The Golden Egg by Donna Leon Page A

avatar of Paola, she would here have picked up the pitcher and filled her glass. But she was new to this and so she speared another shrimp and ate it, ignoring the dramatic possi­b­ ilities offered by the pitcher. In a few years, Brunetti thought, she’d think of that and do it and, sooner or later, she’d be unbeatable.
    Raffi, not to be daunted, asked, ‘You sure it’s not because you’re tied of carrying the bottles up the steps?’
    â€˜I don’t have anything to do with plastic bottles,’ Chiara said loftily. Before Raffi could argue, Paola declared a truce by getting to her feet and asking him to help her carry the plates from the table.
    The cake with fresh blackcurrants and whipped cream sealed the peace accord. Brunetti, a mere spectator to the discussion, said nothing of his delight that Chiara had put an end to his having to carry glass bottles of mineral water to the fourth floor, a realization that made all the sweeter his second piece of cake.

7
    When he reached his office the next day, he found a note on his desk, asking him to call Dottor Rizzardi. After he and the pathologist had exchanged greetings, Rizzardi said, ‘This Cavanella doesn’t exist.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon,’ Brunetti said. ‘You did an autopsy on him yesterday.’
    Rizzardi weighed that for sarcasm and apparently heard none. ‘I’m sorry, Guido; I was probably speaking for effect. The secretary here called the Ufficio Anagrafe to report his death, but they have no record of him at that address.’
    â€˜Then he’s resident somewhere else,’ Brunetti said, almost embarrassed at having to state the obvious.
    â€˜Not in the city,’ Rizzardi said tersely. ‘The office checked when we asked: he’s not now and has never been resident in Venice.’
    â€˜Then in the Veneto, I’d guess,’ Brunetti said, thinking back to the very few words he had heard the mother say and recalling the telltale Veneto cadence.
    â€˜That’s not our job, Guido,’ Rizzardi said with unexpected force. ‘We don’t have to identify them, only find the cause of death.’
    â€˜I went to his home,’ Brunetti explained, ‘but his mother refused to talk to me.’
    Rizzardi did not comment on that. He stated the rules: ‘Until we have an identification, we have to keep him here.’
    â€˜I know,’ Brunetti answered. Then, thinking of how the man might be identified, he asked, ‘How old do you think he was?’
    â€˜I’d guess he was in his early forties,’ Rizzardi said. Then, as an afterthought, letting the doctor in him speak, ‘He was in excellent physical condition. His teeth showed signs of very little work. No sign of surgery, organs in perfect shape.’
    â€˜Are you sure about the age?’ Brunetti asked, amazed that a face could so long have remained untouched by time and care, but he knew better than to question the pathologist’s judgement.
    â€˜It’s surprising, I know,’ Rizzardi agreed. ‘I’ve seen it before. The less contact people have with the world, the less they age.’
    â€˜He wasn’t a hermit, Ettore,’ Brunetti said, trying for lightness.
    â€˜All I know about him is what you told me, Guido: he was deaf and simple-minded,’ Rizzardi said. ‘I’ve seen cases of it before, and I’m trying to give you an explanation based on experience. With retarded people – or whatever we’re supposed to call them now – and the blind, they don’t seem to age the way the rest of us do, or at least their bodies don’t show it the way ours do.’ When Brunetti failed to comment, the pathologist clarified, ‘From looking at his organs, and his teeth, that’s my estimate.’
    In some way Brunetti did not understand, Rizzardi’s explanation made sense. Less contact with the world: less suffering. But less joy.