other side. Leaving the four shipwrecked pedestrians in their wake,
the unbroken wave of boys swept towards him.
Brunetti raised his eyes to theirs boys no older than his own son and
the glances that came back to him were as blank and pitiless as the
sun. His right foot might have faltered for an instant, but by an act
of will he shoved it forward and continued towards them, stride
unbroken, his face implacable, as though he were alone in Calle della
Bissa, the entire city his.
The boys drew closer, and he recognized the cadet to the left of centre
as the one who had tried to interrogate him at the school. The
atavistic urge of the more powerful male to assert his supremacy
shifted Brunetti's direction two compass points until he was heading
straight for the boy. He tightened his stomach muscles and stiffened
his elbows, preparing for the shock of contact, but at the instant
before impact, the boy next to the one who had become Brunetti's target
loosened his grip and moved to the right, creating a narrow space
through which Brunetti could pass. As his foot entered the space, he
saw, from the corner of his eye, the left foot of the boy he recognized
move minimally to the side, surely bent on tripping him. Carefully,
thrusting forward with his full weight behind him, he took aim at the
boy's ankle and felt a satisfying jolt as the toe of his shoe found its
target, glanced off, and came down on the pavement. Not pausing for an
instant, Brunetti strode on and out into the campo, cut left, and
started for the bridge.
Because Raffi as well as Chiara was at dinner, and because he thought
it unseemly to manifest pride in such mean spirited behaviour in their
presence, he said nothing about his meeting with the cadets and
contented himself with the meal. Paola had brought home ravioli di
zucca and had prepared them with salvia leaves quickly sauteed in
butter, then smothered them with Parmigiano. After that, she had
switched to fennel, serving it interspersed with pan-fried veal
pieces that had spent the previous night in the refrigerator,
marinating in a paste of rosemary, garlic, fennel seed and minced
pancetta.
As he ate, delighted by the mingled tastes and the pleasant sharpness
of his third glass of Sangiovese, he remembered his earlier uneasiness
about the safety of his children, and the thought made him feel
foolish. He could not, however, dismiss it or allow himself to scoff
at the desire that nothing would ever invade their peace. He never
knew if his perpetual readiness for things to change for the worse was
the result of his native pessimism or of the experiences his profession
had exposed him to. In either case, his vision of happiness had always
to pass through a filter of uneasiness.
'Why don't we ever have beef any more?' Raffi asked.
Paola, peeling a pear, said, 'Because Gianni can't find a farmer he
trusts
'Trusts to do what?' Chiara asked between grapes.
To have animals he's sure are healthy, I suppose,' Paola answered.
'I don't like eating it any more, anyway,' Chiara said.
'Why not? Because it'll make you crazy?' her brother asked, then
amended it to 'Crazier?'
'I think we've had more than enough mad cow jokes at this table,' Paola
said with an unusual lack of patience.
'No, not because of that,' Chiara said.
Then why?' Brunetti asked.
'Oh, just because Chiara answered evasively.
'Because of what?' her brother asked.
'Because we don't need to eat them
That never bothered you before,' Raffi countered.
'I know it never bothered me before. Lots of things didn't. But now
they do She turned to him and delivered what she clearly thought would
be a death blow. 'It's called growing up, in case you've never heard
of it
Raffi snorted, driving her to new defences.
'We don't need to eat them just because we can. Besides, it's
ecologically wasteful she insisted, like someone repeating a lesson,
which Brunetti thought was most likely the case.
'What would you eat instead?' Raffi asked, 'zucchini?' He turned to
his mother and asked, 'Are we allowed to make mad zucchini jokes?'
Paola, displaying the Olympian disregard for the feelings of her
children which Brunetti so admired, said only, Till take that as an
offer to do the dishes, Raffi, shall I?'
Raffi groaned, but he did not protest. A Brunetti less familiar with
the cunning of the young would have seen this as a sign that his son
