24.

Brunetti could have written the script. Patta was bound to speak that morning, putting in the sombre remarks about the double tragedy to strike this n.o.ble family, the terrible disregard for the most sacred bonds of humanity, the weakening of the fabric of Christian society, and so on endlessly, ringing the changes on home, hearth, and family. He could have captured the flatulent pomposity of Patta's every word, the carefully timed naturalness of his every gesture, even noted within small parentheses the places where he would pause and cover his eyes with his hand while speaking of this crime that dared not speak its name.

Just as easily could he have written the headlines that were sure to scream from every newsstand in the city: Delitto in Famiglia; Caino e Abele; Figlio Addotivo-a.s.sa.s.sino. Delitto in Famiglia; Caino e Abele; Figlio Addotivo-a.s.sa.s.sino. To avoid both, he called the Questura and said he would not be in until after lunch and refused to look at the papers that Paola - had brought back to the house while he was still sleeping. Sensing that Brunetti had said all that he wanted to about the Lorenzonis, Paola abandoned the subject and left him alone while she went to Rialto to buy fish. Brunetti, finding himself with nothing to do for the first time in what seemed like weeks, decided to impose upon his books the order he was obviously incapable of imposing upon events and so went into the living room and stood in front of the ceiling-high bookcase. Years ago, there had been some distinction made according to language, but when that fell apart, he had attempted to impose the order of chronology. But the curiosity of the children had soon put an end to that, and so Petronius now stood next to St John Chrysostom, and Abelard sidled up to Emily d.i.c.kinson. He studied the ranked bindings, pulled down first one and then two more, and then another pair. But then just as suddenly, he lost all interest in the job, took all five books and jammed them indiscriminately in a s.p.a.ce on the bottom shelf. To avoid both, he called the Questura and said he would not be in until after lunch and refused to look at the papers that Paola - had brought back to the house while he was still sleeping. Sensing that Brunetti had said all that he wanted to about the Lorenzonis, Paola abandoned the subject and left him alone while she went to Rialto to buy fish. Brunetti, finding himself with nothing to do for the first time in what seemed like weeks, decided to impose upon his books the order he was obviously incapable of imposing upon events and so went into the living room and stood in front of the ceiling-high bookcase. Years ago, there had been some distinction made according to language, but when that fell apart, he had attempted to impose the order of chronology. But the curiosity of the children had soon put an end to that, and so Petronius now stood next to St John Chrysostom, and Abelard sidled up to Emily d.i.c.kinson. He studied the ranked bindings, pulled down first one and then two more, and then another pair. But then just as suddenly, he lost all interest in the job, took all five books and jammed them indiscriminately in a s.p.a.ce on the bottom shelf.

He pulled down his copy of Cicero's On the Good Life On the Good Life and turned to the section on duties, where Cicero writes of the divisions of moral goodness. 'The first is the ability to distinguish truth from falsity, and to understand the relationship between one phenomenon and another and the causes and consequences of each one. The second category is the ability to restrain the pa.s.sions. And the third is to behave considerately and understanding in our a.s.sociations with other people.' and turned to the section on duties, where Cicero writes of the divisions of moral goodness. 'The first is the ability to distinguish truth from falsity, and to understand the relationship between one phenomenon and another and the causes and consequences of each one. The second category is the ability to restrain the pa.s.sions. And the third is to behave considerately and understanding in our a.s.sociations with other people.'

He closed the book and slid it back into the place the vagaries and whims of the Brunetti family had a.s.signed it John Donne to the right, Karl Marx to the left. To understand the relationship between one phenomenon and another and the causes and consequences of each one' he said aloud, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. He went into the kitchen, wrote a note for Paola, and left the apartment, heading towards the Questura.

By the time he got there, well after eleven, the press had come, feasted, and gone, and so he was at least spared the necessity of listening to Patta's remarks. He took the back steps to his office, closed the door behind him, and sat at his desk. He opened the Lorenzoni folder and read through it all, page by page. Starting with the kidnapping two years ago, he listed a complete chronology of those things he knew. It took him four sheets of paper to list everything, ending with Maurizio's death.

He spread the four sheets in front of him, tarot cards filled with death. To distinguish the truth from falsity. To understand the relationship between one phenomenon and another and the causes and consequences of each one.' If Maurizio had been the organizer of the kidnapping, then all phenomena were explained, all relationships and consequences clear. Desire for wealth and power, perhaps even jealousy, would have led to the kidnapping. And that would lead to the attempted attack on his uncle. And thus to his own violent death, the blood on the jacket, the brain matter on the Fortuny curtains.

But if Maurizio were not the guilty person, there was no connection between the phenomena. Uncles might well kill their nephews, but fathers do not kill theirs sons, not in that peculiarly coldblooded manner.

Brunetti raised his eyes and stared from the window of his office. On one side of the scale was his vague feeling that Maurizio did not have the makings of a killer, nor of the sender of killers. On the other, then, was a scenario in which Count Ludovico gunned down his nephew and, if that were true, then it would also contain the Count as his own son's murderer.

Brunetti had been wrong before in his a.s.sessment of people and their motives. Hadn't he just been misled by and about his father-in-law? So easily had he been willing to admit to his own wife's unhappiness, so quickly had he believed that it was his own marriage that was at risk, while the real solution had been but a question away, the truth to be found in Paola's simple protestation of love.

No matter how he shifted facts and possibilities from one side to the other on these terrible scales, the weight of the evidence always came down heavily on the side of Maurizio's guilt. Yet still Brunetti doubted.

He thought of the way Paola had kidded him for years about his intense reluctance ever to discard a piece of clothing - jacket, sweater, even a pair of socks - that he found especially comfortable. It had nothing to do with money or with the expense of replacing the old garment, but with his certainty that nothing new could ever be as comfortable, as comforting, as the old. And his present situation, he realized, was caused by the same sort of reluctance to dismiss the comfortable in favour of the new.

He picked up his notes and went down to Patta's office for one last try, but that turned out to be exactly as he would have written it in the script, with Patta rejecting out of hand the 'offensive delusional suggestion' that the Count could in any way be involved in what had happened. Patta did not go as far as ordering Brunetti to apologize to the Count; after all, Brunetti had done no more than, speculate, but even the speculation offended something profound and atavistic in Patta, and it was with difficulty that he restrained his rage at Brunetti, though he did not restrain himself from ordering Brunetti out of his office.

Back upstairs, Brunetti slipped the four sheets of paper inside the folder and placed it in the drawer which he usually pulled out to prop his feet on. He kicked the drawer shut and turned his attention to a new folder which had been placed on his desk while he was in Patta's office: the motors had been stolen from four boats while their owners had dinner at the trattoria trattoria on the small island of Vignole. on the small island of Vignole.

The phone saved him from the contemplation of the full triviality of this report. 'Ciao, 'Ciao, Guido,' came his brother's voice. 'We just got back.' Guido,' came his brother's voice. 'We just got back.'

'But,' Brunetti asked, 'weren't you supposed to stay longer?'

Sergio laughed at the question. 'Yes, but the people from New Zealand left after they gave their paper, so I decided to come back.'

'How was it?'

If you promise you won't laugh, I'd say it was a triumph.'

Timing really is all. Had this call come some other afternoon, even had it pulled him from sound sleep some morning at three, Brunetti would have been happy to listen to his brother's account of the meeting in Rome, eager to follow his explanation of the substance of and reception given his paper. Instead, as Sergio talked about Roentgens and residual traces of this and that, Brunetti stared down at the serial numbers of four outboard motors. Sergio talked of deteriorated livers, and Brunetti considered the range of horsepower from five to fifteen. Sergio repeated a question someone had asked about the spleen, and Brunetti learned that only one of the motors was insured against theft and that for only half its value.

'Guido, are you listening?' Sergio asked.

'Yes, yes, I am,' Brunetti insisted with unnecessary emphasis. 'I think it's very interesting.'

Sergio laughed at this but resisted the impulse to ask Brunetti to repeat the last two things he'd heard. Instead, he asked, 'How's Paola, and the kids?'

'All fine.'

'Raffi still going out with that girl?'

'Yes. We all like her.'

'Pretty soon it'll be Chiara's turn.'

'For what?' Brunetti asked, not understanding.

'To find a boyfriend.'

Yes. Brunetti didn't know what to say.

Into the expanding silence, Sergio asked, 'Would you like to come over, all of you, this Friday night?'

Brunetti started to accept, but then he said, 'Let me ask Paola and see if the kids have anything planned.'

Voice suddenly serious, Sergio said, 'Who ever thought we'd see this, eh, Guido?' 'See what?'

'Checking with our wives, asking if our children have made other plans. It's middle age, Guido'

'Yes, I suppose it is.' Other than Paola, Sergio was the only other person he could ask. Do you mind?'

'I'm not sure it makes any difference if I do or not; nothing we do can stop it. But why this serious tone today?'

By way of explanation, Brunetti asked. Have you been reading the papers?'

'Yes, on the train back. This thing with Lorenzoni?'

'Yes.'

'Yours?'

'Yes,' Brunetti answered and offered nothing further.

'Terrible. The poor people. First the son and then the nephew. If s hard to know which was worse.' But it was evident that Sergio, newly back from Rome and still aglow with the happiness of professional success, didn't want to speak of such things, and so Brunetti interrupted him.

'I'll ask Paola. She'll call Maria Grazia.'

25.

Ambiguity might well be said to be the defining characteristic of Italian justice or - that concept being elusive - of the system of justice which the Italian state has created for the protection of its citizens. To many it seems that, during the time when the police are not labouring to bring criminals before their appointed judges, they are arresting or investigating those same judges. Convictions are hard won and often overturned on appeal; killers make deals and walk free; imprisoned parricides receive fan mail; officialdom and Mafia dance hand in hand towards the ruin of the state - indeed, to the ruin of the very concept of the state. Rossini's Doctor Bartolo might have had the Italian appeals court in mind when he sang, 'Qualche garbuglio si trovera.' 'Qualche garbuglio si trovera.'

During the next three days, Brunetti, cast down into darkness of spirit by a deadening sense of the futility of his labours, considered the nature of justice and, with Cicero a voice that refused to cease, the nature of moral goodness. All, it seemed to him, to no purpose, like the troll lurking under the bridge in a children's tale he'd read decades ago, the list he'd made lurked in his desk drawer, silent, not forgotten.

He attended Maurizio's funeral, feeling more disgust at the hordes of ghouls with cameras than at the thought of what lay in that heavy box, its edges sealed with lead against the damp of the Lorenzoni family vault. The Countess did not attend, though the Count, red-eyed and leaning on the arm of a younger man, walked from the church behind the body of the man he'd killed. His presence and the n.o.bility of his bearing hurled Italy into a paroxysm of sentimental admiration not seen since the parents of a murdered American boy donated his organs so that young Italians, children of the country of his murderer, could live. Brunetti stopped reading the papers, but not before they reported that the examining magistrate had decided to treat Maurizio's death as a case of justified self-defence.

He devoted himself, like a man with toothache who prods at the affected tooth with his tongue, to the motors. In a world with no sense, motors were as vital as life, and so why not find them? Alas, it proved too easy to do so - they were quickly discovered in the home of a fisherman on Burano, his neighbours so suspicious at having seen him bring them in, one after the other, from his boat that they called the police to report him.

Late in the day after this triumph, Signorina Elettra appeared at the door of this office. 'Buon giorno, 'Buon giorno, Dottore' she said as she came in, her face hidden and her voice m.u.f.fled by. the immense bouquet of gladioli she carried in her arms. Dottore' she said as she came in, her face hidden and her voice m.u.f.fled by. the immense bouquet of gladioli she carried in her arms.

'But what's this, Signorina?' he asked, getting up from his chair to steer her clear of the one that stood between her and his desk.

'Extra flowers,' she answered. 'Do you have a vase?' She set the bouquet down on the surface of his desk, then placed beside them a sheaf of papers that had suffered from both her grip and the water on the stems of the flowers.

'There might be one in the cupboard' he answered, still confused as to why she would bring them up to him. And extra? Her flowers were usually delivered on Monday and Thursday; this was Wednesday.

She opened the door to the cupboard, rustled through the objects on the floor, came up with nothing. She waved a hand in his direction and went back towards the door, saying nothing.

Brunetti looked at the flowers, then at the papers that lay beside them, a fax from Doctor Montini in Padova. Roberto's lab results, then. He tossed them back on the desk. The flowers spoke of life and possibility and joy; he wanted nothing more to do with the dead boy and his dead feelings about him and his family.

Signorina Elettra was quickly back, carrying a Barouvier vase Brunetti had often admired when he saw it on her desk. 'I think this will be perfect for them' she said, setting the water-filled vase down beside the flowers. She started to pick them up, one by one, and slip them into the vase.

'How are they extra, Signorina?' Brunetti asked and then smiled, the only response, really, to the conjunction of Signorina Elettra and fresh flowers.

'I did the Vice-Questore's monthly, expenses today, Dottore, and I saw that there was about five hundred thousand lire left.'

'From what?'

'From what he's authorized to spend on clerical supplies every month,' she answered, placing a red flower between two white ones. 'So since there's one day left in the month, I thought I'd order some flowers.'

'For me?'

'Yes, and for Sergeant Vianello, and some for Pucetti, and then some roses for the men down in the guard room.'

'And for the women in the Ufficio Stranieri?' he asked, wondering if Signorina Elettra was the sort to give flowers only to men.

'No,' she said. They've been getting them twice a week, with the regular order, for the last two months.' She finished the flowers and turned to him.

'Where would you like them?' she asked, setting them on the corner of his desk. 'Here?'

'No, perhaps on the window sill.'

Dutifully she carried them over and placed them in front of the central window. "Here?' she asked, turning so that she could see Brunetti's expression.

'Yes' he said, his face relaxing into a smile. They're perfect. Thank you, Signorina.' he said, his face relaxing into a smile. They're perfect. Thank you, Signorina.'

'I'm glad you like them, Dottore.' Her smile answered his own.

He went back to his desk, thought of putting the papers into the file unread, but then smoothed them out with the side of his hand and began to read. And might as well have saved his time, for it was nothing more than a list of names and numbers. The names meant nothing to him, though he thought they must be the various tests the doctor had prescribed for the tired young man. The numbers, as well, might have referred to cricket scores or prices on the Tokyo exchange: it was meaningless to him. Anger at this latest impediment erupted, and as quickly disappeared. For a moment, Brunetti thought of tossing the papers away, but then he pulled the phone towards him and dialled Sergio's home number.

When he had said the right things to his sister-in-law and promised they'd be there for dinner Friday night, he asked to speak to his brother, who was already home from the laboratory. Tired of the exchange of pleasantries, Brunetti said without introduction, 'Sergio, do you know enough about lab tests to tell me what the results mean?'

His brother registered the urgency in Brunetti's voice and asked no questions. 'For most of them, yes.'

'Glucose, reading of seventy-four.' 'That's for diabetes. Nothing's wrong with it.' 'Triglycerides. Reading of, I think, two-fifty.' 'Cholesterol. A bit high but nothing worth bothering about.' 'White cells, reading of one thousand.' 'What?'

Brunetti repeated the number. 'Are you sure?' Sergio asked.

Brunetti looked closer at the typed numbers. 'Yes, one thousand'

'Hmm. That' s hard to believe. Are you feeling all right? Do you get dizzy?' Sergio's concern, and something else, was audible.

'What?'

'When did you have these tests done?' Sergio asked.

'No, no. They're not mine. They're someone else's.'

'Ah. Good' Sergio paused to consider this, then asked, 'What else?'

'What does that one mean?' Brunetti insisted, troubled by Sergio's questions.

'I won't be sure, not until I hear the others.' won't be sure, not until I hear the others.'

Brunetti read him the remaining list of tests and the numbers to the right of them. He finished. 'That's it'

'Anything else?'

'At the bottom, there's a note that says spleen function seems to be reduced. And something about.. ' Brunetti paused and peered closely at the doctor's scrawl. 'Something that looks like "hyaline" something. "Membranes", it looks like.'

After a long pause, Sergio asked, 'How old was this person?'

'Twenty-one,' and then, when he registered what Sergio had said, 'Why do you say "was"?'

'Because no one survives with levels like that'

'Levels of what?' Brunetti asked.

But instead of answering, Sergio demanded, 'Did he smoke?'

Brunetti recalled what Francesca Salviati had said, that Roberto was worse than an American in the way he complained about smoking. 'No' 'Drink?'

'Everyone drinks, Sergio.'

A sudden note of anger flashed out in Sergio's voice. 'Don't be stupid, Guido. You know what I mean. Did he drink a lot?'