By Its Cover by Donna Leon

sipped and rolled it around on her tongue, Brunetti studied his parents-in-law. The Conte’s face was more lined, his hair whiter, but he still stood straight, though Brunetti realized he was no longer as tall as he once had been. The Contessa seemed the same as ever, her hair now a blonde that hinted at whiteness. She had had the sense, decades before, to declare the sun her enemy, and her face, as a result, was unlined and unblemished.
    Paola interrupted his thoughts by saying, ‘It’s still young and a bit rough on the back of the tongue, but next year it will be perfect.’ She looked at Brunetti and said, ‘So next year we have to visit more often.’ Saying that, she leaned aside and patted her mother on the thigh, then started to tell her about Chiara’s latest scholastic triumph.
    The Conte drifted back to the front window, and Brunetti, who could never see enough of the view, joined him. Looking down at the water two floors below, the Conte said, ‘I used to swim there when I was a boy.’ He sipped at his wine.
    ‘So did I. But not here. Down in Castello,’ Brunetti said. Then, after imagining the water, ‘It’s a terrible thought, isn’t it? Doing it now, I mean?’
    ‘Many things have become terrible here,’ the Conte said, tilting his glass in the direction of one of the palazzi onthe other side of the Grand Canal. ‘The third floor of Palazzo Benelli is a bed and breakfast. The heir’s Brazilian companion runs it and that gives him enough to keep him in cocaine.’ He leaned forward and pointed up the Canal on their side. ‘Two doors down from here, the owner had his friends appoint him an inspector for the Fine Arts Commission and is now available for consultations about permits for restorations.’
    ‘“Consultations”?’
    ‘That’s what they’re called. An English acquaintance wanted to gut the piano nobile of a palazzo near the Rialto, but to do it he had to take down a wall that had frescoes from the sixteenth century. He had his consultation, and then he had his permits.’
    ‘How is that possible?’ Brunetti asked out of real curiosity, having no intention to pursue it professionally.
    ‘The frescoes had been hidden by a fake wall, probably for centuries, and weren’t discovered until his workers started removing that wall, so they were never registered. The workmen were all from Moldavia and didn’t much care what they did. So he had his consultation, and the wall came down.’
    ‘He’s Venetian, isn’t he?’ Brunetti asked unnecessarily. He knew whom the Count was talking about and had heard other stories about building permits and how to be sure to get them, but something perverse in him needed confirmation.
    ‘They’re all Venetian,’ the Conte said, speaking the word as though it were ‘paedophile’ or ‘necrophiliac’. ‘The men who decide that the cruise ships can continue to shake the city to pieces and pollute it as though it were Beijing, and the men who insist that MOSE is going to work and let’s see how much more we can get out of it, and the people who run the only casinò on the planet that loses money.’

    Brunetti had been hearing the same things – and saying them – for years, and now he said the same thing he often asked himself: ‘What are you going to do about it?’
    The Conte looked at him with real affection. ‘I’m so glad we finally talk to one another, Guido.’ He sipped, then set his glass down on a table. ‘The only thing I can do is what I’ve been doing for the last five years.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Move my money out of the country. Invest in countries that have a future, invest in countries where there is the rule of law.’ He stopped, all but inviting Brunetti to ask.
    ‘Which ones are those?’
    ‘The Northern ones. Even the United States. Australia.’
    ‘Not China?’
    The Conte made a face and said, ‘The rule of law, Guido. I don’t want to go from the frying pan into the fire. I don’t want to go from a