Blood From A Stone Part 12

'And the article talked about how much fuel is consumed just in shipping them, then how much is consumed keeping the greenhouses warm in the winter, and how much fertilizer is used to nourish them and how it leaches into the soil.' This said, she turned her attention to Chiara's tulips, removed the paper wrapping, then bent to take out a dark brown vase. She filled it with water.

'More eco-criminals?' he asked ironically. 'It sounds like she believes we're surrounded by them.'

Paola slipped the tulips one by one into the vase, pausing after every few to see how they looked. She took a step back, the better to examine them, then drew close to the counter and finished arranging them. 'It's a valid position, I'd say,' she answered calmly.

'Does she seriously mean this?' Brunetti demanded. 'Now she's declared war on flowers?'

Paola turned and placed a calming hand on his arm. 'Don't get so excited, Guido. And try to remember that she's right.' She pointed to the tulips. 'These were probably grown in the Netherlands, shipped here by truck. They'll last four or five days, then they'll go into a plastic bag and into the garbage, and we'll use more petroleum to burn them.'

'That's a terrible way to look at flowers,' he insisted.

'What would make it less terrible?' she asked. 'If the product were ugly? Plastic gondolas made in Hong Kong and flown here by air freight? Those dreadful masks?'

'But they're flowers, for heaven's sake,' he insisted, pointing at the vase as if demanding that the beauty of the flowers confirm his judgement or that they stand up straighter and defend themselves.

'And we like flowers, and they're beautiful, but the point I'm trying to make, Guido, is that they are no more necessary than are the plastic gondolas or the masks. We could just as easily live without them, but we choose to live with them, and because we do, we are forced to pay the ecological cost to get them here from wherever it is they come from.' He thought she had stopped, then she added, 'But we don't mind, or we mind less, because they're beautiful. So we persuade ourselves that it's somehow different. Only it isn't.' Another moment's pause and then she concluded, 'Or so Chiara believes.'

Brunetti felt suddenly at sea, as though he had stepped into the shallow waters at the Alberoni and been swept off his feet by an invisible current. 'She worries about the flowers, but she can still dismiss the death of a vu c.u.mpra vu c.u.mpra?' he asked, fully conscious of how illogical a question it was but unwilling to stop himself from asking it.

Paola smiled as if to suggest she had already asked herself the same question. 'I think she's still too young for us to expect much consistency in her ideas, or in her ideals,' she said.

'What does that mean?'

'Exactly what I said: she's still a child in many ways, so she's discovering all the fine and n.o.ble causes for the first time, and she still sees each one as a discrete unit: she hasn't seen the connections or contradictions among them; not yet.'

She looked across at him, but he said nothing, merely stood there looking unconvinced, so she went on. 'I remember when I was her age, Guido, and the causes I thought were good ones. I'm embarra.s.sed by some of them now and positively ashamed of one or two.'

'For instance?' he asked, making no attempt to disguise his scepticism.

'For instance the Red Brigades,' she answered instantly, suddenly far more serious than she had been. 'I'm ashamed now to remember what I thought of them, that they were idealists who wanted to bring about a revolution that would lead to social and political justice.' She closed her eyes at the memory of the person she had been then.

Not without a certain discomfort, Brunetti recalled his own enthusiasm for the slogans and the professed ideals that had been in fashion then. 'And now?' he finally asked.

She tilted her head and shrugged, then said, 'Now I think they were just a bunch of spoiled young people who wanted to attract the world's attention and didn't much care who they hurt or killed in the attempt. All suffering from protagonismo protagonismo, all infected with the same disease of needing to be the centre of the world's attention. And we gave them all the attention they wanted, and some of us gave them our praise and approval.' She picked up the vase of tulips and walked towards the living room. 'So if there's a certain inconsistency in Chiara's enthusiasms or beliefs, and if she repeats slogans or ideas she's heard from other people, I think we have to be patient with her and hope she'll come to her senses.'

'The way we did?' he asked, following her down the hall.

'I think so.'

'Have you said anything to her?' Brunetti asked.

'About what she said?'

'Yes.'

'No,' Paola answered, stopping beside the narrow table that held a majolica bowl and a small marble bust of Hermes. 'That's not necessary.' She set the flowers down to the left of the statue, moved the vase a few centimetres forward, then stepped back to admire it.

'What do you mean, it's not necessary?' he asked, making no attempt to disguise his disapproval.

Paola looked at him. 'She knows what she said was wrong, and she's been thinking about it since she said it. Or, rather, since I jumped on her for saying it. But she hasn't finished thinking about it yet, and when she does, she'll say something.'

Brunetti folded his arms and asked, 'And you're not only the earth mother? In your spare time you double as a mind-reader?'

Paola smiled and waved him out of her way. Heading back to the kitchen, she said over her shoulder, 'Something like that.'

He followed, reluctant to acknowledge his conviction that she was right. He compromised by asking, 'And what about the flowers?' nodding with his chin at the irises, which she had begun to slip into the tall blue vase she always used for them.

'When I'm finished putting them into the vase, I'll put them in my study, and then anyone who sees them will enjoy looking at them.'

'And if she says something?' he asked.

'I'll tell her I agree entirely with her principles, but that you brought them to me, so she will have to address her comments or criticisms to you.'

He laughed, opened the door to the cabinet under the sink, and stuffed the wrappers into the garbage. 'You really are a snake, Paola,' he said, not without admiration.

'Yes, I know,' she agreed. 'It's a form of adaptive behaviour forced upon me by the nature of my work.'

'Me too,' he said, then asked, 'Shall we go and have a coffee?'

She slid the vase of irises to one side of the counter and stepped back to admire them. 'Yes, if we can go to Tonolo and have un cigno un cigno. And while we're over there, we could go to San Barnaba and see if they have any of that good bread.'

It would take, he calculated, more than an hour. First a cream-filled swan and a coffee at Tonolo, then the walk to Campo San Barnaba and the store that sold the good cheese and the bread from Puglia. He had fled his office in search of peace and quiet, seeking some evidence that sanity still existed in a world of violence and crime, and his wife suggested they spend an hour eating pastry and buying a loaf of bread. He leaped at the chance.

As they walked, occasionally stopping to say h.e.l.lo to people they met or to look into shop windows, he told her about Patta's warning and what he thought it might mean. She listened, saying nothing, until they had had their cream-filled swans and coffee and were on the way to Campo San Barnaba.

'You think he's afraid for his job or for his life?' she asked, then added, 'or his family?'

Brunetti stopped at the first of the two produce-filled boats moored to the riva riva, then moved on to the second. Ignoring Patta for the moment, they discussed dinner and bought a dozen artichokes and a kilo of Fuji apples. As they moved away, Brunetti returned to Paola's question and said, 'I'm not sure, only that he's frightened.'

'Could be any one of them, then,' she said, turning into the store. Ten minutes later, they emerged with an entire loaf of the Pugliese bread, a wedge of pecorino, and a jar of the pesto sauce the owner swore was the best in the city.

'What do you think?' she asked in a voice so level he had no idea if she was talking about the pesto or the reason for Patta's fear. He waited, knowing his silence would prod her to explain. 'You know him better than I do,' she finally said, 'so I thought you'd be able to sense which it is, his job or his safety.'

Brunetti thought about this for some time and finally admitted, 'No, nothing more than that he's very frightened.'

'If you keep going, you'll find out,' she volunteered.

'Investigating, you mean?'

She stopped and looked at him, surprised. 'I a.s.sumed you'd continue to investigate, no matter what he said. What I meant was if you continue to let him know that you're doing it.'

'I'll try to see that he doesn't find out,' Brunetti said.

'To spare his feelings?'

Brunetti laughed. 'No, to spare my job.'

'He can't fire you, can he?' she asked, and he could already see her marshalling the forces of her family and their network of connections.

Brunetti considered this, then answered, 'No, I don't think he could do that on his own. But he could suggest that I be transferred. That's the usual way of getting rid of people.'

'What sort of people?' she asked.

Walking at her side, he occasionally fell back a step to allow others to pa.s.s them on the narrow calli calli. 'Inconvenient people,' he answered finally.

'Which means?'

'People who ask questions and who try to prevent the entire system from becoming hopelessly corrupt,' he said, surprising himself with his own seriousness.

She reached and took his arm and tucked it under her own. He had no idea if the gesture was a request for help or an offer to provide it. It didn't much matter to him which it was.

16.

Brunetti woke the next morning to bright sunlight. For the last week, the fog had been trying to transform itself into rain but had managed to do nothing more than drape a slick film on the pavements. During the night the rain had finally come Brunetti had a vague memory of hearing it slash against the windows while he slept but some time before dawn it had given up and left the day to the sun.

He lay in bed, made happy by the strip of light that spread across the bottom of the covers. He turned on to his back and stretched to his full length and, yes, his feet found that, at the very bottom of the bed, where the sun had been shining for some time, it was warm.

A half-hour later he woke again, this time suddenly, remembering that Christmas was only four days away, and he had, once again, done nothing about getting gifts for anyone. His first impulse was to blame Paola for not having reminded him, but the instant he caught himself thinking that, he cringed away, embarra.s.sed, from the idea. A few minutes later, she came into the room, carrying a large cup of caffe latte. She wore a green woollen dress he did not remember having seen before. She set the cup and saucer on the table beside him, sat on the edge of the bed, and said, 'I wanted to be sure you were up before I left.'

'Where are you going?'

'To meet my mother and take her shopping.'

He picked up the cup and pulled it close to his mouth before asking, 'Christmas shopping?'

'Yes. I don't know what to get my father.'

He took three small sips, drawing in life with each one. 'I don't know what to get anyone.'

'You never do,' she said mildly and with great affection. 'If you meet me at four at San Bortolo, we can go and get some things together.'

'You're not home for lunch?' he asked, trying not to sound aggrieved.

'I told you last night, Guido. My mother and I are invited to Aunt Federica's for lunch today.'

That explained the dress, then. He drank more coffee and stifled the impulse to ask her how she could stand the thought of two hours in the company of her aunt. But if she was willing to go shopping with him, something she loathed even more than he did, then he would forgo comment on her family.

'We go every year; you know that,' she said. She saw the face he made when she spoke of certain members of her family, and it prompted her to say, 'Remember that she's the one who brought a successful case against the diocese of Messina for fraud.'

He covered his eyes with his left hand and asked, 'Must you always brag about your family?' When Paola made no reply, he looked out at her from between his fingers. She did not smile.

He set the cup on the saucer, chose the n.o.ble path and said, as if he approved of her destination, 'Sorry. I'd forgotten you told me you were going. Four o'clock is fine. I'll try to think of what I'd like to get everyone.'

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. 'I love it when you lie to me.' She pushed herself away from him and was about to get up from the bed when he lunged and seized her in both arms.

He pulled her towards him, watching her astonishment, delighted by it. He squeezed. She laughed. He squeezed again. She giggled. Suddenly he let her go and she jumped to her feet.

'Will you do that to Patta the next time he accuses you of lying to him?' she asked.

He looked her up and down. 'Only if he wears a dress as short as that one.' He pushed the covers aside and got out of bed.

Strangely enough, the sun appeared to have had no effect on the temperature: when Brunetti left the house, it felt even colder than it had the day before. By the time he got to Rialto, he felt the cold in his ears and nose, and he regretted the light-hearted optimism that had encouraged him to leave his gloves and scarf at home. As if the fog of the previous week had also dropped from his eyes, he registered for the first time that the city was ready for Christmas: tinsel and bulbs hung in almost every shop window.

He looked up and saw that strings of lights crossed above his head: how could he have walked home in the dark for weeks and not have noticed this? His thoughts turned to Paola's Aunt Federica. Brunetti knew that she had taken Paola aside, years ago, and warned her that her marriage to a man 'of his cla.s.s' would be her ruination, not only personally but also, and far more importantly, socially. It was not until the birth of their second child that Paola had told him about her aunt's remark, and he had been so drunk with joy at the sight of Chiara's toes that he had said only, 'Socially?' and laughed: a Falier could marry the dustman and suffer no social consequences.

He was glad to enter the Questura if only for the warmth to be found in some parts of the building. In his office he shed his overcoat and headed back down towards Signorina Elettra's office. Unfortunately, he ran into Patta on the stairs. 'Good morning, Commissario,' he said. 'I'd like a word with you.'

'Of course, sir,' Brunetti answered, falling into step with him and giving every indication that he was a man who had been in the office for hours, was already well entrenched in his work for the day. He resisted the temptation to ask what it was that Patta wanted or to display his surprise at finding Patta at work so early and followed him into the small anteroom where Signorina Elettra and her computer held court.

She smiled at them but said good morning only to her superior before returning her attention to her computer screen. Patta went into his office; Brunetti turned at the door and looked back, but Signorina Elettra had time only to give a small shrug before he closed the door and followed Patta over to his desk. His superior removed his overcoat and laid it over the back of the second visitor's chair, careful to fold it so that Brunetti could see the Ermenegildo Zegna label. Brunetti made an attempt to look suitably impressed and waited for Patta to take his seat before sitting down himself.

'I want to talk to you about this vu c.u.mpra vu c.u.mpra thing,' Patta announced. thing,' Patta announced.

Brunetti nodded but made sure to look inattentive, as if to suggest that he had heard about the vu c.u.mpra vu c.u.mpra some time in the past and would not mind being reminded just what they were. some time in the past and would not mind being reminded just what they were.

'Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Brunetti,' Patta said irritably.

Brunetti nudged his expression a little closer to intelligence and asked, 'Yes, sir?'

'As you might recall, I told you I thought it would be too complex a case for us to handle,' Patta began; Brunetti resisted the impulse to tell him that, no, he had not said that but had ordered him without explanation to stay away from the case. He contented himself with nodding, waiting to see what manoeuvre Patta had devised. 'I was right,' Patta said with every indication of modesty at what must to him have seemed embarra.s.sing redundancy. 'It has ramifications far beyond Venice, and so it's been a.s.signed to special investigators from the Ministry of the Interior, who will take over from you.' He looked at Brunetti to a.s.sess his response.

When his subordinate said nothing, Patta went on, 'They're already here and have begun their investigation. I've had all the records and doc.u.ments handed over to them.' Again he stopped, but in the face of Brunetti's continuing silence was forced to resume. 'They believe the killing is related to another case they're dealing with at the moment.'

'And what case would that be, sir?' asked a respectful Brunetti.

'They are not at liberty to tell me that,' Patta answered.

'I see,' Brunetti said, his imagination sp.a.w.ning possibilities as quickly as a cell divides.

'I think this is a case of what the Americans call "need-to-know",' Patta said, unable to disguise his pride in having thought to use and managed to p.r.o.nounce the foreign term. Then, as if concerned that Brunetti might not have understood, he added, 'That is, only people who are directly involved in the case will have access to the information obtained.'

Brunetti nodded, silent.

Patta paused for so long that he began to give evidence of finding the silence embarra.s.sing. He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his legs, trying to wait Brunetti out and force him to speak. The silence grew. Finally Patta could stand it no longer and asked, 'Do you understand?'

In a completely neutral voice, Brunetti said, 'I think I do,' and then asked, 'Will that be all, sir?'

'Yes.'

Brunetti got to his feet and left the room. As he closed the door, he glanced in Signorina Elettra's direction but left her office without speaking to her.

He went to the officers' room and walked over to Vianello, who was at his desk. 'Do you have copies of the files?' Brunetti asked.