Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [31]
‘What do you mean by that, Madre?’ Brunetti asked.
It took her a long time to answer, so long that she had to shift her weight to her left side as she stood there. When she finally spoke, she answered with a question. ‘You hear I’m from the South, don’t you?’
Both men nodded.
‘We have different ideas about honesty than you do up here,’ she said obliquely.
Vianello smiled and said, ‘To say the least of it, Madre.’
She had the grace to return his smile and spoke to the Inspector as she continued. ‘Just because our ideas are different doesn’t mean we don’t have as great a respect for honesty as you do, Signori.’
Neither man spoke, curious to learn where this was going to lead. ‘But we are …’ she stopped and glanced from one face to the other. ‘How can I say this? We are more frugal with the truth than you are.’
Frankly curious, Brunetti asked, ‘And why is that, Madre?’
Again, to get a better look at them, she stepped back awkwardly. ‘Perhaps because it costs us more to be honest than it does you,’ she said. Her accent had become more pronounced. She went on, ‘So we’ve come to value reticence, as well.’
‘Are you talking about Signora Altavilla?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes. She believed that one should always tell the truth, regardless of the cost. And I assume, from some of the things she told me, that she taught this to her son.’
‘Do you think that’s an error?’ Brunetti asked with real curiosity.
‘No, gentlemen,’ she said and smiled again, a smaller smile. ‘It’s a luxury.’
She reached behind her and opened the door; she held it as they passed through, and they heard it close as they started down the steps.
9
As they emerged into the sunlight, Vianello said, ‘I never know what to do in situations like this.’
‘Situations like what?’ Brunetti asked, starting across the campo and back towards the Questura.
‘When someone pretends to know less than they do.’
Brunetti turned to the left and towards the church. ‘Hmmm,’ he muttered, letting Vianello know that he agreed.
‘All that talk about honesty,’ Vianello said. He stopped at the top of the bridge and rested his forearms on the parapet. He stared down at a boat moored to the side of the canal and continued, ‘It’s clear she knows – or suspects – more than she’s willing to let on. She’s a nun, so she probably believes it’s not right to raise unfounded suspicions or pass on gossip.’ Then, in a lower voice, he added, ‘Though I can’t imagine a convent where that doesn’t happen.’
Brunetti let that pass, waiting.
‘She’s a southerner,’ Vianello said. ‘And a nun.’ Brunetti grew alert to hear just what sort of generalization was coming. Vianello went on, ‘So that means she wanted us to know or suspect something but couldn’t bring herself to say it directly.’
Brunetti had to agree. Who knew what went on the mind of a nun, much less one from the South? They drank discretion with the first taste of mother’s milk and grew up with frequent examples of the consequences of indiscretion. He remembered the recent shock-video of a very ordinary, very casual, daytime murder in Naples: one shot, then the second to the back of the head, while people continued about their business. No one saw anything; no one noticed a thing.
It was hard-wired into them: to talk indiscreetly or say anything that might cause suspicion was to endanger not only yourself but everyone in your family. This was the Truth, no matter how many years a person had spent in a convent in Venice. Brunetti was as likely to sprout angel wings and fly off to Paradise as Madre Rosa was to speak openly to the police.
‘She made truth sound like a handicap, didn’t she?’ Vianello shoved himself away from the parapet. He raised his arms and let them fall to his sides in a gesture of complete confusion, but before Brunetti could speak, they were