Another boat arrived twenty minutes later, but Moro wasn't on this one,
either. Brunetti was beginning to think the doctor might have decided
to go back to his mother's home in Mogliano when, off to the left, he
heard footsteps approaching. Moro emerged from the narrow calle
between the houses at the end of the tiny campo. Brunetti crossed the
bridge and stood at the bottom, just short of the door to Moro's
house.
The doctor came toward him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his
jacket, head lowered as if he had to take particular care of where he
placed his feet. When he was a few metres from Brunetti, he stopped
and reached first his left hand, then his right, into the pockets of
his trousers. On the second attempt, he pulled out a set of keys but
looked at them as if he didn't quite understand what they were or what
he was meant to do with them.
He raised his head then and saw Brunetti. There was no change in his
expression, but Brunetti was sure Moro recognized him.
Brunetti walked towards the other man, speaking before he thought,
surprised by the force of his own anger. 'Are you going to let them
kill your wife and daughter, too?'
Moro took a step backwards, and the keys fell from his hand. He raised
one arm and shielded his face with it, as though Brunetti's words were
acid and he had to protect his eyes. But then, with a speed that
astonished Brunetti, Moro moved up to him and grabbed at his collar
with both hands. He misjudged the distance, and the nails of his
forefingers dug into the skin at the back of Brunetti's neck.
He pulled Brunetti towards him, yanking so savagely that he pulled him
a half-step forwards. Brunetti flung his hands out to the side in an
attempt to balance himself, but it was the strength of Moro's hands
that kept him from falling.
The doctor pulled him closer, shaking him the way a dog shakes a rat.
'Stay out of this,' Moro hissed into his face,
sprinkling him with spittle. They didn't do it. What do you know?'
Brunetti, allowing Moro to support him, recovered his balance, and when
the doctor shoved him to arm's length, still holding tight, Brunetti
stepped back and flung his hands up, breaking the doctor's grip and
freeing himself. Instinctively he put his hands to his neck: his
fingers felt torn skin and the beginnings of pain.
He leaned forward until his face was dangerously close to the doctor's.
They'll find them. They found your mother. Do you want them to kill
them all?'
Again the doctor raised his hand, warding off Brunetti's words.
Robot-like, he raised the other hand, now a blind man, a trapped man,
seeking a place of safety. He turned away and staggered, stiff-kneed,
to the door of his house. Leaning brokenly against the wall, Moro
began to pat his pockets for his keys, which lay on the ground. He dug
his hands into his pockets, turning them out and scattering coins and
small pieces of paper around him. When no pockets remained unturned,
Moro lowered his head to his chest and began to sob.
Brunetti bent and picked up the keys. He walked over to the doctor and
took his right hand, which was hanging limply at his side. He turned
the doctor's palm up and placed the keys in it, then closed his fingers
over them.
Slowly, like a person long victim to arthritis, Moro pushed himself
away from the wall and put one key, then another, then another into the
lock until he found the right one. The lock turned noisily four times.
Moro pushed the door open and disappeared inside. Not bothering to
wait to see if lights went on inside, Brunetti turned away and started
to walk home.
Brunetti woke groggily the next morning to the dull sound of rain
against the bedroom windows and to Paola's absence from his side. She
was nowhere in the apartment, nor was there any sign of the children. A
glance at the clock showed him why: everyone had long since gone off to
the business of their day. When he went into the kitchen, he was
grateful to see that Paola had filled the Moka and left it on the
stove. He stared out the window while he waited for the coffee, and
when it was ready took it back into the living room. He stood looking
through the rain at the bell tower of San Polo, and sipped at his
coffee. When it was finished, he went back into the kitchen and made
more. This time, he came back and sat on the sofa, propped his
slippered feet on the table, and stared out the glass doors that led to
the terrace, not really aware of the rooftops beyond.
He tried to think of who 'they' could be. Moro had been too stunned by
Brunetti's attack to prepare a defence and so had made no attempt to
deny or pretend not to understand Brunetti's reference to this nameless
'they'. The first
possibility that occurred to Brunetti, as it would to anyone who knew
even the least bit about Moro's career, was someone at the health
services, the target of the Moro Report's accusation of
institutionalized corruption and greed. Closing his eyes, Brunetti
rested his head against the back of the sofa and tried to remember what
had become of the men who had been in charge of the provincial health
services at the time of the Moro Report.
