Fatal Remedies Part 3

'Why?'

'Because dinner will be late. It always is.'

He reached into the bag and took a few fave, fave, careful to leave her the chocolate ones. 'I'll try not to make it be an argument, then.' careful to leave her the chocolate ones. 'I'll try not to make it be an argument, then.'

'Good.' She turned and went down the corridor to her room, taking the bag with her. Brunetti followed a few moments later, stopping in front of the door to Paola's study. He knocked.

'Avanti,' she called. she called.

When he went in he found her, as he usually did when he got home from work, sitting at her desk, a pile of papers in front of her, gla.s.ses low on her nose as she read through them. She looked up at him, smiled a real smile, removed her gla.s.ses and asked, 'What happened in Treviso?'

'Just what I thought wouldn't. Or couldn't,' Brunetti said and moved across the room to his usual place on a stout, middle-aged sofa that stood against the wall to her right.

'He'll testify?' Paola asked.

'He's eager to testify. He identified the photo instantly and he's coming down here tomorrow to have a look at him, but I'd say he's certain.' In response to her evident surprise Brunetti added, 'And he's from Salerno.'

'And he's really willing?' She made no attempt to disguise her wonderment. When Brunetti nodded, she said, 'Tell me about him.'

'He's a little man, about forty, supporting a wife and two children by working in a pizzeria pizzeria in Treviso. He's been up here for twenty years, but still goes down there every year for vacation. When they can.' in Treviso. He's been up here for twenty years, but still goes down there every year for vacation. When they can.'

'Does his wife work?' Paola asked.

'She's a cleaning lady in an elementary school.'

'What was he doing in a bank in Venice?'

'He was paying the mortgage on his apartment in Treviso. The bank that gave the original mortgage was taken over by a bank here, so he comes down once a year to pay the mortgage himself. If he tries to do it through his bank in Treviso they charge him two hundred thousand lire, which is why he travelled to Venice on his day off to pay it.'

'And found himself in the middle of a robbery?'

Brunetti nodded.

Paola shook her head. 'It's remarkable that he'd be willing to testify. You said the man who was arrested is mixed up with the Mafia?'

'His brother is.' Brunetti kept to himself his belief that this meant they both were.

'And does the man in Treviso know this?'

'Yes. I told him.'

'And he's still willing?' When Brunetti nodded again, Paola said, 'Then perhaps there is hope for all of us.'

Brunetti shrugged, conscious that there was some dishonesty, perhaps a great deal of dishonesty, in his not telling Paola what Iacovantuono had said about having to behave bravely for our children's sake. He shifted himself lower on the sofa, stuck his feet out in front of him and crossed his ankles.

'Are you finished with it?' he asked, knowing she would understand.

'I don't think so, Guido,' she said, both hesitation and regret audible as she spoke.

'Why?'

'Because the newspapers, when they write about what happened, will call it a random act of vandalism, like someone who knocks over a garbage can or slashes the seat on a train.'

Brunetti, though tempted, said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

'It wasn't random, Guido, and it wasn't vandalism.' She put her face down into her open palms and slid her hands up until they were covering the top of her head. From below, her voice came to him. 'The public have got to understand why it was done, that these people are doing something that is both disgusting and immoral, and that they've got to be made not to do it.'

'Have you thought about the consequences?' Brunetti asked in a level voice.

She looked up at him. 'I couldn't be married to a policeman for twenty years and not have thought of the consequences.'

'To yourself?'

'Of course.'

'And to me?'

'Yes.'

'And you don't regret them?'

'Of course I regret them. I don't want to lose my job or have your career suffer.'

'But...?'

'I know you think I'm a terrible show-off, Guido,' she began and continued before he had the chance to say anything. 'And it's true, but only at times. This isn't like that, not at all. I'm not doing this to be in the newspapers. In fact, I can tell you honestly that I'm afraid of the trouble this is going to cause us all. But I have to do it.' Again, when she saw him about to interrupt, she amended that. 'I mean, someone has to do it, or, to use the pa.s.sive voice you hate so much,' she said with a gentle smile, 'it has to be done.' Still smiling, she added, 'I'll listen to anything you have to say, but I don't think I can do anything different from what I've chosen to do.'

Brunetti changed the position of his feet, putting the left on top, and leaned a little to the right. 'The Germans have changed the law. They can now prosecute Germans for things they do in other countries.'

'I know. I read the article,' she said sharply.

'And?'

'And one man was sentenced to a few years in jail. As the Americans say, "Big f.u.c.king deal." Hundreds of thousands of men go there every year. Putting one of them in jail, in a well-lit German jail where he gets television and visits from his wife every week, is not going to stop men from going to Thailand as s.e.x-tourists.'

'And what you want to do, that will?'

'If the planes don't go, if no one's willing to take the risk of organizing the tours, with hotel rooms and meals and guides to take them to the brothels, well, then fewer of them will go. I know it's not much, but it's something.'

'They'll go on their own.'

'Fewer of them.'

'But still some? But still a lot of them?'

'Probably.'

'Then why do it?'

She shook her head in annoyance. 'Maybe all of this is because you're a man,' she said.

For the first time since coming into her study Brunetti felt anger. 'What's that suppose to mean?'

'It means that men and women look at this differently. Always will.'

'Why?' His voice was level, though both of them knew that anger had slipped into the room and between them.

'Because, no matter how much you try to imagine what this means, it's always got to be an exercise in imagination. It can't happen to you, Guido. You're big and strong and, from the time you were a little boy, you've been accustomed to violence of some sort: soccer, rough-housing with other boys; in your case police training as well.'

She saw his attention drifting away. He'd heard this before and never believed it. She thought he didn't want to believe it, but she had not told him that. 'But it's different for us, for women,' she went on. 'We spend our lives being made afraid of violence, made to think always of avoiding it. But still every one of us knows that what happens to those kids in Cambodia or Thailand or the Philippines could just as easily have happened to us, could still happen to us. It's as simple as that, Guido: you're big and we're little.'

He gave no response, and so she went on, 'Guido, we've been talking about this for years and we've never really agreed. We don't now.' She paused for a moment, then asked, 'Will you listen to two more things, then I'll listen to you?'

Brunetti wanted to make his voice sound amiable, open and accepting; he wanted to say 'Of course', but the best he could manage was a tight 'Yes'.

'Think of that vile article, the one in the magazine. It's one of the major sources of information in this country and in it a sociologist - I don't know where he teaches, but it's certain to be at some important university, so he's considered an expert and people will believe what he writes - can say that paedophiles love children. And he can say that because it's convenient for men to have everyone believe it. And men run the country.'

She stopped for a moment, then added, 'I'm not sure if this has anything to do with what we're talking about, but I think another cause of the gulf that separates us on this - not just you and me, Guido, but all men from all women - is the fear that the idea that s.e.x might sometimes be an unpleasant experience is real to all women and unthinkable to most men.' As she saw him beginning to protest, she said, 'Guido, the woman doesn't exist who thinks for an instant that paedophiles love children. They l.u.s.t after them or want to dominate them, but those things have nothing to do with love.'

He kept his head lowered; she saw that as she looked across the room at him. 'That's the second thing I want to say, dear Guido whom I love with all my soul. That's how we look at it, most women, that love isn't l.u.s.t and domination.' She stopped here and glanced down at her right hand, idly picking at a rough piece of cuticle on the nail of her thumb. 'That's all, I think. End of sermon.'

The silence between them stretched out until Brunetti broke it, but tentatively.

'Do you believe all men or just some men think like this?' he asked.

'Just some, I think. The good ones - like you're a good man - they don't.' But before he could say anything, she added, 'They don't think like us, either, like women. I don't think that the idea of love as l.u.s.t and violence and the exercise of power - I don't think that idea is as entirely alien to them as it is to us.'

'To all women? Alien to all of you?'

'I wish. No, not to all of us.'

He looked up at her. 'Have we resolved anything, then?'

'I don't know. But I want you to know how serious I am about this.'

'And if I were to ask you to stop, not to do anything more?'

Her lips pressed together as she pulled her mouth closed, a gesture he'd watched for decades. She shook her head without saying anything.

'Does that mean you won't stop or you don't want me to ask you?'

'Both.'

'I will ask you and I do ask you.' But before she could give an answer, he raised a hand towards her and said, 'No, Paola, don't say anything because I know what you'll say and I don't want to hear it. But remember, please, that I've asked you not to do this. Not for me or my career, whatever that means. But because I believe that what you're doing and what you think should be done is wrong.'

'I know,' Paola said and pushed herself to her feet.

Before she moved away from the desk he added, 'And I too love you with all my soul. And always will.'

'Ah, that's good to hear, and know.' He heard the relief in her voice and from long experience he knew that some dismissive, joking remark would have to follow it. As had been the case for all the important years of his life, she did not disappoint. 'Then it's safe to put knives on the table for dinner.'

6.

The next morning Brunetti did not take his usual route to the Questura but turned right after he crossed the Rialto Bridge. Rosa Salva, it was generally agreed, was one of the best bars in the city; Brunetti especially liked their small ricotta cakes. So he stopped there for coffee and a pastry, exchanged pleasantries with a few people he knew, nods with some he only recognized.

He left the bar, heading down Calle della Mandola towards Campo San Stefano, a route that would lead him eventually to Piazza San Marco. The first campo campo he crossed on his way was Campo Martin, where four workmen were lifting a large sheet of gla.s.s from a boat on to a wooden roller to transport it to the travel agency where it was to be installed. he crossed on his way was Campo Martin, where four workmen were lifting a large sheet of gla.s.s from a boat on to a wooden roller to transport it to the travel agency where it was to be installed.

Brunetti joined the other spectators who gathered to watch the men roll the plate of gla.s.s across the campo. campo. The workmen had wadded towels between the gla.s.s and the wooden frame that held it upright. Two on either side, they rolled it towards the gaping hole that awaited it. The workmen had wadded towels between the gla.s.s and the wooden frame that held it upright. Two on either side, they rolled it towards the gaping hole that awaited it.

As the men crossed the campo, campo, opinions rolled behind them from person to person. 'Gypsies did it.' 'No, someone who used to work there came back with a gun.' 'I heard it was the owner who did it to collect the insurance.' 'What stupidity; it was. .h.i.t by lightning.' Typically, each of them was absolutely convinced of the truth of his version and had nothing but scorn for the alternatives. opinions rolled behind them from person to person. 'Gypsies did it.' 'No, someone who used to work there came back with a gun.' 'I heard it was the owner who did it to collect the insurance.' 'What stupidity; it was. .h.i.t by lightning.' Typically, each of them was absolutely convinced of the truth of his version and had nothing but scorn for the alternatives.

When the wooden trolley reached the window, Brunetti pulled himself away from the small crowd and continued on his way.

Inside the Questura, he stopped at the large room where the uniformed officers worked and asked to see the crime reports of the previous night. Little had happened and none of it interested him in any way. Upstairs, he spent most of the morning in the seemingly endless process of moving papers from one part of his desk to another. His banker had told him, years ago, that all copies of any bank transactions, no matter how innocuous, had to be placed in an archive for ten years before they could be destroyed.

His eyes wandered away from the page, following his attention, and he found himself imagining an Italy entirely covered, to the height of a man's ankles, with papers, reports, photocopies, carbon copies, tiny receipts from the bars, shops and pharmacies. And in this sea of paper, it still took a letter two weeks to get to Rome.

He was distracted from this train of thought by the arrival of Sergeant Vianello, who came to tell him that he'd managed to arrange a meeting with one of the petty criminals who sometimes gave them information. The man had told Vianello he had something interesting to exchange; but because the thief was afraid of being seen with anyone from the police, Brunetti had to meet him in a bar in Mestre, which meant he had to take the train to Mestre after lunch and a bus to the bar. It was not the kind of place a person went to in a taxi.

It all came to nothing, as Brunetti had secretly known it would. Encouraged by newspaper reports of the millions the government was giving to those who had turned on the Mafia and were testifying against it, the young man wanted Brunetti to advance him five million lire. The idea was absurd, the afternoon a dead loss, but at least it kept him in motion until well after four, when he got back to his office to find an agitated Vianello waiting for him.

'What is it?' Brunetti asked when he saw the expression on Vianello's face.

'That man in Treviso.'

'Iacovantuono?'

'Yes.'

'What about him? Has he decided not to come?'

'His wife's been killed.'

'How?'

'She fell down the stairs in their apartment building and broke her neck.'

'How old was she?' Brunetti asked.

'Thirty-five.'