that can be done to prevent it. We are a nation of egoists. It is our glory, but it will be our destruction, for none of us can be made to concern ourselves about something as abstract as “the common good”. The best of us can rise to feeling concern for our families, but as a nation we are incapable of more.’
‘I refuse to believe that.’ Brunetti said.
‘Your refusal to believe it,’ the Count said with a smile that was almost tender, ‘makes it no less true, Guido.’
‘Your daughter doesn’t believe it,’ Brunetti added.
‘And for that grace I give daily thanks,’ the Count said in a soft voice. ‘That is perhaps the finest thing I’ve achieved in my life, that my daughter does not share my beliefs.’
Brunetti sought irony or sarcasm in the Count’s tone, but found only pained truth.
‘You said you’d do this, see that this dump is cleared up, taken away. Why can’t you do more?’
Again, the Count bestowed that same smile upon his son-in-law. ‘I believe this is the first time we’ve talked to one another in all these years, Guido.’ Then, changing his voice, he added, ‘Because there are too many dumps and too many men like Gamberetto.’
‘Can you do anything about him?’
‘Ah, there I can do nothing.’
‘Can or will do nothing?’
‘From some positions, Guido, can and will are the same.’
‘That’s sophistry,’ Brunetti shot back.
The Count laughed outright ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Then let me say it like this: I prefer to do nothing else about this matter save what I’ve told you I will do.’
‘And why is that?’Brunetti asked.
‘Because,’ the Count replied, ‘I can bring myself to care for nothing beyond, my family,’ The tone of his voice was terminal; Brunetti would get no explanation beyond that.
‘May I ask you one more question?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes.’
‘When I called and asked if I could talk to you, you asked if I wanted to talk about Viscardi. Why was that?’
The Count looked at him in involuntary surprise, then returned his attention to the boats on the canal. When a few had gone past, he answered, ‘Signor Viscardi and I have common business interests.’
‘What is mat supposed to mean?’
‘Precisely what I said, that we have interests in common.’
‘And may I ask what those interests are?’
The Count faced him before he answered, ‘Guido, my business interests are a subject I do not discuss, except with those who are involved in them directly.’
Before Brunetti could protest, the Count added, ‘Upon my death, interest in those matters will pass beyond my control. Many will pass to your wife,’ he paused here, then added, ‘and to you. But until that time, I will discuss them only with those people who are concerned with them.’
Brunetti wanted to ask the Count if his dealings with Signor Viscardi were legitimate dealings, but he didn’t know how to ask this without offending him. Worse, Brunetti feared he didn’t himself any longer know what the word ‘legitimate’ meant.
‘Can you tell me anything about Signor Viscardi?’
The Count’s answer was a long time in coming. ‘He has business interests in common with a number of other people. Many of them are very powerful people.’
Brunetti heard the warning in the Count’s voice, but he also saw the connection that lurked there, as well.
‘Have we just been talking about one of them?’
The Count said nothing.
‘Have we just been talking about one of them?’ he repeated.
The Count nodded.
‘Will you tell me about the interests they have in common?’
‘I can - I will - tell you no more man that you should have nothing to do with either one of them.’
‘And if I choose to do so?’
‘I would prefer that you didn’t.’
Brunetti couldn’t resist saying, ‘And I prefer that you tell me about their business interests.’
‘Then we seem to be at an impasse, don’t we?’ the Count asked in a voice that was artificially light and conversational. Before Brunetti could answer, they heard a noise behind them and both turned to see the Countess come into the room. She hurried quickly over to Brunetti, high heels tapping out a happy message on the parquet. Both men stood. ‘Guido, how nice to see you,’ she said, leaning up to kiss him on both cheeks.
‘Ah, my dearest,’ the Count said, bending over her hand. Married for forty years, Brunetti thought, and still he
