going to make it into a convention centre or something like that.' Brunetti could hear his sigh. 'No more blackberries.'
'But more tourists, I suppose,' Brunetti said, referring to the deity currently worshipped by those who ran the city.
'I'd rather have blackberries.'
Neither of them spoke until they saw the single campanile of Poveglia on their right, when Vianello asked, 'How are we going to do this, sir?'
‘I think we should try to find out more about the waiter's story, about his brother and anything that might have come of that argument. See if you can find the brother and see what he says, and I'll go back and talk to Signora Follini.'
'You're a brave man, Commissario,' Vianello said, deadpan.
'My wife has promised to call the police if I'm not home by dinnertime.'
'I doubt that even we would be any good against Signora Follini.'
'I'm afraid you might be right, Sergeant, but still, a man must do his duty.'
'Like John Wayne.'
'Precisely. After I've spoken to her, I'll try the other bar: I think there was one up the street from the restaurant, on the other side.'
Vianello nodded. He'd seen it, but it had been closed the day they were there. 'Lunch?' he asked.
'Same place,' Brunetti answered. 'If you don't mind having to pass over the clams and fish.'
'Believe me, sir, I don't mind in the least.'
'But it's the food we grew up with,' Brunetti surprised himself by insisting. 'You must mind not eating it any more.'
'I told you, sir,' Vianello said, turning to look him in the face as he spoke, one hand holding his hat down against a sudden gust of wind, 'everything I've read tells me not to eat them.'
'But you've still got to miss them, want to eat them,' Brunetti insisted.
'Of course I miss them. I wouldn't be human if I didn't. People who stop smoking always miss cigarettes. But I think they'll kill me, really I do.' Before Brunetti could question or ridicule, he continued, 'No, not one plate of them and not fifty plates of them. But they're loaded with chemicals and heavy metals. God knows how they live themselves. I just don't want to eat them; the idea makes me faintly sick.'
'Then how can you miss them?'
'Because I'm Venetian, and they're what I grew up eating, as you said. But they weren't poisoned then. I loved them, loved eating them, loved my mother's spaghetti with clam sauce, her fish soup. But now I know what's in them, and I just can't eat them.' Aware that he still hadn't satisfied Brunetti's curiosity, he said, 'Maybe it's what Indians feel about eating cows.' He thought about it for a while, then corrected himself. 'No, they never eat them to begin with, so they can't stop, can they?' He considered the question further, finally gave up. ‘I can't explain what it's like, sir. I suppose I could eat them if I wanted to; it's just that I don't want to.'
Brunetti started to say something, but Vianello asked, 'Why does it confuse you so much? You wouldn't react like this if someone stopped smoking, would you?'
Brunetti considered this. 'I suppose not.' He laughed. 'It's probably because it's about food, and I find it hard to believe that anyone could stop eating something as good as clams, regardless of the consequences.'
That seemed to settle the issue, at least for the moment. Bonsuan gave the engine full throttle, and its noise blocked out any further attempt to talk. Occasionally they passed boats on either side, anchored in the water, men sitting idly with fishing rods in their hands, engaged more in contemplation than in the attempt to catch fish. Hearing the speed of the approaching boat, most of the men looked up, but when they saw that it was a police boat they returned their attention to the water.
Too soon, as far as Brunetti was concerned, they saw the long dock of Pellestrina. A narrow gap showed the place where the Squallus still lay on the bottom, the masts emerging from the water at the same crazy angle. Bonsuan took them to the end of the pier, cut the motor, and glided
'But more tourists, I suppose,' Brunetti said, referring to the deity currently worshipped by those who ran the city.
'I'd rather have blackberries.'
Neither of them spoke until they saw the single campanile of Poveglia on their right, when Vianello asked, 'How are we going to do this, sir?'
‘I think we should try to find out more about the waiter's story, about his brother and anything that might have come of that argument. See if you can find the brother and see what he says, and I'll go back and talk to Signora Follini.'
'You're a brave man, Commissario,' Vianello said, deadpan.
'My wife has promised to call the police if I'm not home by dinnertime.'
'I doubt that even we would be any good against Signora Follini.'
'I'm afraid you might be right, Sergeant, but still, a man must do his duty.'
'Like John Wayne.'
'Precisely. After I've spoken to her, I'll try the other bar: I think there was one up the street from the restaurant, on the other side.'
Vianello nodded. He'd seen it, but it had been closed the day they were there. 'Lunch?' he asked.
'Same place,' Brunetti answered. 'If you don't mind having to pass over the clams and fish.'
'Believe me, sir, I don't mind in the least.'
'But it's the food we grew up with,' Brunetti surprised himself by insisting. 'You must mind not eating it any more.'
'I told you, sir,' Vianello said, turning to look him in the face as he spoke, one hand holding his hat down against a sudden gust of wind, 'everything I've read tells me not to eat them.'
'But you've still got to miss them, want to eat them,' Brunetti insisted.
'Of course I miss them. I wouldn't be human if I didn't. People who stop smoking always miss cigarettes. But I think they'll kill me, really I do.' Before Brunetti could question or ridicule, he continued, 'No, not one plate of them and not fifty plates of them. But they're loaded with chemicals and heavy metals. God knows how they live themselves. I just don't want to eat them; the idea makes me faintly sick.'
'Then how can you miss them?'
'Because I'm Venetian, and they're what I grew up eating, as you said. But they weren't poisoned then. I loved them, loved eating them, loved my mother's spaghetti with clam sauce, her fish soup. But now I know what's in them, and I just can't eat them.' Aware that he still hadn't satisfied Brunetti's curiosity, he said, 'Maybe it's what Indians feel about eating cows.' He thought about it for a while, then corrected himself. 'No, they never eat them to begin with, so they can't stop, can they?' He considered the question further, finally gave up. ‘I can't explain what it's like, sir. I suppose I could eat them if I wanted to; it's just that I don't want to.'
Brunetti started to say something, but Vianello asked, 'Why does it confuse you so much? You wouldn't react like this if someone stopped smoking, would you?'
Brunetti considered this. 'I suppose not.' He laughed. 'It's probably because it's about food, and I find it hard to believe that anyone could stop eating something as good as clams, regardless of the consequences.'
That seemed to settle the issue, at least for the moment. Bonsuan gave the engine full throttle, and its noise blocked out any further attempt to talk. Occasionally they passed boats on either side, anchored in the water, men sitting idly with fishing rods in their hands, engaged more in contemplation than in the attempt to catch fish. Hearing the speed of the approaching boat, most of the men looked up, but when they saw that it was a police boat they returned their attention to the water.
Too soon, as far as Brunetti was concerned, they saw the long dock of Pellestrina. A narrow gap showed the place where the Squallus still lay on the bottom, the masts emerging from the water at the same crazy angle. Bonsuan took them to the end of the pier, cut the motor, and glided
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