The Girl of his Dreams

stored in her memory.

She opened her eyes and said, ‘I can't remember his name, but he has the wife of Snagsby, the law stationer, in thrall, and so he's a permanent guest at their dinner table, where he spends most of his time spouting platitudes and asking rhetorical questions about virtue and religion. Poor Snagsby wants to drive a stake through his heart, but he's so much a prisoner of his wife that he doesn't even know he wants to do this.'

'And?' Brunetti asked, curious as to why they had all been taken to dinner with this Snagsby, whoever he was.

'And there is a sort of generic resemblance between him and the man we just listened to – Brother Leonardo – if that's who he was,' Paola answered, reminding Brunetti that Signora Sambo had not bothered to use the man's name, nor had anyone in the room used it during the evening.

'Nothing he said was in any way exceptional, just the same sort of pious platitudes you get in the editorials in Famiglia Cristiana’ Paola went on, leaving Brunetti to wonder how on earth she could be familiar with them. 'But it's certainly the sort of thing people like to hear,' she concluded.

'Why?' Vianello asked, then waved to the barman, passing his hand over the four glasses.

'Because they don't have to do anything’ Paola answered. 'AH they have to do is feel the right things, and that makes them believe they deserve credit for having done something.' Her voice deepened into disgust and she added, 'It's all so terribly American.'

'Why American?' Nadia asked, reaching for one of the fresh glasses the barman set on the counter.

'Because they think it's enough to feel things: they've come to believe it's more important than doing things, or it's the same thing or, at any rate, deserves just as much credit as actually doing something. What is it that poseur of a president of theirs was always saying, 'I feel your pain'? As if that made any difference to anything. God, it's enough to choke a pig.' Paola picked up her glass and took a hefty slug.

'All you've got to do is have the proper feelings,' she went on, 'the fashionable sentiments, and make a business about how delicate your sensibility is. And then you don't actually have to do anything. All you do is stand there with your precious sentiments hanging out while the world falls over itself applauding you for them and giving you credit for having the same feelings that any sentient being would have.'

Brunetti had seldom seen Paola respond so savagely. 'My, my, my’ he observed and took a sip of his prosecco.

Her head whipped towards him, her eyes startled. But then he watched her play her remarks back and take another hefty swig before saying, 'It was exposure to all that goodness, I think. It goes right to my head and provokes the worst parts of my character.'

They all laughed and the conversation became general.

'I'm always nervous when people don't use concrete nouns when they speak’ Nadia said.

'It's why she never listens to politicians’ Vianello said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer to him.

‘Is that how you keep her in thrall, Lorenzo?' Paola asked. 'You read her a list of nouns every morning?'

Brunetti glanced at Vianello, who said, 'I'm not a big fan of preachers, myself, especially when they make it sound like they aren't preaching.'

'But he wasn't preaching, was he?' Nadia asked. 'Not really.'

'No’ Brunetti said, 'not at all. But I think we should remember that he saw four people there he had never seen before, and it might be that he was keeping things light and general until he found out who we were.'

'And I'm the one with the low opinion of human nature?' Paola asked.

'It's only a possibility’ Brunetti said. 'I was told that there is generally a collection, or at least people pass him envelopes, but there was none of that tonight.'

'At least while we were still there’ Nadia said.

'True enough’ Brunetti admitted.

'So what do we do?' Paola asked. Turning to Brunetti, she said, 'It will put our marriage in serious peril if you ask me to go again.'

'Peril peril, or pretend peril?' he asked.

Brunetti saw her lips draw together as she considered how to answer him. 'Pretend peril, I suppose’ she finally admitted, 'though the thought of having to go again would drive me to drinking the cooking sherry in the afternoon.'

'You already do’ he said, putting an end to the discussion of Brother Leonardo.

11

The next day, Brunetti had barely seated himself at his desk when he received a call from Signorina Elettra, newly returned from Abano, who informed him that the Vice-Questore, himself just back from the crime seminar in Berlin, wanted to have a few words with him. This phrase, 'have a few words with him', struck an odd note: its measured neutrality had none of Patta's usual aggressive bluster, nor did it reflect the patent falsity of Patta's amiability when he felt himself in need of a favour.

Curiosity led Brunetti downstairs and into Signorina Elettra's office. He saw immediately that something was different, but it took him a moment to realize what it was: on her desk, where he had grown accustomed to seeing the large console of her computer, he saw only a thin black screen. The keyboard, bulky and grey, had been replaced by a sleek black rectangle on which flat keys did their best to look invisible.

Signorina Elettra's ensemble for the day of her return complemented the keyboard: a black and grey patterned sweater that he recalled Paola's calling to his attention in Loro Piana's window a week before, and black trousers below which lurked the tips of a pair of black patent leather pumps that were half shoe, half rapier.

'Do you have any idea of just which words he wants to have with me?' Brunetti asked by way of greeting.

Signorina Elettra pulled her attention away from the screen. As Brunetti watched, her smile dissolved and was replaced by a stiff-faced look of great attentiveness. ‘I believe the Vice-Questore has taken an interest in the subject of multi-cultural sensitivity, sir,' she explained, choosing to use the English phrase.

'Berlin?' Brunetti asked.

'From the notes the Vice-Questore has given me for his report to the Questore about the conference, I am led to that conclusion.'

''Multi-cultural sensitivity'?'

'Indeed.'

'Does that have a meaning in Italian?' Brunetti enquired.

She reached absently for a pencil, which she held by the tip, tapping the eraser against a sheet of paper on her desk. 'From the notes he gave me, I suspect it means that there will be some new directives issued concerning the behaviour of officers in situations involving extra-comunitari.'

'All foreigners or just extra-comunitari?' Brunetti asked. 'No, not Europeans or Americans, sir. I think the expressions formerly used were 'Third World', or poor.

'Now replaced by 'extracomunitari'

'Exactly.'

‘I see,' Brunetti said, wondering if the piece of paper beneath the eraser was part of Patta's report. 'Is there a precise form that this sensitivity is meant to take?'

'I think it concerns the way the arresting officer is supposed to speak to the person he's arresting, sir’ she said blandly.

'Ah’ Brunetti returned, his question disguised as a noise.

'It seems the current philosophy’ she began, placing an unduly heavy emphasis on that word, as if she were posting it on a wall, the better to take a few shots at it, 'is that the members of minority groups are the victims of a stance of -' She broke off and pulled the sheet of paper forward. 'Ah yes, here it is’ she continued, using the eraser to point at the centre of the page. ''… a stance of undue verbal aggression on the part of the arresting officers’' she finished.

'What's a verbal stance?' Brunetti asked.