precisely what
awaited Brunetti a quarter of an hour later, when he opened the doors of the
NATO command headquarters and walked up the three steps to the lobby. The walls
held posters of unnamed cities which, because of the height and homogeneity of
their skyscrapers, had to be American. That nation was loudly proclaimed, too,
in the many signs which forbade smoking and in the notices which covered the
bulletin boards along the walls. The marble floor was the only Italianate
touch. As he had been directed, Brunetti climbed the steps in front of him,
turned right at the top, and went into the second office on the left. The room
into which he walked was divided by head-high partitions, and the walls, like
those on the floor below, were covered with bulletin boards and printed
notices. Backed up against one of them were two armchairs covered in what
appeared to be thick grey plastic. At a desk just inside the door, to the
right, sat a young woman who could only be American. She had blonde hair which
was cut off in a short fringe above her blue eyes but hung down almost to her
waist at the back. A rash of freckles ran across her nose, and her teeth had
that perfection common to most Americans and to the wealthiest Italians. She
turned to him with a bright smile; her mouth turned up at the corners, but her
eyes remained curiously expressionless and flat.
‘Good morning,’ he said,
smiling back. ‘My name’s Brunetti. I think the Major is expecting me.’
She came out from behind
the desk, revealing a body as perfect as her teeth, and walked through an
opening in the partition, though she could just as easily have phoned or called
over the top. From the other side of the partition, he heard her voice answered
by a deeper one. After a few seconds, she appeared at the opening and signalled
to Brunetti, ‘In here, please, sir.’
Behind the desk sat a
blond young man who appeared to be barely into his twenties. Brunetti looked at
him and as quickly away, for the man seemed to glow, glisten. When he looked
back, Brunetti saw that it was not radiance but only youth, health, and someone
else to care for his uniforms.
‘Chief Brunetti?’ he said
and rose to his feet behind his desk. To Brunetti, he looked like he had just
come from a shower or bath: his skin was taut, shining, as though he had set
down his razor in order to take Brunetti’s hand. While they shook hands,
Brunetti noticed his eyes, a clear, translucent blue, the colour the laguna had
been twenty years ago.
‘I’m very glad you could
come out from Venice to speak to us, Chief Brunetti, or is it Questore?’
‘Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti
said, giving himself a promotion in the hopes that it would assure him greater
access to information. He noticed that Major Butterworth’s desk held In and Out
boxes; the In was empty, the Out full.
‘Please have a seat,’
Butterworth said and waited for Brunetti to sit before taking his own seat. The
American pulled a file from his front drawer, this one just minimally thicker
than the one Ambrogiani had. ‘You’re here about Sergeant Foster, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it you’d like to
know?’
‘I’d like to know who
killed him,’ Brunetti said impassively.
Butterworth hesitated a
moment, not knowing how to take the remark, then decided to treat it as a joke.
‘Yes,’ he said, with a small laugh that barely passed his lips, ‘we’d all like
to know that. But I’m not sure we have any information that might help us find
out who it was.’
‘What information do you
have?’
He slid the file towards
Brunetti. Even though he knew it would contain the same material he had just
seen, Brunetti opened it and read through the pages again. This file contained
a different photograph from the one he had seen in the other. For the first
time, though he had seen his dead face and naked body, Brunetti got a
awaited Brunetti a quarter of an hour later, when he opened the doors of the
NATO command headquarters and walked up the three steps to the lobby. The walls
held posters of unnamed cities which, because of the height and homogeneity of
their skyscrapers, had to be American. That nation was loudly proclaimed, too,
in the many signs which forbade smoking and in the notices which covered the
bulletin boards along the walls. The marble floor was the only Italianate
touch. As he had been directed, Brunetti climbed the steps in front of him,
turned right at the top, and went into the second office on the left. The room
into which he walked was divided by head-high partitions, and the walls, like
those on the floor below, were covered with bulletin boards and printed
notices. Backed up against one of them were two armchairs covered in what
appeared to be thick grey plastic. At a desk just inside the door, to the
right, sat a young woman who could only be American. She had blonde hair which
was cut off in a short fringe above her blue eyes but hung down almost to her
waist at the back. A rash of freckles ran across her nose, and her teeth had
that perfection common to most Americans and to the wealthiest Italians. She
turned to him with a bright smile; her mouth turned up at the corners, but her
eyes remained curiously expressionless and flat.
‘Good morning,’ he said,
smiling back. ‘My name’s Brunetti. I think the Major is expecting me.’
She came out from behind
the desk, revealing a body as perfect as her teeth, and walked through an
opening in the partition, though she could just as easily have phoned or called
over the top. From the other side of the partition, he heard her voice answered
by a deeper one. After a few seconds, she appeared at the opening and signalled
to Brunetti, ‘In here, please, sir.’
Behind the desk sat a
blond young man who appeared to be barely into his twenties. Brunetti looked at
him and as quickly away, for the man seemed to glow, glisten. When he looked
back, Brunetti saw that it was not radiance but only youth, health, and someone
else to care for his uniforms.
‘Chief Brunetti?’ he said
and rose to his feet behind his desk. To Brunetti, he looked like he had just
come from a shower or bath: his skin was taut, shining, as though he had set
down his razor in order to take Brunetti’s hand. While they shook hands,
Brunetti noticed his eyes, a clear, translucent blue, the colour the laguna had
been twenty years ago.
‘I’m very glad you could
come out from Venice to speak to us, Chief Brunetti, or is it Questore?’
‘Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti
said, giving himself a promotion in the hopes that it would assure him greater
access to information. He noticed that Major Butterworth’s desk held In and Out
boxes; the In was empty, the Out full.
‘Please have a seat,’
Butterworth said and waited for Brunetti to sit before taking his own seat. The
American pulled a file from his front drawer, this one just minimally thicker
than the one Ambrogiani had. ‘You’re here about Sergeant Foster, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it you’d like to
know?’
‘I’d like to know who
killed him,’ Brunetti said impassively.
Butterworth hesitated a
moment, not knowing how to take the remark, then decided to treat it as a joke.
‘Yes,’ he said, with a small laugh that barely passed his lips, ‘we’d all like
to know that. But I’m not sure we have any information that might help us find
out who it was.’
‘What information do you
have?’
He slid the file towards
Brunetti. Even though he knew it would contain the same material he had just
seen, Brunetti opened it and read through the pages again. This file contained
a different photograph from the one he had seen in the other. For the first
time, though he had seen his dead face and naked body, Brunetti got a
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