Drawing Conclusions

primitive superstition kept him wary of daring to make any conscious expression of gratitude: to do so was to invite disaster. And to think like this, he knew, was to be a primitive fool.

He let himself in, hung his jacket to the left of the door, and went towards the kitchen. Indeed, turbanti di soglie, or else both Paola and his nose were liars. She was in the kitchen, standing at the table, palms splayed on either side of an open newspaper, head bent as she read.

He came up behind her and kissed the back of her neck. She ignored him. He opened the cabinet to her right and pulled down a glass, then another one. He opened the fridge and removed another bottle of the Moet from the vegetable drawer, thinking how lucky he was to be married to a woman who would be offered such a tasteful bribe. He stripped off the foil, put his thumbs under the cork, and shot it across the room. Not even the explosive sound stirred her to action or comment.

He poured carefully into both glasses, allowed the bubbles to subside, added, waited, added, then put a stopper in the bottle and put it back in the door of the fridge. He slid one glass towards her until it touched the edge of the page, then picked up his glass and tapped it against hers. ‘Cin cin,’ he said in his gruff, hearty voice.

She ignored him and turned a page. He put a hand out to steady her glass, nudged to one side by the turning page of the newspaper. ‘It does a man’s heart good to come into the bosom of his family and be welcomed with the affection he is accustomed to,’ he said and sipped at his wine. ‘Ah, that effusive warmth, that sense of familial intimacy and well-being to be had only in a man’s home, surrounded and revered by the people he most cherishes.’

She reached aside, picked up her glass, and took a sip. What she tasted caused her to look aside at him. ‘Is this more of the Moet?’ she asked.

‘The woman wins a prize,’ he said, toasted her, and took another sip.

‘I thought we were going to save it for something special?’ she asked, sounding surprised but not at all displeased.

‘And what is more special than that I return to my lady wife and she greets me with the loving kindness – beneath which glow the embers of raging passion – that has characterized our union for these two decades and more?’ He tried to make his smile as idiotic as possible.

She set her glass on top of the newspaper – in fact, right on the face of the man who had that day declared his candidacy for mayor – and said, ‘If you’ve stopped for a few ombre on the way home, Guido, then I think we might be wasting this champagne.’

‘No, my sweet. I was borne home on the wings of love and was so driven to be united with your sweet self that I had no time to think of stopping.’

She picked up her glass took another sip, then tipped the base of the glass to point at the photo. ‘Can you believe this? He’s going to remain a cabinet minister and at the same time be mayor.’

‘Which days do we get?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Monday, Wednesday, and Friday? And the government in Rome gets Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday?’ He took a sip and said, ‘Any sane person would think this an insult, both to the nation and to the city.’

She shrugged. ‘Didn’t the last one keep his job in Brussels and his university teaching job?’ she asked.

‘We are ruled by a race of heroes,’ Brunetti declared, reaching to open the refrigerator.

‘Do you think drinking the whole bottle quickly will make them all go away?’ she asked, emptying her glass and holding it out.

He poured, waited, poured, then said, ‘Only for a while, and then they’ll all come back, like cockroaches, but we’ll at least be able to look at them through the bubbles of champagne.’

In quite a conversational voice, she asked, ‘Do you think there are any people on earth who despise their politicians as much as we do?’

He filled his own glass before he said, ‘Oh, I’m sure that, except for places like Scandinavia and Switzerland, most people do.’

She heard the teasing end of that sentence and asked, ‘But?’

Brunetti studied the photo in the newspaper. ‘But we have more cause than most, I think.’ He took a long drink.

‘I often wonder what planet they think they’re living on,’ Paola said, folding the paper closed and shifting it to one side. ‘They speak no language known to man, they know no passions other than greed and-’

‘If you’re listing their passions, don’t forget to include the current one for transsexuals,’ he said, aiming for precision and hoping to lighten her mood, though he was not quite sure how the subject of transsexuals was meant to do that.

‘Their sense of ethics would make that dead transsexual – I can’t even remember her name any more, poor girl – look like the late Mother Teresa.’

‘That is a comparison which many religious people would find offensive,’ he said.

She gave this the consideration it deserved and said, ‘You’re right. Even I find it offensive. But I get carried away by these things.’

He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. ‘I know, my dear, and that’s one of the reasons you have captured my heart.’

‘Oh, stop it, Guido,’ she said, holding out her glass. ‘Pour me some more and I’ll put the water on for the pasta.’

He did as she requested, then helped her set the table, pleased to learn that the kids were both to be there. How life plays tricks with us, he thought, as he folded the napkins and set them beside the plates. When Raffi was just starting to sit at the table and eat with them, dropping as much on the table or the floor as he got into his mouth, sipping and spilling and never quite sure what to do with his fork, Brunetti had viewed his behaviour not as charming, but as a continual distraction from his own meal. Yet here he was, years later, hoping that boy – now fully competent in the use of his fork – would find the time to eat with them and not take himself off to a friend’s house. It had nothing whatsoever to do with his son’s conversation, nor his wit nor his grasp of ideas, Brunetti realized. It simply filled Brunetti’s heart to have them there and to be able to see and hear them, knowing they were safe and warm and well fed.

‘What’s wrong?’ Paola asked from behind him.

‘Hmmm?’ Brunetti asked, turning to face her.

‘You were standing there, staring at the table, and I wondered if something were wrong,’ she said, puzzled.

‘No. Nothing. I was thinking.’

‘Ah,’ she said in the voice of someone who had heard that one before. Then, ‘Shall we have another whack at that bottle before the kids get here?’

With Pavlovian rapidity, Brunetti turned to the refrigerator. ‘The elegance of your thinking is matched only by that of your language,’ he said.

She smiled and held her empty glass towards him. ‘It’s the fate of the person who lives with two teenagers.’

There remained sufficient champagne for each of the children to find a glass in front of them as they sat down to dinner.

‘What are we celebrating?’ Raffi asked as he picked up his glass.

‘You don’t have to have something to celebrate to drink champagne,’ Chiara said, trying to sound like the sort of person who has left a trail of empty jeroboams behind her. She lifted her glass and clicked it against Raffi’s, then took a sip.

Raffi, looking at his glass but making no attempt to drink from it, said, ‘I don’t get it about champagne.’

Paola placed a plate of turbanti in front of him and one in front of Chiara, then went to fill two for Brunetti and herself. She set them down and took her place. ‘What don’t you understand?’ she asked, though not before she had taken a sip, as if to re-test the evidence.

‘Why people go crazy about it or think it’s so good,’ Raffi said, sliding his glass to the side of his plate and picking up his fork.

‘Snobbery,’ Chiara said through a mouthful of fish.

‘Chiara,’ Paola said in a warning voice, and Chiara nodded and put her hand to her mouth in acknowledgement of the reprimand. She poured some mineral water and took a sip, set her fork down and