Death in a Strange Country

‘Maybe he won’t develop other symptoms.’

‘And maybe he will, Guido. What happens then? What do they tell him then, that he’s got something they can’t figure out? Do they lose his medical records again?’

Brunetti wanted to tell her that none of this was his fault, but that seemed too feeble a protest, so he said nothing.

After her outburst, Paola realized how futile it was and turned to more practical things. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’ He paused, then said, ‘I want to talk to your father.’

‘To Papa? Why?’ Her surprise was real.

Brunetti knew how inflammatory his answer would be, but he said it anyway, knowing it was true. ‘Because he’d know about this.’

She attacked before she thought. ‘What do you mean, know about it? How could he? What do you think my father is, some sort of international criminal?’

In the face of Brunetti’s silence, she stopped. Behind them, the washing-machine stopped spinning and clicked itself off. The room was silent save for the echo of her question. She turned and bent to empty it, filling her arms with damp clothing. Saying nothing, she passed in front of him and went onto the terrace, where she dumped the washing onto a chair, then pegged it to the clothesline piece by piece. When she came back inside, all she said was, ‘Well, It’s possible that he might know people who might know something about it. Do you want to call him or do you want me to?’

‘I think I’d better do it,’

‘Better do it now, Guido. My mother said they’re going to Capri for a week, leaving tomorrow.’

‘All right,’ Brunetti said and went into the living room, where the phone was.

He dialled the number from memory, having no idea why this number, that he might call twice a year, was one he never forgot. His mother-in-law answered and, if she was surprised to hear Brunetti’s voice, gave no sign of it. She said Count Qrazio was home, asked no questions, and said she would call her husband to the phone.

‘Yes, Guido,’ the Count said when he picked up the phone.

‘I wonder if you have some time free this afternoon,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’d like to speak to you about something that’’s come up-’

‘Viscardi?’ the Count asked, surprising Brunetti that he knew about that case.

‘No, not about that,’ Brunetti answered, thinking only then of how much easier it would have been to have asked his father-in-law, instead, of Fosco, about Viscardi, and perhaps how much more accurate. ‘It’s about something else I’m working on.’

The Count was far too polite to ask what but said, instead, ‘We’re invited to dinner, but if you could come over now, we would have an hour or so free. Is that convenient, Guido?’

‘Yes, it is. I’ll come over now. And thank you.’

‘Well?’ Paola asked when he went back into the kitchen, where another load of washing was busily swimming about in a sea of white suds.

‘I’m going over there now. Would you like to come along and see your mother?’

By way of answer, she pointed with her chin to the washing-machine.

‘All right. I’ll go now. They have to go to dinner, so I imagine I’ll be back before eight. Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?’

She smiled at him, nodding.

‘All right. You choose the place and call for a reservation. Any place you like.’

‘Al Covo?’

Manfully, he did not wince at what he knew that would cost. First, the shoes, and now dinner at Al Covo. The food was glorious; to hell with what it cost. He smiled. ‘Reserve for eight-thirty. And ask the kids if they want to come.’ After all, he was a man who had been given back his life that afternoon. Why not celebrate?

When he got to the Faliers’ palazzo, Brunetti was faced with the decision that always awaited him there, whether to use the immense iron ring that hung from the wooden door, dropping it against the metal plate beneath and sending the message of his arrival booming across the open courtyard, or to use the more prosaic doorbell. He chose the second, and a moment later a voice spoke through the intercom, asking who it was. After he gave his name, the door jolted open. He pushed it back, slammed it closed behind him, and walked across the courtyard towards the part of the palazzo that fronted onto the Grand Canal. From an upstairs window, a uniformed maid looked out, checking to see who had come in. Apparently satisfied that Brunetti was not a malefactor, she pulled her head inside the window and disappeared. The Count was waiting at the top of the outside staircase that led into the part of the palazzo where he and his wife lived.

Though Brunetti knew that the Count would soon be seventy, it was hard, seeing him, to think that he was Paola’s father. Older brother, perhaps, or the youngest of her uncles, but certainly not a man almost thirty years older than she. The thinning hair, cut short around the shining oval of his head, suggested his age, but that impression was dispelled by the taut skin of his face and the clear intelligence shining from his eyes. ‘How nice to see you, Guido. You’re looking well. We’ll go into the study, shall we?’ the Count said, turning and leading Brunetti back towards the front of the house. They passed through a few rooms until they finally arrived at the glass-fronted study that looked out over the Grand Canal as it curved up towards the Accademia Bridge. ‘Would you like a drink?’ the Count asked, going to the sideboard where a bottle of Dom Perignon stood, already open, in a silver bucket filled with ice.

Brunetti knew the Count well enough to know that there was absolutely no affectation in this. If the Count had preferred to drink Coca-Cola, he would have kept a litre-and-a-half plastic bottle in the same ice bucket and offered it in the same manner to his guests. The Count had been born having no one he needed to impress.