A Sea of Troubles

paused, waiting to see if Patta would pick up on his comment and discuss the hierarchy of command during his absence.

'And let them get the credit?' Patta demanded, making no attempt to hide his indignation and with no reference to the following week. 'If this is as simple as you say,' he began, raising a hand to stop Brunetti's protest, 'men it's definitely something we should investigate. The Carabinieri will make a complete hash of it.'

'But, sir,' Brunetti objected weakly, 'I'm not sure we can spare anyone to go out there.' One of Brunetti's favourite characters had always been Iago, whose skill he had long admired and often sought to emulate. Clasping Iago's image, as it were, to his bosom, Brunetti went on, 'Perhaps Marotta could take it. It would be good to send someone who couldn't possibly have any involvement with the people there. He's from Turin, isn't he, sir?' When Patta nodded, Brunetti went on, 'Good, then there's no chance that he'd know or be related to anyone in Pellestrina.'

Patta had had enough. 'Oh, for God's sake, use your head, Brunetti. If we send un torinese out there, no one will say a word to him. It's got to be someone local.' As if as an afterthought, Patta added, 'Besides, Marotta'll be taking my place during my absence, and he can't go running off to the ends of the laguna to interview people who don't know how to speak anything but dialect.' If these people also believed that the earth was flat as well as the centre of the universe, Patta's contempt for them could not have been more audible.

Ignoring Patta's remark and not at all certain that he should risk it, Brunetti nevertheless asked, 'But who, sir?'

'There are times when you're incredibly blind, Commissario.' Patta spoke so condescendingly that Brunetti could but admire his superior's self-restraint in not having said 'stupid'. 'You're Venetian. You've already been out there.'

With the exercise of equal self-restraint, Brunetti stopped himself from raising his hands to display shock and astonishment. It was a gesture he'd often seen in silent films from the Twenties and one he'd always wanted to use. Instead, voice deeply serious, he said, 'I'm not sure, sir.' A small goad, he had often noticed, worked on Patta far more effectively than a stronger impetus.

'Well, I am. It's a simple case, and we can use all the good publicity we can get, especially after those fools in the magistratura let all of the mafiosi out of prison.' The papers had been filled with little else for the last few days. Fifteen Mafia leaders, all condemned to life imprisonment, had been ordered to be released when a minor legal irregularity was discovered in the processing of their appeal. One of them, the papers never ceased to report, had confessed to the murders of fifty-nine people. And now all of them were free. Brunetti recalled Signorina Elettra's words, 'As free as air.'

'I'm not sure the two cases are related, sir,' Brunetti objected.

'Of course they're related’ Patta said, voice raised angrily. 'Any sort of bad publicity reflects on all of us.'

Was that all it was for Patta, Brunetti wondered, bad publicity? These laughing monsters are set free to return to feast on the bodies of their enemies, and all Patta can see is bad publicity?

Before principle could spur Brunetti to protest, Patta continued, 'I want you to go out there and settle this. If you've already got the name of someone, see what you can find out about him. Get this taken care of quickly.' Patta picked up a file from his desk, opened it, took his Mont Blanc from his breast pocket, and began to read. Good sense prevented Brunetti from raising an objection to Patta's peremptory commands or to the rudeness of his dismissal. He'd got what he had come for: the case was his. But not for the first time he left Patta's office feeling cheapened by having so easily manipulated the other man, by having again donned the cap and bells of the fool in order to achieve what he knew to be his by right. Marotta's temporary assignment had never been discussed, which meant Patta had been deprived of the opportunity to gloat over what he would perceive as a victory. But at least Brunetti had been spared the need to pretend to be offended by the decision. Command was the last thing he sought, but this was a piece of information he chose never to reveal, by word or deed, to his superior. Incapable by both nature and inclination of worshipping at the altar of the bitch goddess, Success, Brunetti had more modest desires. He was a man of short views, interested in the here, the now, the concrete. He left larger goals and desires to others, contenting himself with smaller ones: a happy family, a decent life, the attempt to do his job as well as he could. It seemed to him little enough to ask of life, and he settled for those hopes.

10

The next morning, Brunetti and Vianello left for Pellestrina a little after nine. Though both knew they were engaged in the investigation of two savage murders, the glory of the day once again conspired to lighten their hearts and fill them with a schoolboy sense of adventure and fun. No office to be stuck in, no Patta calling to demand instant progress, and no fixed times to be anywhere; even Bonsuan, grumbling at the helm that they'd be slowed down by cross-tides, couldn't dim their mood. The morning did not disappoint. The trees in the Giardini were covered with new leaves, and occasionally a sudden breeze set them shimmering, their undersides twinkling in the light reflected from the water.

As they approached the island of San Servolo, Bonsuan arched the boat in a wide curve to the right and took them past Santa Maria della Grazie and San Clemente. Even the thought that these islands had been used for centuries to isolate the sick in mind and body from the rest of the population of Venice did nothing to dampen Brunetti's spirits.

Vianello surprised him by saying, 'Soon there'll be no more chance to go blackberrying.'

Confused, thinking that the rush of the wind might have caused him to misunderstand, Brunetti leaned towards him and asked, 'What?'

'There,' Vianello said, pointing off to their right to the larger island that lay in the farther distance. 'Sacca Sessola. We used to go out there when we were kids to pick blackberries. It was abandoned even then, so they grew like crazy. We'd pick kilos in a day, eat until we were sick with them.' Vianello raised his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. 'But someone told me it's been sold, auctioned off to a university or some company, and they're going to make it into a convention centre or something like that.' Brunetti could hear his sigh. 'No more blackberries.'

'But more tourists, I suppose,' Brunetti said, referring to the deity currently worshipped by those who ran the city.

'I'd rather have blackberries.'

Neither of them spoke until they saw the single campanile of Poveglia on their right, when Vianello asked, 'How are we going to do this, sir?'

‘I think we should try to find out more about the waiter's story, about his brother and anything that might have come of that argument. See if you can find the brother and see what he says, and I'll go back and talk to Signora Follini.'

'You're a brave man, Commissario,' Vianello said, deadpan.

'My wife has promised to call the police if I'm not home by dinnertime.'

'I doubt that even we would be any good against Signora Follini.'

'I'm afraid you might be right, Sergeant, but still, a man must do his duty.'

'Like John Wayne.'

'Precisely. After I've spoken to her, I'll try the other bar: I think there was one up the street from the restaurant, on the other side.'

Vianello nodded. He'd seen it, but it had been closed the day they were there. 'Lunch?' he asked.

'Same place,' Brunetti answered. 'If you don't mind having to pass over the clams and fish.'

'Believe me, sir, I don't mind in the least.'

'But it's the food we grew up with,' Brunetti surprised himself by insisting. 'You must mind not eating it any more.'

'I told you, sir,' Vianello said, turning to look him in the face as he spoke, one hand holding his hat down against a sudden gust of wind, 'everything I've read tells me not to eat them.'

'But you've still got to miss them, want to eat them,' Brunetti insisted.

'Of course I miss them. I wouldn't be human if I didn't. People who stop smoking always miss cigarettes. But I think they'll kill me, really I do.' Before Brunetti could question or ridicule, he continued, 'No, not one plate of them and not fifty plates of them. But they're loaded with chemicals and heavy metals. God knows how they live themselves. I just don't want to eat them; the idea makes me faintly sick.'

'Then how can you miss them?'