His plate disappeared, replaced by a clean fruit plate, a small knife and fork.
If I hear a single note of that noise before three this afternoon, I will come into your room and drive bamboo shoots into your eardrums, permanently deafening you’ his loving mother said, nodding to him that he could leave the table and letting Brunetti know who had won possession of the CD. Raffi grabbed two more apples and left, quickly followed by Chiara, who slipped away in his wake.
'You spoil him’ Brunetti said, cutting a not particularly thin slice of Montasio. ‘I think you should be firmer with him, perhaps begin by threatening to tear out his fingernails.'
'He's only two years younger than some of my students’ Paola said, picking up an apple and beginning to peel away the skin. 'If I began doing any of these things to him, I'm afraid of what I might be led to do to the students. I might be maddened by the smell of teenage blood.'
'It can't be that bad’ Brunetti said in an interrogative voice.
Once the apple was peeled, Paola quickly cut it into eight slices and removed the pieces of core. She jabbed her fork into the first and ate it before she said, ‘No, I suppose it's not as bad as what you do. But, believe me, there are days when I long to be locked in a cell: me, two strong policemen, one of the students, and a wide array of fearsome implements.'
'Why is it so bad all of a sudden?' Brunetti asked.
‘It’s not really all of a sudden. It's more that I've become aware of how bad it's become.'
'Give me an example’ he said.
Ten years ago, I could force them into accepting the fact, or at least giving lip service to the idea, that the culture that formed me, all those books and ideas that our generation grew up on - Plato, Virgil, Dante - that it was superior in some way to whatever fills their lives. Or, if not superior, then at least interesting enough to be worthy of study’ She ate three more pieces of apple and a thin slice of Montasio before she went on. 'But that doesn't happen any more. They think, or at least they seem to think, that their culture, with its noise and acquisitiveness and immediate forgettability is superior to all of our stupid ideas’
'Like?'
'Like our no doubt ridiculous idea that beauty conforms to some standard or ideal; like our risible belief that we have the option to behave honourably and should take it; and like our idiotic idea that the final purpose of human existence is something more than the acquisition of wealth.'
'No wonder you want the fearsome implements’ Brunetti said and opened the Calvados.
8
Back in his office that afternoon, faintly conscious that he had perhaps dined too well, Brunetti decided he might try to get more information about Guzzardi from Lele Bortoluzzi, another prime source of the sort of information that in more ordered societies would lead to accusations of slander. Ordinarily, he would have made the trip across the city to Lele's gallery, but today Brunetti felt himself weighed down by the Calvados, though he told himself it had been little more than a whisper, and so decided to phone, instead.
'So you remember him’ Brunetti said with a laugh, trying to disguise his surprise.
'Of course I remember him’ Lele said. 'Bastard: he got exactly what he deserved. The only pity is that he died so soon: he should have been kept alive longer, living there like a larva’
'At San Servolo?' Brunetti asked, though there was little doubt what his friend meant.
'Where he deserved to be. Better than any prison they could have sent him to, the bastard. I'm sorry for the other devils who were kept there: none of them deserved to live like that, worse than animals. But Guzzardi deserved it all, and more’
Brunetti knew that whatever reason Lele had for this passionate disgust would soon be made clear. Prodding, Brunetti said, ‘I never heard you talk about him before. Strange, if you feel so strongly about him.'
Lele continued. 'He was a thief and a traitor, and so was his father. There was nothing they wouldn't do, no one he wouldn't betray.'
Brunetti noticed that Lele's condemnation was so much more forceful than the Count's, but then he recalled that his father-in-law had said he had not been in Venice during the war. Lele had been, for all of it, and two of his uncles had died, one fighting with the Germans and one fighting against them. Brunetti cut into the string of epithets that continued to pour from the phone and said, 'All right, all right, I understand your feelings. Now tell me why’
Lele had the grace to laugh. 'It must be strange, this anger after so long. I haven't heard his name in, oh, I don't know, twenty years, but all I needed was to hear it, and everything I knew about him came back.' He paused for a moment and then added, 'It's strange, isn't it, how some things just don't go away? You'd think time would have softened some of it. But not with Guzzardi’
'What hasn't been softened?' Brunetti asked.
'Well, obviously, how much we all hated him’
'All?'
'My father, my uncles, even my mother’
'Are you sure you have time to listen?' Lele asked.
'Why else call?' Brunetti asked in response, grateful that Lele hadn't bothered to ask why he was curious about Guzzardi.
By way of answer, Lele began by asking, 'You know my father was an antiquarian, a dealer?'
‘Yes’ Brunetti answered. He had a vague memory of Lele's father, an enormous man with a white moustache and beard who had died when Brunetti was still a young boy.
There were a lot of people who wanted to leave the country. Not that there were many places where they could go, not go and be safe, that is. But at any rate, after the war began; some of them approached my father, asking if he could sell things for them.'
'Antiques?'
'And paintings, and statues, and rare books, just about anything that had beauty and value.' 'What did he do?'
'He acted as agent,' Lele said, as though that explained everything.
'What does that mean, that he acted as agent?'
'Just that. He agreed to find buyers. He knew the market and he had a long list of clients. And in return he took ten per cent’
'Isn't that normal?' Brunetti asked, aware that he was missing whatever message Lele thought he was conveying.
There was no such thing as normal during the war’ Lele said, again as though that would explain everything.
Brunetti interrupted. 'Lele, there's too much going on here that I don't understand. Make things clear to me, please’
'All right. I always forget how little people know, or want to know, about what happened then. It was like this. When people were forced to sell things or were put into positions where they had no choice but to sell things, they had the option of trying to do it themselves, which is always a mistake, or they could turn to an agent. Though that was just as often a mistake.' 'Why?'
'Because some of the dealers had smelled the scent of money, great sums of money, and many of them, once they realized how panicked the sellers were, went mad with it.'
'Went mad how?'
