Fatal Remedies by Donna Leon Page B

thinking. As he entered, a line from Donizetti’s Anna Bolena flashed through his memory - ‘If those who judge me are those who have already condemned me, I have no chance.’ Good lord, talk about melodrama.
     
    ‘You wanted to see me, Vice-Questore?’ he asked as he entered.
     
    Patta sat behind his desk, face impassive. All he lacked was the black cap that English judges were said to put on top of their wigs when they condemned a prisoner to death. ‘Yes, Brunetti. No, don’t bother to sit down. What I have to say is very short. I’ve spoken about this to the Questore, and we’ve decided that you should go on administrative leave until it’s resolved.’
     
    ‘What does that mean?’
     
    ‘That, until this case is settled, there is no need for you to come to the Questura.’
     
    ‘Settled?’
     
    ‘Until a judgement is given and your wife pays a fine, or makes restitution to Dottor Mitri for the damage she has caused to his property and business.’
     
    ‘This is to assume she’s charged and convicted,’ Brunetti said, knowing how likely both were. Patta didn’t deign to answer. ‘And that could take years,’ Brunetti added, no stranger to the law.
     
    ‘I doubt that,’ Patta said.
     
    ‘Sir, there are cases in my files that have been open for more than five years, waiting for a trial date to be set. I repeat: it could take years.’
     
    ‘That depends entirely upon your wife’s decision, Commissario. Dottor Mitri was civilized enough, I would even say kind enough, to offer an efficient solution to this problem. But your wife has apparently chosen not to accept it. The consequences, therefore, will be her own.’
     
    ‘With all respect, sir,’ Brunetti said, ‘that’s not entirely true.’ Before Patta could object, Brunetti went on, ‘Dottor Mitri offered the solution to me, not to my wife. As I explained, it is a decision I cannot make in my wife’s place. If he were to offer it to her directly and if she were to refuse, then what you say would be true.’
     
    ‘You haven’t told her?’ Patta asked, no attempt made to disguise his surprise.
     
    ‘No.’
     
    ‘Why not?’
     
    ‘It’s Dottor Mitri’s business, I think, to do so.’
     
    Again, Patta’s surprise was easy to read. He considered this for a while, then said, ‘I’ll mention it to him.’
     
    Brunetti nodded, whether in thanks or acknowledgement, neither of them knew. ‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked.
     
    ‘Yes. But you’re still to consider yourself on administrative leave. Is that clear?’
     
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Brunetti said, though he had no idea what it meant, save that he was no longer to work as a policeman, was not, in fact, to have a job. He didn’t bother to say anything to Patta but turned and left his office.
     
    Outside, Signorina Elettra was still at her desk, but she was reading a magazine, having finished with the Gazzettino. She looked up at him when he came out.
     
    ‘Who told the press?’
     
    She shook her head. ‘No idea. Probably the lieutenant.’ She glanced for an instant towards Patta’s door.
     
    ‘Administrative leave.’
     
    ‘Never heard of it,’ she said. ‘It must have been invented to fit the occasion. What will you do, Commissario?’
     
    ‘Go home and read,’ he answered, and with the answer came the thought, and with the thought came the desire. All he had to do was get through the reporters in front of the building, escape their cameras and repeated questions, and he could go home and read for as long as it took Paola to come to a decision, or for this to be resolved. He could allow his books to carry him out of the Questura, out of Venice, out of this shabby century filled with cheap sentimentality and blood lust, and take him back to worlds where his spirit felt more at ease.
     
    Signorina Elettra smiled, hearing a joke in this answer, and returned her attention to her magazine.
     
    He didn’t bother to go back to his office but went