more than selfishness that made him so glad to hear this: any man with two teenaged children, no matter how certain he was of their characters and dispositions, would be glad to learn that there was little drug traffic in the city in which they lived.
Instinct told Brunetti that he had got as much as he was going to get from Luca. Knowing the names of the men who sold the drugs wouldn’t make any difference, anyway.
‘Thanks, Luca. Take care of yourself.’
‘You, too, Guido.’
* * * *
That night, talking to Paola after the kids had gone to bed, he told her about the conversation and about Luca’s outburst of rage at the mention of his wife’s name. ‘You’ve never liked him as much as I do,’ Brunetti said, as if that would somehow explain or excuse Luca’s behaviour.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Paola asked, but without rancour.
They were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa and had put down their books when they began to talk. Brunetti thought about her question for a long time before he answered, ‘I guess it’s supposed to mean that you’d have to be more sympathetic to Maria than to him.’
‘But Luca’s right,’ Paola said, turning her head and then her entire body to face him. ‘She is a cow.’
‘But I thought you liked her.’
‘I do like her,’ Paola insisted. ‘Still, that doesn’t stop Luca from being right in saying she’s a cow. But it was he who turned her into one. When they got married, she was a dentist, but he asked her to stop working. And then after Paolo was born, he told her she didn’t have to go back to work, that he was making enough money with the clubs to support them all well. So she stopped working.’
‘So?’ Brunetti interrupted. ‘How does that make him responsible if she’s become a cow?’ Even as he asked the question, he was conscious of both how insulting and how absurd the very word was.
‘Because he moved them all out to Jesolo where it would be more convenient for him to oversee the clubs. And she went,’ Her voice grew truculent, reciting the beads of a very old rosary.
‘No one held a gun to her head, Paola.’
‘Of course no one held a gun to her head: no one had to,’ she fired back. ‘She was in love.’ Seeing his look, she amended this. ‘All right, they were in love.’ She stopped briefly, then continued, ‘So she leaves Venice to go out to live in Jesolo, a summer beach town, for God’s sake, and becomes a housewife and mother.’
‘They’re not dirty words, Paola.’
However fiery the glance this earned, she remained cool. ‘I know they’re not dirty words. I don’t mean to suggest that they are. But she gave up a profession she enjoyed and that she was very good at, and she went out to the middle of nowhere to raise two children and take care of a husband who drank too much and smoked too much and fooled around with too many women.’ Brunetti knew better than to pour oil on these particular flames. He waited for her to continue, and she did.
‘So now, after more than twenty years out there, she’s turned into a cow. She’s fat and she’s boring and all she seems able to talk about is her children or her cooking.’ She glanced in Brunetti’s direction, but he still didn’t say anything. ‘How long has it been since we saw them together? Two years? Remember how painful it was the last time, with her hovering around, asking us if we’d like more food or showing us more pictures of their two very unexceptional children?’
It had been a painful evening for everyone except, strangely enough, Maria, who had seemed unaware of how tedious the others found her behaviour.
With childlike candour, Brunetti asked, ‘This isn’t turning into an argument, is it?’
Paola put her head back against the sofa and laughed outright. ‘No, it isn’t.’ She added, ‘I suppose my tone shows how little real sympathy I have for her.
Instinct told Brunetti that he had got as much as he was going to get from Luca. Knowing the names of the men who sold the drugs wouldn’t make any difference, anyway.
‘Thanks, Luca. Take care of yourself.’
‘You, too, Guido.’
* * * *
That night, talking to Paola after the kids had gone to bed, he told her about the conversation and about Luca’s outburst of rage at the mention of his wife’s name. ‘You’ve never liked him as much as I do,’ Brunetti said, as if that would somehow explain or excuse Luca’s behaviour.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Paola asked, but without rancour.
They were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa and had put down their books when they began to talk. Brunetti thought about her question for a long time before he answered, ‘I guess it’s supposed to mean that you’d have to be more sympathetic to Maria than to him.’
‘But Luca’s right,’ Paola said, turning her head and then her entire body to face him. ‘She is a cow.’
‘But I thought you liked her.’
‘I do like her,’ Paola insisted. ‘Still, that doesn’t stop Luca from being right in saying she’s a cow. But it was he who turned her into one. When they got married, she was a dentist, but he asked her to stop working. And then after Paolo was born, he told her she didn’t have to go back to work, that he was making enough money with the clubs to support them all well. So she stopped working.’
‘So?’ Brunetti interrupted. ‘How does that make him responsible if she’s become a cow?’ Even as he asked the question, he was conscious of both how insulting and how absurd the very word was.
‘Because he moved them all out to Jesolo where it would be more convenient for him to oversee the clubs. And she went,’ Her voice grew truculent, reciting the beads of a very old rosary.
‘No one held a gun to her head, Paola.’
‘Of course no one held a gun to her head: no one had to,’ she fired back. ‘She was in love.’ Seeing his look, she amended this. ‘All right, they were in love.’ She stopped briefly, then continued, ‘So she leaves Venice to go out to live in Jesolo, a summer beach town, for God’s sake, and becomes a housewife and mother.’
‘They’re not dirty words, Paola.’
However fiery the glance this earned, she remained cool. ‘I know they’re not dirty words. I don’t mean to suggest that they are. But she gave up a profession she enjoyed and that she was very good at, and she went out to the middle of nowhere to raise two children and take care of a husband who drank too much and smoked too much and fooled around with too many women.’ Brunetti knew better than to pour oil on these particular flames. He waited for her to continue, and she did.
‘So now, after more than twenty years out there, she’s turned into a cow. She’s fat and she’s boring and all she seems able to talk about is her children or her cooking.’ She glanced in Brunetti’s direction, but he still didn’t say anything. ‘How long has it been since we saw them together? Two years? Remember how painful it was the last time, with her hovering around, asking us if we’d like more food or showing us more pictures of their two very unexceptional children?’
It had been a painful evening for everyone except, strangely enough, Maria, who had seemed unaware of how tedious the others found her behaviour.
With childlike candour, Brunetti asked, ‘This isn’t turning into an argument, is it?’
Paola put her head back against the sofa and laughed outright. ‘No, it isn’t.’ She added, ‘I suppose my tone shows how little real sympathy I have for her.
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