left threw a dim light on the papers and kept the upper half of his face in shadow.
His mouth was thin, his lips stretched back over a set of false teeth that had grown too large as the flesh of his face was worn away by age. Heavy dewlaps, so long as to remind Brunetti of those of a hound, hung from both sides of his mouth; the skin below hung in wattles, bunched loosely over his collar.
Brunetti was aware that the man was looking at them, but the light did not reach Filipetto's eyes, so it was impossible for him to read the man's expression. 'Si?' the old man asked in the same high-pitched tone.
'Notaio,' Brunetti began, stepping a bit closer so as to afford himself a better view of Filipetto's entire face, ‘I’m Commissario Guido Brunetti,' he began, but the old man cut him off.
'I recognize you. I knew your father.'
Brunetti was so surprised that it took him a moment to recover, and when he did he thought he saw a faint upturning of those thin lips. Filipetto's face was long and thin, the skin waxlike. Sparse tufts of white hair adhered to his speckled skull, like down on the body of a diseased chick. As Brunetti's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that Filipetto's own were hooded and vulpine, the irises tinged the colour of parchment.
'He was a man who did his duty,' Filipetto said in what was clearly meant to be admiration. He said nothing more, but his lips kept moving as he sucked them repeatedly in and out against his false teeth.
The comment confirmed Brunetti's memory of the man and was all he needed. ‘Yes, he was, sir. It was one of the things he tried to teach us.'
‘You have a brother, don't you?' asked the old man.
'Yes, sir, I do.'
'Good. A man should have sons.' Before Brunetti could respond to this, though he had no idea what he could say, Filipetto asked, 'What else did he teach you?'
Brunetti was vaguely aware that the woman was still standing in the doorway and that Vianello had automatically pulled himself up straighter, as close to a stance of military attention as he could achieve while wearing a yellow tie.
'Duty, honour, devotion to the flag, discipline’ Brunetti recited, doing his best to remember all the things he had always found most risible in the pretensions of Fascism, but pronouncing them in earnest tones. At his side, he sensed Vianello growing even straighter, as if bolstered by the invigorating force of these ideas.
'Sit down, Commissario,' Filipetto said, ignoring Vianello. 'Eleonora, hold his chair’ he commanded. She came from the door and Brunetti forced himself to wait as would a man accustomed to the service of women. She pulled out a chair opposite the old man and Brunetti sat in it, not bothering to thank her.
'What is it you've come about?' Filipetto asked.
'Your name has come up, sir, in an investigation we're conducting. When I read it, I...' Brunetti began, coughed a nervous little laugh, then looked over at the old man and said, 'Well, I remembered the way my father always spoke of you, sir, and I, to tell the truth, I couldn't resist the opportunity finally to meet you.'
To the best of Brunetti's memory, the only time he had ever heard his father mention Filipetto's name was when he raged against the men who had been most guilty of plundering the state's coffers during the war. Filipetto's name had not been at the top of the list, a place always reserved for the man who had sold the Army the cardboard boots that had cost Brunetti's father six toes, but it had been there, his name among those others who had made the effortless passage from wartime profiteering to post-war prominence.
The old man glanced idly at Vianello and, observing the smile of approval with which he greeted his superior's last remark, Filipetto said,
Thank you, sir,' Vianello said and did as he was told, though he was careful to sit up straight, as if attentive and respectful to whatever further truths would be revealed during this conversation between men who so closely mirrored his own political ideals.
Brunetti used the momentary distraction caused by Filipetto's remark to Vianello to look at the papers in front of the old man. One was a magazine containing photos of Il Duce in various, but equally fierce, postures. The rest were documents of some sort, but before he could adjust his eyes to try to read them, Filipetto demanded his attention.
'What investigation is this?' he asked.
'Your name,' Brunetti began, assuming that a phone number was as good as a name, 'was found among the papers of a person who died recently, and I wanted to ask you if you had any dealings with her.'
'Who?' he asked.
'Claudia Leonardo’ Brunetti said.
Filipetto made no sign that the name meant anything to him and once again looked at the papers, but the radar of long experience told Brunetti that it was not unfamiliar to him. Given the coverage the murder had had in the papers, it was unlikely that anyone in the city would be unfamiliar with her name.
‘Who?’ the Notary asked, head bowed.
'Claudia Leonardo, sir. She died - she was murdered -here in the city.'
'And how did my name come to be among her effects?' he asked, looking again at Brunetti but not bothering to inquire how or why Claudia had been killed.
'It doesn't matter, sir. If you've never heard of her, then there's no need to continue with this.'
'Do you want me to sign something to that effect?' Filipetto asked.
'Sir’ Brunetti answered hotly, as if unable to disguise his surprise, 'your word is more than enough.'
Filipetto looked up then, his teeth bared in a smile of open satisfaction 'Your mother?' he asked. 'Is she still with us?'
Brunetti had no idea what Filipetto meant by this: whether his mother was alive, which she was; whether she was still sane, which she was not; or whether she still held true to the political ideas that had cost her husband his youth and his peace. As she had never held those ideas in anything but contempt, Brunetti felt secure in answering the first question,
'Good, good. Though there are many people now who are beginning to realize the value of what we tried to do, it's comforting to know that there are still people who are faithful to the old values.'
'I'm sure there will always be,' Brunetti said, without a trace of the disgust he felt at the idea. He stood, leaving the chair where it was, and leaned across the table to shake the old man's hand, cold and fragile in his own. Ifs been an honour, sir,' he said. Vianello nodded deeply, unable to convey his complete agreement in any other way.
The old man raised a hand and waved towards the woman, who was still standing at the doorway. 'Eleonora, make yourself useful. See the Commissario out.' He gave Brunetti a valedictory smile and again bent his head over his papers.
Eleonora, her connection to the old man still unexplained, turned and led them to the front door of the apartment. Brunetti made no attempt to penetrate the veil of silent resentment she had wrapped so tightly about herself during this interview and at the door did no more than mutter his thanks before preceding Vianello down the stairs and out into the
16
'Enough to choke a pig’ was Vianello's only comment as they walked out into the cool evening air.
'Well he
‘Yes, of course. And, in the end, what’s a couple million dead and a country in ruins if the trains run on time?'
'Exactly.'
'God, you think they're all dead and then you turn over a rock and you find one's still under there.' Brunetti grunted in assent.
‘You can understand young people believing all that shit. After all, the schools don't teach them anything about what really happened. But you'd think people who lived it, who were adults all during it and who saw what happened, you'd think they'd realize.'
'I'm afraid it costs people too much to abandon what they believe’ Brunetti offered by way of explanation. 'If you give your loyalty and, I suppose, your love to ideas like that then it's all but impossible to admit what madness they are.'
'I suppose so’ Vianello conceded, though it sounded as if he weren't fully persuaded. They walked side by
