Blood From A Stone Part 14

He finished just a little after three and so decided to walk to Campo San Bortolo. As he reached the crest of the Accademia bridge, he looked down into the campo campo on the other side and was surprised to find no sign of the on the other side and was surprised to find no sign of the vu c.u.mpra. vu c.u.mpra. That morning's That morning's Gazzettino Gazzettino had warned him how little time there remained for Christmas shopping. This made it all the stranger that the black men were not at their usual places. Like sharks in a feeding frenzy, most of the people of Italy he among them always seemed to use these last days to buy their gifts. If it was the busiest times for the shops, then it had to be the busiest time for the had warned him how little time there remained for Christmas shopping. This made it all the stranger that the black men were not at their usual places. Like sharks in a feeding frenzy, most of the people of Italy he among them always seemed to use these last days to buy their gifts. If it was the busiest times for the shops, then it had to be the busiest time for the ambulanti ambulanti, and yet there was no sign of them.

When he turned right at the church and started into Campo Santo Stefano, he did see some sheets on the ground. At first he thought they must be the forgotten groundsheets of the crime scene, but then he saw the line of wind-up toys and linked wooden train carriages, carved to look like individual letters, spelling names across the sheet. The men stationed behind the sheets were not Africans but Orientals and Tamils, and off to the left he saw a band of poncho-draped Indios and their strange musical instruments. But as for Africans, the more Brunetti looked, the more they were not there.

He walked past the various vendors but resisted the idea of speaking to any of them. Innocent curiosity about the Africans would make no sense, and police questions could provoke flight. As he studied the men and the segregation of their products, he noticed that all of the items had been ma.s.s produced, and that caused him to wonder who decided which group would sell which things. And who supplied them? Or determined the prices? And who housed them? And who got them residence and work permits, if they had such things? If the black men from Castello had disappeared, they must have gone somewhere, but where? And as a result of whose decision and with whose help?

Pondering all of these questions and again amazed that this subterranean world could exist in the city where he lived, he continued down Calle della Mandola, through Campo San Luca, and into San Bortolo.

Paola was, as she had promised, waiting for him, right where she had waited for him for decades: beneath the statue of a perpetually dapper Goldoni. He kissed her and wrapped his right arm around her shoulder. 'Tell me you ate badly and I'll get you any Christmas present you want,' he said.

'We ate gloriously well, and there's nothing I want,' Paola answered. When he failed to respond, she went on, 'Fettucine with truffles.'

'White or black?' he asked.

To goad him, she asked, 'The truffles or the fettucine?'

He ignored the question and asked, 'And what else?'

'Stinco di maiale with roast potatoes and a zucchini gratin.' with roast potatoes and a zucchini gratin.'

'If I hadn't gone to Cantinone, I'd probably have to divorce you.'

'And who would help with the Christmas shopping, then?' she asked. Into his silence, she said, as if by way of consolation, 'I didn't have dessert.'

'Good, me neither. So we can stop on the way home.'

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it and said, 'Where do we start?'

'Chiara, I think,' Brunetti answered. 'I have no idea. None at all.'

'We could get her a telefonino telefonino,' she suggested.

'And thus undo two years of resistance at a single stroke?' he asked.

'All her friends have them,' Paola said, sounding just like Chiara.

'You sound just like Chiara,' said Brunetti in dismissal. 'Clothes?'

'No, she's got too many already.'

Brunetti stopped in his tracks, turned to her, and said, 'I think that is the first time in my life, perhaps in recorded history, that a woman has admitted the concept of too much clothing might exist.'

'Over-reaction to the truffles,' she suggested.

'Perhaps.'

'I'll get over it.'

'Doubtless.'

Telefonino and clothes excluded, Paola suggested books, so they went down towards San Luca, in the general area of which there were three bookstores. In the first they found nothing that Paola thought Chiara would like, but in the second she bought a complete set of the novels of Jane Austen, in English. and clothes excluded, Paola suggested books, so they went down towards San Luca, in the general area of which there were three bookstores. In the first they found nothing that Paola thought Chiara would like, but in the second she bought a complete set of the novels of Jane Austen, in English.

'But you have those,' Brunetti said.

'Everyone should have them,' Paola said. 'If I thought you'd read them, I'd get you a set, too.'

He started to protest that he had read them once, when Paola's attention swung away from him and riveted itself to the far wall. He turned, following the direction of her gaze, but all he saw was an enormous poster of a young man who looked vaguely familiar; perhaps, he found himself thinking, this was the way the black man was familiar to Moretti. So intently did Paola stare that Brunetti finally waved his hand in front of her face and said, 'Earth to Paola, Earth to Paola, can you hear me? Come in, please.'

She looked back at him for an instant and then, her eyes returning to the poster, said, 'That's it. That's perfect.'

'What's perfect?' he asked.

'The poster. She'll love it.'

'The poster?' he repeated.

'Yes.' Before he could ask who the boy was, Paola grew serious and said, 'Guido, there's something I've been meaning to tell you.'

He imagined the worst: Chiara running off to follow a rock group, joining some sort of sect. 'What?'

'Chiara is in love with the future heir to the British throne,' she said, pointing at the poster.

'An Englishman?' Brunetti asked, shocked, remembering everything he'd ever heard about them: Battenberg, Windsor, Hanover, whatever they called themselves. 'With someone from that family?' he asked.

'Would you rather have her be in love with one of the male issue of our own dear Savoia family?' she asked sweetly.

Brunetti was too stunned to speak. He started to answer her, recalled everything he had ever heard about that family, and pursed his lips. Easily, brightly, surprising not a few people in the bookstore, Brunetti began to whistle 'Rule, Britannia!'

18.

The bookseller suggested they buy a heavy cardboard tube for the poster, which turned out to be a good idea, so thick was the press of people on the streets. Three or four times, bodies b.u.mped into Brunetti with such force that an unprotected print would surely have been crushed. After the third time, Brunetti toyed with the idea of holding the cylinder at one end and using it as a club to beat their way through the crowds, but his awareness of how much at variance this would be with the Christmas spirit, to make no mention of his position as an officer of the law, prevented him from acting on that thought.

After three hours, two coffees, and one pastry, both Brunetti's mind and his wallet were empty. He subsequently remembered going into a CD store and marvelling as Paola reeled off a list of outlandish names, then watching, hypnotized by the colours and designs on the covers, as the clerk wrapped two separate stacks of discs. He chose a sweater for Raffi, exactly the colour of one of his that his son had taken to borrowing, and refused to listen to Paola's protest that cashmere was wasted on Raffi. His long-term plan included a casual switch of sweaters after a month or two. In a computer store, she bought two games with equally garish covers and, he was certain, equally garish contents.

After that, Paola agreed that she had had enough and turned towards home. As they were coming back towards San Bortolo and the bridge, Brunetti stopped in front of a jewellery store and studied the rings and necklaces in the window. Paola stood silent beside him.

Just as he started to speak, she said, 'Don't even think about it, Guido.'

'I'd like to give you something nice.'

'Those things are expensive. That doesn't make them nice.'

'Don't you like jewellery?'

'You know I do, but not like that, with enormous stones looking as if they've been tortured into place.' She pointed to a particularly infelicitous combination of minerals and said, 'It looks like something Hobbes would give to one of his wives.' When Paola had first used this name to refer to the current head of government, Brunetti's puzzled look had forced her to explain that she had chosen the name because of the English philosopher Hobbes's description of human life: 'Nasty, brutish, and short'. Brunetti had been so taken with its appropriateness that he now subst.i.tuted the name, not only when reading newspaper headlines, but also in ministerial doc.u.ments.

He realized that he was going to get no help from Paola in selecting her own gift, so he abandoned the attempt and went home with her to try to find a place to hide their haul from their prying children. The only thing he could think of was to put them all at the bottom of their wardrobe, but not before attaching to them carefully printed cards bearing Paola's name, her mother's, and her father's. He hoped thus to deflect the children's sorties. The thought of hiding things took his mind back to the box of salt and its strange contents.

It was too soon to call Claudio, but he did call Vianello at home, careful to use the telefonino telefonino registered to Roberto Rossi. Telling himself that he was a commissario of police, he refused to disguise his voice or speak in tongues, but he did confine himself to asking, when Vianello answered, 'Anything new?' registered to Roberto Rossi. Telling himself that he was a commissario of police, he refused to disguise his voice or speak in tongues, but he did confine himself to asking, when Vianello answered, 'Anything new?'

'Nothing,' came Vianello's laconic reply.

Brunetti broke the connection.

Dinner was peaceful, Raffi artlessly attempting to get his parents to say what they would like for Christmas, and Chiara asking if Muslims had Christmas, too. Paola explained that, because Muslims considered Jesus a great prophet, they probably respected the holiday, even if they didn't celebrate it officially.

When Brunetti asked why she wanted to know, Chiara answered, 'I have a new friend at school, Azir. She's Muslim.'

'Where's she from?' Brunetti asked.

'Iran. Her father's a doctor, but he isn't working.'

'Why is that?' Brunetti asked.

Helping herself to more pasta, Chiara said, 'Oh, something to do with papers. They haven't come or something, so he's working in the lab at the hospital, I think.'

'I was there once,' Brunetti surprised the children by saying. 'In Tehran. After the Revolution.'

'What for?' Chiara asked, instantly curious.

'Work,' Brunetti answered. 'Drugs.'

'And?' Raffi interrupted. 'What happened?'

'They were very helpful and polite and gave me the information I needed.' The faces which greeted this remark reminded him of a line Paola often quoted, something about sheep looking up but not being fed, so he explained, 'It was when I was working in Naples. There was someone who was bringing in drugs on trucks from Iran, and they agreed to help us arrest him.' He did not tell them that this had happened only after it was discovered that a great deal of the man's merchandise was finding its way on to the streets of Tehran, as well.

'What were they like?' Chiara asked, interested enough to stop eating.

'As I said, polite and helpful. The city was a mess, very overcrowded and polluted, but once you get behind the walls one of the officers invited me to his home you find lots of gardens and trees.'

'What are the people like?' Chiara asked.

'Very sophisticated and cultured, at least the ones I dealt with.'

'They've had three thousand years to become cultured,' Paola interrupted.

'What do you mean?' Chiara asked.

'That when we were still living in huts and wearing animal skins, they were building Persepolis and wearing silk.'

Ignorant of the patent exaggeration of this remark, Chiara asked only, 'What's Persepolis?'

'It's the royal city where the kings lived. Until a European burned it down. I've got a book and I'll show you after dinner, all right?' Paola asked. Then, to all of them, 'Dessert?'

Like Persepolis itself, interest in thousands of years of history fell to ruin, this time in the face of apple cake.

The next morning Brunetti's phone was ringing as he walked into his office. He answered with his name while struggling to remove his coat, the receiver pressed between ear and shoulder as he tried to pull his arms from the sleeves.

'It's me,' a man's voice said, and it took Brunetti a second to realize it was Claudio. 'I have to see you.' In the background, Brunetti heard the loud roar of what sounded like a boat's motor, so Claudio was out in the city, somewhere near the water.

Brunetti pulled his coat back on to his shoulders, took the phone with his free hand, and said, responding to the note of urgency in the old man's voice, 'I can come over right now if you want to meet at your office.' Brunetti was already plotting the course to Claudio's, deciding to have himself taken there in a launch.

'No, I think it would be better if we met at ... at that place where your father and I always went for a drink.'

Doubly alarmed now by Claudio's use of these guarded directions, Brunetti said, 'I can be there in five minutes.'

'Good, I'll be there,' Claudio said and ended the call.

Brunetti remembered the bar, on a corner facing the pillared gates of the a.r.s.enale: Claudio must be out on the Riva degli Schiavoni to be able to reach it in five minutes. Many times in his youth, he had sat there, listening to his father's friends talk about the war as they played endless, inconsequential games of scopa scopa, sipping at small gla.s.ses of a wine so tannic it left their teeth almost blue. His father had never said much, nor had he been interested in playing cards, but he was there as a veteran and as Claudio's friend, and that had sufficed for the others.

As soon as he hung up, the phone rang again, and, thinking it might be Claudio calling back, Brunetti picked it up and held it to his ear.

'Brunetti,' barked Vice-Questore Patta. 'I want to talk to you now.' His tone matched his words, and they no doubt matched his mood. Silently, Brunetti replaced the receiver and turned to leave the office. By the time he had reached the door, the phone was already ringing again.

Brunetti barely noticed the lions when he reached the entrance to the a.r.s.enale and walked directly into the bar, looking for the familiar face. When he saw no sign of Claudio, he checked his watch and found that it had been only six minutes since he left the Questura. He ordered a coffee and turned to face the door. After another five minutes, he saw the old man at a distance, walking with the aid of a stick, coming down the bridge that led to the a.r.s.enale.

At the bottom of the bridge, Claudio went over and stood in front of the stone lions, studying them slowly, pausing in front of each one until he could have committed its face and form to memory. After that, he strolled back to the bottom of the bridge and looked left through the gates of the a.r.s.enale and out towards the laguna laguna. Then he turned and ambled alongside the ca.n.a.l in the direction of the bacino bacino. To an idle spectator, the man with the cane could be a sightseer interested in the area around the a.r.s.enale; to a policeman, he was someone checking to see if he was being followed.

Claudio turned around and came towards the bar. When he entered, Brunetti left it to him to make the first move. He came and stood next to Brunetti at the bar but gave him no greeting. When the barman approached, Claudio asked for a tea with lemon, then reached aside and pulled that day's Gazzettino Gazzettino towards him. Brunetti asked for another coffee. Claudio kept his eyes on the paper until his tea arrived, when he laid the newspaper aside, looked out the window at the empty towards him. Brunetti asked for another coffee. Claudio kept his eyes on the paper until his tea arrived, when he laid the newspaper aside, looked out the window at the empty campo campo, then at Brunetti, and said, 'I was followed yesterday afternoon.'

Brunetti spooned sugar into his coffee, and inclined his head in Claudio's direction.

'There was only one man, and it was easy to lose him. Well, I think I lost him.'

'How far did he follow you?'

'To the train station. I waited for the 82, and when it came it was crowded the way it always is. So I waited inside the imbarcadero imbarcadero until the sailor was sliding the gates closed, and then I pushed ahead and started shouting that, with all the tourists, there's no room for Venetians.' He looked at Brunetti and gave a sly smile. 'So he pulled the gate back and let me on. Only me.' until the sailor was sliding the gates closed, and then I pushed ahead and started shouting that, with all the tourists, there's no room for Venetians.' He looked at Brunetti and gave a sly smile. 'So he pulled the gate back and let me on. Only me.'

'Complimenti,' Brunetti said, making a note to use the tactic, should it ever be necessary.

Claudio took some artificial sweetener and poured it into his tea, stirred it round, and said, 'I spoke to a few people yesterday and sent some stones to someone I know in Antwerp.' He took a sip of tea, set his cup down, and added, 'And I took a few to show to a colleague here. It was when I was leaving his shop that I noticed this man.'

'How much did you tell these people?' Brunetti asked, wondering which one of them might have been the weak link.

'Let me finish,' Claudio said and took a sip of his tea. 'I asked someone I know in Vicenza if he had been offered any African diamonds recently. He doesn't have a shop and works the way I do, but he's the most important dealer in the North.'

When it seemed that the older man was finished, Brunetti asked, uncertain if he could inquire as to the reliability of his friends, 'Is he someone that many people know about?'

'That he buys and sells? Yes, most of the people in the North know him. He'd be the logical choice for anyone who wanted to sell a lot of stones, well, for anyone who knew anything about the market.'

'And?'

'And nothing,' Claudio said. 'No one has approached him with diamonds like these.'