Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [94]
‘You’re the pension man?’ Morandi asked, and Brunetti thought he heard rekindled hope, knew he heard civility, in his voice.
Without answering the question, Brunetti said, ‘I’d like to speak to you again, Signor Morandi.’
‘About Maria’s pension?’
‘Among other things,’ Brunetti answered blandly. He waited for the question, the suspicion about what those other things could be. But they did not come.
Instead, Morandi asked, ‘When can we talk? Do you want me to come to your office?’
‘No, Signor Morandi; I don’t want you to trouble yourself. Perhaps we could meet somewhere nearer to you.’
‘I live behind San Marco,’ he said, unaware that Brunetti knew much more about his house than its location. ‘But I have to be at the casa di cura at five-thirty; perhaps we could meet near there?’
‘In the campo?’ Brunetti suggested.
‘Good. Thank you, Signore,’ the old man said. ‘Fifteen minutes?’
‘Good,’ Brunetti said and hung up. There was enough time, so he first went down to the evidence room and then started towards the campo. The late autumn sun smacked him in the back of the head but cheered him by doing so.
The old man sat on one of the benches in front of the the casa di cura, bent forward from the waist, tossing something to a mini-flock of sparrows dancing around his feet. Oh God, was Brunetti to find himself seduced by a few breadcrumbs tossed to hungry birds? He steeled himself and approached the older man.
Morandi heard him coming, tossed the rest of whatever he had in his hands to the birds, and pushed himself to his feet. He smiled, all memory of their first meeting erased or ignored, and put out his hand; Brunetti took it and was surprised at how weak the other man’s grasp was. This close, he was much taller than the old man. Looking down, Brunetti could see the pink skin of his head shining through the strands of dark hair pasted across it. ‘Shall we sit down?’ Brunetti asked.
The old man bent, bracing himself with one hand, and lowered himself slowly on to the bench. Brunetti left a space between them and sat, and the birds scuttled up to Morandi’s feet. Automatically, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out some pieces of grain, which he tossed far out into the campo. Startled by the motion of his arm, some of the birds took flight, only to land amidst the grains just as the ones that had decided to run arrived. They did not squabble or dispute but all set to picking up as much as they could.
Morandi glanced at Brunetti and said, ‘I come here most days, so they know me by now.’ As he spoke, the birds began to approach, but he sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘No more. I have to talk to this gentleman now.’ The birds peeped their protest, waited a moment, then abandoned him in a group on the arrival of a white-haired woman on the other side of the campo.
‘I think I should tell you, Signor Morandi,’ Brunetti began, believing it best to clear his conscience, ‘I wasn’t there about the pension.’
‘You mean she’s not going to get an increase?’ he asked, leaning forward and turning to Brunetti.
‘There was no mistake: she’s already getting her pension for those years,’ Brunetti said.
‘So there won’t be an increase?’ Morandi asked again, unwilling to believe what he heard.
Brunetti shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Signore.’
Morandi’s shoulders sank, then he pushed himself upright against the back of the bench. He looked across the campo, dappled in the afternoon sun, but to Brunetti it seemed as though the old man was looking across a wasteland, a desert.
‘I’m sorry to have got your hopes up,’ Brunetti said.
The old man leaned aside and placed a hand on Brunetti’s arm. He gave it a weak squeeze and said, ‘That’s all right, son. It’s never been right since she first started to get it, but at least this time we were able to hope a little bit.’ He looked at Brunetti and tried to smile. There were the same broken veins, the same battered nose and ridiculous hair, but Brunetti wondered where the