As if he had not heard Brunetti’s question, Morandi said, ‘The old woman died a few days later. Three. Four. Then Cuccetti submitted the will, and we were asked about it. I had to explain to Maria that she had to say we saw her sign it, or we’d all get in trouble.’
‘And she did?’
‘Yes. Then.’
‘But later?’
‘But later she began not to believe me.’
‘Was it because of the apartment?’
‘No, I told her my aunt left it to me. She lived in Torino and she died about then, so I told Maria that’s what happened.’
‘She believed you?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Seeing Brunetti’s face, he said, voice almost pleading, ‘Please. You have to understand that Maria is an honest person. She couldn’t lie, even if she wanted to. And she doesn’t think other people can.’ He paused, considering, and then added, ‘And I never had. Not to her. Not until then. Because I wanted us to have a home we could be proud of and be together there.’
How convenient that desire made things for him, Brunetti found himself thinking.
‘What did you do with the drawings?’ Brunetti asked. He was tired of this, tired of having to consider everything Morandi said to determine which of the two men he had seen in him was speaking.
As if he had been expecting the question, Morandi said, with a vague gesture towards Brunetti’s pocket, as if they were there, ‘I put them in the bank.’
Brunetti stopped himself from smacking his palm against his forehead and shouting out, ‘Of course, of course.’ People like Morandi didn’t live in large apartments near San Marco, and no one expected poor people to have safe deposit boxes. But what else was that key if not the key to a safe deposit box?
‘When did she take the key?’
Morandi pulled his lips together in the manner of a schoolboy being reproved for some minor offence. ‘A week ago. Remember, that warm day?’ Brunetti did indeed remember: they’d had dinner on the terrace, but the warm spell had ended suddenly.
‘I went out into the campo to have a cigarette. I left my overcoat lying on the bed. She must have taken the key when I was outside. I didn’t notice it until I got home and opened the door, but it was too late to go back to the casa di cura then, and when I asked her about it the next day, she said she didn’t know what I was talking about.’
‘Did she know what the key was?’ Brunetti said.
Morandi shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know. I never thought she knew anything or understood what had happened. About the apartment. Or about the drawings.’ He gave Brunetti a long look and said, his confusion to be heard in every word, ‘But she must have, don’t you think?’ Brunetti did not answer, and Morandi asked, ‘To take the key? She must have known? All these years?’ There was a hint of desperation in his voice at the need to consider what this possibility did to his vision of and belief in the sainted Maria.
Brunetti found no words. People knew things they said and thought they did not know. Wives and husbands learned far more about the other person than they were ever meant to learn.
‘I have to have the key,’ Morandi blurted out. ‘I have to have it.’
‘Why?’ Brunetti asked, though he knew.
‘To pay the bills.’ The old man looked around the room, ran his palm across the velvet of the sofa. ‘You know what the public places are like: you’ve seen them. I can’t let her go there.’ At the thought, the tears began again, but this time Morandi was unconscious of them. ‘You wouldn’t put a dog there,’ he insisted.
Brunetti, who had not put his mother there, said nothing.
‘I have to pay them. I can’t move her now, not from this into one of those places.’ He choked on a sob, as surprised by it as was Brunetti. Morandi struggled to his feet and walked to the door. ‘I can’t be inside,’ he said and headed for the elevator.
28
Brunetti had no choice but to follow him, though this time he took the stairs and arrived sooner than the elevator. Morandi’s face softened when he saw him there, and together they walked out into the early evening sun. The old man went back to the same bench, and within minutes the birds had altered their flight paths and were landing not far from his feet. They taxied up to him, but he had nothing to give them, nor did he appear to notice them.
Brunetti sat on the bench, leaving a space between them.
The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out cigarette papers and tobacco. Sloppily, spilling tobacco on to his trousers and shoes, he managed to roll a cigarette and get it lit. He took three deep puffs and sat back, ignoring the birds who, in their turn, ignored the tobacco that fell around them. They looked up at him, their indignant peeps making no impression on Morandi. He puffed again and again, until his head was encircled in a cloud and he went off into another fit of coughing. At the end of it, he tossed the cigarette from him in disgust and turned to Brunetti.
‘Maria doesn’t let me smoke in the house,’ he said, sounding almost proud of the fact.
‘For your health?’ Brunetti asked.
The old man turned to him, face washed clean of emotion at the idea. ‘Oh, I wish,’ he whispered and looked quickly away.
Morandi glanced around the entire campo, as if seeking someone who would care about whether he smoked or not. Turning his attention to Brunetti, he said, ‘You have to give me the key, Signore.’ He tried his best to sound reasonable but managed only to sound desperate. He looked earnest, tried a friendly smile, then let it fade away.
‘How many are left?’ Brunetti asked.
Morandi’s eyes narrowed, and he started to ask, ‘What do you…’ but gave up the attempt and stopped. He folded his hands, rammed them between his thighs, and leaned forward. He noticed the birds then; showing no fear, hopping closer, they began to peep up at the familiar face. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a few pinches of grain, which he let fall between his feet. The birds picked at them avidly.
Head still bent, attention apparently on the birds, he said, ‘Seven.’
‘Do you know what they are?’
‘No,’ the old man said, shaking the idea away. ‘I’ve tried to go into galleries to look at other ones, or into the museums. I get in for free now, because of my age. But I can’t remember what I see, and the names don’t mean anything to me.’ He unfolded his hands and raised them apart as an indication of his ignorance and confusion. ‘So I just have to trust the man who tells me what they are.’
‘And what they’re worth,’ Brunetti added.
Morandi nodded. ‘Yes. He was a patient when Maria still worked in the hospital; she told me about him then. I remembered him when… when I had to sell them.’
‘Do you trust him?’
Morandi looked at him, and Brunetti saw a flash of intelligence as the old man said, ‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’
‘You could go to someone else, I suppose,’ Brunetti suggested.
‘They’re a mafia,’ Morandi said with absolute certainty. ‘Go to one, go to another: it’s all the same thing. They’ll all cheat you.’
‘But maybe someone else would cheat you less,’ Brunetti suggested.
Morandi shrugged away this possibility. ‘By now they all know who I am and who I belong to.’ He spoke as though he was sure that this was true.
‘What happens when they’re gone?’ Brunetti asked.
Morandi lowered his head to consider the birds that still crowded round his feet, looking up and demanding food. ‘Then they’re gone.’ He sounded resigned. Brunetti waited and finally the old man said, ‘I might get enough to make the difference for two years.’
‘And then?’ Brunetti asked with bulldog tenacity.
The old man’s shoulders rose as he gave an enormous sigh. ‘Who knows what will happen in two years?’