That you were, well ... ?'
'Yes. All of is do it, but we usually do it with different
guys. Ernesto just wanted to do it with me. And I was ashamed of
that.'
The boy turned to his father. 'Papa, do I have to say any more?'
The Maggiore, instead of answering his son, looked across the table at
Brunetti. Instead of replying, Brunetti leaned forward, gave the time,
and said that the interview was over.
Silently, all five of them got to their feet. Donatini, who was
closest to the door, went and opened it. The Maggiore wrapped his
right arm around his son's shoulders. Brunetti pushed his chair under
the table, nodded to Vianello that they would leave now, and moved
towards the door. He was just a step from the door when he heard a
noise behind him, but it was only Vianello, who had stumbled against
his chair.
Seeing that Vianello was all right, Brunetti took a final glance at the
father and son, who were facing one another. And as he watched he saw
Paolo, who had his father's complete attention, close his right eye in
a single wink of triumphant, sly satisfaction. In the same instant,
the father's right hand came up and gave the boy an approving punch on
the right biceps.
Vianello hadn't seen it; he had been facing away from that millisecond
of comp licit understanding between father and son. Brunetti turned
towards the door and passed in front of a silent Donatini. In the
hall, he waited until Vianello emerged, followed by the two Filippis
and their lawyer.
Brunetti closed the door of the interrogation room, moving slowly to
give himself time to think.
Donatini spoke first. 'It's your decision, Commissario, about what to
do with this information.' Brunetti was entirely unresponsive, didn't
even bother to acknowledge that the lawyer had spoken.
In the face of Brunetti's silence, the Maggiore spoke. 'It might be
better if that dead boy's family were left with the memory of him that
they have,' he said solemnly, and Brunetti was shamed to realize that,
had he not seen the momentary flash of triumph between him and his son,
he would have been moved by the man's concern for Ernesto's family. He
was swept by a desire to strike the man across the mouth but instead
turned away from all of them and started
down the corridor. From behind him, the boy called out, 'Do you want
me to sign anything?' and then a moment later, intentionally delayed,
'Commissario?'
Brunetti kept walking, ignoring them all, bent on getting back to his
office, like an animal that has to return to its cave in order to feel
safe from its enemies. He closed the door behind him, knowing that
Vianello, however confused by his superior's behaviour, would leave him
alone until called.
'Check and mate and game at an end he said aloud, so much the victim of
the energy surging in him that he could not move. Clenching his hands
and closing his eyes didn't help at all: he was left with the image of
that wink, that sustaining punch. Even if Vianello had seen it, he
realized, it would make no difference for them, nor for Moro. Filippi's
story was credible, the entire performance perfectly pitched. He
cringed at the memory of how he had been moved by the boy's
embarrassment, how he had superimposed upon his halting account what he
imagined would be his own son's response in the same circumstances and
seen fear and remorse where there had been only low cunning.
Part of him longed to hear Vianello's voice at the door so that he
could tell him how they had been duped. But there would be no purpose,
he realized, and so he was glad that the Inspector stayed away. His
own rashness in going off to talk to Cappellini had given the Filippis
time to concoct their story; not just to concoct it but to work on it
and to put into it all of the ingredients that were sure to appeal to
the sentimentalism of anyone who heard it. What cliche did they leave
untouched? Boys will be boys. My shame is greater than my guilt. Oh,
spare from further pain the suffering mother of the lad.
Brunetti turned and kicked the door, but the noise and the jolt of pain
in his back changed nothing. He confronted the fact that anything he
did would have the same effect: nothing would change, regardless of how
much pain was endured.
He looked at his watch and saw that he'd lost all track of tone while
questioning the boy, though the darkness outside should have told him
how late it was. He'd given no orders but there was certainly no
reason to hold FilipVaTvSnello must surely have let him go. He wanted
desperately not to see any of them when he left, so he forced hfrnse f
to s and there eyes closed and head leaning back against the door for
another five minutes, and then he went downstairs
could Tee 'Tde Wm r id ^ ffiCerS' r 0m' thought he could see light
coming from the door as he went silently outside he turned to the right
-d ^ St.
presenTed h I' VaP rett SUdd6 my ^^the ^action presented by the many
people on board at this hour
