By Its Cover by Donna Leon Page A

country where the law is hopeless and the political system corrupt to one where there is no law, and the political system is even more corrupt.’
    Brunetti ran his mind around the globe, seeking some other place where the rule of law prevailed and where – his father-in-law’s concern – money would be safe. Searching for safety on that green, blue, and beige ball suspended in space, Brunetti realized that people tended to be physically safe in the countries where money was also safe. Or had the Conte’s capitalism infected him during these past years, and he’d got it backwards and it was actually that money was safe in places where people were safe?
    It was delicate, proceeding here. Could he ask Conte Orazio what money it was? Could he ask if he were investing in companies there or relocating his own to other countries? The Guardia di Finanza dealt with this sort of thing, checking for irregularities; in the tangled skein of Italian law, there was always a way to find irregularitiesof one sort or another. ‘Make the laws for your friends, impose them on your enemies.’ How many times in his life had people explained that rule of survival to him?
    ‘I hope your plans are successful,’ was all he could think of to say.
    ‘Thank you,’ the Conte said, with a smile and a nod that acknowledged Brunetti’s right to avoid engagement with this subject. ‘And you? What are you doing?’
    It was not necessary for Brunetti to ask the Conte not to repeat what he was told. His father-in-law had not achieved his position in the country by being a blabbermouth. ‘We were called about a robbery at the Biblioteca Merula. Someone who was using the library for research sliced pages from books. Others are missing.’
    ‘How did he get in?’ the Conte asked. ‘Didn’t they check him or check his application?’ Then, after a pause replete with feigned patience, he added, ‘If they make people fill out applications, that is.’
    ‘He filled one out. But he had a fake passport and a fake letter of recommendation from an American university.’
    ‘No one noticed they were fake?’
    Brunetti shrugged. ‘They believed him to be a member of the community of scholars.’
    This was greeted by a wild hoot of derision from Paola, who had apparently diverted her attention from her mother long enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. ‘“Community of scholars”,’ she repeated. ‘It would make the chickens laugh.’
    Mildly, her mother said, ‘We sent you to all those famous schools, dear, and now you speak badly about your colleagues. Couldn’t you be a little bit kinder?’
    Paola leaned to the side and put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. She kissed her cheek, then kissed it again. ‘ Mamma , you are the only person on the planetwho would consider the riff-raff I’m at university with to be scholars.’
    ‘You went there and you’re one, please don’t forget,’ her mother said, still mildly.
    ‘ Mamma , please,’ Paola begged. But before she could say more, the young man who had greeted them on their arrival appeared in the doorway and said that dinner was ready.
    Brunetti extended his hand to the Contessa, who placed hers on it, as light as a feather, and got effortlessly to her feet. Paola stood up, far less gracefully, put on her shoes, and took her father’s arm.
    Brunetti accompanied the Contessa to the small dining room. ‘It always troubles me to hear Paola speak so badly of her colleagues,’ her mother said as they entered the room.
    ‘I’ve met a few of them,’ Brunetti limited himself to saying.
    She gave him a quick look and smiled. ‘She is a rash woman.’
    ‘Your daughter?’ Brunetti said in feigned shock.
    ‘Oh, Guido, I think you provide encouragement sometimes.’
    ‘She needs none, I suspect,’ was all Brunetti said.
    They sat at a round table, Brunetti facing Paola, with the Contessa on his left, the Conte on his right. A young woman appeared and placed an enormous ceramic