of the laguna , sometimes helping the farmers with the last harvests of the year and wildly proud to be able to take home bags filled with the fruit or vegetables with which they had been paid.
He crossed Campo SS. Giovanni e Paolo, conscious of how perfect the light would be today for the stained-glass windows of the basilica. He went into the Ospedale. The vast entrance hall devoured most of the light, and though he passed through courtyards and open spaces on the way to the obitorio , the enclosing walls destroyed the sense that he was in the open air.
A man stood in the waiting room outside the morgue. He was tall and heavy-boned, with the body of a wrestler at the end of his career, muscle already beginning to lose its tone but not yet turned to fat. He looked up when Brunetti came in, saw but failed to acknowledge the arrival of another person.
‘Dottor Niccolini?’ Brunetti asked and extended his hand.
The doctor was slow in registering Brunetti, as if he had first to clear his mind of other thoughts before he could accept the presence of another person. ‘Yes,’ he finally said. ‘Are you the policeman? I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.’
‘Brunetti,’ he said.
The other man took Brunetti’s hand more from habit than desire. His grip was firm but definitely fleeting. Brunetti noticed that his left eye was minimally smaller than the other, or set at a different angle. Both were deep brown, as was his hair, already greying at the temples. His nose and mouth were surprisingly delicate in a man of his stature, as though designed for a smaller face.
‘I’m sorry to meet you in these circumstances,’ Brunetti said. ‘It must be very difficult for you.’ There should be some formulaic language for this, Brunetti thought, some way to overcome awkwardness.
Niccolini nodded, tightened his lips and closed his eyes, then turned quickly away from Brunetti, as if he had heard something from the door to the morgue.
Brunetti stood, his hands behind him, one hand holding the other wrist. He became aware of the smell of the room, one he had smelled too many times: something chemical and sharp that tried, and failed, to obliterate another, this one feral and warm and fluid. Across from him, on the wall, he saw one of those horror posters that hospitals cannot resist displaying: this one held grossly enlarged pictures of what he thought were the ticks that carried encephalitis and borreliosis.
Speaking to the man’s back, Brunetti could think of nothing but banalities. ‘I’d like to express my sympathies, Dottore,’ he said before he remembered that he had already done so.
The doctor did not immediately answer him, nor did he turn. Finally, in a quiet, tortured voice, he said, ‘I’ve done autopsies, you know.’
Brunetti remained silent. The other man pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, wiped his face and blew his nose. When he turned, his face looked for a moment like the face of a different man, older somehow. ‘They won’t tell me anything – not how she died or why they’re doing an autopsy. So all I can do is stand here and think about what’s happening.’ His mouth tightened into a grimace, and for a moment Brunetti feared the doctor was going to start to cry.
There being no suitable rejoinder, Brunetti allowed some time to pass and then went over and, without asking, took Niccolini’s arm. The man stiffened, as though Brunetti’stouch was the prelude to a blow. His head whipped around and he stared at Brunetti with the eyes of a frightened animal. ‘Come, Dottore,’ Brunetti said in his most soothing voice. ‘Perhaps you should sit down a moment.’ The other man’s resistance disappeared, and Brunetti led him over to the row of plastic chairs, released his arm slowly and waited while the doctor sat down. Then Brunetti angled another chair to half face him and sat.
‘Your mother’s upstairs neighbour called us last night,’ he began.
It appeared to
He crossed Campo SS. Giovanni e Paolo, conscious of how perfect the light would be today for the stained-glass windows of the basilica. He went into the Ospedale. The vast entrance hall devoured most of the light, and though he passed through courtyards and open spaces on the way to the obitorio , the enclosing walls destroyed the sense that he was in the open air.
A man stood in the waiting room outside the morgue. He was tall and heavy-boned, with the body of a wrestler at the end of his career, muscle already beginning to lose its tone but not yet turned to fat. He looked up when Brunetti came in, saw but failed to acknowledge the arrival of another person.
‘Dottor Niccolini?’ Brunetti asked and extended his hand.
The doctor was slow in registering Brunetti, as if he had first to clear his mind of other thoughts before he could accept the presence of another person. ‘Yes,’ he finally said. ‘Are you the policeman? I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.’
‘Brunetti,’ he said.
The other man took Brunetti’s hand more from habit than desire. His grip was firm but definitely fleeting. Brunetti noticed that his left eye was minimally smaller than the other, or set at a different angle. Both were deep brown, as was his hair, already greying at the temples. His nose and mouth were surprisingly delicate in a man of his stature, as though designed for a smaller face.
‘I’m sorry to meet you in these circumstances,’ Brunetti said. ‘It must be very difficult for you.’ There should be some formulaic language for this, Brunetti thought, some way to overcome awkwardness.
Niccolini nodded, tightened his lips and closed his eyes, then turned quickly away from Brunetti, as if he had heard something from the door to the morgue.
Brunetti stood, his hands behind him, one hand holding the other wrist. He became aware of the smell of the room, one he had smelled too many times: something chemical and sharp that tried, and failed, to obliterate another, this one feral and warm and fluid. Across from him, on the wall, he saw one of those horror posters that hospitals cannot resist displaying: this one held grossly enlarged pictures of what he thought were the ticks that carried encephalitis and borreliosis.
Speaking to the man’s back, Brunetti could think of nothing but banalities. ‘I’d like to express my sympathies, Dottore,’ he said before he remembered that he had already done so.
The doctor did not immediately answer him, nor did he turn. Finally, in a quiet, tortured voice, he said, ‘I’ve done autopsies, you know.’
Brunetti remained silent. The other man pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, wiped his face and blew his nose. When he turned, his face looked for a moment like the face of a different man, older somehow. ‘They won’t tell me anything – not how she died or why they’re doing an autopsy. So all I can do is stand here and think about what’s happening.’ His mouth tightened into a grimace, and for a moment Brunetti feared the doctor was going to start to cry.
There being no suitable rejoinder, Brunetti allowed some time to pass and then went over and, without asking, took Niccolini’s arm. The man stiffened, as though Brunetti’stouch was the prelude to a blow. His head whipped around and he stared at Brunetti with the eyes of a frightened animal. ‘Come, Dottore,’ Brunetti said in his most soothing voice. ‘Perhaps you should sit down a moment.’ The other man’s resistance disappeared, and Brunetti led him over to the row of plastic chairs, released his arm slowly and waited while the doctor sat down. Then Brunetti angled another chair to half face him and sat.
‘Your mother’s upstairs neighbour called us last night,’ he began.
It appeared to
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