in the house all that time, Paola.’
‘God, it’s like being in prison, isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Prison’s worse.’
‘Will you come home? After work?’
‘Of course.’
‘You will?’
He was going to say that he had nowhere else to go, but he realized she’d misunderstand him if he said it like that. Instead, he said, ‘There’s no place else I want to go.’
‘Oh, Guido,’ she said, then, ‘Ciao, amore,’ and put down the phone.
* * * *
10
These sentiments, however, meant nothing in the face of the crowd that awaited his return to the Questura after lunch. Avian metaphors beat around him as he came down from Ponte dei Greci and walked towards the assembled members of the press: crows, vultures, harpies, crowding round the front of the Questura in a tight circle, they lacked only the putrefying corpse at their feet to make the picture complete.
One of them saw him and - traitor - giving no sign to his companions, slipped away from them and hurried towards Brunetti, his microphone jammed out before him like a cattle prod. ‘Commissario,’ he began, while still a metre from Brunetti, ‘has Dottor Mitri decided to bring civil charges against your wife?’
Smiling, Brunetti stopped. ‘You’ll have to ask Dottor Mitri, I believe.’ As he spoke, he saw the pack sense the absence of their colleague and turn in a kind of collective spasm towards the voices behind them. Instantly, they broke up and ran at him, microphones pressed ahead of them, as if to catch any words that might still float upon the air around Brunetti.
In the panic of their movement, one of the cameramen caught his foot in a cable and fell forward to the ground, his camera crashing down beside him. The lens popped free from the body of the shattered apparatus and went rolling, like a soda can kicked in a children’s game, to the edge of the canal. Everyone stopped, riveted by surprise or other emotions, and watched its progress towards the steps that led to the water. It approached the top step, gently rolled over the lip, touched lightly on the second, then the third and, with a quiet splash, sank into the green waters of the canal.
Brunetti took advantage of the moment of general inattention to resume his way to the front door of the Questura, but the reporters recovered just as quickly and moved to stop him. ‘Will you resign from the police?’ ‘Is it true your wife has a previous record of arrest?’ ‘... kept out of court?’
Smiling his most plastic smile, he moved along, not pushing them, but not letting their bodies prevent him from reaching his goal. Just as he got there, the door opened and Vianello and Pucetti emerged, standing on either side of it with their arms extended to prevent the reporters from entering.
Brunetti went in, Vianello and Pucetti following. ‘Savage, aren’t they?’ Vianello said, standing with his back against the glass door. Unlike Orfeo, Brunetti did not look back and did not speak, but started up the stairs to his office. He heard steps behind him and turned to see Vianello, taking the treads two at a time. ‘He wants to see you.’
Still wearing his coat, Brunetti went to Patta’s office, where he found Signorina Elettra at her desk, the day’s Gazzettino spread out before her.
He glanced down and saw that the front page of the second section carried a picture of him, one taken some years ago, and the photo of Paola which appeared in her carta d’identità. Looking up, Signorina Elettra said, ‘If you get much more famous, I’ll have to beg for an autograph.’
‘Is that what the Vice-Questura wants?’ he asked, smiling.
‘No, your head, I think.’
‘I imagined as much,’ he said and knocked at the door.
Patta’s voice came through: tones of doom. How much easier it would be if they could simply stop all the melodrama and have done with it, Brunetti found himself
‘God, it’s like being in prison, isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Prison’s worse.’
‘Will you come home? After work?’
‘Of course.’
‘You will?’
He was going to say that he had nowhere else to go, but he realized she’d misunderstand him if he said it like that. Instead, he said, ‘There’s no place else I want to go.’
‘Oh, Guido,’ she said, then, ‘Ciao, amore,’ and put down the phone.
* * * *
10
These sentiments, however, meant nothing in the face of the crowd that awaited his return to the Questura after lunch. Avian metaphors beat around him as he came down from Ponte dei Greci and walked towards the assembled members of the press: crows, vultures, harpies, crowding round the front of the Questura in a tight circle, they lacked only the putrefying corpse at their feet to make the picture complete.
One of them saw him and - traitor - giving no sign to his companions, slipped away from them and hurried towards Brunetti, his microphone jammed out before him like a cattle prod. ‘Commissario,’ he began, while still a metre from Brunetti, ‘has Dottor Mitri decided to bring civil charges against your wife?’
Smiling, Brunetti stopped. ‘You’ll have to ask Dottor Mitri, I believe.’ As he spoke, he saw the pack sense the absence of their colleague and turn in a kind of collective spasm towards the voices behind them. Instantly, they broke up and ran at him, microphones pressed ahead of them, as if to catch any words that might still float upon the air around Brunetti.
In the panic of their movement, one of the cameramen caught his foot in a cable and fell forward to the ground, his camera crashing down beside him. The lens popped free from the body of the shattered apparatus and went rolling, like a soda can kicked in a children’s game, to the edge of the canal. Everyone stopped, riveted by surprise or other emotions, and watched its progress towards the steps that led to the water. It approached the top step, gently rolled over the lip, touched lightly on the second, then the third and, with a quiet splash, sank into the green waters of the canal.
Brunetti took advantage of the moment of general inattention to resume his way to the front door of the Questura, but the reporters recovered just as quickly and moved to stop him. ‘Will you resign from the police?’ ‘Is it true your wife has a previous record of arrest?’ ‘... kept out of court?’
Smiling his most plastic smile, he moved along, not pushing them, but not letting their bodies prevent him from reaching his goal. Just as he got there, the door opened and Vianello and Pucetti emerged, standing on either side of it with their arms extended to prevent the reporters from entering.
Brunetti went in, Vianello and Pucetti following. ‘Savage, aren’t they?’ Vianello said, standing with his back against the glass door. Unlike Orfeo, Brunetti did not look back and did not speak, but started up the stairs to his office. He heard steps behind him and turned to see Vianello, taking the treads two at a time. ‘He wants to see you.’
Still wearing his coat, Brunetti went to Patta’s office, where he found Signorina Elettra at her desk, the day’s Gazzettino spread out before her.
He glanced down and saw that the front page of the second section carried a picture of him, one taken some years ago, and the photo of Paola which appeared in her carta d’identità. Looking up, Signorina Elettra said, ‘If you get much more famous, I’ll have to beg for an autograph.’
‘Is that what the Vice-Questura wants?’ he asked, smiling.
‘No, your head, I think.’
‘I imagined as much,’ he said and knocked at the door.
Patta’s voice came through: tones of doom. How much easier it would be if they could simply stop all the melodrama and have done with it, Brunetti found himself
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