The Golden Egg by Donna Leon Page A

his hat while he answered. ‘My friends and I try to play there in the afternoons, Signora. When we’re free. And I thought I remembered your son playing with us a couple of times.’ His grasp grew more nervous, and suddenly he was crushing the fabric of the hat, bending the stiff brim until it made a creaking noise they all could hear. Then, pointlessly, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’
    â€˜You play there?’ she demanded.
    â€˜When I can, Signora,’ Pucetti said, not looking at her.
    When Brunetti’s eyes moved back to her face, he saw that it had softened in a way that was all but miraculous. Her mouth had relaxed and her lips grown much larger and softer. The hand of ease had smoothed the lines on either side of her eyes, which were directed at Pucetti’s. Seeing her face in repose for the first time, Brunetti could reconstruct how attractive she must once have been.
    â€˜
Sì
,’ she said to the younger man. ‘It made him happy.’
    Brunetti remained as motionless as a snake on a stone, leaving the next move to her. She stepped back and, using the plural, invited them in. Brunetti stepped inside and stopped, turning to the other two men, only to discover that Vianello had evaporated. He had barely time to register this before Pucetti, muttering
‘Permesso’,
stepped in beside him.
    Signora Cavanella turned and walked towards a dimly lit flight of stairs. They followed, rigorously avoiding any spoken or glanced communication, Pucetti careful to remain two steps behind Brunetti.
    At the top of the stairs, she used her key to open the door to her apartment, but even that strange cautiousness did not cause Brunetti and Pucetti to exchange a glance. Inside, she moved along a very narrow corridor that led to what must be the back of the building. Along one windowless wall was a low, glass-fronted cabinet, similar to one Brunetti’s grandmother had had in her home. He could see small cardboard boxes stacked inside, or rather stuffed in randomly, for none of the piles were straight, and no concession was made to size. The top was covered by dolls, the sort of cheap souvenirs picked up at kiosks in any city of the world: he saw a flamenco dancer, an Eskimo, a basket-carrying Nubian woman, a man in a large hat who could as easily have been an American Pilgrim as a Dutch farmer. They stood or lay on top of a shabby lace runner that was no longer white, no longer smooth.
    She led them into a small sitting room, and again Brunetti had the feeling that a time machine had taken him back to his grandmother’s home. There was the same over-plump sofa, covered in green velvet corduroy, the top of all three back cushions protected by small, greying antimacassars. Though neither of the lamps was illumin­ated, Brunetti noticed that they had faded onion-coloured lampshades, both with woven tassels. A small television with rounded corners was placed directly in front of an overstuffed chair. Over the arm hung a small dark green blanket in some material that made a bad attempt to look like wool. Lodged between the cushion and the side of the chair, were a few decades of a rosary, the crucifix trapped out of sight.
    Brunetti glanced out of the single window at the wall of the house on the other side of the
calle
, little more than two metres distant.
    The Signora grabbed the chair by both arms and turned it to face the sofa, to which she pointed, and then sat in the chair. Brunetti sat at the right end, Pucetti at the left, as if hoping to give physical evidence of the abyss in sentiment that lay between them.
    Brunetti unbuttoned his jacket; Pucetti sat upright, his hat on his thighs, hands carefully folded on top of it. ‘Thank you for letting us come in, Signora. I’ll try to be as brief as I can,’ Brunetti said. He did not waste a smile, letting his face show interest and amiability and nothing else: leave the charm to Pucetti.
    â€˜I’d like to ask a few