Maria’s voice, stepped forward. ‘I think you better not ask any more questions, Signore.’

‘No, no, let him stay,’ Maria implored.

Seeing the nun’s indecision, Brunetti said, ‘Perhaps it will be easier if I do the talking.’

The nun looked from Brunetti to Maria Testa, who nodded and whispered, ‘Please. I want to know what’s happened.’

Looking down at her watch, the nun said, in that brisk voice that people adopt when given a chance to impose their limited power, ‘All right, but only five minutes.’ That said, Brunetti hoped she would leave, but she did not, merely moved to the end of the bed and listened openly to their conversation.

‘You were riding a bicycle when you were hit by a car. And you were on the Lido, where you were working in a private clinic.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ Maria said. ‘I told you I’ve never been on the Lido. Never.’ As soon as she had spoken, she stopped and said, ‘I’m sorry, Signor Brunetti. Tell me what you know.’

‘You’d been working there for a few weeks. You had left the nursing home weeks before. Some people helped you find the job and a place to live.’

‘A job?’ she asked.

‘At the clinic. Working in the laundry.’

She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them, said, ‘And I don’t remember anything about the Lido.’ Again, her hand moved to her temple. ‘But why are you here?’ she asked Brunetti, and he could tell by her tone that she had remembered his job.

‘You came to my office a few weeks ago, and you asked me to look into something.’

‘What?’ she asked with a puzzled shake of her head.

‘Something that you thought was going on in the San Leonardo nursing home.’

‘San Leonardo? But I’ve never been there.’

Brunetti saw her hands clench into fists on top of the covers and decided there was little sense in continuing like this. ‘I think we better leave this now. Perhaps you’ll remember what’s happened. You need to rest, and you need to eat and get stronger.’ How many times had he heard this same woman say things just like this to his mother?

The nun stepped forward. ‘That’s enough, Signore.’ Brunetti was forced to agree.

He reached out with his good hand and patted the back of Maria’s. ‘It’ll be all right. The worst of all of this is over. Just try to rest and eat.’ He smiled and turned away.

Before he reached the door, Maria turned to the nun and said, ‘Sister, I’m sorry to trouble you, but could you get me a—’ and stopped in embarrassment.

‘A bedpan?’ the nun asked, making no attempt to lower her voice.

Head still bowed, Maria nodded.

Breath exploded from the nun’s lips, and her mouth tightened in exasperation she did nothing to hide. She turned and went to the door, opened it, and held it while she waited for Brunetti.

From behind, in a small, frightened voice, Maria said, ‘Please, Sister, may he stay here with me until you come back?’

The nun glanced at her, at Brunetti, but she said nothing. She left the room and closed the door.

‘It was a black car,’ Maria said with no preamble. ‘I don’t know the difference between them, but it was very big, and it came right at me. It wasn’t an accident.’

Stupid with surprise, Brunetti asked, ‘You remember?’

He started to approach the bed, but she held a warning hand toward him. ‘Stay over there. I don’t want her to know we talked.’

‘Why?’

This time it was Maria’s lips that tightened in irritation. ‘She’s one of them. If they know I remember, they’ll kill me.’

He looked across the room and almost staggered at the contagious energy that radiated out from her. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘Survive,’ she spat, and then the door opened and the nun was back, the uncovered bedpan carried in front of her. She swept past Brunetti without speaking and went toward the bed.

He said nothing, didn’t risk turning back to take a last look at Maria, but left them there, together in the room.

As Brunetti walked down the corridor toward the psychiatric ward, he suddenly felt the pavement grow uncertain under his feet. Part of him knew it was nothing more than exhaustion, but that didn’t stop him from searching the faces of the people who passed him to see if he could catch panic or fear in their eyes and thus comfort himself with the knowledge that it really was an earthquake. Suddenly frightened by the realization that he was seeking comfort in that possibility, he went into the bar on the ground floor and ordered a
panino
but left it untouched when it arrived. Not liking the taste but knowing it was what he needed, he drank a glass of apricot nectar, then asked for a glass of water and took two more painkillers. Looking around at the other people in the bar, with their bandages, splints, and casts, he felt at home for the first time that day.