He turned away deliberately and faced Murano, stood with the warmth of spring on his body; the boat swung past the island then slipped around to the right and into the Serenella Canal. Brunetti glanced at his watch and saw that it was barely six o'clock. Foa made another silk-smooth landing, and Brunetti stepped up onto the ACTV embarcadero.
'You can go back,' he told the pilot. 'And thanks.'
'Do you mind if I try to find a coffee and then come back and wait for you, Commissario?' Foa asked. He did not explain his reluctance to return to the Questura; somehow, Brunetti suspected it had nothing to do with not wanting to work.
'What you could do,' Brunetti said, 'is call Vianello at home and then go and get him and bring him here.' Brunetti had been too dulled by sleep and then distracted by the inevitable irritation of having to deal with Alvise to have thought of calling Vianello, but he would prefer to have the Inspector here with him.
Foa raised his hand minimally and smiled. Brunetti barely saw the pilot's hands move, but the boat swung away from the dock in a tight U, and then Foa gunned the motor, forcing the prow up above the water as he sped away in a straight line towards the city.
Brunetti turned into the field and followed the cement path towards the factory in the background. It came to him then that he had not thought to tell Alvise to send the crime squad. 'Maria Vergine,' he exclaimed aloud, taking out his telefonino. He dialled the central number of the Questura and spent a few minutes learning that, yes, a crime scene team had been requested: they were waiting for the photographer and would leave as soon as he arrived.
Brunetti hung up, wondering how long it would take them to get out to Murano. He continued towards the building, and as he drew close, he saw two men standing outside the sliding metal doors. They stood side by side, but they were not talking, nor did it seem they had broken off conversation when they saw him approach.
He recognized one of them as the maestro he had seen making the vase—had it been only two days before? Close to him, Brunetti only now noticed the deep acne scars on both his cheeks. The other man might have been any of the ones who had been working with or around him.
They glanced over at Brunetti and kept their eyes on him as he approached. Neither gave any sign that they had seen him before. As he drew up to them, Brunetti said, 'I'm Commissario Brunetti, from the police. Someone called to report finding a dead man.' He raised his voice at the end of this, turning it into a question.
The maestro turned and looked at the other man, who gave Brunetti an agonized glance and then looked at the ground, exposing the top of his head. Brunetti saw how sparse his hair was and how shiny the scalp beneath it.
'Was it you who found him, Signore?' he asked the top of the man's head.
The maestro held up an admonitory hand to catch Brunetti's attention. He raised one finger and waved it back and forth to silence Brunetti, then shook his head in the same rhythm, pointing at the other man. Before Brunetti could speak, the maestro placed his hand on the other man's sleeve and pulled him gently aside. Together they walked a metre or two away from Brunetti.
After a moment, the maestro came back. 'Don't ask him,' he said in a barely audible voice. 'He can't go back in there again.'
Brunetti wondered if the other man's guilt was preventing him from returning to the scene of the crime, but then he sensed the real fear and compassion that led the maestro to try to protect his friend. In the face of Brunetti's continuing silence, the maestro said, 'Really, Commissario, he can't. You can't do that to him.'
In what he hoped was a reasonable voice, Brunetti said, 'I won't force him to do anything. But I need him to tell me what happened.'
'But that's what I'm telling you,' the maestro said. 'He can't.'
Brunetti walked over and extended his hand to touch the arm of the silent man, hoping to give a sign of understanding or sympathy. He spoke to the maestro, as though he had become his companion's translator. 'I need to know what happened here. I need to know about the dead man.'
At those words, the man who had not spoken clapped his hand over his mouth and turned away. He gagged and took two steps onto the grass, brushing past Brunetti. He doubled over and retched again and again, though nothing came up but thin yellow bile. Spasms tore his body until he was forced to lean over and brace himself with his hands on his knees. Another wave struck him, and he fell to one knee, his head bent over, one hand on the earth. More bile came up.
Brunetti stood by helplessly. It was the maestro who finally intervened and helped the other man to his feet. 'Come on, Giuliano. I think you better go home. Come on, now.' Neither man so much as glanced at Brunetti, who stepped back and let them pass in front of him. He watched them until they reached the pavement running along the canal, where they turned to the left and disappeared in the direction of the bridge that crossed to the main part of the island. The men seemed to take some of the light with them, for just as they disappeared, clouds rolled in and blotted out some of the day.
Brunetti looked around and saw no one. He heard a boat pass on the canal; the tide was low, so all he saw was a man's head pass smoothly by, just above the height of the embankment. The man noticed Brunetti and smiled, and Brunetti thought of the Cheshire Cat.
He waited a minute, a minute more, as the boat's motor faded and nothing replaced it. He turned and approached the fornace; the metal doors had been pushed partly back. He slipped inside and paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness.
He had noticed the last time just how dirty the windows and skylights were, but because it had been full day, there had been enough light to work by. This morning, however, with the clouds darkening the sky, little light penetrated. He looked around for a light switch, but the sight of the closed doors of the two furnaces against the wall made him fear what turning the wrong switch might do to them. He knew that their temperature had to diminish gradually during the night, so as not to risk cracking the pieces that slept their way to solidity inside them.
He took a few steps deeper into the factory, drawn by the light that emerged from the open door of the farthest furnace. It illuminated the area directly in front of it and a bit to either side, but the rest of the enormous shed remained shadowy and dim.
He took another step, and it was then that Brunetti first became aware of a strange odour in the air; something sweet mixed with something foul and sour. Though it was springtime and trees and plants were already stirring into bloom, there was nothing floral about this scent. Nor was it like the rich fecund smell of the earth as busy plants renewed themselves and began to grow, though it was more the second than the first.
Brunetti looked around, wondering if something, some chemical or colourant, could have been spilled, but it was not exactly chemical, that smell. He approached the first furnace and, as he drew closer, felt the sudden increase of temperature, even through the closed door. The wave of heat drove him to the left, to the space between the first and second furnaces. The temperature dropped suddenly, and he felt almost chilled by the contrast with the searing heat in the radius of the first furnace.
As he drew closer to the second furnace, the heat leaped out at him again, stroking at the side of his arm and leg, warm at his face, offering to set him afire. Instinctively he held his hand up to protect his face and passed into the cooler zone beyond it.