Rossi shook his head in silent negation then said, 'Not that I recall, no.'
'Since his mother's death, has anyone spoken of him?' Brunetti asked.
'His mother?' Rossi asked, and then his face registered the connection. 'That woman who was killed?' he asked. Brunetti nodded.
‘I didn't make the connection’ Rossi said. ‘It's not an uncommon name.' Rossi's voice changed and he asked, 'Why are you asking about him?'
‘It's a case of eliminating a possibility, Dottore. We want to be sure there was no connection between him and his mother's death.'
'After five years?' Rossi asked. 'You say he left here five years ago?' His tone suggested he thought Brunetti might be better occupied asking questions about something else.
Brunetti ignored this and said, 'As I said, we're trying to eliminate possibilities, rather than make connections, Dottore. That's why we're asking.' He waited for Rossi to question this, but he did not. When Rossi moved back in his chair, Brunetti observed that he did not use his hands, only the strength of his legs.
Brunetti leaned back in his own chair, threw up his open palms in a gesture of defeat, and said, 'To tell the truth, Dottore, we're at a bit of a loss about him. We have no idea what sort of man he was.'
'But his mother is the one who got killed, isn't she?' Rossi asked, like one who had taken it upon himself to remind the police of what they were meant to be doing.
'Indeed,' Brunetti answered and smiled again. 'It's nothing more than habit, I suppose. We always try to learn as much as we can about victims and the people around them.'
As if remembering, Rossi asked, 'But wasn't there something in the papers when it happened about a foreign woman, a Russian or something?'
'Romanian’ Brunetti said automatically. Some sense registered that Rossi did not like being corrected, and so he added, 'Not that it matters, Dottore. We had hoped to find some reason why she might have resented or disliked Signora Battestini’ then, before Rossi said anything, he went on, 'The son might have offended her in some way.'
'She came to work for Signora Battestini after her son died, didn't she?' Rossi asked, as if to add this fact to the others that rendered Brunetti's questions futile.
'Yes, she did’ Brunetti said, repeating his open-handed gesture less dramatically, and got to his feet. ‘I don't think there's anything else I need to ask you about him, Dottore. Thank you very much for your time.'
Rossi stood. ‘I hope I was able to be of some help’ he said.
Brunetti's smile grew even broader, 'I'm afraid you were, Dottore’ he said, then continued seamlessly, seeing Rossi's surprise, 'in that you eliminated a possibility for us. We'll have to concentrate our attention on Signora Battestini again.'
Rossi accompanied Brunetti to the office door. He leaned down a little to reach the handle and pulled open the door. He put out his hand, and Brunetti took it: two city officials, shaking hands after a few minutes of helpful cooperation. With repeated thanks for the doctor's time, Brunetti pulled the door closed behind him and started back towards the stairway, wondering how it was that Dottore Rossi knew that Paolo Battestini, whom he said he did not know, was dead and that Flori Ghiorghiu had come to work for his mother only after that event.
It was after eight when he got home, but Paola had decided to delay dinner at least until half-past on the assumption that he would have called if he was going to be much later.
His sober mood was matched by that of the other three members of his family, at least when they first sat down. But by the time the kids had eaten two helpings of
'What happens to the salt, Mamma?' Chiara asked as she poured some olive oil on her own helping of fish.
'I put it in the garbage.'
Ts it true that the Indians used to put fish bones around corn to make it grow better?' she asked, pushing them to one side of her plate.
'Dot Indians or Feather Indians?' Raffi asked.
'Feather Indians, of course,' Chiara answered, oblivious to the racist overtones of Raffi's question. 'You know corn didn't grow in India.'
'Raffi,' Paola said, 'will you take the garbage down tonight and put it in the entrance hall? I don't want this fish stinking up the house.'
'Sure. I told Giorgio and Luca I'd meet them at nme-thirty. I'll take it down when I go.'
'Did you put your things in the washing machine?' she asked.
He rolled his eyes. 'You think I'd try to get out of this place without doing it?' He turned to his father and, in a voice that proclaimed male solidarity, said, 'She's got radar.' Then he spelled the last word out, slowly, letter by letter, just to make clear the nature of the regime under which he lived.
'Thanks,' Paola said, certain of her powers and impervious to all reproach.
When Chiara offered to help with the dishes, Paola told her she'd do them herself because of the fish. Chiara took this as a reprieve rather than as an affront to her domestic skills and went to take advantage of Raffi's absence to use the computer.
Brunetti got up as she was finishing the dishes and pulled the Moka out of the cabinet.
'Coffee?' Paola asked. She knew his habits well enough to know he usually had coffee after dinner only in restaurants.
'Yes. I'm beat’ he confessed.
'Maybe it would be better just to go to bed early’ she suggested.
‘I don't know if I can sleep in this heat’ he said.
'Let me finish these’ she offered, 'and then we can go out and sit on the terrace for a while. Until you get sleepy.'
'All right’ he agreed, put the pot back and opened the next cabinet. 'What's good to drink in this heat?' he asked, surveying the bottles that filled two shelves.
'Sparkling mineral water.'
'Very funny’ Brunetti said. He reached deep into the cabinet for a bottle of Galliano way at the back. He rephrased his question. 'What's good to drink while sitting on the terrace, watching the sun fade in the west, while sitting beside the person you adore most in the universe and realizing that life has no greater joy to offer than the company of that person?'
Draping the dishtowel over the handle of the drawer where the knives and forks were kept, she gave him a long glance that ended in a quizzical grin. 'Non-sparkling mineral water might be better for a man in your condition’ she said and went out on the terrace to wait for him to join her.
He found himself afflicted, the next morning, with the lethargy that often came upon him when a case seemed to be going nowhere. Added to this was the penetrating heat that had already taken a grip on the day by the time he woke. Even the cup of coffee Paola brought him did nothing to lift the oppression of his spirits, nor did the long shower he permitted himself, taking advantage of the fact that both children had already left for the Alberoni, and thus there was no chance of their angry banging on the bathroom door should he use more water than their ecological sensibilities permitted. Two decades of habitual morning grumpiness had established Paola's rights to that mood, so he knew there was little joy to be had in her conversation.
He left the apartment directly after his shower, faintly annoyed with the universe. As he walked towards Rialto, he decided to have another coffee at the bar on the next corner. He bought a paper and was reading the headlines as he walked in. He went to the counter and, eyes still on the paper, asked for a coffee and a brioche. He paid no real attention to the familiar sound of the coffee machine, the thud and the hiss, nor to the sound of the cup being set in front of him. But when he looked up, he saw that the woman who had been serving him coffee for decades was gone; that, or she had been transformed into a Chinese woman half her age. He looked at the cash register, and there was another Chinese, this one a man, standing behind it.
He had seen this happening for months, this gradual taking over of the bars of the city by Chinese owners and workers, but this was the first time it had occurred in one of the places he frequented. He resisted the impulse to ask where Signora Rosalba had gone, and her husband, and instead added two sugars to his coffee. He walked
