substantial paunch only added to the resemblance. And, like that bear, Sergio was affable and generous, though equally prone to giving a growl now and again.
He dialled the first five digits of his home number but replaced the phone. He came out from the back room and returned to his place at the bar. But his glass was gone. ‘Someone drink my punch?’ he inquired.
‘No, Commissario. I thought it would be too cold to drink.’
‘Could you make me another?’
‘Nothing easier,’ the barman said and pulled down the bottle.
Ten minutes later, considerably warmed, Brunetti went back to his office. From there, he dialled his home number.
‘ Sì ,’ Paola answered. When had she stopped answering with her name, he wondered?
‘It’s me. You going to your office tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you print a photo from your computer there?’
‘Of course,’ she said, and he heard the barely restrained sigh.
‘Good. It should arrive for you by email. Could you print out a copy of it for me? And maybe enlarge it?’
‘Guido, I could just as easily access my email from here,’ she said, using the voice of studied patience she reserved for the explanation of the self-evident.
‘I know,’ he said, though he had not thought of that. ‘But I’d like to keep this . . .’
‘Out of the house?’ she suggested.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and then laughed. ‘I don’t want to delve into what understanding you have of technology, Guido, but thank you at least for that.’
‘I don’t want the kids . . .’ he began.
‘You don’t have to explain,’ she cut him off. Her voice was softer still when she said, ‘I’ll see you later,’ and then she was gone.
He heard a noise at his door and looked towards it, surprised to see Officer Alvise. ‘Do you have a moment, Commissario?’ he asked, smiling, then serious, then smiling again. Short and weedy, Alvise was the least prepossessing man on the force: his intellect was in complete harmony with this lack of physical prowess. Affable and friendly, Alvise was usually eager to chat with anyone. Paola, the one time she met him, said he made her think of someone of whom an English poet had said, ‘Eternal smiles his emptiness betray.’
‘Of course, Alvise. Come in. Please.’ Alvise had only recently reappeared in the squad room after half a year spent working in symbiosis with Lieutenant Scarpa on some sort of European-Union-sponsored crime squad the precise nature of which had never been defined.
‘I’m back, sir,’ Alvise said as he sat down.
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said. ‘I know.’ Lambent thought and concise explanation were not attributes usually associated with Alvise’s name; thus, his declaration could refer to his return from his temporary assignment or, for all Brunetti knew, from the bar on the corner.
Alvise sat and looked around the room, as though seeing it for the first time. Brunetti wondered if the officer thought it necessary to reintroduce himself to his superior. The silence lengthened, but Brunetti decided to wait it out and see what Alvise had to say. The officer turned to look at the open door, then at Brunetti, then at the door again. After another minute’s silence, he leaned forward and asked, ‘Do you mind if I close the door, Commissario?’
‘Of course not, Alvise,’ Brunetti said, wondering if half a year spent closeted in a tiny office with the Lieutenant had perhaps rendered Alvise subject to draughts?
Alvise went to the door, stuck his head out and glanced both ways, closed the door quietly, and came back to his chair. The silence renewed itself, but Brunetti resisted the impulse to speak.
Finally Alvise said, ‘As I said, sir, I’m back.’
‘And as I said, Alvise, I know.’
Alvise stared at him, as if suddenly realizing that it fell to him to break free of the non-communication circle. He glanced at the door, turned to Brunetti, and said, ‘But it’s like I’m not, sir.’
Brunetti failed
He dialled the first five digits of his home number but replaced the phone. He came out from the back room and returned to his place at the bar. But his glass was gone. ‘Someone drink my punch?’ he inquired.
‘No, Commissario. I thought it would be too cold to drink.’
‘Could you make me another?’
‘Nothing easier,’ the barman said and pulled down the bottle.
Ten minutes later, considerably warmed, Brunetti went back to his office. From there, he dialled his home number.
‘ Sì ,’ Paola answered. When had she stopped answering with her name, he wondered?
‘It’s me. You going to your office tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you print a photo from your computer there?’
‘Of course,’ she said, and he heard the barely restrained sigh.
‘Good. It should arrive for you by email. Could you print out a copy of it for me? And maybe enlarge it?’
‘Guido, I could just as easily access my email from here,’ she said, using the voice of studied patience she reserved for the explanation of the self-evident.
‘I know,’ he said, though he had not thought of that. ‘But I’d like to keep this . . .’
‘Out of the house?’ she suggested.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and then laughed. ‘I don’t want to delve into what understanding you have of technology, Guido, but thank you at least for that.’
‘I don’t want the kids . . .’ he began.
‘You don’t have to explain,’ she cut him off. Her voice was softer still when she said, ‘I’ll see you later,’ and then she was gone.
He heard a noise at his door and looked towards it, surprised to see Officer Alvise. ‘Do you have a moment, Commissario?’ he asked, smiling, then serious, then smiling again. Short and weedy, Alvise was the least prepossessing man on the force: his intellect was in complete harmony with this lack of physical prowess. Affable and friendly, Alvise was usually eager to chat with anyone. Paola, the one time she met him, said he made her think of someone of whom an English poet had said, ‘Eternal smiles his emptiness betray.’
‘Of course, Alvise. Come in. Please.’ Alvise had only recently reappeared in the squad room after half a year spent working in symbiosis with Lieutenant Scarpa on some sort of European-Union-sponsored crime squad the precise nature of which had never been defined.
‘I’m back, sir,’ Alvise said as he sat down.
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said. ‘I know.’ Lambent thought and concise explanation were not attributes usually associated with Alvise’s name; thus, his declaration could refer to his return from his temporary assignment or, for all Brunetti knew, from the bar on the corner.
Alvise sat and looked around the room, as though seeing it for the first time. Brunetti wondered if the officer thought it necessary to reintroduce himself to his superior. The silence lengthened, but Brunetti decided to wait it out and see what Alvise had to say. The officer turned to look at the open door, then at Brunetti, then at the door again. After another minute’s silence, he leaned forward and asked, ‘Do you mind if I close the door, Commissario?’
‘Of course not, Alvise,’ Brunetti said, wondering if half a year spent closeted in a tiny office with the Lieutenant had perhaps rendered Alvise subject to draughts?
Alvise went to the door, stuck his head out and glanced both ways, closed the door quietly, and came back to his chair. The silence renewed itself, but Brunetti resisted the impulse to speak.
Finally Alvise said, ‘As I said, sir, I’m back.’
‘And as I said, Alvise, I know.’
Alvise stared at him, as if suddenly realizing that it fell to him to break free of the non-communication circle. He glanced at the door, turned to Brunetti, and said, ‘But it’s like I’m not, sir.’
Brunetti failed
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