Quietly in Their Sleep by Donna Leon Page B

sip. A smile. ‘No room for Jesus in bed, I guess.’ A larger sip. ‘It was awful. We had to listen to her for months, going on and on about prayer and good works and how much she loved the Madonna. It got to a point that even my mother — who really is a saint — couldn’t stand to listen to her.’
     
    ‘What happened?’
     
    ‘As I said, she got married, and then the children started coming, and then there was no time to be holy or pious. Then I guess she forgot about it.’
     
    ‘You think that could happen with Signorina Lerini?’ Brunetti asked, sipping at his wine.
     
    Vianello shrugged. ‘At her age — what is she, fifty?’ he asked and then continued after Brunetti nodded, ‘The only reason I could see anyone marrying her would be for the money. And there’s not much chance of her giving any of that up, is there?’
     
    ‘You really didn’t like her, did you, Vianello?’
     
    ‘I don’t like hypocrites. And I don’t like religious people. So you can imagine what I think about the combination.’
     
    ‘But your mother is a saint, you said. Isn’t she religious?’
     
    Vianello nodded and pushed his glass across the bar. The bartender filled it, glanced at Brunetti, who held his own out to be refilled.
     
    ‘Yes. But hers is real faith, belief in human kindness.’
     
    ‘Isn’t that what Christianity is supposed to be all about?’
     
    The only answer Vianello gave to this was an angry snort. ‘You know, Commissario, I meant that when I said my mother is a saint. She raised two kids along with the three of us. Their father worked with mine, and when his wife died, he started to drink and didn’t take care of the kids. So my mother just took them home and raised them along with us. No big fuss, no speeches about generosity. And one day she caught my brother making fun of one of them, saying his father drank. At first, I thought she was going to kill Luca, but all she did was call him into the kitchen and tell him she was ashamed of him. That’s all, just that she was ashamed of him. And Luca cried for a week. She was pleasant to him, but she made it clear how she felt.’ Vianello sipped at his drink again, his memory back in their youth.
     
    ‘What happened?’ Brunetti asked.
     
    ‘Hum?’
     
    ‘What happened? To your brother?’
     
    ‘Oh, about two weeks later, we were all walking home from school together, and some of the bigger boys in the neighbourhood started saying things to the boy, the same one Luca had been teasing.’
     
    ‘And?’
     
    ‘And Luca went crazy, I guess. He beat two of them bloody, chased one of them halfway to Castello. And all the time, he was yelling at them that they couldn’t say those things about his brother.’ Vianello’s eyes brightened with the story. ‘Well, when he got home, he was awfully bloody. I think he broke one of his fingers in the fight; anyway, my father had to take him to the hospital.’
     
    ‘And?’
     
    ‘Well, while they were there, at the hospital, Luca told my father what had happened, and when they came home, my father told my mother.’ Vianello finished his wine and pulled some bills from his pocket.
     
    ‘What did your mother do?’
     
    ‘Oh, nothing special, really Except that night she made risotto di pesce, Luca’s favourite. We hadn’t had it for two weeks, like she was on strike or something. Or putting us all on a hunger strike because of what Luca said,’ he added with a loud laugh. ‘But after that, Luca started smiling again. My mother never said anything about it. Luca was the baby, and I’ve always thought he was her favourite.’ He picked up the change and slipped it into his pocket. ‘She’s like that. No big sermons. But good, good to her soul.’
     
    He walked to the door and held it open for Brunetti. ‘Are there any more names on the list, Commissario? Because you’re not going to get me to believe that one of those people is capable of anything worse than false piety.’