of their waste paper and take it to the ecological bins at Rialto. This, however, was a far more sombre vision than he had ever heard from Vianello.
‘Is there really nothing we can do?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello shrugged.
For a moment, it looked as though Vianello were going to get up and leave; Brunetti feared that he would. He was very curious to hear Vianello’s answer and so prodded. ‘Well?’
‘Live life and try to do our jobs, I think,’ Vianello said after some time. Then, as if the subject had never been raised, he asked, ‘What about this black guy? How do we find out who he is if your Don Alvise decides not to tell us?’
Accepting that the subject of global warming was closed, Brunetti answered Vianello’s question. ‘Gravini says he knows one of the Africans; he lives down by his mother in Castello. He’s going to see if he can get anything from him.And I’ve asked Signorina Elettra to ask around to see if she can find the people who rent to them.’
‘Good idea. He’s got to have lived somewhere.’ Then, realizing just how silly that sounded, Vianello added, ‘That is, here in the city, if he didn’t have anything on him except a pair of keys.’
‘Did you read the autopsy report?’ Brunetti asked, surprised at himself for having forgotten to ask Vianello about it on the way to Don Alvise’s.
‘No.’
‘It says he was in his late twenties and in good health, and that either of two of the shots would have killed him.’
‘God, what a world,’ Vianello answered. He looked across at Brunetti, pulled his lips together in a gesture of confusion, and added, ‘It’s strange, that we don’t know anything at all about them, or about Africa, isn’t it?’
Brunetti nodded but said nothing.
‘Enough that they’re black, huh?’ Vianello asked with an ironic raising of his eyebrows.
Brunetti ignored Vianello’s tone and added, ‘We don’t look like Germans, and Finns don’t look like Greeks, but we all look like Europeans.’
‘And?’ Vianello asked, obviously not much impressed by Brunetti’s observation.
‘There must be someone who knows more about them,’ Brunetti said.
It was at this point that Signorina Elettra came into the office, carrying a sheet of paper Brunettihoped would shed light on the identity of the vu cumprà . Even as he heard this term reverberating in his mind, he told himself to substitute it with ambulante .
‘I found two of them,’ she said, nodding a greeting to Vianello. He stood and offered her his chair, pulled the other one over and moved his parka to the back, then sat down again.
‘Two what?’ asked an impatient Brunetti.
‘Landlords,’ she said, then explained, ‘I called a friend of mine at La Nuova .’ She saw their response to the name of the newspaper and said, ‘I know, I know. But we’ve been friends ever since elementary school, and Leonardo needed the job.’ Having excused her friend’s choice of employer, she added, ‘Besides, it allows him to meet some of the famous people who live here.’ That was too much for Vianello, who let out a deep guffaw. She waited a moment and joined him. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? Famous for living here? As if the city were contagious.’
Brunetti had often reflected on this, finding it especially strange in foreigners, this belief that some cachet adhered to their address, as if living in Dorsoduro or having a palazzo on the Grand Canal could elevate the tone of their discourse or the quality of their minds, render the tedium of their lives interesting or transmute the dross of their amusements into purest gold.
If he thought about it, he felt happiness in being Venetian, not pride. He had not chosen where to be born or what dialect his parents spoke: what pride to be taken in those things?Not for the first time, he felt saddened by the vanity of human wishes.
‘. . . over near Santa Maria Materdomini,’ he heard Signorina Elettra saying when he tuned back into her conversation
‘Is there really nothing we can do?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello shrugged.
For a moment, it looked as though Vianello were going to get up and leave; Brunetti feared that he would. He was very curious to hear Vianello’s answer and so prodded. ‘Well?’
‘Live life and try to do our jobs, I think,’ Vianello said after some time. Then, as if the subject had never been raised, he asked, ‘What about this black guy? How do we find out who he is if your Don Alvise decides not to tell us?’
Accepting that the subject of global warming was closed, Brunetti answered Vianello’s question. ‘Gravini says he knows one of the Africans; he lives down by his mother in Castello. He’s going to see if he can get anything from him.And I’ve asked Signorina Elettra to ask around to see if she can find the people who rent to them.’
‘Good idea. He’s got to have lived somewhere.’ Then, realizing just how silly that sounded, Vianello added, ‘That is, here in the city, if he didn’t have anything on him except a pair of keys.’
‘Did you read the autopsy report?’ Brunetti asked, surprised at himself for having forgotten to ask Vianello about it on the way to Don Alvise’s.
‘No.’
‘It says he was in his late twenties and in good health, and that either of two of the shots would have killed him.’
‘God, what a world,’ Vianello answered. He looked across at Brunetti, pulled his lips together in a gesture of confusion, and added, ‘It’s strange, that we don’t know anything at all about them, or about Africa, isn’t it?’
Brunetti nodded but said nothing.
‘Enough that they’re black, huh?’ Vianello asked with an ironic raising of his eyebrows.
Brunetti ignored Vianello’s tone and added, ‘We don’t look like Germans, and Finns don’t look like Greeks, but we all look like Europeans.’
‘And?’ Vianello asked, obviously not much impressed by Brunetti’s observation.
‘There must be someone who knows more about them,’ Brunetti said.
It was at this point that Signorina Elettra came into the office, carrying a sheet of paper Brunettihoped would shed light on the identity of the vu cumprà . Even as he heard this term reverberating in his mind, he told himself to substitute it with ambulante .
‘I found two of them,’ she said, nodding a greeting to Vianello. He stood and offered her his chair, pulled the other one over and moved his parka to the back, then sat down again.
‘Two what?’ asked an impatient Brunetti.
‘Landlords,’ she said, then explained, ‘I called a friend of mine at La Nuova .’ She saw their response to the name of the newspaper and said, ‘I know, I know. But we’ve been friends ever since elementary school, and Leonardo needed the job.’ Having excused her friend’s choice of employer, she added, ‘Besides, it allows him to meet some of the famous people who live here.’ That was too much for Vianello, who let out a deep guffaw. She waited a moment and joined him. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? Famous for living here? As if the city were contagious.’
Brunetti had often reflected on this, finding it especially strange in foreigners, this belief that some cachet adhered to their address, as if living in Dorsoduro or having a palazzo on the Grand Canal could elevate the tone of their discourse or the quality of their minds, render the tedium of their lives interesting or transmute the dross of their amusements into purest gold.
If he thought about it, he felt happiness in being Venetian, not pride. He had not chosen where to be born or what dialect his parents spoke: what pride to be taken in those things?Not for the first time, he felt saddened by the vanity of human wishes.
‘. . . over near Santa Maria Materdomini,’ he heard Signorina Elettra saying when he tuned back into her conversation
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