Fatal Remedies

‘With all respect, sir,’ Brunetti said, ‘that’s not entirely true.’ Before Patta could object, Brunetti went on, ‘Dottor Mitri offered the solution to me, not to my wife. As I explained, it is a decision I cannot make in my wife’s place. If he were to offer it to her directly and if she were to refuse, then what you say would be true.’

‘You haven’t told her?’ Patta asked, no attempt made to disguise his surprise.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s Dottor Mitri’s business, I think, to do so.’

Again, Patta’s surprise was easy to read. He considered this for a while, then said, ‘I’ll mention it to him.’

Brunetti nodded, whether in thanks or acknowledgement, neither of them knew. ‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked.

‘Yes. But you’re still to consider yourself on administrative leave. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brunetti said, though he had no idea what it meant, save that he was no longer to work as a policeman, was not, in fact, to have a job. He didn’t bother to say anything to Patta but turned and left his office.

Outside, Signorina Elettra was still at her desk, but she was reading a magazine, having finished with the Gazzettino. She looked up at him when he came out.

‘Who told the press?’

She shook her head. ‘No idea. Probably the lieutenant.’ She glanced for an instant towards Patta’s door.

‘Administrative leave.’

‘Never heard of it,’ she said. ‘It must have been invented to fit the occasion. What will you do, Commissario?’

‘Go home and read,’ he answered, and with the answer came the thought, and with the thought came the desire. All he had to do was get through the reporters in front of the building, escape their cameras and repeated questions, and he could go home and read for as long as it took Paola to come to a decision, or for this to be resolved. He could allow his books to carry him out of the Questura, out of Venice, out of this shabby century filled with cheap sentimentality and blood lust, and take him back to worlds where his spirit felt more at ease.

Signorina Elettra smiled, hearing a joke in this answer, and returned her attention to her magazine.

He didn’t bother to go back to his office but went directly to the door of the Questura. Strangely enough, the reporters were gone, the only sign of their recent presence some chips of plastic and a broken camera strap.

* * * *

11

He found the broken pieces of the mob in front of his apartment when he got there, three of them the same men who had tried to interrogate him outside the Questura. He made no attempt to answer their shouted questions, pushed his way through them and raised his key to the lock in the enormous portone that led into the entrance hall. A hand shot out from behind him and took his arm, trying to pull his hand away from the door.

Brunetti wheeled to his right, the large bunch of keys clutched in his hand like a weapon. The reporter, seeing not the keys but the expression on Brunetti’s face, backed away, one hand raised placatingly between them. ‘Excuse me, Commissario,’ he said, his smile as false as his words. Something animal in the others heard the naked fear in his tone and responded to it. No one spoke. Brunetti looked around at their faces. No cameras flashed and the video cameras were not raised.

Brunetti turned back to the door and placed the key in the lock. He turned it and let himself into the entrance hall, closed the door, and leaned back against it. His chest, indeed his entire upper body, was covered with the heavy sweat of sudden rage, and his heart pounded uncontrollably. He unbuttoned his coat and pulled it open, letting the chill air of the hallway cool him. With his shoulders, he shoved himself away from the door and started up the stairs.

Paola must have heard him coming because she opened the door when he got to the bottom of the final ramp of stairs. She held it for him and, when he got inside, took his coat and hung it up. He bent and kissed her cheek, liking the smell of her.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Something called “administrative leave”. Invented for the occasion, I think.’

‘Which means?’ she asked, walking beside him into the living-room.

He flopped down on to the sofa, his feet splayed out in front of him. ‘It means I get to stay home and read until you and Mitri come to some sort of agreement.’

‘Agreement?’ she asked, sitting on the edge of the sofa beside him.

‘Apparently Patta thinks you should pay Mitri for the window and apologize.’ He thought about Mitri and corrected himself, ‘Or just pay for the window.’

‘Once or twice?’ she asked.

‘Does it make any difference?’

She looked down and, with her foot, straightened the edge of the carpet that ran in front of the sofa. ‘No, not really. I can’t give him a lira.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Can’t.’

‘Well, I guess it’ll give me a chance, finally, to read Gibbon.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘That I get to stay home until some sort of resolution, either personal or legal, is made.’

‘If they give me a fine, I’ll pay it,’ she said, her voice so much that of the virtuous citizen that Brunetti was forced to grin.

Still smiling, he said, ‘I think it’s Voltaire who says somewhere, “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”‘

‘He said a lot of things like that, Voltaire. Sounds good. He had a habit of saying things that sounded good.’

‘You seem sceptical.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m always suspicious of noble sentiments.’

‘Especially when they come from men?’

She leaned towards him, covering one of his hands with hers. ‘You said that, I didn’t.’

‘No less true for that.’

She shrugged again. ‘You really going to read Gibbon?’

‘I’ve always wanted to. But in translation, I think. His style’s a bit too manicured for me.’

‘That’s the joy of it.’

‘I get enough fancy rhetoric in the newspapers; I don’t need it in a history book.’

‘They’re going to love this, aren’t they, the newspapers?’ she asked.

‘No one’s tried to arrest Andreotti for ages, so they’ve got to write about something.’

‘I suppose so.’ She got to her feet. ‘Is there anything I can bring you?’

Brunetti, who had had little lunch and not enjoyed it, said, ‘A sandwich and a glass of Dolcetto.’ He leaned down and started to untie his shoes. When Paola started towards the door he called after her, ‘And the first volume of Gibbon.’

She was back in ten minutes with all three, and he indulged himself shamelessly, stretching out on the sofa, glass on the table beside him, plate balanced on his chest, while he opened the book and began to read. The panino contained speck and tomato, with fine slices of an aged Pecorino slipped between them. After a few minutes, Paola came in and spread a cloth napkin under his chin, just in time to catch a piece of damp tomato that fell out of the sandwich. He set his food on the plate, reached for the glass and took a long swallow. Returning to the book, he read the magisterial opening chapter, with its politically incorrect paean to the