About Face

1

He noticed the woman on their way to dinner. That is, as he and Paola paused in front of the window of a bookstore, and he was using the reflection to adjust his tie, Brunetti saw the woman’s reflection as she passed by, heading towards Campo San Barnaba arm in arm with an older man. He saw her from behind, the man on her left. Brunetti first noticed her hair, a blonde as light as Paola’s, braided into a smooth bun that sat low on the back of her head. By the time he turned around to get a better look, the couple had passed them and was nearing the bridge that led to San Barnaba.

Her coat — it might have been ermine, it might have been sable: Brunetti knew only that it was something more expensive than mink — fell to just above very fine ankles and shoes with a heel too high, really, to be worn on streets where patches of snow and ice still lay.

Brunetti recognized the man but failed to recall his name: the impression that came was the vague memory of wealth and importance. He was shorter and broader than the woman and he was more careful about avoiding the patches of ice. At the bottom of the bridge, the man took a sudden sidestep and braced his hand on the parapet. He stopped, and the woman’s momentum was arrested by the anchor of his arm. One foot still in the air, she began to pivot in the direction of the now motionless man and swung farther away from the still-curious Brunetti.

‘If you felt like it, Guido,’ Paola said from beside him, ‘you could get me the new biography of William James for my birthday.’

Brunetti looked away from the couple and followed the direction of his wife’s finger towards a thick book at the back of the window display.

‘I thought his name was Henry,’ he said, straight faced.

She yanked at his arm, pulling him closer. ‘Don’t play the fool with me, Guido Brunetti. You know who William James is.’ He nodded.

‘But why do you want a biography of the brother?’

‘I’m curious about the family and about anything that might have made him the way he was.’

Brunetti remembered that, more than two decades before, he had felt the same urgency about the newly met Paola: inquisitive about her family, her tastes, her friends, anything at all that could tell him more about this wondrous young woman whom some beneficent agency of fate had allowed him to bump into among the shelves of the university library. To Brunetti, this curiosity seemed a normal enough response to a warm and living person. But to feel it about a writer who had been dead for almost a century?

‘Why do you find him so fascinating?’ he asked, not for the first time. Hearing himself, Brunetti realized he sounded just like what her enthusiasm for Henry James had so often reduced him to being: a petulant, jealous husband.

She released his arm and stepped back, as if to get a better look at this man she found herself married to. ‘Because he understands things,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ Brunetti contented himself with saying. It seemed to him that this was the least that could be expected of a writer.

‘And because he makes us understand those things,’ she added.

He now suspected that the subject had been closed.

Paola must have decided they had spent more than enough time on this. ‘Come on. You know my father hates people to be late,’ she said.

They moved away from the bookstore. When they reached the bottom of the bridge, she stopped and glanced up at his face. ‘You know,’ she began. ‘You’re really very much like Henry James.’

Brunetti did not know whether to be flattered or offended. Over the years, fortunately, he had at least ceased to wonder, upon hearing the comparison, whether he needed to reconsider the foundations of their marriage.

‘You want to understand things, Guido. It’s probably why you’re a policeman.’ She looked thoughtful after saying this. ‘But you also want other people to understand those things.’ She turned away and continued up the bridge. Over her shoulder, she added, ‘Just as he did.’

Brunetti allowed her to reach the top of the bridge before calling after her, ‘Does that mean I’m really meant to be a writer, too?’ How nice it would be if she answered yes.

She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand, then turned to say, ‘It makes you interesting to live with, though.’

Better than being a writer, Brunetti thought as he followed after her.

Brunetti glanced at his watch as Paola reached up to ring the bell beside the portone of her parents’ home. ‘All these years, and you don’t have a key?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be a goose,’ she said. ‘Of course I have a key. But this is formal, so it’s better to arrive like guests.’

‘Does that mean we have to behave like guests?’ Brunetti asked.

Whatever answer Paola might have given was cut off as the door was opened by a man neither of them recognized. He smiled and pulled the door fully open.

Paola thanked him and they started across the courtyard towards the steps that led to the palazzo. ‘No livery,’ Brunetti said in a shocked whisper. ‘No periwigs? My God, what’s the world coming to? Next thing you know, the servants will be eating at the high table, and then the silver will start to disappear. Where will it all end? With Luciana running after your father with a meat cleaver?’

Paola stopped in her tracks and turned to him, silent. She gave him a variation on the Look, her only recourse in his moments of verbal excess.

‘Sì, tesoro?’ he asked in his sweetest voice.

‘Let’s stand here for a few moments, Guido, while you use up all of your humorous remarks about my parents’ place in society, and when you’ve calmed down, we’ll go upstairs and join the other guests, and you will behave like a reasonably civilized person at dinner. How does that sound to you?’

Brunetti nodded. ‘I like it, especially the part about “reasonably civilized”.’

Her smile was radiant, ‘I thought you would, dear.’ She started up the steps to the entrance to the main part of the palazzo, Brunetti one step behind.

Paola had accepted her father’s invitation some time before and explained to Brunetti that Conte Falier had said he wanted his son-in-law to meet a good friend of the Contessa.

Though Brunetti had come, over the years, to accept without question his mother-in-law’s love, he was never sure of just where he stood in the Conte’s estimation, whether he was viewed as a jumped-up peasant who had stolen in and made off with the affections of the Conte’s only child or a person of worth and ability. Brunetti accepted the fact that the Conte was entirely capable of believing both things simultaneously.

Another man whom neither of them recognized stood at the top of the steps and opened the door to the palazzo with a small bow, allowing its warmth to spill out towards them. Brunetti followed Paola inside.

The sound of voices came down the corridor from the main salone that looked across the Grand Canal. The man took their coats silently and opened the door of an illuminated closet. Glancing inside, Brunetti saw a single, long fur coat hanging by itself at the end of one of the racks, isolated either by its value or by the sensibilities of the man who had hung it there.

The voices lured them, and they started towards the front of the house. As Brunetti and Paola entered, he saw their host and hostess standing in front of the centre window. They were facing towards Brunetti and Paola, allowing their guests the view to the palazzi on the other side of the Grand Canal, and Brunetti, once again seeing their backs, recognized them as the man and woman who had passed them on the street; either that, or there existed another thickset, white-haired man who had a tall blonde companion with black stiletto-heeled shoes and hair pulled back into an elaborately woven bun. She stood a bit apart, gazing out the window and appearing from this distance not to be engaging with the others.

Two other couples stood on either side of his parents-in-law. He recognized the Conte’s lawyer and his wife; the others were an old friend of the Contessa’s who, like her, engaged in good works, and her husband, who sold armaments and mining technology to Third World countries.

The Conte glanced aside from what looked like a flourishing conversation with the white-haired man and saw his daughter. He set his glass down, said something else to the man, and stepped around him to come towards Paola and Brunetti. As his host moved away, the man turned to see what had drawn his attention, and the name came to Brunetti: Maurizio Cataldo, a man said to have the ear of certain members of the city administration. The woman continued to look out of the window, as if enchanted by the view and unaware of the Conte’s departure.

Brunetti and Cataldo, as often happened in the city, had never been introduced to one another, though Brunetti knew the general outline of his history. The family had come from Friuli, Brunetti thought, some time early in the last century, had prospered during the Fascist era, and had become even richer during the great boom of the sixties. Construction? Transport? He wasn’t sure.

The Conte reached Brunetti and Paola, kissed them each twice in greeting, and then turned back to the couple with whom he had been talking, saying, ‘Paola, you know them,’ and then to Brunetti, ‘but I’m not sure you do, Guido. They’re eager to meet you.’

This was perhaps true of Cataldo, who watched them approach, eyebrows raised and chin tilted to one side as he cast his eyes from Paola to Brunetti with open curiosity. As for the woman, her expression was impossible to read. Or more accurately, her face expressed pleasant, permanent anticipation, fixed there immutably by the attentions of a surgeon. Her mouth was set to spend the rest of its time on earth parted in a small smile, the sort one gives when introduced to the maid’s grandchild. Though the smile was thin as an expression of pleasure, the lips that made it were full and fleshy, a deep red most usually seen on cherries. Her eyes were crowded by her cheekbones, which swelled up on either side of her nose in taut, pink nodes about the size of a kiwi fruit cut longitudinally. The nose itself started higher on her forehead than it was normal for noses to start and was strangely flat, as though someone had smoothed it with a spatula after placing it there.

Of line or blemish there was no sign. Her skin was perfect, the skin of a child. The blonde hair gave no sign that it differed from spun gold, and Brunetti had learned enough about fashion to know that her dress cost more than any suit he had ever owned.

This, then, must be Cataldo’s second wife, ‘la super liftata’, some distant relative of the Contessa about whom Brunetti had heard a few times but whom he had never met. A quick search through his file of social gossip told him that she was from the North somewhere and was said to be reclusive and, in some never explained way, strange.

‘Ah,’ the Conte began, breaking into Brunetti’s thoughts. Paola bent forward and kissed the woman, then shook the man’s hand. To the woman, the Conte said, ‘Franca, I’d like you to meet my son-in-law, Guido Brunetti, Paola’s husband.’ And then to Brunetti, ‘Guido, may I present Franca Marinello and her husband, Maurizio Cataldo.’ He stepped aside and waved Brunetti forward, as though he were offering Brunetti and Paola the other couple as a Christmas gift.

Brunetti shook hands with the woman, whose grasp was surprisingly firm, and the man, whose hand felt dry, as if it needed dusting. ‘Piacere,’ he said, smiling first into her eyes, and then into the man’s, which were a watery blue.

The man nodded, but it was the woman who spoke. ‘Your mother-in-law has spoken so well of you all these years; it’s a great pleasure finally to meet you.’

Before Brunetti could think of a response, the double doors leading to the dining room were opened from inside, and the man who had collected the coats announced that dinner was served. As everyone made their way across the room, Brunetti tried to remember anything the Contessa might have told him about her friend Franca, but he could summon only that the Contessa had befriended her years ago when she came to study in Venice.

The sight of the table, laden with china and silver, exploding with flowers, reminded him of the last meal he had had in this house, only two weeks before. He had stopped by to bring two books to the Contessa, with whom, in the last years, he had begun to exchange them, and he had found his son there with her. Raffi had explained that he had come to pick up the essay he had prepared for his Italian class and which his grandmother had offered to read.

Brunetti had found them in her study, sitting side by side at her desk. In front of them were the eight pages of Raffi’s essay, spread out and covered with comments in three different colours. To the left of the papers was a platter of sandwiches, or rather what had once been a platter of sandwiches. While Brunetti finished them, the Contessa explained her system: red for grammatical errors; yellow for any form of the verb essere, and blue for errors of fact or interpretation.

Raffi, who sometimes bridled when Brunetti disagreed with his view of history or Paola corrected his grammar, seemed entirely persuaded that his grandmother knew whereof she wrote and was busy entering her suggestions into his laptop; Brunetti listened attentively as she explained them.

Brunetti was pulled back from this memory by Paola’s muttered, ‘Look for your name.’ Indeed, small hand-printed cards stood propped in front of each place. He quickly found his own and was comforted to see Paola’s to his left, between himself and her father. He glanced around the table, where everyone seemed to have found his or her proper place. Someone more familiar with the etiquette of seating at dinner might have been shocked at the proximity of wives to their husbands: it is to be hoped that their sensibilities would have been calmed by the fact that the Conte and Contessa faced one another from the ends of the rectangular table. The Conte’s lawyer, Renato Rocchetto, pulled out the Contessa’s chair and held it for her. When she was seated, the other women took their places, followed by the men.

Brunetti found himself directly opposite Cataldo’s wife, about a metre from her face. She was listening to something her husband said, her head almost touching his, but Brunetti knew that would merely delay the inevitable. Paola turned to him, whispered ‘Coraggio’, and patted his leg.

As Paola took her hand away, Cataldo smiled at his wife and turned towards Paola and her father; Franca Marinello looked across at Brunetti. ‘It’s terribly cold, isn’t it?’ she began, and Brunetti braced himself for yet another one of those dinner conversations.

Before he could find a suitably bland answer, the Contessa spoke from her end of the table: ‘I hope no one will mind if we have a meatless dinner this evening.’ She smiled and looked around at the guests and added, in a tone that suggested both amusement and embarrassment, ‘What with the dietary peculiarities of my own family and because I let it go until too late to call each of you to ask about yours, I decided it would be easiest simply to avoid meat and fish.’

‘“Dietary peculiarities?”’ whispered Claudia Umberti, the wife of the Conte’s lawyer. She sounded honestly puzzled, and Brunetti, who sat beside her, had seen her and her husband at enough family dinners to know she understood that the only dietary peculiarity of the extended Falier family — Chiara’s off and on vegetarianism aside — was an insistence on ample portions and rich desserts.

No doubt wanting to save her mother the awkwardness of being caught in an open lie, Paola spoke into the general silence to explain, ‘I prefer not to eat beef; my daughter Chiara won’t eat meat or fish — at least not this week; Raffi won’t eat anything green and doesn’t like cheese; and Guido,’ she said, leaning towards him and placing a hand on his arm, ‘won’t eat anything unless he gets a large portion.’

Everyone at the table obliged with gentle laughter, and Brunetti kissed Paola’s cheek as a sign of good humour and sportsmanship, vowing at the same time to refuse any offer that might be made of a second helping. He turned to her and, still smiling, asked, ‘What was that all about?’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said and turned away to ask a polite question of her father.

Apparently having decided not to comment on the Contessa’s remarks, Franca Marinello said, when Brunetti’s attention returned to her, ‘The snow on the street’s a terrible problem.’ Brunetti smiled, quite as if he had neither noticed her shoes nor been listening to that same remark for the last two days.

According to the rules of polite conversation, it was now his turn to make some meaningless remark, so he did his part and offered, ‘But it’s good for the skiers.’

‘And the farmers,’ she added.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Where I come from,’ she said, in an Italian that displayed no trace of local accent, ‘we have a saying, “Under the snow is bread. Under the rain is hunger.”’ Her voice was pleasantly low: had she sung, she would have been a contralto.

Brunetti, urban to the core, smiled apologetically and said, ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

Her lips moved upward in what he was coming to recognize as her smile, and the expression in her eyes softened. ‘It’s supposed to mean that the rain simply runs away, doing only temporary good, but the snow lies on the mountains and melts away slowly all summer long.’

‘And thus the bread?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes. Or so the old people believed.’ Before Brunetti could comment, she went on, ‘But this snowfall was a freak storm here in the city, only enough to close the airport for a few hours; no more than a few centimetres. In Alto Adige, where I come from, it hasn’t snowed at all this year.’

‘So it is bad for the skiers?’ Brunetti asked with a smile, picturing her in a long cashmere sweater and ski pants, posed in front of a fireplace in some five-star ski resort.

‘I don’t care about them, only the farmers,’ she said with a vehemence that surprised him. She studied his face for a moment, and then added, ‘“Oh, farmers: if only they recognized their blessings.”’

Brunetti all but gasped, ‘That’s Virgil, isn’t it?’

‘The Georgics,’ she answered, politely ignoring his surprise and everything it implied. ‘You’ve read it?’

‘At school,’ Brunetti answered. ‘And then again a few years ago.’

‘Why?’ she inquired politely, then turned her head aside to thank the waiter placing a dish of risotto ai funghi in front of her.

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you reread it?’

‘Because my son was reading it in school and said he liked it, so I thought I should have another look.’ He smiled and added, ‘It was so long since I read it at school that I no longer had any memory of it.’

‘And?’

Brunetti had to think before he answered her, so rarely was he presented with the opportunity to talk about the books he read. ‘I have to confess,’ he said as the waiter set his risotto in front of him, ‘all that talk about the duties of a good landowner didn’t much interest me.’

‘Then what subjects do interest you?’ she asked.

‘I’m interested in what the Classics say about politics,’ Brunetti answered and prepared himself for the inevitable dimming of interest on the part of his listener.

She picked up her wine, took a small sip, and tipped the glass in Brunetti’s direction, swirling the contents gently and saying, ‘Without the good landowner, we wouldn’t have any of this.’ She took another sip, and set the glass down.

Brunetti decided to risk it. Raising his right hand, he waved it in a small swirling circle that encompassed, should one be inclined so to interpret it, the table, the people at it, and, by extension, the palazzo and the city in which they sat. ‘Without politics,’ he said, ‘we wouldn’t have any of this.’

Because of the difficulty her eyes had in widening, her surprise was registered in a gulp of laughter. This grew into a girlish peal of merriment that she attempted to stifle by putting one hand over her mouth, but still the helpless giggles emerged, and then they turned into a fit of coughing.

Heads turned, and her husband withdrew his attention from the Conte to place a protective hand on her shoulder. Conversation stopped.

She nodded, raised a hand and made a small waving gesture to signify that nothing was wrong, then took her napkin and wiped her eyes, still coughing. Soon enough the coughing stopped and she took a few deep breaths, then said to the table in general, ‘Sorry. Something went down the wrong way.’ She covered her husband’s hand with her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze, then said something to him that caused him to smile and turn back to his conversation with the Conte.

She took a few small sips from her water glass, tasted the risotto, then put down her fork. As if there had been no interruption, she looked across to Brunetti and said, ‘It’s Cicero I like best on politics.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was such a good hater.’

Brunetti forced himself to pay attention to what she said rather than to the unearthly mouth out of which the words emerged, and they were still discussing Cicero when the waiters took away their almost untouched plates of risotto.

She moved on to the Roman writer’s loathing of Cataline and all he represented; she spoke of his rancorous hatred of Marc’Antonio; she made no attempt to disguise her joy that Cicero had finally won the consulship; and she surprised Brunetti when she spoke of his poetry with great familiarity.

The servants were removing the plates from the next course, a vegetable loaf, when Signora Marinello’s husband turned to her and said something that Brunetti could not hear. She smiled and gave her attention to him, and she continued speaking to him until the dessert — a cream cake so rich as to atone fully for any lack of meat — was finished and the plates had been taken away. Brunetti, called back to the conventions of social intercourse, devoted his attention to the wife of Avvocato Rocchetto, who informed him of the latest scandals involving the administration of Teatro La Fenice.

‘. . finally decided not to bother to renew our abbonamento. It’s all so terribly second-rate, and they will insist on doing all that wretched French and German rubbish,’ she said, almost quivering with disapproval. ‘It’s no different from a minor theatre in some tiny provincial French town,’ she concluded, sweeping the theatre to oblivion with a wave of her hand and taking French provincial life along with it. Brunetti reflected upon Jane Austen’s suggestion that a character ‘save his breath to cool his tea’, and thus resisted the temptation to observe that Teatro la Fenice was, after all, a minor theatre in a tiny provincial Italian town and so no great things should be expected of it.

Coffee came, and then a waiter moved around the table pushing a wheeled tray covered with bottles of grappa and various digestive. Brunetti asked for a Domenis, which did not disappoint. He turned in Paola’s direction to ask her if she wanted a sip of his grappa, but she was listening to something Cataldo was saying to her father. She had her chin propped on her palm, the face of her watch towards Brunetti, and so he saw that it was well after midnight. Slowly, he slid his foot along the floor until it came up against something hard but not as solid as the leg of a chair. He gave it two slight taps.

Not more than a minute later, Paola glanced at her watch and said, ‘Oddio, I’ve got a student coming to my office at nine, and I haven’t even read his paper yet.’ She leaned forward and said down the table to her mother, ‘It seems I spend my life either doing my homework or having to read someone else’s.’

‘And never getting it done on time,’ the Conte added, but with affection and resignation, making it clear that he was not speaking in reproach.

‘Perhaps we should think about going home, as well, caro?’ Cataldo’s wife said, smiling at him.

Cataldo nodded and got to his feet. He moved behind his wife and pulled her chair back as she rose. He turned to the Conte. ‘Thank you, Signor Conte,’ he said with a small inclination of his head. ‘It was very kind of you and your wife to invite us. And doubly so because we had a chance to meet your family.’ He smiled in Paola’s direction.

Napkins were dropped on to the table, and Avvocato Rocchetto said something about needing to stretch his legs. When the Conte asked Franca Marinello if they would like him to have them taken home in his boat, Cataldo explained that his own would be waiting at the porta d’acqua. ‘I don’t mind walking one way, but in this cold, and late at night, I prefer going home in the launch,’ he said.

In staggered pairs, they made their way back through the salone, from which had already vanished all sign of the drinks that had been served there, and towards the front hall, where two of the evening’s servants helped them into their coats. Brunetti glanced aside and said softly to Paola, ‘And people say it’s hard to find good staff these days.’ She grinned but someone on his other side let out an involuntary snort of laughter. When he turned, he saw only Franca Marinello’s impassive face.

In the courtyard, the group exchanged polite farewells: Cataldo and his wife were led towards the porta d’ acqua and their boat; Rocchetto and his wife lived only three doors away; and the other couple turned in the direction of the Accademia, having laughed off Paola’s suggestion that she and Brunetti walk them to their home.

Arm in arm, Brunetti and Paola turned towards home. As they passed the entrance to the university, Brunetti asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

Paola stopped and looked him in the eye. Instead of answering, she asked, coolly, ‘And what, pray tell, was that all about?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Brunetti answered, stalling.

‘You beg my pardon because you don’t understand my question, or you beg my pardon because you spent the evening talking to Franca Marinello and ignoring everyone else?’

The vehemence of her question surprised Brunetti into bleating out, ‘But she reads Cicero.’

‘Cicero?’ asked an equally astonished Paola.

‘On Government, and the letters, and the accusation against Verres. Even the poetry,’ he said. Suddenly struck by the cold, Brunetti took her arm and started up the bridge, but her steps lagged and slowed him to a halt at the top.

Paola moved back to get perspective on his face, but kept hold of his hand. ‘You realize, I hope, that you are married to the only woman in this city who would find that an entirely satisfactory explanation?’

Her answer forced a sudden laugh from Brunetti. She added, ‘Besides, it was interesting to watch so many people at work.’

‘Work?’

‘Work,’ she repeated, and started down the other side of the bridge.

When Brunetti caught up with her, she continued unasked, ‘Franca Marinello was working to impress you with her intelligence. You were working to find out how someone who looks like her could have read Cicero. Cataldo was working to convince my father to invest with him, and my father was working to try to decide whether he should do it or not.’

‘Invest in what?’ Brunetti asked, all thought of Cicero banished.

‘In China,’ she said.

‘Oddio,’ was the only thing Brunetti could think of to say.

‘Why in God’s name would he want to invest in China?’ Brunetti demanded.

That stopped her. She came to a halt in front of the firemen’s dining hall, windows dark at this hour and no scent of food spilling into the calle. He was honestly puzzled. ‘Why China?’ he repeated.

She shook her head in a conscious imitation of complete befuddlement and looked around, as if seeking sympathetic ears. ‘Please, would someone tell me who this man is? I think I see him in the morning sometimes, beside me in bed, but this can’t be my husband.’

‘Oh, stop it, Paola, and tell me,’ he said, suddenly tired and in no mood for this.

‘How can you read two newspapers every day and not have any idea of why a person would want to invest in China?’

He took her arm and turned her towards home. He saw no sense in standing on a public street and discussing this, not when they could do it while heading for home, or in their bed. ‘Of course, I know all that,’ he said. ‘Soaring economy, fortunes to be made, stock market gone wild, no end in sight. But why would your father want any part of it?’

He felt her pace grow slower; fearing a pause for further rhetorical flourishes, he kept moving, forcing her to keep up with him. ‘Because my father has the ichor of capitalism flowing in his veins, Guido. Because, for hundreds of years, to be a Falier has been to be a merchant, and to be a merchant is to make money.’

‘This,’ Brunetti observed, ‘from a professor of literature who maintains she has no interest in money.’

‘That’s because I’m the end of the line, Guido. I’m the last person in our family who will carry the name: our children have yours.’ Her steps slowed, as did her voice, but she did not stop. ‘My father has made money all his life, thus permitting me, and our children, the luxury of not having to take an interest in making it.’

Brunetti, who had played what must have been thousands of games of Monopoly with his children, was sure that the capitalist gene had run true to form in them and that they already had the interest, perhaps even the ichor itself.

‘And he thinks there’s money to be made there?’ Brunetti asked, and then quickly added, if only to prevent her from again demanding how he could ask such a question, ‘Safe money?’

She turned to him again. ‘Safe?’

‘Well,’ he said, hearing himself how silly that had sounded, ‘Clean money?’

‘At least you accept that there’s a difference,’ she said with the bite of her years of voting Communist.

He said nothing for a while. Suddenly he stopped and asked, ‘What was all that about, what did your mother call it, “dietary peculiarities”? And all that nonsense about what the kids wouldn’t eat?’

‘Cataldo’s wife is a vegetarian,’ Paola said. ‘And my mother didn’t want to call attention to her, so I decided that I should be the one to — as you police people say — “take the fall”.’ She squeezed his arm.

‘And thus the fiction of my appetite?’ he could not prevent himself from asking.

Did she hesitate an instant? Regardless, she repeated, tugging his arm and smiling at him, ‘Yes. Thus the fiction of your appetite.’

Had Brunetti not warmed to Franca Marinello because of their conversation, he might have remarked that she hardly needed dietary peculiarities to draw attention to herself. But Cicero had intervened to change Brunetti’s opinion and he had come, he realized, to feel protective of the woman.

They passed in front of Goldoni’s house, then the sudden left and right and down towards San Polo. As they walked out into the campo, Paola stopped and gazed across the open space. ‘How strange to see it empty like this.’

He loved the campo, had loved it since he was a boy, for its trees and its sense of openness: SS Giovanni e Paolo was too small, the statue in the way, and soccer balls were prone to end in the canal; Santa Margherita was oddly shaped, and he’d always found it too noisy, even more so now that it had become so fashionable. Perhaps it was the lack of commercialization that made him love Campo San Polo, for only two sides of it held shops, the others having resisted the lure of Mammon. The church, of course, had succumbed and now charged people to enter, having discovered that beauty brought more income than grace. Not that there was all that much to see inside: a few Tintorettos, those Tiepolo Stations of the Cross, a bit of this and that.

He felt Paola tugging at his arm. ‘Come on, Guido, it’s almost one.’

He accepted the truce her words offered, and they made their way home.

Unusually, his father-in-law phoned Brunetti at the Questura the next day. After thanking him for the dinner, Brunetti waited to see what was on the Conte’s mind.

‘Well, what did you think?’ the Conte asked.

‘Of what?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Of her.’

‘Franca Marinello?’ Brunetti asked, hiding his surprise.

‘Of course. You sat opposite her all evening.’

‘I didn’t know I was supposed to be interrogating her,’ Brunetti protested.

‘But you did,’ the Conte answered sharply.

‘Only about Cicero, I’m afraid,’ Brunetti explained.

‘Yes, I know,’ the Conte said, and Brunetti wondered if it was envy he heard in his voice.

‘What did you talk about with the husband?’ Brunetti inquired.

‘Earth-moving equipment,’ the Conte said with singular lack of enthusiasm, ‘and other things.’ After the briefest of pauses, he said, ‘Cicero is infinitely more interesting.’

Brunetti remembered that his own copy of the speeches had been a Christmas gift from the Conte and that the dedication on the title page stated that it was one of the Conte’s favourite books. ‘But?’ he asked in response to his father-in-law’s tone.

‘But Cicero,’ the Conte answered, ‘is not much in demand among Chinese businessmen.’ He considered his own observation and then added, with a theatrical sigh, ‘Perhaps because he had so little to say about earth-moving equipment.’

‘Do Chinese businessmen have more to say?’ Brunetti prodded.

The Conte laughed. ‘You really can’t lose the habit of interrogation, can you, Guido?’ Before Brunetti could protest, the Conte went on, ‘Yes, the few I know are very interested in it, especially bulldozers. So is Cataldo, and so is his son — he’s the son from his first marriage — who runs their heavy equipment company. China’s gone crazy with a building boom, so their company’s got more orders than they can handle, which means he’s asked me to go into a limited partnership with him.’

Over the years, Brunetti had learned that circumspection was the appropriate response to anything his father-in-law might divulge about his business interests, so he did no more than mutter an attentive ‘Ah.’

‘But you can’t be interested in that,’ the Conte said, quite accurately as it happened. ‘What did you think of her?’

‘May I ask why you’re curious?’ Brunetti said.

‘Because I sat next to her at dinner a few months ago, after meeting her here for years and never really talking to her, and the same thing happened to me. We started talking about a story that had been in the paper that day, and then suddenly we were talking about the Metamorphoses. I don’t remember how it happened, but it was delightful. All those years, and we’d never talked, well, never about anything real. So I suggested Donatella put you across from her while I talked to the husband.’ Then, with remarkable self-awareness, the Conte added, ‘You’ve been forced to sit with so many of our dull friends all these years: I thought you deserved a change.’

‘Thank you, then,’ Brunetti said, choosing not to comment on the Conte’s assessment of his friends. ‘It was very interesting. She’s even read the argument against Verres.’

‘Oh, good for her,’ the Conte all but chirped.

‘Did you know her before?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Before the marriage or before the facelift?’ the Conte inquired neutrally.

‘Before the marriage,’ Brunetti said.

‘Yes and no. That is, she’s always been more Donatella’s friend than mine. Some relative of Donatella’s asked her to keep an eye on her when she came here to study. Byzantine history, of all things. But she had to leave after two years. Family trouble of some sort. Her father died, and she had to go home and find a job because the mother had never worked.’ Vaguely, he added, ‘I don’t remember all the details. Donatella probably does.’

The Conte cleared his throat and then said, sounding apologetic, ‘Hearing all this, it sounds like the plot summary of a bad television series. You sure you want to hear it?’

‘I never watch television,’ said a falsely virtuous Brunetti, ‘so I find it interesting.’

‘All right, then,’ the Conte said and continued. ‘The story I’ve heard — and I don’t remember whether it was Donatella or other people who told me — is that she met Cataldo while she was modelling — furs, I think — and the rest, as my granddaughter is in the annoying habit of saying, is history.’

‘Was divorce part of the history?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, it was,’ the Conte answered ruefully. ‘I’ve known Maurizio a long time, and he is not a patient man. He offered his wife a settlement, and she accepted.’

The instinct developed over decades of prodding reluctant witnesses suggested to Brunetti that something was not being said here, and so he asked, ‘What else?’

There was a long silence before the Conte answered. ‘He was a guest at my table, so I don’t like to say these things about him, but Maurizio is also said to be a vindictive man, and this might have encouraged his wife to accept the terms he offered.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve heard this story before,’ Brunetti said.

‘Which one?’ the Conte asked sharply.

‘The same one you’ve heard, Orazio: the old man who meets the sweet young thing, leaves his wife, marries her in fretta e furia, and then perhaps they don’t live happily ever after.’ Brunetti himself did not like the sound of his own voice.

‘But it’s not like that, Guido. Not at all.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they are living happily ever after.’ The Conte’s voice held the same longing it had when he spoke of being able to spend an evening discussing Cicero. ‘Or at least that’s what Donatella tells me.’

After some time, the Conte asked, ‘Are you troubled by her appearance?’

‘That’s a delicate way of phrasing it.’

‘I’ve never understood it,’ the Conte said. ‘She was a lovely thing. No real reason for her to do it, but women today have different ideas about. .’ the Conte said, letting the sentence wither.

‘It happened years ago. They went away, ostensibly on a vacation, but they were gone a long time: months. I can’t remember who told me.’ The Conte paused, then said, ‘Not Donatella.’ Brunetti was glad he said this. ‘At any rate, when they came back, she looked the way she looks now. Australia — I think that’s where they said they had been. But a person doesn’t go to Australia for plastic surgery, for God’s sake.’

Brunetti spoke without thinking, ‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘Guido,’ the Conte said after some time, ‘I’ve given that up.’

‘Given what up?’

‘Trying to understand why people do things. No matter how hard we try, we’ll never get it right. My father’s driver always used to say, “All we have is one head, so we can think only one way about anything.”’ The Conte laughed, and then said with sudden briskness, ‘That’s enough gossip. What I wanted to know was whether you liked her or not.’

‘Only that?’

‘I hardly thought you were going to run off with her, Guido,’ he laughed.

‘Orazio, believe me: one woman who reads is more than enough for me.’

I know what you mean, I know what you mean.’ Then, a bit more seriously, ‘But you still haven’t answered my question.’

‘I liked her. A great deal.’

‘Did she strike you as an honest woman?’

‘Absolutely,’ Brunetti answered instantly, not even having to think about it. But when he did, he said, ‘Isn’t that strange? I know almost nothing about her, but I trust her because she likes Cicero.’

Again, the Conte laughed, but in a softer voice. ‘It makes sense to me.’

The Conte seldom displayed such interest in a person, so Brunetti was led to ask, ‘Why are you curious about whether she’s honest or not?’

‘Because if she trusts her husband, then maybe he’s worth trusting.’

‘And you think she does?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I watched them last night, and there was nothing false about them. She loves him, and he loves her.’

‘But loving isn’t trusting, is it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Ah, how good to hear the cool tones of your scepticism, Guido. We live in such sentimental times that I sometimes forget my best instincts.’

‘Which tell you what?’

‘That a man can smile and smile yet be a villain.’

‘The Bible?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Shakespeare, I think,’ the Conte said.

Brunetti suspected the conversation was over, but then the Conte said, ‘I wondered if you could do me a favour, Guido. Discreetly.’

‘Yes?’

‘You have information there, far better than I sometimes have, and I wondered if you could get someone to have a look around to see if Cataldo is anyone I would want to. .’

‘Trust?’ Brunetti asked provocatively.

‘Never that, Guido,’ Conte Falier said with adamantine certainty. ‘Perhaps better to say whether he’s someone I would want to invest with. He’s in a terrible hurry for me to decide, and I don’t know if my own people can find. .’ The Conte’s voice drifted away, as if he could not think of the words to express the precise nature of his interest.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Brunetti said, realizing that he was curious about Cataldo but not wanting, just then, to try to figure out why.

He and the Conte exchanged pleasantries, and the conversation ended.

He glanced at his watch and saw that he would have time to speak to Signorina Elettra, his superior’s secretary, before going home to lunch. If anyone could have a discreet look into Cataldo’s business dealings, it was surely she. He toyed for a moment with the idea of asking her to check, while she was about it, for whatever she could find about Cataldo’s wife, as well. He felt a flush of embarrassment at his desire to see a photo of what she had looked like before the. . before the marriage.

To enter Signorina Elettra’s office was to be reminded that it was Tuesday. An enormous vase of pink French tulips stood on a desk in front of her window. The computer which she had allowed a generous and grateful Questura to supply her with some months before — consisting of nothing more than an anorexic screen and a black keyboard — left ample room on her desk for an equally large bouquet of white roses. The coloured wrapping lay neatly folded in the bin used only for paper, and woe to the member of staff who forgot and stuffed paper carelessly in the regular garbage. Paper; cardboard; metal; plastic. Brunetti had once heard her on the phone with the president of Vesta, the private company which had been awarded — he turned his thoughts away from consideration of the factors that might have affected that choice — the contract to collect garbage in the city, and he still recalled the exquisite politeness with which she had called to his attention the many ways a police investigation or, worse, one from the Guardia di Finanza, could impede the easy running of his company and how expensive and troublesome could be the unexpected discoveries to which an official financial investigation often led.

After that conversation — but surely not as a result — the garbage men had altered their schedule and begun to moor their ‘barca ecologica’ in front of the Questura every Tuesday and Friday mornings after picking up paper and cardboard from the residents in the area of SS Giovanni e Paolo. The second Tuesday, Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta had ordered them to leave when he saw the boat moored there and had been outraged at the brutta figura of policemen seen carrying bags of papers from the Questura to a garbage scow.

It had taken Signorina Elettra no time at all to lead the Vice-Questore to see the tremendous publicity advantage to be gained from introducing an eco-iniziativa that was the product, of course, of Dottor Patta’s wholehearted commitment to the ecological health of his adopted city. The following week, La Nuova sent not only a journalist but a photographer, and the next day’s front page carried a long interview with Patta and above it a large photo. Though it did not show him actually carrying a bag of rubbish out to a garbage scow, it did show him at his desk, one hand placed assertively on a stack of papers, as if to suggest he could resolve the cases they documented by sheer force of will, and then diligently ensure that the papers were disposed of in the proper recycling receptacle.

As Brunetti entered, Signorina Elettra was just emerging from her superior’s office. ‘Ah, good,’ she said, when she saw Brunetti at the door. ‘The Vice-Questore wants to see you.’

‘About?’ he asked, all thought of Cataldo and his wife forgotten for the moment.

‘There’s someone in with him. A Carabiniere. From Lombardia.’ The Most Serene Republic had ceased to exist more than two centuries before, but those who spoke its tongue could still, with a single word, express their suspicion of those bustling, upstart Lombards.

‘Just go in,’ she said, moving closer to her desk to allow him free passage to Patta’s door.

He thanked her, knocked, and entered at Patta’s shout.

Patta sat at his desk, to one side the same stack of papers that had served as props in the photographs in the newspapers: for Patta, any large pile of papers could be only decorative. Brunetti noticed a man seated in front of Patta’s desk; when he heard Brunetti come in, he started to get to his feet.

‘Ah, Brunetti,’ Patta enthused, ‘this is Maggior Guarino. He’s from the Carabinieri in Marghera.’ The man was tall, about a decade younger than Brunetti, and very thin. He had an easy, lived-in smile and thick hair already greying at the temples. His dark eyes were deep-set and gave him the look of a man who preferred to study what went on around him from some safe, half-hidden place.

They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, then Guarino moved aside to allow Brunetti to slip past him to the other chair in front of Patta’s desk.

‘I wanted you to meet the Maggiore, Brunetti,’ Patta began. ‘He’s come to see if we can be of any help to him.’ Before Brunetti could ask, Patta sailed on. ‘For some time, there’s been growing evidence of the presence, especially in the North-east, of certain illegal organizations.’ He glanced at Brunetti, who had no need to ask for clarification: anyone who read a newspaper — anyone, in fact, who had ever had a conversation in a bar — knew about this. To content Patta, however, Brunetti raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a semblance of interested interrogation, and Patta explained, ‘Worse — and this is why the Maggiore is here — there is increasing evidence that legitimate businesses are being taken over, specifically the transportation industry.’ What was that story by the American writer, about the man who fell asleep and woke up after decades? Had Patta perhaps been hibernating in a cave somewhere while the Camorra moved north, and had he awoken to discover it only this morning?

Brunetti kept his eyes on Patta and pretended to pay no attention to the reaction of the man next to him, who cleared his throat.

‘Maggior Guarino’s been involved with this problem for some time, and his investigations have led him to the Veneto. As you might realize, Brunetti, this concerns all of us now,’ Patta continued, voice filled with the shock of the new. As Patta spoke, Brunetti tried to figure out why he had been asked to join them. Transportation, at least the kind that moved on road or rail, had never been a concern of the police in Venice. He had little direct experience with land transport, criminal or otherwise, nor could he remember that any of the men in his squad had, either.

‘. . and so I hoped that, by introducing you two, some synergy could be created,’ Patta concluded, using the foreign word and again giving evidence of his ability to be fatuous in any language he used.

Guarino started to answer, but, seeing Patta’s not very discreet glance at his watch, seemed to change his mind and said, ‘You’ve already been too generous with your time, Vice-Questore: I can’t in conscience ask you to give us any more of it.’ This was accompanied by a large smile, which Patta returned affably. ‘Perhaps the Commissario and I,’ Guarino said, with a nod in Brunetti’s direction, ‘should talk about this together, and then get back to you to ask for your input?’ When Guarino used the English word, it sounded as though he knew what it meant.

Brunetti was amazed at the speed with which Guarino had acquired the pitch-perfect manner for addressing Patta and at the subtlety of his suggestion. Patta would be asked to give an opinion, but only after other men had done the work: thus he was to be spared both effort and responsibility and would still be able to take credit for any progress achieved. This for Patta would surely be the best of all possible worlds.

‘Yes, yes,’ Patta said, as if the Major’s words had suddenly forced him to reflect upon the burdens of office. Guarino stood, followed by Brunetti. The Major made a few more remarks; Brunetti went to the door and waited for him to finish, then they left the office together.

Signorina Elettra turned to them as they emerged. ‘I hope your meeting was successful, Signori,’ she said pleasantly.

‘With an inspiration such as that presented by the Vice-Questore, Signora, it could have been nothing but,’ Guarino said in a dead level voice.

Brunetti watched as her attention turned to the man who had spoken. ‘Indeed,’ she answered, giving Guarino her brightest look. ‘I’m so pleased to discover another person who finds him inspiring.’

‘How could one fail to, Signora? Or is it Signorina?’ Guarino asked, injecting into his voice curiosity, or was it astonishment, that she might still be unmarried.

‘After the current head of our government, Vice-Questore Patta is the most inspiring man I’ve ever encountered,’ she answered, smiling, but responding to only the first of his inquiries.

‘I can well believe it,’ Guarino agreed. ‘Charismatic, each of them in his own way.’ Turning to Brunetti, he asked, ‘Is there a place where we can talk?’

Brunetti nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and they left the office. As they climbed the stairs, Guarino asked, ‘How long has she worked for the Vice-Questore?’

‘Long enough to fall completely under his spell,’ Brunetti answered. Then, at Guarino’s look, ‘I’m not sure. Years. It seems as if she’s always been here, though she hasn’t.’

‘Would things fall apart if she weren’t?’ Guarino asked.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘We have someone like her in the office,’ the Major answered. ‘Signora Landi: the formidable Gilda. Is your Signora Landi a civilian?’

‘Yes, she is,’ Brunetti answered, wondering that Guarino had failed to notice the jacket that had hung oh-so-negligently on the back of her chair. Brunetti knew little of fashion, but he could spot an Etro lining at twenty paces, and he knew that the Ministry of the Interior was not in the habit of using it in their uniform jackets. Guarino had apparently overlooked the clue.

‘Married?’

‘No,’ Brunetti answered, then surprised himself by asking, ‘Are you?’

Brunetti had moved ahead of the other officer, so he did not hear his answer. He turned back and said, ‘Excuse me?’

‘Not really,’ Guarino said.

Now, what in hell was that supposed to mean? Brunetti asked himself. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ he said politely.

‘We’re separated.’

‘Oh.’

Inside Brunetti’s office he led his guest over to the window and showed him what view there was: the eternally about-to-be-renovated church and the completely restored rest home. ‘Where does the canal go?’ Guarino asked, leaning forward and looking to the right.

‘Down to Riva degli Schiavoni and the bacino.’

‘You mean the laguna?’

‘Well, the water that will take you out to the laguna.’

‘Sorry to sound like such a country bumpkin,’ Guarino said, ‘I know it’s a city, but it still doesn’t feel like one to me.’

‘No cars?’

Guarino smiled and grew younger. ‘Well, it’s partly that. But the strangest thing is the silence.’ After a long moment, he saw that Brunetti was about to speak but added, ‘I know, I know, most people in cities hate the traffic and the smog, but the worst is the noise, believe me. It never stops, even late at night or early in the morning: there’s always a machine at work somewhere: a bus, or a car, a plane coming in to land, or a car alarm.’

‘Usually the worst we get,’ Brunetti said with an easy laugh, ‘is someone walking under your window and talking late at night.’

‘They would have to talk very loud to bother me,’ Guarino said and laughed.

‘Why?’

‘I live on the seventh floor.’

‘Ah,’ was the only thing Brunetti could think of to say, so unusual to him was the reality of such a thing. In the abstract, he knew that people in cities lived in tall buildings, but it seemed inconceivable that they would hear any noise on the seventh floor.

He waved Guarino to a chair and sat down himself. ‘What is it you want from the Vice-Questore?’ he asked, feeling that they had spent enough time on preliminaries. He pulled open his second drawer with his foot, then propped his crossed feet on it.

The casual gesture seemed to relax Guarino, who went on. ‘A bit less than a year ago, our attention was called to a trucking company in Tessera, not far from the airport.’

Brunetti was immediately alert: a month ago, the attention of the entire region had been called to a trucking company in Tessera.

‘We first got interested when the name of the company turned up in the course of another investigation,’ Guarino continued. This was a routine lie Brunetti himself had used countless times, but he let it pass unremarked.

Guarino stretched out his legs and glanced back at the window, as if the view of the façade of the church would help him tell his story in the clearest way. ‘Once our attention had been called to this company, we went to talk to the owner. Been in the family for more than fifty years; inherited from his father. It turned out he’d been having problems: rising fuel costs, competition from foreign haulers, workers who went on strike whenever they didn’t get what they wanted, need for new trucks and equipment. The usual things.’

Brunetti nodded. If this was the same trucking company in Tessera, then the ending had not been one of the usual things. With a candour and resignation that surprised Brunetti, Guarino said, ‘So he did what anyone would do: he started to cook the books.’ Almost with regret, he added, ‘But he wasn’t very good at it. He could drive and fix a truck and make out a schedule for pick-ups and deliveries, but he was not a bookkeeper, so the Guardia di Finanza smelled something wrong the first time they took a look at his records.’

‘Why did they investigate his records?’ Brunetti asked.

Guarino raised his hand in a gesture that could mean anything.

‘Did they arrest him?’

The Maggiore looked at his feet, then flicked a hand at his knee, wiping away a speck invisible to Brunetti. ‘It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid.’ This seemed obvious to Brunetti: why else would Guarino be there, talking to him?

Slowly, and with some reluctance, Guarino said, ‘The person who told us about him said he was transporting things we were interested in.’

Brunetti cut him off by saying, ‘There are a lot of things being shipped around that we’re all interested in. Perhaps you could be more specific.’

Ignoring Brunetti’s interruption, Guarino went on, ‘A friend of mine in the Guardia told me what they had found, and I went to talk to the owner.’ Guarino glanced at Brunetti and then away. ‘I offered him a deal.’

‘In return for not arresting him?’ Brunetti asked unnecessarily.

Guarino’s look was as angry as it was sudden. ‘It’s done all the time. You know it.’ Brunetti watched the Maggiore decide to say what he would immediately regret saying. ‘I’m sure you do it.’ Guarino’s look softened at once.

‘Yes, we do,’ Brunetti said calmly, then added, to see how Guarino would react, ‘And it doesn’t always work out the way it’s planned.’

‘What do you know about this?’ the other man demanded.

‘Nothing more than what you’ve just told me, Maggiore.’ When Guarino said nothing, he asked, ‘And then what happened?’

Guarino took another swipe at his knee, then forgot about it and left his hand there. ‘He was killed in a robbery,’ he finally said.

The details began to seep into Brunetti’s memory. Because Tessera was closer to Mestre than to Venice, Mestre had been given the case. Patta had outdone himself in seeing that the Venice police did not get dragged into the investigation, claiming lack of manpower and jurisdictional uncertainty. Brunetti had spoken of it at the time to friends in the Mestre police, but they said it looked like a botched robbery with no leads.

‘He always went in early,’ Guarino continued, still not bothering to give the dead man’s name, an omission which irritated Brunetti. ‘At least an hour before the drivers and the other workers. They shot him. Three times.’ Guarino looked across at him. ‘You know about it, of course. It was in all the papers.’

‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, not mollified: Guarino had been a long time about it. ‘But I never read more than what was in the papers.’

‘Whoever did it,’ Guarino went on, ‘had already searched his office, or went through it after they killed him. They tried to open a wall safe — failed — went through his pockets and took whatever money he had on him. And his watch.’

‘So it looked like a robbery?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Suspects?’

‘No.’

‘Family?’

‘Wife, two grown children.’

‘They involved with the company?’

Guarino shook his head. ‘The son’s a doctor in Vicenza. The daughter’s an accountant and works in Rome. The wife’s a teacher, due to retire in a couple of years. With him gone, it all fell apart. The business didn’t survive him by a week.’ He saw Brunetti’s raised eyebrows. ‘I know it sounds incredible, in the age of the computer, but none of our people could find a list of orders, or routes, or pick-ups and deliveries, not even a list of drivers. He must have kept everything in his head. All of the records were a mess.’

‘So what did the widow do?’ Brunetti asked blandly.

‘She had no choice: she closed it down.’

‘Just like that?’ Brunetti asked.

‘What else could she do?’ Guarino answered, almost as if he were pleading with Brunetti to have patience with the woman’s inexperience. ‘I told you, she’s a teacher. Elementary school. She didn’t have a clue. It was one of those one-man businesses we’re so good at running.’

‘Until that one man dies,’ Brunetti said ruefully.

‘Yes,’ Guarino said and sighed. ‘She wants to sell it, but no one’s interested. The trucks are old, and now there aren’t any clients. The best she can hope for is that another company will buy up the trucks and she’ll be able to find someone to take over the lease for the garage, but she’ll still end up selling it all for nothing.’Guarino stopped speaking, almost as if he had given all the information he was prepared to give. He had not said a thing, Brunetti realized, about whatever might have passed between the two of them during the time they knew one another and, in a certain sense, worked together.

‘Am I correct in assuming,’ Brunetti asked, ‘that you discussed something other than the fact that he was cheating on his taxes?’ If not, then there was no reason for the man to be here, though he hardly had to point this out to Guarino.

Guarino measured out a single word. ‘Yes.’

‘And that he gave you information about something other than his tax situation?’ Brunetti found his voice growing tight. For God’s sake, why couldn’t the man just tell him what was going on and ask him whatever he wanted? For surely he had not come here to chat about the lovely silence of the city nor the charms of Signora Landi.

Guarino seemed content to say nothing further. Finally, making no attempt to disguise his irritation, Brunetti asked, ‘Perhaps you could stop wasting my time and explain why you’re here?’