Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [101]
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?’
‘What did the doctor tell you?’ Brunetti asked, nodding in the direction of the casa