The Golden Egg by Donna Leon Page B

questions about your son,’ he said and paused, but she did not ask about that. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you the law requires that someone identify him. It is usually a member of his family, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be. His doctor or someone who knew him well can also do this.’
    â€˜I’ll do it,’ she said in an even voice.
    â€˜He’s at the Ospedale Civile. You can go there any time from eight until five: Dottor Rizzardi or his assistant will be there. The assistant will help you with the paperwork, I’m sure.’
    â€˜What paperwork?’ she asked. The softness had disappeared from her face, and the lines were back where they had been the first time Brunetti spoke to her.
    â€˜They need to notify the Ufficio Anagrafe of any death in the city: the usual process is to take the information from his documents. This way, they can cancel his health card and have his name removed from the various registers in the city.’ Brunetti decided not to mention his allowance, which would stop at his death, as would hers for taking care of a handicapped person.
    He raised his hands in what he hoped would appear to be a calming gesture. ‘It’s more or less routine, Signora. All they need is some information and your signature, and they should take care of dealing with the various offices.’ This, he knew, was a lie: the bureaucratic clean-up after the death of a family member could sometimes be as bad as the long road to death itself. Death consigned the family to grief and then to the seemingly endless chasing from office to office. Arrange for the Mass and the funeral, the plot in the cemetery, close bank accounts, stop the allowance payments, cancel subscription payments for the television, stop the phone service, close the water, close the gas, stop the postal delivery. Each transaction usually required at least one trip to the appropriate office: many were at the Commune, but others were up at Piazzale Roma or at other far-flung bastions of officialdom in the city. Officials spread misinformation with cavalier disregard for the time it would take the person they were advising to go and find out they were in the wrong office and asking for the wrong certificate or form. Mistaken addresses were dispensed like chocolates to greedy children.
    She would learn all of this, if the death of a parent had not already taught her. How many millions of hours were sacrificed every day to the gods of laziness and incompetence? How much was sacrificed each working day on the altar of Eris, goddess of chaos? He thought the Indians, whose bureaucracy, he had heard, made Naples seem like Helsinki, had Kali to stir things round for them.
    Pucetti’s voice called him back. The young officer was saying, ‘. . . teams of only four or five players, Signora, so we were all very happy to have him’.
    â€˜He knew the rules?’ she asked.
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ Pucetti answered. He lowered his head, as if preparing for confession. ‘None of us likes much to be goalie, to be honest. But Davide was very good at stopping the ball and tossing it back to us.’ He smiled here and raised his hands, as if imitating the catches her son had made. Then, voice suddenly serious, he said, ‘I’m really sorry, Signora. We all liked him. And we’ll miss him.’
    The compliments worked the same transformation and smoothed away some of the traces of age. Signora Cavanelli’s lips moved, and Brunetti was curious to see how a smile would transform her, but she did not smile, only spoke. ‘I’ll come tomorrow morning.’
    â€˜Thank you, Signora,’ Brunetti said. ‘And it would save a lot of trouble for everyone if you could bring his papers.’
    â€˜I can’t,’ she said suddenly, as if she had just realized the impossibility.
    â€˜Why is that, Signora?’ Brunetti inquired.
    â€˜They were stolen, all of