‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said and continued walking up the street. At the next kerb, he looked back and saw the blonde climbing into the passenger seat of a dark blue Volvo.
Another few minutes brought him to the open Piazzale. He crossed it, having no trouble making his way between the crawling cars, and saw a cluster of forms leaning up against a low wall on the other side.
As he drew near, he heard more voices, tenor voices, call out the same offers and promise the same pleasures. So much bliss to be had here.
He approached the group and saw much that he had seen while walking from the station: mouths made larger by red lipstick and all turned up in smiles meant to be inviting; clouds of bleached hair; legs, thighs, and bosoms which looked every bit as real as those he had seen before.
Two of them came and fluttered around him, moths to the flame of his power to pay.
‘Anything you want, sweetie. No rubbers. Just the real thing.’
‘My car’s around the corner,
From the pack leaning against the low wall that ran along one side of the Piazzale, a voice called out to the second one, ‘Ask him if he’d like you both, Paolina.’ Then, to Brunetti directly, ‘They’re fabulous if you take them together,
Brunetti spoke to the one called Paolina. ‘I’d like you to look at a picture of a man and tell me if you recognize him.’
Paolina turned back to the group and shouted, ‘It’s a cop, little girls. And he wants me to look at some pictures.’
A chorus of shouts came back: ‘Tell him the real thing’s better than dirty pictures, Paolina.’ ‘Cops don’t even know the difference.’ ‘A cop? Make him pay double.’
Brunetti waited until they had run out of things to say and asked, ‘Will you look at the picture?’
‘What’s in it for me if I do?’ Paolina asked, and his companion laughed to see his friend being so tough with a policeman.
‘It’s a picture of the man we found out in the field on Monday.’ Before Paolina could pretend ignorance, Brunetti added, ‘I’m sure you all know about him and what happened to him. We’d like to identify him so we can find the person who killed him. I think you men can understand why that’s important.’
He noticed that Paolina and his friend were dressed almost identically, each in tight tube tops and short skirts that showed sleek, muscular legs. Both wore high-heeled shoes with needle toes; neither could ever hope to outrun an assailant.
Paolina’s friend, whose daffodil-yellow wig cascaded to his shoulders, said, ‘All right, let’s see it,’ and held out his hand. Though the man’s feet were disguised in those shoes, nothing could disguise the breadth and thickness of his hand.
Brunetti pulled the drawing from his pocket and handed it to him. ‘Thank you, Signore,’ Brunetti said. The man gave him an uncomprehending look, as though Brunetti had begun to speak in tongues. The two men bent over the drawing, talking together in what Brunetti thought might be Sardinian dialect.
The blonde held the drawing out towards Brunetti. ‘No, I don’t recognize him. This the only picture you’ve got of him?’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti answered, then asked, ‘Would you mind asking your friends if they recognize him?’ He nodded towards the group that still hung back against the wall, tossing occasional remarks at passing cars but keeping their eyes on Brunetti and the two men.
‘Sure. Why not?’ Paolina’s friend turned back towards the group. Paolina followed him, perhaps nervous at the risk of spending time alone in the company of a policeman.
The group peeled itself away from the wall to walk towards them. The one with the drawing stumbled and caught himself from falling only by clutching on to Paolina’s shoulder. He swore viciously. The group of bright- coloured men crowded round them, and Brunetti watched as they handed the drawing round. One of them, a tall, gangly boy in a red wig, let the picture go, then suddenly grabbed it back and looked at it again. He pulled at another man, pointed down towards the picture, and said something to him. The second one shook his head, and the redhead jabbed at the picture again. The other one still did not agree, and the redhead dismissed him with an angry flip of his hand. The picture was passed around to a few more of them, and then Paolina’s friend came back to Brunetti with the redhead walking at his side.
The two men stood as if rooted to the spot by their high heels. Paolina’s friend glanced down at his skirt and wiped his hand nervously across its front. The redhead put his hand to his mouth for a moment and then extended it to Brunetti. ‘Roberto Canale,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ His grip was firm, his hand warm.
Brunetti held out his hand to the other, who glanced nervously back to the group and, hearing nothing, took Brunetti’s hand and shook it. ‘Paolo Mazza.’
Brunetti turned back to the redhead. ‘Do you recognize the man in the photo, Signor Canale?’ Brunetti asked.
The redhead looked off to the side until Mazza said, ‘He’s talking to you, Roberta, don’t you even remember your name?’
‘Of course I remember my name,’ the redhead said, turning angrily to Mazza. Then, to Brunetti, ‘Yes, I recognize the man, but I can’t tell you who he is. I can’t even tell you why I recognize him. He just looks like someone I know.’
Realizing how inadequate this must sound, Canale explained, ‘You know how it is when you see the man from the cheese store on the street, and he’s not wearing his apron: you know him but you don’t know how you know him, and you can’t remember who he is. You know that you know him, but he’s out of place, so you can’t remember who he is. That’s how it is with the man in the drawing. I know I know him, or I’ve seen him, the same way you see the man in the cheese store, but I can’t remember where he’s supposed to be.’
‘Is he supposed to be here?’ Brunetti asked. When Canale gave him an empty look, he explained, ‘Here on Via Cappuccina? Is this where you’d expect to see him?’
‘No, no. Not at all. That’s what’s so strange about it. Wherever it was I saw him, it didn’t have anything to do with all of this.’ He waved his hands in the air, as if seeking the answer there. ‘It’s like I saw one of my teachers here. Or the doctor. He’s not supposed to be here. It’s just a feeling, but it’s very strong,’ Then, seeking confirmation, he asked Brunetti, ‘Do you understand what I mean?’
‘Yes, I do. Perfectly. I once had a man stop me on the street in Rome and say hello to me. I knew I knew him, but I didn’t know why.’ Brunetti smiled, risking it. ‘I’d arrested him two years before. But in Naples.’
Luckily, both men laughed. Canale said, ‘May I keep the picture? Maybe it will come back to me if I can, you know, look at it every once in a while. Maybe that will surprise me into remembering.’
‘Certainly. I appreciate your help,’ Brunetti said.
It was Mazza’s turn to risk. ‘Was he very bad? When you found him?’ He brought his hands together in front of him, one clutching at the other.
Brunetti nodded.
‘Isn’t it enough they want to fuck us?’ Canale broke in. ‘Why do they want to kill us, too?’
Though the question was addressed to powers well beyond those for whom Brunetti worked, he still answered it. ‘I have no idea.’
Chapter Eleven
The next day, Friday, Brunetti thought he had better make an appearance at the Venice Questura to see what paperwork and mail had accumulated for him. Furthermore, he admitted to Paola over coffee that morning, he wanted to see if there was anything new on ‘Il Caso Patta’.
‘Nothing in
