Ruffo's face froze, all ease fled his body, and he shook his head in
automatic denial. As Brunetti was wondering how it was that he didn't
know a fellow student in a school this small, the boy said, That is, I
didn't know him well. We just had one class together.' Ease had
disappeared from his voice, as well: he spoke quickly, as if eager to
move away from the meaning of his words.
'What one?'
'Physics.'
'What other subjects do you take?' Brunetti asked. 'What is it for
you, the second year?'
'Yes, sir. So we have to take Latin and Greek and Mathematics,
English, History, and then we get to choose two optional subjects.'
'So Physics is one of yours?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And the other?'
The answer was a long time in coming. Brunetti thought the boy must be
trying to work out what this man's hidden motive was in asking all of
these questions. If Brunetti had a motive, it was hidden even from
himself: all he could do at this point was try to get a sense of things
at the school, to catch the mood of the place; all of the information
he gained had more or less the same amorphous value and its meaning
would not become clear until later, when each piece could be seen as
part of some larger pattern.
The boy stabbed out his cigarette, eyed the packet, but did not light
another. Brunetti repeated, 'What is it, the second one?'
Reluctantly, as if confessing to something he perhaps construed as
weakness, the boy finally answered, 'Music.'
'Good for you came Brunetti's instant response.
'Why do you say that, sir?' the boy asked, his eagerness patent. Or
perhaps it was merely relief at this removal to a neutral subject.
Brunetti's response had been visceral, so he had to consider what to
say. 'I read a lot of history,' he began, 'and a lot of history is
military history.' The boy nodded, prodding him along with his
curiosity. 'And historians often say that soldiers know only one
thing.' The boy nodded again. 'And no matter how well they might know
that one thing, war, it's not enough. They've got to know about other
things.' He smiled at the boy, who smiled in return. 'It's the great
weakness, knowing only that one thing.'
The wish you'd tell my grandfather that, sir,' he said.
'He doesn't believe it?'
'Oh, no, he doesn't even want to hear the word 'music', at least not
from me.'
'What would he rather hear that you'd been in a duel?' Brunetti asked,
not at all uncomfortable at undermining the concept of grand parental
authority.
'Oh, he'd love that, especially if it were with sabres.'
'And you went home with a scar 'across your cheek?' Brunetti
suggested.
They laughed at the absurdity, and it was like this, easy and
comfortably united in gentle mockery of military tradition, that
Comandante Bembo found them.
'Ruffo!' a voice barked from behind Brunetti.
The boy's smile vanished and he straightened up to stand as stiff as
one of the pilings in the laguna, his heels clacking together at the
same instant as his stiff fingers snapped to his forehead in salute.
'What are you doing here?' Bembo demanded.
'I don't have a class this hour, Comandante/ Ruffo answered, staring
straight ahead.
'And what were you doing?'
'I was talking to this gentleman, sir he said, eyes still on the far
wall.
'Who gave you permission to talk to him?'
Ruffo's face was a mask. He made no attempt to answer the question.
'Well?' demanded Bembo in an even tighter voice.
Brunetti turned to face the Comandante and acknowledged his arrival
with a gentle nod. Keeping his voice mild, he asked, 'Does he need
permission to speak to the police, sir?'
