Death in a Strange Country

‘How was Vicenza?’ she asked.

‘Better to ask me how was America.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’

‘Were you ever there?’

‘Years ago. With the Alvises.’ Seeing his puzzled look, she explained. ‘The Colonel, when he was stationed in Padova. There was some sort of party at the officers’ club, for Italian and American officers. About ten years ago.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘No, you didn’t go. It was when you were in Naples. I think. Is it still the same?’

‘Depends on what it was like then,’ he said, smiling.

‘Don’t be smart with me, Guido. What was it like?’

‘It was very clean, and everyone smiled a great deal.’

‘Good,’ she said, stirring again. ‘Then it hasn’t changed.’

‘I wonder why it is, that they always smile so much.’ He had noticed the same thing, each time he was in America.

She turned away from the risotto and stared at him. ‘Why shouldn’t they smile, Guido? Think about it. They’re the richest people in the world. Everyone has to defer to them in politics, and they have convinced themselves, somehow, that everything they have ever done in their very brief history has been done for no purpose other than to further the general good of mankind. Why shouldn’t they smile?’ She turned back to the pan and muttered darkly as she felt the rice sticking to the bottom. She poured more broth into it and stirred quickly for a moment.

‘Is this going to turn into a cell meeting?’ he asked blandly. Though they generally agreed about politics, Brunetti had always voted Socialist, while Paola voted, fiercely, Communist. But now, with the demise of the system and the death of the party, he had begun to take tentative shots at her.

She didn’t bother to grace him with an answer.

He started to pull down plates in order to set the table. ‘Where are the kids?’

‘Both with friends.’ Then, before he could ask, she added, ‘Yes, they both called and asked permission.’ She turned off the flame under the risotto, added a substantial chunk of butter that stood on the worktop, and poured in a small dish of finely grated Parmigiano Reggiano. She stirred it around until both were dissolved into the rice, poured the risotto into a serving bowl, and set it on the table. She pulled out her chair, sat down, and turned the spoon towards him, saying, ‘Mangia, ti fa bene,’ a command that had filled Brunetti with joy for as long as he could remember.

He filled his dish, abundantly. He’d worked hard, spent the day in a foreign country, so who cared how much risotto he ate? Starting from the centre, he worked his fork in a neat concentric circle and pushed the risotto to the edge of his dish to help it cool faster. He took two forkfuls, sighed in appreciation, and continued to eat.

When Paola saw that he had passed beyond the point of hunger and was eating for the pleasure of the act, she said, ‘You haven’t told me how your trip to America was.’

He spoke through the risotto. ‘Confusing. The Americans are very polite and say they want to help, but no one seems to know anything that might help me.’

‘And the doctor?’

‘The pretty one?’ he asked, grinning.

‘Yes, Guido, the pretty one.’

Seeing he had run that one into the ground, he answered simply, ‘I still think she’s the person who knows what I want to know. But she’s not saying anything. She gets out of the Army in six months, so she’ll go back to America and all of this will be behind her.’

‘And he was her lover?’ Paola asked with a snort to show that she refused to believe the doctor wouldn’t help if she could.

‘It would seem so.’

‘Then I’m not so sure she’ll just pack up and forget about him.’

‘Maybe it’s something she doesn’t want to know.’

‘Like what?’

‘Nothing. Well, nothing I can explain.’ He had decided not to tell her about the two plastic bags he had found in Foster’s apartment; that was something no one was to know. Except for the person who had opened the water heater, seen that the bags were gone, and then tightened those screws. He pulled the bowl of risotto towards him. ‘Should I finish this?’ he asked, not having to be a detective to know the answer.

‘Go ahead. I don’t like it left over, and neither do you.’

While he finished the risotto, she took the bowl from the table and placed it in the sink. He shifted two wicker mats about on the table to make a place for the roasting pan Paola took from the oven.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. See what Patta does,’ he said, cutting a piece of meat from the shank and placing it on her plate. With a motion of her hand, she signalled that she didn’t want any more. He cut himself two large pieces, reached for some bread, and started to eat again.

‘What difference does it make what Patta does?’ she asked.

‘Ah, my sweet innocent,’ he replied, ‘If he tries to shift me away from this, then I’ll be sure that someone wants it covered up. And since our Vice-Questore responds only to voices that come from high places - the higher