Despite their change of direction, the tide continued to sweep around them: comment was superfluous. When they reached the
Immediately they were approached by a hatchet-faced blonde dressed in jeans so tight they seemed to put her breathing, if not her life, at risk.
'This is an exit,' she said in a shrill voice, shooing her hands at them in a flutter of exasperation. 'And you'll block the people who want to get off.'
'This is a police warrant card,' Vianello said, producing it from his pocket and stepping over the chain to show it to her, 'and you're blocking the police in the performance of their duties.' She acknowledged no defeat, but whatever she said was drowned as the engine of the approaching vaporetto slipped into reverse. She wheeled around and stood, hands on hips in front of them, as though afraid they would try to slip on to the boat while the arriving passengers were still trying to get off.
They waited patiently, and when the flood from the boat ebbed, she had to move away to unhook the chain that blocked the waiting passengers. They walked on board with them.
As the boat pulled away from the landing, Brunetti nudged Vianello with his elbow and said, 'Resistance to an officer in performance of his duties. Three-year suspended sentence if it was a first offence.'
'I'd make it five’ Vianello said. 'For the jeans if for nothing else.'
'Ah’ Brunetti sighed with mock exaggeration, 'where have they gone, those good old days when we could intimidate anyone we wanted to?'
Vianello laughed out loud. ‘I think having this many people around all the time makes me bad tempered.'
'Get used to it, then.'
'To what?' Vianello asked.
'Bad temper, because it's just going to get worse. Last year sixteen million, this year twenty: God alone knows what it'll be like in a year’
Talking about this and saying the things each of them had said a hundred times, they passed the time until the vaporetto pulled up at the Zattere stop. It was not yet twelve, so they decided to see if they could find Fornari before they thought about lunch.
The day had softened, and the walk along the Zattere smothered them in light and beauty. Vianello, who appeared not to have freed himself of the weight of all those tourists, asked, 'What do we do when the Chinese start coming?'
'They already have, I think.'
'Part of the twenty million?' Seeing Brunetti's nod, Vianello added, 'Then what do we do when there are twenty million of them, plus the others?'
‘I don't know,' Brunetti said, letting his eyes feast on the facade of the Redentore on the far side of the canal, 'Ask for a transfer, I suppose.'
After considering this possibility, Vianello asked, 'Could you live anywhere else?'
By way of answer, Brunetti nodded with his chin at the church across the canal. 'No more than you, Lorenzo’ he answered.
They cut to the left before the ex-Swiss Consulate, then right, and into Calle de Mezo, and then they were there. Only there was no there there. That is, Signor Fornari and his wife, though they did indeed own the apartment on the third floor, did not live in it. Or so they were informed by the woman who owned the apartment two floors down, whose bell they rang when they saw that neither Fornari nor Vivarini was listed on the bells beside the front door.
French people lived there now, she informed them, as though Signor Fornari had rented the place to a pack of marauding Visigoths. He and his wife lived now in her mother's apartment, had been there ever since the old Signora had had to be put into the Casa di Dio six years ago. Lovely people, yes, Signora Orsola and Signor Giorgio, he selling kitchens and she running the family business: sugar. And such lovely children, Matteo and Ludovica, both of them so beautiful, and… ‘
Before she could continue, perhaps, with praise of the next generation, Brunetti asked if she by any chance had the phone number and address of Signor Fornari. This conversation took place entirely between the woman at her front window and Brunetti standing on the pavement below, and was open to anyone who passed by or who chose to open a window in any of the nearby buildings. At no time did the woman enquire who the Veneziano- speaking man was, nor did she display any reluctance in giving him both the address and phone number of Giorgio Fornari and his wife.
'San Marco,' Vianello repeated as they turned away from the closing window. Impatient, the Inspector dialled Pucetti and asked him to check where the address was. While they waited for the young officer to locate it, the two men continued to walk towards Cantinone Storico, having decided it was the best bet for lunch.
Vianello stopped walking. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, muttered something Brunetti did not hear, then thanked Pucetti and snapped the phone closed. 'It looks like the building backs on to Rio di Ca Michiel,' Vianello said.
Because they were in a hurry, they decided not to have pasta and settled for a single dish of shrimp with vegetables and coriander. They shared a bottle of Gottardi pinot noir, turned down dessert, and finished with coffee. Feeling full but still faintly unsatisfied, Brunetti and Vianello walked out to the Accademia. Crossing the bridge, they discussed things other than what they might expect at the address they were heading towards. By unspoken agreement, they ignored the rows of
'You think they deliberately choose materials that will wear out quickly?' Vianello asked, pointing down at one of the gaps in the surface beneath them.
'Humidity and millions of feet are just as sure to do the job for them, I think’ Brunetti said, knowing as he spoke that, however true, this explanation in no way excluded the other.
Talking idly, they crossed in front of the people seated at Paolin, eating the first
‘Is this the home of Giorgio Fornari?' Brunetti asked in Italian, rather than Veneziano.
'Yes, it is. What do you want?'
'This is Commissario Guido Brunetti, of the police, Signora. I'd like to speak to Signor Fornari.'
'What's wrong?' she asked with that involuntary intake of breath he had heard many times.
'Nothing, Signora. I'd like to speak to Signor Fornari.'
'He's not here.'
'May I ask who you are, Signora?' 'His wife’
'Then perhaps I could speak to you?' 'What is this about?' she asked with mounting impatience.
'Some missing property’ he said. After a moment's silence, she said, 'I don't understand.'
'Perhaps I could come up and explain it to you, Signora’ Brunetti suggested.
'All right’ she said. A moment later the latch on the front door snapped open.
'Take the lift’ the woman's voice came from the speaker beside them. 'Top floor.'
The lift was a tiny wooden box which held them with room to spare for a third person, a very thin third person. In mid-passage, the box gave a sudden small jerk, and Brunetti turned aside in surprise. He saw two grim-faced men looking as startled as he felt, then recognized himself and Vianello, who met his eyes in the mirror on the side wall.
The box shuddered to a stop and continued to vibrate for a few seconds, before Brunetti pushed back the swinging doors. At a doorway on the right stood a woman of medium height, medium build, with medium-length hair of an indeterminate colour somewhere between red and brown.
'I'm Orsola Vivarini’ she said without extending her hand or smiling.
Brunetti stepped from the box, followed by Vianello. 'Guido Brunetti’ he repeated, then turned to Vianello and gave his name.
