The Girl of his Dreams

‘People don't lose children’ Paola said that night, before dinner, when he had described the events of the day. 'They misplace their keys or their telefonini, or they lose their wallets, or have them stolen, but they don't lose their children, especially not when they're only ten’ She paused, an onion on the cutting board in front of her, and added, ‘I can't make any sense of it, really. Unless it's like that scene in Luke, where Jesus goes to Jerusalem with His parents, and then they lose Him on the way back.'

Good Lord, the woman was capable of reading anything.

'When they finally did locate Him’ she said, flicking the skin aside with the blade of the knife and starting to chop, 'He was back in the Temple, preaching to the Elders.'

'And you think that's what might have happened with this little girl?' Brunetti asked.

'No’ she said and set the knife down. She turned to face him. 1 suppose I don't want to think about the alternatives.'

'That she was killed?'

Paola bent down and took a large frying pan from the cabinet. 'If you don't mind, Guido, I can't talk about this. At least not now’

'Want me to do anything?' he asked, hoping she would say no.

'Give me a glass of wine and then go and read’ she said, which is exactly what he did.

Some months ago, Brunetti, goaded by his wife's violent denunciation of contemporary theatre and film as unmitigated garbage, had decided to reread the Greek dramatists. They, after all, had been the fathers of theatre, which perhaps made them the grandfathers of film, though this was an accusation Brunetti was reluctant to bring against them.

He had begun with Lysistrata - Paola had heartily approved – then the Oresteia, which had left him troubled that, even two thousand years ago, no one had seemed able to figure out the meaning of justice. Then The Clouds and its delicious sending up of Socrates, and now The Trojan Women, in which he knew there would be no sending up of anyone or anything.

They knew a thing or two, these Greeks. They knew about mercy, but more about vengeance. And they knew that Fortune was an idiot's dance, springing away, and then back, and then again away. And they knew that no one is ever always fortunate.

The book fell to his chest and he stared out the window at the growing darkness. He could not bring himself, not that night, to read of the death of Astyanax. He closed his eyes, and the greater darkness brought him the memory of the dead child, the feel of the silk threads of her hair around his wrist.

The front door opened with more noise than a door should make when opening, and Chiara banged her way into the apartment. Brunetti could never understand how a girl so delicate in appearance could be the creator of such perpetual noise. She bumped into things, dropped books, flipped pages with more noise than a motor scooter, and managed, always, to hit the surface of her plate with her knife and fork.

He heard her stop at the door and called, 'Ciao, angelo mio.'

Her hand slapped on the wall a few times, and then the light in the corner went on. 'Ciao, Papa', she said, 'You hiding from Mamma?' He saw her at the door, a small version of her mother, but suddenly not by much. When had she grown those last few centimetres and why had he not noticed it before?

'No, just in here reading’ he answered.

'In the dark?' she asked. 'Neat trick.'

'Well,' Brunetti explained, ‘I was reading, but then I thought I'd sit here and think about what I had read.'

'Like they tell us to do in school?' she asked innocently, drawing closer. She flopped down on the sofa beside him.

'I assume that's a fake question’ he said, leaning aside to kiss her cheek.

She guffawed. 'Of course it's fake. Why else would you read, if you weren't supposed to think about it?' She settled against the back of the sofa and put her feet up on the table next to his, waving them from side to side. 'But that's what the teachers are always telling us: ''think about what you read. These books are meant to serve you as examples for your lives, to enrich and improve them’' Her voice deepened as she said this, and all trace of the Veneto cadence had dropped out as she slipped into Tuscan so pure Dante would have approved. 'Well?' he asked.

'You tell me how my mathematics book can enrich and improve my life, and I'll promise to take my feet off the table and never put them there again.' She turned her left foot out and tapped at his right one a few times, reminding him of Paola's prohibition of feet on tables.

‘I think your teachers might be speaking in a more general sense’ Brunetti began.

'That's what you always say when you try to defend them’ Chiara answered.

'Especially when they say something stupid?' he asked.

'Yes. Usually.'

'Do they say a lot of stupid things?' he asked.

It took her some time to answer this. 'No, I don't think so. The worst is Professoressa Manfredi, I suppose.' This was Chiara's history teacher, a woman whose remarks had been much discussed at their dinner table. 'But everyone knows she's Lega, so all she wants us to do is grow up and vote to separate from the rest of Italy and throw all the foreigners out.'

'Does anyone pay attention to what she says?'

'No, not even the kids whose parents vote for the Lega.' Chiara reflected on this and then added, 'Piero Raffardi saw her with her husband one day: they were in a store, trying to buy him a suit. And he's just this little ratty-looking man with a moustache, and every time he tried something on, he'd complain about how expensive it was. Piero was in the dressing room next to him, and when he saw who it was, well, who he was with, he decided to stay there and listen to them’ Brunetti could imagine the pleasure it would give a student to be able to eavesdrop on a teacher, especially if it were Manfredi, the black nemesis of most of Chiara's class.

She turned her head towards him and asked, 'You're not going to tell me it's impolite to eavesdrop?'

'You know it's impolite’ he said calmly, 'but, in these circumstances, I would assume it was also irresistible.'

There was a long silence, the only sounds those that came from the kitchen. 'How come you and Mamma’ Chiara suddenly asked, 'never tell us what's right and wrong?'

From her tone, Brunetti had no idea how serious a question this was. Finally, he answered, ‘I think we do, Chiara.'

'Well, I don't’ she countered. 'The one time I asked Mamma about it, all she did was quote that stupid Bleak House’ With a voice that had more than a passing resemblance to Paola's, Chiara quoted, ''knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie.'' Switching back from English, she asked, 'What's that supposed to mean?'

Had a man ever been married to a woman whose moral code was based on the British novel? he asked himself. He decided to spare his daughter this question and, instead, said, ‘I think it means that you're supposed to do your job, whatever it is, and not lie.'

'Yes, but what about all that stuff about not killing your neighbour or coveting your neighbour's wife?'

He allowed himself to sink deeper into the sofa as he considered her question. After some time, he answered, 'Well, one way of looking at it is to see all those things, those ten things, as specific examples of the general rule’

'You mean Dickens' Golden Rule?' Chiara asked with a laugh.

'You could call it that, yes, I suppose’ Brunetti admitted. 'If you do your job, you're unlikely to want to kill your neighbour, and in your case, I doubt you're going to spend much time in your life coveting your neighbour's wife.'

'Can't you ever be serious, Papa?' she pleaded.

'Not when I'm hungry’ Brunetti said and got to his feet.