A Venetian Reckoning Part 19

'There's a compet.i.tion. Papa, and if you win it, you get a free subscription.'

'But don't you already have a subscription?' he asked, having given it to her for Christmas.

'That's not the point, Papa.'

'What is the point, then?' he asked, making his way down the hallway towards the kitchen. He flipped on the light and went over to the refrigerator.

The point is winning,' she said, following him down the hall and making Brunetti wonder if the magazine might be a bit too American for his daughter.

He found a bottle of Orvieto, checked the label, put it back, and pulled out the bottle of Soave they had begun with dinner the night before. He took down a gla.s.s, filled it, and took a sip. 'All right, Chiara, what's the contest?'

'You have to name a penguin.'

'Name a penguin?' Brunetti repeated stupidly.

'Yes, look here,' she said, holding the magazine out towards him with one hand and pointing down towards a photo with the other. As she did, he saw a picture of what looked to be the fuzzy ma.s.s that Paola sometimes emptied from the vacuum cleaner. 'What's that?' he asked, taking the magazine and turning it towards the light its the baby penguin. Papa. It was born last month at the Rome Zoo, and it doesn't have a name yet So they're offering a prize to whoever comes up with the best name for it'

Brunetti pulled open the magazine and looked more closely at the photo. Sure enough, he saw a beak and two round black eyes. Two yellow flippers. On the opposite page was a full-grown penguin, but Brunetti looked in vain for some familial resemblance between the two.

'What name?' he asked, flipping through the magazine and watching hyenas, ibis, and elephants stream past him.

'Spot,' she said.

'What?'

'Spot' she repeated.

'For a penguin?' he asked, flipping back to the original article and staring at the photos of the adult birds. Spot?

'Sure. Everyone else is going to call him "Flipper'' or ' 'Waiter''.' No one else will think of calling him Spot'

That, Brunetti allowed, was probably true. 'You could always save the name,' he suggested, putting the bottle back in the refrigerator.

'What for?' she asked and took the magazine back.

'In case there's a contest for a zebra,' he said.

'Oh, Papa, you're so silly sometimes,' she said and went back towards her room, little aware of how much her judgement pleased him.

In the living room, he picked up his book, left ace down when he went to bed the night before. While waiting for Paola, he might as well fight the Peloponnesian War again.

She came home an hour later, let herself into the apartment, and came into the living room. She tossed her coat over the back of the sofa and flopped down next to him, her scarf still around her neck. 'Guido, you ever consider the possibility that I'm insane?'

'Often,' he said and turned a page.

'No, really. I've got to be, working for those cretins.'

'Which cretins?' he asked, still not bothering to look up from the book.

The ones who run the university.'

'What now?'

'They asked me, three months ago, to give a lecture in Padua, to the English Faculty. They said it would be on the British novel Why do you think I was reading all those books for the last two months?'

'Because you like them. That's why you've read them for the last twenty yean.'

'Oh, stop it, Guido,' she said, digging a gentle elbow into his ribs.

'So what happened?'

'I went into the office today to pick up my mail, and they told me that they'd got it all wrong, that I was supposed to be lecturing on American poetry, but no one thought to tell me about the change.'

'And so, which is it?'

'I won't know until tomorrow. They'll go ahead and tell Padua about the new topic if Il Magnifico approves it' Both of them had always taken delight in this most wonderful of holdovers from the academic Stone Age, the fact that the Rector of the university was addressed as 'Il Magnifico Rettore', the only thing Brunetti had learned in twenty years on the fringes of the university that had managed to make academic life sound interesting to him.

'What's he likely to do?' Brunetti asked.

Toss a coin, probably.'

'Good luck,' Brunetti said, putting down his book. 'You don't like the American stuff, do you?'

'Holy heavens, no,' she explained, burying her face in her hands. 'Puritans, cowboys, and strident women. I'd rather teach the Silver Fork Novel,' she said, using the English words.

The what?' Brunetti asked.

'Silver Fork Novel,' she repeated. 'Books with simple plots written to explain to people who made a lot of money how to behave in polite company.'

'For yuppies?' Brunetti asked, honesdy interested.

Paola erupted in laughter. 'No, Guido, not for yuppies. They were written in the eighteenth century, when all the money poured into England from the colonies, and the fat wives of Yorks.h.i.+re weavers had to be taught which fork to use.' She was quiet for a few minutes, considering what he said. 'But if I think about it for a minute, with a little updating, there's no reason the same couldn't be said of Bret Easton Ellis.' She put her face in his shoulder and gave herself up to giggles, laughing herself weak at a joke Brunetti didn't understand.

When she stopped laughing, she took the scarf from her neck and tossed it on the table. 'And you?' she asked.

He put his book face down on his knees and faced her. 'I talked to the wh.o.r.e and her pimp and then to Signora Trevisan and her lawyer.' Slowly, attentive to his story and careful to get the details right, he told her everything that had happened that day, finis.h.i.+ng with Signora Trevisan's reaction to his question about the prost.i.tutes.

'Did her brother have anything to do with prost.i.tutes?' Paola repeated, careful to duplicate Brunetti's exact phrasing. 'And you think she understood what you meant?'

Brunetti nodded.

'But the lawyer misunderstood?'

'Yes, but I don't think it was deliberate. He just didn't get it, that the question was ambiguous and didn't mean that he had s.e.x with them.'

'She did, though?'

Brunetti nodded again. 'She's much brighter than he is.'

'Women usually are,' Paola said and then asked, 'What do you think he might have had to do with them?'

'I don't know, Paola, but her reaction tells me that, whatever it was, she knew about it.'

Paola said nothing, waiting for him to think it through. He took one of her hands in his, kissed the palm, and let it fall to his bp, where she left it, waiting still.

'It's the only common thread,' he began, talking more to himself than to her. 'Both of them, Trevisan and Favero, had the number of the bar in Mestre, and that's the place where a pimp is running a string of girls, and there's always a supply of new ones. I don't know about Lotto, except that he ran Trevisan's business for him.'

He turned Paola's hand over and ran his forefinger across the faint blue veins visible on the back. 'Not a lot, is it?' Paola finally asked. He shook his head.

The one you talked to, Mara, what did she ask you about the others?'

'She wanted to know if I knew anything about a girl who died in Treviso, and she said something about girls in a truck. I don't know what she meant.'

Like an aged carp slowly swimming towards the light of day, a memory stirred in the recesses of Paola's mind, a memory that had to do with a truck and with women. She rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. And saw snow. And that small detail was enough to bring the memory to the surface.

'Guido, early this autumn - I think it was when you were in Rome for the conference - a truck ran off the highway, up near Udine, I think. I forget the details - I think it skidded on the ice and went off a cliff or something. Anyway, there were women in the back of the truck, and they were all killed, eight or ten of them. It was strange. The story was in the papers one day, but then it disappeared and I never saw anything else about it,' Paola felt his hand grip hers a bit more firmly. 'Was she talking about that, do you think?'

'I remember something about it, a reference to it in a report from Interpol about women who are being brought here as prost.i.tutes,' Brunetti said. 'The driver was killed, wasn't he?'

Paola nodded. 'I think so.'

The Udine police would have a report; he could call them tomorrow. He tried to remember more about the report from Interpol, or perhaps it had been from some other agency - G.o.d alone knew where it was filed. Time enough for all of this tomorrow.

Paola pulled gently on his hand 'Why do you use them?'

'Hum?' Brunetti asked not really paying attention.

'Why do you use wh.o.r.es?' Then, before he could misunderstand she clarified the question, 'Men, that is. Not you. Men.'

He picked up their joined hands and waved them in the air, a vague, aimless gesture. 'Guiltless s.e.x, I guess. No strings, no obligations. No need to be polite.'

'Doesn't sound very appealing,' Paola said and then added 'But I suppose women always want to sentimentalize s.e.x.'

'Yes, you do,' Brunetti said you do,' Brunetti said Paola freed her hand from his and got to her feet. She glanced down at her husband for a moment, then went into the kitchen to begin dinner.

23.

Brunetti spent the first part of his work day hunting through his files for the Interpol report on prost.i.tution and waiting for the operator to put his call through to the police in Udine. The operator was quicker than Brunetti, and he spent fifteen minutes listening to a captain of the carabinieri describe the accident, then ended the conversation with a request that they fax him all of the doc.u.ments relevant to the case.

It took him twenty minutes to locate the report about the international traffic in prost.i.tutes and a half-hour to read it. He found it a sobering experience, and he found the last line, It is estimated by various police and international organizations that there could be as many as half a million women involved in this traffic', almost impossible to believe. The report catalogued something that he,- like most police officials in Europe, knew was going on; the shocking part was the enormity and complexity of it.

The pattern wasn't far from what Mara said she had experienced: a young woman from a developing country was offered the promise of a new life in Europe - sometimes the reason was love, sweet love, but most often the promise was work as a domestic servant, sometimes as an entertainer. There, in Europe, she was told, she would have a chance at a decent life, could earn enough money to send back to her family, perhaps even some day bring her family to live with her in that earthly paradise.

Upon arrival, their various discoveries were much like Mara's, and they learned that the work contract they had signed before leaving was often an agreement to repay as much as $50,000 to the person responsible for bringing them to Europe. And so they found themselves in a foreign country, having given their pa.s.sport to the person who brought them in, persuaded that they were breaking the law by their mere presence and thus subject to arrest and long sentences because of the debt they had incurred by signing the contract. Even at this, many objected and showed no fear of arrest. Gang rape usually subdued them. If not, greater violence often proved persuasive. Some died. Word travelled. There was little resistance.

And so the brothels of the developed world filled up with dark-haired, dark-skinned exotics: Thai women, whose gentle modesty was so flattering to a man's sense of superiority; those mixed-race Dominicans, and we all know how much those blacks love it; and not least the Brazilians, those hot-blooded Cariocas, born to be wh.o.r.es.

The report went on to state that, transportation costs being what they are, a new market opportunity was seen opening up in the East as thousands of blonde, blue-eyed women lost their jobs or saw their savings gobbled up by inflation. Seventy years of the physical privations of Communism had prepared them to rail easy prey to the blandishments of the West, and so they migrated in cars and trucks, on foot, and sometimes even on sleds, all seeking the great El Dorado that was their Western neighbour, but finding, instead, when they arrived, that they were without papers, without rights, and without hope.

Brunetti believed it all and was staggered by the final number: half a million. He flipped to the back pages and read through the names of the people and organizations that had compiled the report; they were enough to persuade him to believe the number, though it still remained intolerable. There were entire provinces of Italy that didn't have half a million women living in them. Their numbers could populate whole cities.

When he finished it, he set the report in the centre of his desk, then pushed it farther away from him, asif fearing its power of contamination. He opened his drawer and pulled out a pencil, took a piece of paper, and quickly made a list of three names: one was a Brazilian police major whom he had met while on a police seminar in Paris some years ago; one was the owner of an import-export firm with offices in Bangkok; and the third was Pia, a prost.i.tute. All of them, for one reason or another, were in Brunetti's debt, and he could think of no better way of calling in those debts than by asking them for information. police seminar in Paris some years ago; one was the owner of an import-export firm with offices in Bangkok; and the third was Pia, a prost.i.tute. All of them, for one reason or another, were in Brunetti's debt, and he could think of no better way of calling in those debts than by asking them for information.

He spent the next two hours on the phone, running up a bill that was later made to evaporate by a few key strokes on the central computer at the SIP offices. At the end of that time, he knew little more than he had already read in the report, but he knew it more fully, more personally. bill that was later made to evaporate by a few key strokes on the central computer at the SIP offices. At the end of that time, he knew little more than he had already read in the report, but he knew it more fully, more personally.

Major de Vedia in Rio was unable to share Brunetti's concern and incapable of understanding his indignation. After all, seven of his officers had that week been arrested for working as an execution squad for Rio merchants, who paid them to kill the street children who blocked access to their shops. 'The lucky ones are the ones who go to Europe, Guido,' he said before he hung up. His contact in Bangkok was just as uncomprehending. 'Commissario, more than half of the wh.o.r.es here have Aids. The girls who get out of Thailand are the lucky ones.'

The most valuable source was Pia, whom he found at home, kept there by her golden retriever, Luna, who was about to give birth to her first Utter. She knew all about the business, was surprised that the police were bothering with it. When she learned that Brunetti's interest had been provoked by the death of three businessmen, she laughed long and loud. The girls, she explained after she caught her breath, came in from all over; some worked the streets, but many were kept in houses, where better control could be kept over them. Yes, they got banged around a fair bit, if not by the men who ran them, then by some of the men who used them. Complain? To whom? They had no papers, they were persuaded that their there presence in Italy was a crime; some never even learned to speak Italian. After all, it's not as if they were engaged in a profession where sparkling conversation counted for very much.

Pia felt no particular animus towards them, though she didn't hide the fact that she minded the compet.i.tion. She and her friends, none of whom had a pimp, at least had some sort of economic stability - an apartment, a car, some even had their own homes- but these foreign women had none, and so they could not afford to reject a client, no matter what he demanded. They and the women who were addicts were the worst off, would accept anything, could be forced to do anything. Powerless, they became the targets of brutality and, worse, the vectors of disease.

He asked her how many there were in the Veneto area and, with a laugh, she told him he didn't know how to count that high. But then Luna gave a bark so loud that even Brunetti could hear it, and Pia said she had to go.

'Who's in charge, Pia?' he asked, hoping to get one more answer from her before she hung up.

'It's big business, dottore,' she said, using the English words. 'You might as well ask who runs the banks or the stock market. It's the same men with the good haircuts and the custom-made suits. Church on Sunday, go to the office every day, and when no one's looking, count up how much they've made from the women who work on their backs. We're just another commodity, dottore. Writ long enough, well be listed on the futures market.' Pia laughed, made a rude suggestion about what the futures could be named, Luna howled, and Pia hung up.

On the same piece of paper, Brunetti began to do some simple sums. He decided to estimate the average price of a trick at 50,000 lire, then had to admit that he had no idea how many a day there might be. He decided that selecting ten would simplify his multiplication, so he made it ten. Even with the weekend off, which he doubted was a luxury these women were permitted, it came to 2.5 million lire a week, 10 million lire a month. He decided to simplify things and settled on 100 million lire a year, then cut it in half to make up, however roughly, for any errors he might have made in his previous calculations. After that, when he tried to multiply by half a million, he ceased having a name for the sum and had to settle for counting the zeros: there were, he thought, fifteen of them. Pia was right: this was indeed big business.

Instinct and experience told him that there was no more information to be had from either Mara or her pimp. He called down to Vianello and asked whether they'd located the optician who had sold the gla.s.ses found in the Padua restaurant. Vianello covered the phone with his hand, sound disappeared, and then the sergeant's voice came back, tight with what sounded like anger or even something stronger. 'I'll be up in a minute, dottore,' he said and put the phone down.

When the sergeant came in, his face was still red with what Brunetti knew from long experience was the aftermath of rage. Vianello closed the door softly behind him, and came over to Brunetti's desk. 'Riverre,' he said by way of explanation, naming the black nemesis of his life, indeed, of the entire staff of the Questura.

'What's he done?'

'He found the optician yesterday, made a note of it, but left it on his own desk until just now when I asked about it' Had he been in a better mood, Brunetti would have quipped that at least Riverre had bothered to make a note this time, but he found himself without either patience or good humour. And long experience had taught them both that, in the issue of Riverre's incompetence, comment was unnecessary. 'Which one?'

'Carraro, in Calle della Mandora.' 'Did he get a name?'

Vianello bit at his lower lip, his hands tightened into involuntary fists. 'No, he was content merely to discover that the gla.s.ses had been sold, with that prescription. That's all he was told to do, he said, so that's what he did'

Brunetti pulled out the phone book, and quickly found the number. The optician, when he answered, said that he had been expecting another call from the police and immediately gave Brunetti the name and address of the woman who had bought those gla.s.ses. From the way he spoke, it seemed that he believed the police were interested in no more than seeing that her gla.s.ses were returned to her. Brunetti did nothing to disabuse him of this idea.

'But I don't think you'll find her at home,' Dr Carraro volunteered. 'I think she'll be at work.'

'And where is that dottore?' Brunetti asked, voice warm with concern.

'She has a travel agency over near the university, halfway between it and the shop that sells carpets.'

'Ah, yes, I know it,' Brunetti said, recalling a poster-filled window he had pa.s.sed countless times. Thank you, dottore, I'll see that the gla.s.ses are returned to her.'