The Girl of his Dreams

Antonin wanted to speak to him about it suggested it was something at variance with the law.

'His mother is very worried about him’ Antonin continued.

There were many reasons a mother could worry about her son, Brunetti knew: his own mother had worried about him and Sergio, and Paola worried about Raffi, though he knew that Paola had little reason to worry about what most mothers today feared for their children: drugs. How lucky to live in a city with a small population of young people, Brunetti reflected, not for the first time. If they had to live in a world driven by capitalism, then thank heaven for this fortuitous side-effect: with so small a target population, few would go to the trouble and expense of marketing drugs in Venice.

Into Brunetti's continuing silence, Antonin asked, 'Do you mind if I ask you about this, Guido?'

Brunetti smiled. ‘I still don't know what it is you're asking me about, Antonin, so I can't mind’ he said.

The priest at first looked surprised by Brunetti's remark, but then he gave a grin that managed to make him look almost embarrassed and agreed. 'Gia, gia. It's hard to talk about.' He paused, then added, ‘I suppose I'm not accustomed to the problems of luxury any more.'

'I'm not sure I understand’ Brunetti said. It was a statement, but it disguised a question.

'Where I was, in Congo, people had different problems: disease, or poverty, or starvation, or soldiers who came and took away their possessions, sometimes their children.' The priest looked across at Brunetti, to see if he was following. 'So I've sort of lost the knack of listening to problems that aren't concerned with survival; to problems that come from wealth, not poverty.'

'Do you miss it?' Brunetti asked.

'What? Africa?'

Brunetti nodded.

Antonin used his hands to make another arc in the air. 'It's hard to say. I miss some of the things about it: the people, the immensity of the place, the sense that I was doing something important.'

'But you came back’ Brunetti observed, saying, not asking.

Antonin looked Brunetti in the eyes then and said, ‘I didn't have a choice.'

Brunetti asked, 'Your health?' thinking of how thin the man had looked as he came up the steps, how thin he was now, sitting across from him.

'Yes’ the priest said, and then added, 'in part.'

'And the other part?' Brunetti asked because he sensed that he had been led to a point where he was expected to.

'Problems with my superiors’ the priest answered.

Brunetti had little interest in this man's problems with his superiors, but he thought back to what he remembered of Antonin's youthful need to command and found that he was not surprised. 'It was about four years ago that you came back, wasn't it?' Brunetti asked.

'Yes.'

'Is that when the war started?' Antonin shook his head. 'There's always a war in Congo. At least where I was.' 'War about what?'

Antonin surprised him by asking, 'Are you really interested, or are you just being polite, Guido?' 'I'm interested.'

'All right, then. The war, though there's always more than one, is really many mini wars or robber wars or robber raids – they're all about getting possession of something someone else has that you want. So you wait until you have enough men with guns, and you think you can go and take it away – whatever it is you want – from the other men who are guarding it with their guns. And then there is a fight, or a battle, or a war, and in the end the men who manage to have the most guns or the most men left get to keep or they take over the thing that both sides wanted.'

'What things?

'Copper. Diamonds. Other minerals. Women. Animals. It depends.' Antonin glanced at Brunetti, then went on, 'I'll give you one example. There's a mineral that's found in Congo, well, most of the present supply is found in Congo, and you have to have it to make the chips for telefonini. So you can imagine what men will do to get it’

'No’ Brunetti said with a small shake of his head, 'I don't think I can imagine.'

Antonin was silent for a while, then finally said, 'No, I suppose you can't, Guido. I don't think people here, with rules and police and cars and houses, have any idea of what it's like to live entirely without law’ Then, before Brunetti could say it, the priest went on, ‘I know, I know, people here talk about the Mafia and how they do whatever they want, but at least they're limited – well, sort of limited – in where they're allowed to work and what they're allowed to do. Maybe what you have to do is imagine what it would be like here if the only power were in the hands of the Mafia. If there were no government, no police, no army, nothing except roving bands of thugs who thought that having a gun gave them the right to take anything, or anyone, they wanted.'

'And that's how you lived?' Brunetti asked.

'Not at the beginning, no; it got worse towards the end. Before that, we had some protection. And then for a year or so, we had the UN nearby, and they kept things relatively quiet. But then they left.'

'And then you left?' Brunetti asked.

The priest took in a deep breath, as though someone had punched him. 'Yes, then I left’ he said. 'And now I have to busy myself with the problems of luxury.'

'You sound as though you don't like it’ Brunetti observed.

'It's not a question of liking or not liking, Guido. It's a question of seeing the difference and trying to believe that the effects on people are the same and that rich, comfortable people suffer as much as those poor devils who have nothing, and who then have that nothing taken away from them’

'Without believing that it is the same?'

Antonin smiled and gave an elegant shrug. 'Faith can achieve all things, my son.'

4

Faith or no faith, Brunetti realized he was no closer to knowing what had brought the priest to his office than he had been when the man arrived. He did know, however, that he was being set up by the priest to view him in a sympathetic light because of the way he had just spoken of the plight of the Congolese. But a stone would pity those afflicted people: indeed, Brunetti was curious about a man who seemed to believe that he was displaying some special sensibility by saying such things.

Brunetti made no response. The priest remained motionless and silent, perhaps thinking his last remark – which had sounded like the worst sort of pious platitude to Brunetti – was sufficiently profound to merit only unspoken congratulation.

Brunetti let the silence expand. He had no favours to ask of the priest, and so he let him sit. Finally Antonin said, 'As I told you, I'd like to ask you about my friend's son.'

'Of course,' Brunetti answered neutrally, then, when Antonin did not continue, he asked, 'What has he done?'

The priest pulled his lips together at this and shook his head, as if Brunetti had asked a question too difficult, or impossible, to answer. Finally he said, 'It's not that he's done anything. It's more that he's thinking of doing something.'

Brunetti began to consider possibilities: the young man – he assumed he was young – could be considering a crime of some sort. Or he was involved with people it was dangerous to know. Perhaps he was caught up with drugs or the traffic in drugs.

'What is it he's thinking of doing?' Brunetti finally asked.

'Selling his apartment.'

Brunetti knew his fellow Venetians were considered a house-proud people, but he was not aware that it had been made a crime to sell one. Well, not unless it did not belong to you, that is.

He decided to interrupt Antonin here, or this back and forth could continue for more time than he would have patience for. 'Before we go on with this, perhaps you could tell me if this sale or anything to do with it is