Dressed for Death by Donna Leon Page A

you why I
recognize him. He just looks like someone I know.’
     
    Realizing how inadequate this
must sound, Canale explained, ‘You know how it is when you see the man from the
cheese store on the street, and he’s not wearing his apron: you know him but
you don’t know how you know him, and you can’t remember who he is. You know
that you know him, but he’s out of place, so you can’t remember who he is. That’s
how it is with the man in the drawing. I know I know him, or I’ve seen him, the
same way you see the man in the cheese store, but I can’t remember where he’s
supposed to be.’
     
    ‘Is he supposed to be here?’
Brunetti asked. When Canale gave him an empty look, he explained, ‘Here on Via
Cappuccina? Is this where you’d expect to see him?’
     
    ‘No, no. Not at all. That’s what’s
so strange about it. Wherever it was I saw him, it didn’t have anything to do
with all of this.’ He waved his hands in the air, as if seeking the answer
there. ‘It’s like I saw one of my teachers here. Or the doctor. He’s not
supposed to be here. It’s just a feeling, but it’s very strong,’ Then, seeking
confirmation, he asked Brunetti, ‘Do you understand what I mean?’
     
    ‘Yes, I do. Perfectly. I once had
a man stop me on the street in Rome and say hello to me. I knew I knew him, but
I didn’t know why.’ Brunetti smiled, risking it. ‘I’d arrested him two years
before. But in Naples.’
     
    Luckily, both men laughed. Canale
said, ‘May I keep the picture? Maybe it will come back to me if I can, you
know, look at it every once in a while. Maybe that will surprise me into
remembering.’
     
    ‘Certainly. I appreciate your
help,’ Brunetti said.
     
    It was Mazza’s turn to risk. ‘Was
he very bad? When you found him?’ He brought his hands together in front of
him, one clutching at the other.
     
    Brunetti nodded.
     
    ‘Isn’t it enough they want to
fuck us?’ Canale broke in. ‘Why do they want to kill us, too?’
     
    Though the question was addressed
to powers well beyond those for whom Brunetti worked, he still answered it. ‘I
have no idea.’
     
    * * * *
     
    Chapter Eleven
     
     
    The
next day, Friday, Brunetti thought he had better make an appearance at the
Venice Questura to see what paperwork and mail had accumulated for him.
Furthermore, he admitted to Paola over coffee that morning, he wanted to see if
there was anything new on ‘Il Caso Patta’.
     
    ‘Nothing in Gente or Oggi,’ she contributed, naming the two most famous gossip magazines, then
added, ‘though I’m not sure that Signora Patta rates the attention of either.’
     
    ‘Don’t let her hear you say that,’
Brunetti warned, laughing.
     
    ‘If I’m a lucky woman, Signora
Patta will never hear me say anything.’ More amiably, she asked, ‘What do you
think Patta will do?’
     
    Brunetti finished his coffee and
set his cup down before he answered. ‘I don’t think there’s very much he can do
except wait for Burrasca to get tired of her or for her to get tired of
Burrasca and come back.’
     
    ‘What’s he like, Burrasca?’ Paola
didn’t waste time asking if the police had a file on Burrasca. As soon as
anyone in Italy made enough money, someone would have a file.
     
    ‘From what I’ve heard, he’s a
pig. He’s part of that Milano world of cocaine, cars with fast engines, and
girls with slow brains.’
     
    ‘Well, he’s got half of one of
them this time,’ Paola said.
     
    ‘What do you mean?’
     
    ‘Signora Patta. She’s not a girl,
but she’s certainly got a slow brain.’
     
    ‘Do you know her that well?’
Brunetti was never sure whom Paola knew. Or what.
     
    ‘No, I’m simply inferring it from
the fact that she married Patta and stayed married to him. I imagine it would
be difficult to put up with a pompous ass like that.’
     
    ‘But you put up with me,’
Brunetti said, smiling, in search of a compliment.
     
    Her look was level. ‘You’re