seen
last autumn in Campo Santa Marina, so he cut through to the smaller campo and
turned right just as he entered it. The metal cages were already hung outside
the windows of the pet shop. Brunetti drew closer to see if the merlo indiano was
still there. Surely that was it, up in the top cage, feathers black and
gleaming, one jet eye turned towards him.
Brunetti approached
the cage, leaned forward, and said, 'Ciao’ Nothing. Undaunted, he repeated, 'Ciao’ careful
to draw the word out to two syllables. The bird hopped nervously from one
parallel bar to the other, turned, and regarded Brunetti with the other eye. He
glanced around and noticed that a white-haired woman had stopped in front of
the edicola in the middle of the campo and was giving him a very strange
look. He ignored her and turned his attention back to the bird. 'Ciao’ he said again.
It suddenly occurred
to Brunetti that this might be a different bird; after all, one medium-sized
mynah bird looked pretty much like any other. He tried once more, 'Ciao’ Silence.
Disappointed, he turned away, smiling weakly at the woman, who stood still,
staring across the campo at him.
Brunetti had gone
only two steps when, from behind him, he heard his own voice call out, 'Ciao,' the
last vowel much prolonged, in the manner of birds.
He turned around
immediately and went back to his place in front of the cage. 'Come ti stai?’ he
asked this time, paused a moment, then put the question again. He felt, rather
than saw, a presence beside him and turned to see the white-haired woman
standing there. He smiled, and she smiled back. 'Come ti stai?’ he
asked the bird again, and with absolute vocal fidelity, it asked him right
back, 'Come ti stai?’ in a voice eerily like his own.
'What else can he
say?' the woman asked.
'I don't know,
Signora. That's all I've ever heard it say.'
'Wonderful, isn't
it?' she asked, and when he looked at her smile of simple delight, he saw that
the years had dropped away from her.
'Yes, wonderful,' he
said, and left her there in front of the store, saying 'Ciao, ciao, ciao', to
the bird.
He cut through to
Santi Apostoli and up Strada Nuova as far as San Marcuola, where he took the traghetto across
the Grand Canal. The reflection from the water was so intense that Brunetti
wished he had his sunglasses, but who, that foggy, damp morning of early
spring, would have thought such splendour had been in store for the city?
On the other side, he
cut to the right, then to the left, and then back to the right, following unconscious
instructions that were programmed into him during decades of walking the city
streets to visit friends, take girls home, get a coffee, or to do any of those
thousand things a young man did without any conscious thought of destination or
route. Soon he came out in Campo San Zan Degola. To the best of Brunetti's
knowledge, no one knew whether it was the decapitated body of San Giovanni or
his missing head which was venerated in the church. It seemed to him to make
little difference.
The Salviati she had
married was the son of Fulvio, the notary, so Brunetti knew the house had to be
down the second calle on the right, third house on the left. And so it proved:
the number was the same as the one in the phone book, though three different
Salviatis lived here. The bottom bell had the initial E, and so Brunetti rang
it, wondering if they got to move to the higher floors of the building as the
older members of the family died and left the apartments vacant.
The door snapped open
and he went in. In front of him was a narrow walkway, leading across a
courtyard to a flight of steps. Cheerful-looking tulips lined the walkway on
both sides, and a brave magnolia was just coming into blossom in the centre of
the grass to the left of the path.
He walked up the
steps and, as he reached the door at the top, he heard the lock release. On the
other side were more steps, these leading to a landing on which stood two
doors.
At the
last autumn in Campo Santa Marina, so he cut through to the smaller campo and
turned right just as he entered it. The metal cages were already hung outside
the windows of the pet shop. Brunetti drew closer to see if the merlo indiano was
still there. Surely that was it, up in the top cage, feathers black and
gleaming, one jet eye turned towards him.
Brunetti approached
the cage, leaned forward, and said, 'Ciao’ Nothing. Undaunted, he repeated, 'Ciao’ careful
to draw the word out to two syllables. The bird hopped nervously from one
parallel bar to the other, turned, and regarded Brunetti with the other eye. He
glanced around and noticed that a white-haired woman had stopped in front of
the edicola in the middle of the campo and was giving him a very strange
look. He ignored her and turned his attention back to the bird. 'Ciao’ he said again.
It suddenly occurred
to Brunetti that this might be a different bird; after all, one medium-sized
mynah bird looked pretty much like any other. He tried once more, 'Ciao’ Silence.
Disappointed, he turned away, smiling weakly at the woman, who stood still,
staring across the campo at him.
Brunetti had gone
only two steps when, from behind him, he heard his own voice call out, 'Ciao,' the
last vowel much prolonged, in the manner of birds.
He turned around
immediately and went back to his place in front of the cage. 'Come ti stai?’ he
asked this time, paused a moment, then put the question again. He felt, rather
than saw, a presence beside him and turned to see the white-haired woman
standing there. He smiled, and she smiled back. 'Come ti stai?’ he
asked the bird again, and with absolute vocal fidelity, it asked him right
back, 'Come ti stai?’ in a voice eerily like his own.
'What else can he
say?' the woman asked.
'I don't know,
Signora. That's all I've ever heard it say.'
'Wonderful, isn't
it?' she asked, and when he looked at her smile of simple delight, he saw that
the years had dropped away from her.
'Yes, wonderful,' he
said, and left her there in front of the store, saying 'Ciao, ciao, ciao', to
the bird.
He cut through to
Santi Apostoli and up Strada Nuova as far as San Marcuola, where he took the traghetto across
the Grand Canal. The reflection from the water was so intense that Brunetti
wished he had his sunglasses, but who, that foggy, damp morning of early
spring, would have thought such splendour had been in store for the city?
On the other side, he
cut to the right, then to the left, and then back to the right, following unconscious
instructions that were programmed into him during decades of walking the city
streets to visit friends, take girls home, get a coffee, or to do any of those
thousand things a young man did without any conscious thought of destination or
route. Soon he came out in Campo San Zan Degola. To the best of Brunetti's
knowledge, no one knew whether it was the decapitated body of San Giovanni or
his missing head which was venerated in the church. It seemed to him to make
little difference.
The Salviati she had
married was the son of Fulvio, the notary, so Brunetti knew the house had to be
down the second calle on the right, third house on the left. And so it proved:
the number was the same as the one in the phone book, though three different
Salviatis lived here. The bottom bell had the initial E, and so Brunetti rang
it, wondering if they got to move to the higher floors of the building as the
older members of the family died and left the apartments vacant.
The door snapped open
and he went in. In front of him was a narrow walkway, leading across a
courtyard to a flight of steps. Cheerful-looking tulips lined the walkway on
both sides, and a brave magnolia was just coming into blossom in the centre of
the grass to the left of the path.
He walked up the
steps and, as he reached the door at the top, he heard the lock release. On the
other side were more steps, these leading to a landing on which stood two
doors.
At the
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