A Noble Radiance (11 page)

'You mean it takes up
too much of my time?'

'No. I mean what I
said. You get involved in these crimes and with the people who commit them or
suffer them, and you forget about Paola and the children’

'That's not true. I'm
seldom gone from them when I should be there. We do things together’

'Please, Guido,' the
Count said in a softer voice. ‘You're too intelligent a man to believe, or to
expect me to believe, that just being in a place or with a person means all of
you is mere. Remember, I've been around you when you've been working on
something, and I know what you're like. Your spirit disappears. You talk and
listen, go places with the children, but you're not really there.' The Count
poured some mineral water into his glass and drank it. 'In a way, you're like
the Lorenzoni boy was that last time I saw him: distracted and distant and not
really there’

‘Did Paola tell you
this?'

The Count looked
almost surprised. 'Guido, I have no reason to expect you to believe me, but
Paola would never speak a word against you, not to me and not to anyone else’

'Then why are you so
sure she's unhappy?' Brunetti struggled to keep the anger from his voice as he
asked the question.

Absently, the Count's
fingers reached out for a small piece of bread that lay to the left of his
plate and began to crumble it into smaller pieces. 'When Paola was born,
Donatella had a very bad time and was sick for a long while after the birth, so
much of the care of the baby fell to me’ He saw Brunetti's surprise and laughed
out loud. 'I know, I know. It must be hard to picture me feeding a baby or
changing her nappy, but that's what I did for the first few months, and then when
Donatella was home again, well, it had become a habit, so I continued to do it.
If you've changed a baby's nappy for a year, and fed her, and sung her to
sleep, then you know when she's happy or sad’ Before Brunetti could object, the
Count continued, 'And it makes no difference whether the baby is four months or
forty years old or if the cause is colic or an uneasy marriage. You know. So I
know she's not happy.'

Brunetti's
protestations of innocence or ignorance died there. He'd change nappies
himself and spent many nights holding the children in his lap, reading to them,
while they cried or fell off to sleep, and he'd always believed it was those
nights, more than anything else, that had given him a land of radar that
responded to the state of their - he had to use the Count's word here -
spirits.

'I don't know how
else to do what I do’ he finally said in a tone which held no anger.

The Count went on.
'I've always wanted to ask you: Why is it so important to you?'

'Why is what so
important to me? That I arrest the person who committed a crime?'

The Count waved this
away. 'No, I don't think that's what’s important to you. Why do you have to see
that justice is done?'

Valeria chose this
moment to appear at their table, but neither man was interested in dessert.

The Count ordered two
grappas and turned his attention back to Brunetti.

'You've read the
Greeks, haven't you?' Brunetti finally asked.

'Some of them, yes.'

'Critias?'

'So long ago as to
have only the vaguest of memories of what he wrote. Why?'

Valeria appeared, set
the glasses in front of them, and left silently.

Brunetti picked up
his and took a small sip. 'I'm probably quoting him badly, but somewhere he
says that the laws of the state will take care of public crimes, and that's
why we need religion, so that we can believe divine justice will take care of
private crime.' He paused and took another sip. 'But we don't have religion
any more, do we, not really?' The Count shook his head. 'So maybe that's what
I'm after, not that I've ever talked about it or, for that fact, much thought
about it. If divine justice won't take care of private crime any more, then
it's important that it be seen to, by someone.'

'What do you mean,
private crime? As distinct from public crime, that is.'

'Giving someone bad
advice so that you can later profit from their error. Lying. Betraying a confidence’

'None of those things
is necessarily illegal’ the Count said.

Brunerti shook his
head. That's not the point. That’ s why they came to mind.' He paused for a
moment and then continued. 'Maybe the politicians provide better examples:
giving contracts to their friends, basing government decisions on personal
desires, giving jobs to members of their family’

The Count cut him
-off. 'Business as usual in Italian politics, you mean?'

Brunetti gave a weary
nod.

'But you can't decide
those things are illegal and start punishing people, can you?' the Count asked.

'No. I suppose what
I'm trying to say is that I get caught up in trying to find tike people
responsible for bad things, not just for illegal things, or I keep thinking
about the difference and believing both are wrong.'

'And your wife
suffers. Which gets us back to my original remark.' The Count reached across
the table and placed his hand on Brunetti's arm. ‘I know how offensive you must
find this. But she's my baby and always will be, so I wanted to say something
to you. Before she does.'

‘I’m not sure I can
thank you for this’ Brunetti confessed.

'That hardly matters.
My only concern is Paola's happiness.' The Count paused and considered what to
say next. 'And though you may find this hard to believe, Guido, your own.'.

Brunetti nodded,
finding himself suddenly too moved to speak. Seeing this, the Count waved
towards Valeria and made motions of writing a bill. When he turned his
attention back to Brunetti, he asked in an entirely normal voice, 'Well, what
do you think of the food?'

Matching his tone,
Brunetti answered. 'Excellent. Your friend can be proud of his daughter. And
you can be proud of yours.'

‘I am’ the Count said
simply. He paused, looked across at Brunetti, and said, 'And though there's no
reason you should believe this, I'm also proud of you.'

'Thank you. I had no
idea’ Before he spoke, Brunetti had thought it would be difficult to say, but
the words had come easily and painlessly.

'No, I didn't think
you did’

9

Brunetti didn't get
back to the Questura until after three. As he came in, Pucetti emerged from the
office near the door, but he did not come to give Brunetti his overcoat, which
was nowhere in evidence.

'One of them steal
it?' Brunetti asked with a smile, nodding in the direction of the door to the
Ufficio Stranieri, in front of which the line no longer stood, it having closed
at 12:30.

'No, sir. But the
Vice-Questore called down to tell us that he wanted to see you when you got
back from lunch.' Even the transmission of someone as well-disposed towards
Brunetti as Pucetti failed to disguise the anger in Patta's message.

'Is he back from
lunch himself?'

'Yes, sir. About ten
minutes ago. He asked where you were.' A person did not have to be a cryptographer
to break the code used at the Questura: Patta's question bespoke something
stronger than his normal dissatisfaction with Brunetti.

‘I’ll go and see him
now’ Brunetti said, heading towards the front steps.

'Your overcoat's in
the cupboard of your office,
sir’ Pucetti called after him, and Brunetti raised a hand in acknowledgement.
       

Signorina Elettra was
at her desk outside Vice- Questore Patta's office. When he came in, she looked
up from the newspaper on her desk and said, 'The report from the autopsy's on
your desk’ Though he was curious, he didn't ask her what it contained, sure that
she would have read it. If he didn't know the results, there would be no reason
for him to mention the autopsy to Patta.

He recognized the
pale orange pages of
Sole
Ventiquattro Ore,
the financial
newspaper. 'Working on your portfolio?' he asked.

'In a manner of
speaking, I suppose’

'Meaning?'

'A company I've
invested in has decided to open a pharmaceutical factory in Tadzhikistan.
There's an article in the paper about opening markets in what used to be the
Soviet Union, and I wanted to get an idea of whether I should stay with them or
pull my money out.'

'And?'

'I think it all
stinks is what I think’ she answered, closing the paper with a sweeping
gesture,
Why?'

'Because these people
seem to have jumped from the Middle-Ages into advanced capitalism Five years
ago, they were bartering hammers for potatoes, and now they've all become
businessmen with
telefonini
and BMWs. From what I've read, they have the morals of pit
vipers, and I think I don't want to have anything to do with them.' 'Too
risky?'

'No, quite the
contrary’ she said quite calmly.
‘I
think it's probably going to be a
very profitable investment, but I prefer not to have my money used by people
who will deal in anything, buy and sell anything, do anything in order to
profit'

'Like the bank?'
Brunetti asked. She'd come to the Questura some years ago, leaving her job as
secretary to the president of the Banca d'ltalia, because she'd refused to take
dictation of a letter going to a bank in Johannesburg. The UN obviously didn't
believe in its own sanctions, but Signorina Elettra had thought it necessary to
uphold them, even at the cost of her job.

She looked up, eyes
brightening, a cavalry horse who had just heard the trumpets sound the charge.
'Exactly.' But if he expected her to expand upon this, or make the comparison
between the two cases, he was disappointed.

She looked
significantly at Patta's door. 'He's waiting for you.'

'Any idea?'

'None,' she said.

Brunetti had a sudden
vision of a painting he'd seen reproduced in his fifth grade history book, of a
Roman gladiator turning to salute the Emperor before turning to join in battle
with an enemy who had both a larger sword and a ten kilo edge.
'Ave atque vale,'
he
said, smiling.

'Morituri te
salutant,'
she responded, as
casually as if she were reading out the times on a train schedule.

Inside, the Latinate
theme continued, with Patta poised in profile and showing off his truly
imperial nose. When he turned to face Brunetti, the imperial evaporated and was
replaced by something faintly porcine, caused by the tendency of Patta's dark
brown eyes to sink ever deeper into the eternally tanned flesh of his face.

'You wanted to see
me, Vice-Questore?' Brunetti asked in a neutral voice.

'Are you out of your
mind, Brunetti?' Patta asked with no introduction.

'Should I learn that
something is troubling my wife and fail to do anything about it, I surely would
be,' he said, but only to himself. To Patta he answered, instead, 'About what
particular subject, sir?'

'About these
recommendations for promotion and commendation,' Patta said, bringing his outspread
palm down heavily on a folder that lay closed in front of him. 'I've never seen
a worse case of prejudice and favouritism in my life.'

As Patta was a
Sicilian, he must have seen more than his fair share of both, Brunetti
reflected, but said only, 'I'm not sure I understand, sir.'

'Of course you
understand. You've recommended only Venetians: Vianello, Pucetti, and what's
his name?' he said, looking down and pulling back the covers of the folder. He
ran his eyes down the first page, flipped it over, and started to read the
second. Suddenly he stabbed at the page with a blunt forefinger. 'Here.
Bonsuan.

How can we promote a
boat pilot, for God's sake?'

'The way we'd promote
any other officer, I believe, by raising him one grade and giving him the
higher salary that goes with it'