The Girl of his Dreams - Brunetti 17 by Donna Leon Page A
Authors: Donna Leon
Tags: Mystery
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very small smile. 'But we all have families to get back to and things that we must do, and so I think it might be time for us to go back into the world' - here she smiled again, even more nervously - 'and continue with our daily attempt to do good for those around us - family, friends, and strangers.'
It was awkwardly said, and she knew it, but no one in the room seemed to mind, if the expressions on their faces were any indication. They got to their feet; a few went over to speak to her, and some went to speak to the man in the chair, who rose as they approached.
Brunetti and Vianello exchanged a glance, gathered up their wives, and were the first to leave the apartment.
10
Downstairs, they filed outside, none of them saying a word. They walked back to San Giacomo dell'Orio and headed across the campo. When they entered the narrow calle that would take them back towards Rialto, Brunetti saw Paola, who was walking in front, glance over her shoulder, as if to check that none of the other people who had been at the meeting were behind them. Seeing no one, she stopped, turned and approached Brunetti. She bent and rested her forehead against his chest. Voice muffled by the fabric of his jacket, she said, ‘I am the only one who can make myself want to do the good of putting alcohol into my body. I will run screaming mad if I do not have that goodness. I will perish, I will die, if I do not have a drink ’
A deadpan Nadia put her hand on Paola's shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. ‘I , too, want that goodness ’ she said, and then to Brunetti, 'and you can do one
good thing by saving this woman's life, and mine, by finding us a drink.'
'Prosecco?' he suggested.
'Heaven will surely be yours,' Nadia agreed.
Brunetti, not to put too fine a point on it, was astonished. He had known Nadia for years, for almost as long as he had known Vianello. But it had been a formal sort of knowing: telephone calls when he was looking for her husband; requests for information about people she might know. But he had never seen her as a person, a separate entity with a spirit and a mind and, it seemed, a sense of humour. She had always been, in a way he was embarrassed to admit even to himself, an appendage to Vianello.
Paola, he knew, spoke to her occasionally, met her now and again for a coffee or a walk, but she never told him what they talked about. Or he had never asked. And so here she was, after all these years, a stranger.
Rather than reflect upon this, Brunetti led them into a bar on the left and asked the barman for four proseccos. When the wine came, they did not bother with toasts or the business of clicking their glasses together: they drank it down and set the glasses back on the counter with relieved sighs.
'Well?' Vianel lo asked. None of them believed this was a question about the quality of the wine.
'It was all very slick,' Paola said, 'all very "touchy-feely", as the Americans would say.'
'All very positive and heart-warming,' Nadia added. 'He never criticized anyone, never talked about sin or its consequences. All very uplifting.'
'There's a preacher in Dickens,' Paola said. 'Bleak House, I think.' She closed her eyes in a way long familiar to Brunetti, who could all but see her leafing through the thousands of pages that lay stored in her memory.
She opened her eyes and said, ‘I can't remember his name, but he has the wife of Snagsby, the law stationer, in thrall, and so he's a permanent guest at their dinner table, where he spends most of his time spouting platitudes and asking rhetorical questions about virtue and religion. Poor Snagsby wants to drive a stake through his heart, but he's so much a prisoner of his wife that he doesn't even know he wants to do this.'
'And?' Brunetti asked, curious as to why they had all been taken to dinner with this Snagsby, whoever he was.
'And there is a sort of generic resemblance between him and the man we just listened to - Brother Leonardo - if that's who he
It was awkwardly said, and she knew it, but no one in the room seemed to mind, if the expressions on their faces were any indication. They got to their feet; a few went over to speak to her, and some went to speak to the man in the chair, who rose as they approached.
Brunetti and Vianello exchanged a glance, gathered up their wives, and were the first to leave the apartment.
10
Downstairs, they filed outside, none of them saying a word. They walked back to San Giacomo dell'Orio and headed across the campo. When they entered the narrow calle that would take them back towards Rialto, Brunetti saw Paola, who was walking in front, glance over her shoulder, as if to check that none of the other people who had been at the meeting were behind them. Seeing no one, she stopped, turned and approached Brunetti. She bent and rested her forehead against his chest. Voice muffled by the fabric of his jacket, she said, ‘I am the only one who can make myself want to do the good of putting alcohol into my body. I will run screaming mad if I do not have that goodness. I will perish, I will die, if I do not have a drink ’
A deadpan Nadia put her hand on Paola's shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. ‘I , too, want that goodness ’ she said, and then to Brunetti, 'and you can do one
good thing by saving this woman's life, and mine, by finding us a drink.'
'Prosecco?' he suggested.
'Heaven will surely be yours,' Nadia agreed.
Brunetti, not to put too fine a point on it, was astonished. He had known Nadia for years, for almost as long as he had known Vianello. But it had been a formal sort of knowing: telephone calls when he was looking for her husband; requests for information about people she might know. But he had never seen her as a person, a separate entity with a spirit and a mind and, it seemed, a sense of humour. She had always been, in a way he was embarrassed to admit even to himself, an appendage to Vianello.
Paola, he knew, spoke to her occasionally, met her now and again for a coffee or a walk, but she never told him what they talked about. Or he had never asked. And so here she was, after all these years, a stranger.
Rather than reflect upon this, Brunetti led them into a bar on the left and asked the barman for four proseccos. When the wine came, they did not bother with toasts or the business of clicking their glasses together: they drank it down and set the glasses back on the counter with relieved sighs.
'Well?' Vianel lo asked. None of them believed this was a question about the quality of the wine.
'It was all very slick,' Paola said, 'all very "touchy-feely", as the Americans would say.'
'All very positive and heart-warming,' Nadia added. 'He never criticized anyone, never talked about sin or its consequences. All very uplifting.'
'There's a preacher in Dickens,' Paola said. 'Bleak House, I think.' She closed her eyes in a way long familiar to Brunetti, who could all but see her leafing through the thousands of pages that lay stored in her memory.
She opened her eyes and said, ‘I can't remember his name, but he has the wife of Snagsby, the law stationer, in thrall, and so he's a permanent guest at their dinner table, where he spends most of his time spouting platitudes and asking rhetorical questions about virtue and religion. Poor Snagsby wants to drive a stake through his heart, but he's so much a prisoner of his wife that he doesn't even know he wants to do this.'
'And?' Brunetti asked, curious as to why they had all been taken to dinner with this Snagsby, whoever he was.
'And there is a sort of generic resemblance between him and the man we just listened to - Brother Leonardo - if that's who he
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