Blood from a stone

her comments or criticisms to you.’

He laughed, opened the door to the cabinet under the sink, and stuffed the wrappers into the garbage. ‘You really are a snake, Paola,’ he said, not without admiration.

‘Yes, I know,’ she agreed. ‘It’s a form of adaptive behaviour forced upon me by the nature of my work.’

‘Me too,’ he said, then asked, ‘Shall we go and have a coffee?’

She slid the vase of irises to one side of the counter and stepped back to admire them. ‘Yes, if we can go to Tonolo and have un cigno. And while we’re over there, we could go to San Barnaba and see if they have any of that good bread.’

It would take, he calculated, more than an hour. First a cream-filled swan and a coffee at Tonolo, then the walk to Campo San Barnaba and the store that sold the good cheese and the bread from Puglia. He had fled his office in search of peace and quiet, seeking some evidence that sanity still existed in a world of violence and crime, and his wife suggested they spend an hour eating pastry and buying a loaf of bread. He leaped at the chance.

As they walked, occasionally stopping to say hello to people they met or to look into shop windows, he told her about Patta’s warning and what he thought it might mean. She listened, saying nothing, until they had had their cream-filled swans and coffee and were on the way to Campo San Barnaba.

‘You think he’s afraid for his job or for his life?’ she asked, then added, ‘or his family?’

Brunetti stopped at the first of the two produce-filled boats moored to the riva, then moved on to the second. Ignoring Patta for the moment, they discussed dinner and bought a dozen artichokes and a kilo of Fuji apples. As they moved away, Brunetti returned to Paola’s question and said, ‘I’m not sure, only that he’s frightened.’

‘Could be any one of them, then,’ she said, turning into the store. Ten minutes later, they emerged with an entire loaf of the Pugliese bread, a wedge of pecorino, and a jar of the pesto sauce the owner swore was the best in the city.

‘What do you think?’ she asked in a voice so level he had no idea if she was talking about the pesto or the reason for Patta’s fear. He waited, knowing his silence would prod her to explain. ‘You know him better than I do,’ she finally said, ‘so I thought you’d be able to sense which it is, his job or his safety.’

Brunetti thought about this for some time and finally admitted, ‘No, nothing more than that he’s very frightened.’

‘If you keep going, you’ll find out,’ she volunteered.

‘Investigating, you mean?’

She stopped and looked at him, surprised. ‘I assumed you’d continue to investigate, no matter what he said. What I meant was if you continue to let him know that you’re doing it.’

‘I’ll try to see that he doesn’t find out,’ Brunetti said.

‘To spare his feelings?’

Brunetti laughed. ‘No, to spare my job.’

‘He can’t fire you, can he?’ she asked, and he could already see her marshalling the forces of her family and their network of connections.

Brunetti considered this, then answered, ‘No, I don’t think he could do that on his own. But he could suggest that I be transferred. That’s the usual way of getting rid of people.’

‘What sort of people?’ she asked.

Walking at her side, he occasionally fell back a step to allow others to pass them on the narrow calli. ‘Inconvenient people,’ he answered finally.

‘Which means?’

‘People who ask questions and who try to prevent the entire system from becoming hopelessly corrupt,’ he said, surprising himself with his own seriousness.

She reached and took his arm and tucked it under her own. He had no idea if the gesture was a request for help or an offer to provide it. It didn’t much matter to him which it was.

16

Brunetti woke the next morning to bright sunlight. For the last week, the fog had been trying to transform itself into rain but had managed to do nothing more than drape a slick film on the pavements. During the night the rain had finally come — Brunetti had a vague memory of hearing it slash against the windows while he slept — but some time before dawn it had given up and left the day to the sun.

He lay in bed, made happy by the strip of light that spread across the bottom of the covers. He turned on to his back and stretched to his full length and, yes, his feet found that, at the very bottom of the bed, where the sun had been shining for some time, it was warm.

A half-hour later he woke again, this time suddenly, remembering that Christmas was only four days away, and he had, once again, done nothing about getting gifts for anyone. His first impulse was to blame Paola for not having reminded him, but the instant he caught himself thinking that, he cringed away, embarrassed, from the idea. A few minutes later, she came into the room, carrying a large cup of caffe latte. She wore a green woollen dress he did not remember having seen before. She set the cup and saucer on the table beside him, sat on the edge of the bed, and said, ‘I wanted to be sure you were up before I left.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To meet my mother and take her shopping.’

He picked up the cup and pulled it close to his mouth before asking, ‘Christmas shopping?’

‘Yes. I don’t know what to get my father.’

He took three small sips, drawing in life with each one. ‘I don’t know what to get anyone.’

‘You never do,’ she said mildly and with great affection. ‘If you meet me at four at San Bortolo, we can go and get some things together.’

‘You’re not home for lunch?’ he asked, trying not to sound aggrieved.

‘I told you last night, Guido. My mother and I are invited to Aunt Federica’s for lunch today.’

That explained the dress, then. He drank more coffee and stifled the impulse to ask her how she could stand the thought of two hours in the company of her aunt. But if she was willing to go shopping with him, something she loathed even more than he did, then he would forgo comment on her family.

‘We go every year; you know that,’ she said. She saw the face he made when she spoke of certain members of her family, and it prompted her to say, ‘Remember that she’s the one who brought a successful case against the diocese of Messina for fraud.’

He covered his eyes with his left hand and asked, ‘Must you always brag about your family?’ When Paola made no reply, he looked out at her from between his fingers. She did not smile.

He set the cup on the saucer, chose the noble path and said, as if he approved of her destination, ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten you told me you were going. Four o’clock is fine. I’ll try to think of what I’d like to get everyone.’

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘I love it when you lie to me.’ She pushed herself away from him and was about to get up from the bed when he lunged and seized her in both arms.

He pulled her towards him, watching her astonishment, delighted by it. He squeezed. She laughed. He squeezed again. She giggled. Suddenly he let her go and she jumped to her feet.

‘Will you do that to Patta the next time he accuses you of lying to him?’ she asked.

He looked her up and down. ‘Only if he wears a dress as short as that one.’ He pushed the covers aside and got out of bed.

Strangely enough, the sun appeared to have had no effect on the temperature: when Brunetti left the house, it felt even colder than it had the day before. By the time he got to Rialto, he felt the cold in his ears and nose, and he regretted the light-hearted optimism that had encouraged him to leave his gloves and scarf at home. As if the fog of the previous week had also dropped from his eyes, he registered for the first time that the city was ready for Christmas: tinsel and bulbs hung in almost every shop window.

He looked up and saw that strings of lights crossed above his head: how could he have walked home in the dark for weeks and not have noticed this? His thoughts turned to Paola’s Aunt Federica. Brunetti knew that she had taken Paola aside, years ago, and warned her that her marriage to a man ‘of his class’ would be her ruination, not