come up for a moment.
‘About last night?’ Rubini asked over the phone.
‘Yes. You hear anything?’
‘No,’ Rubini answered. ‘But I didn’t expect to.’ There was a pause, and then he asked, ‘Should I bring my files?’
‘Please.’
‘I hope you’ve got a long time, Guido.’
‘Why?’
‘There must be two metres of them.’
‘Then should I come down there?’
‘No, I’ll just bring the summaries of the ones I’ve submitted. It will still take you the rest of the morning to read them.’ Brunetti thought he heard Rubini laugh quietly but wasn’t sure. He replaced the phone.
When Rubini showed up more than ten minutes later, a stack of files in his hands, he explained that the delay was caused by his having searched for the file containing all of the photos that had been taken of the Africans who had been arrested in the last year. ‘We’re supposed to photograph them every time we arrest them,’ he explained.
‘Supposed to?’ Brunetti asked.
Rubini set a large stack of papers on Brunetti’s desk and sat down. From Murano, Rubini had been on the force for more than two decades and, like Vianello, had moved up through the ranks slowly, perhaps blocked by the same refusal to curry favour with the men in power. Tall and so thin as to seem emaciated, Rubini was in fact a passionate rower and every year was among the first ten to cross the finish line of the Vogalonga.
‘We did at the beginning, but after a while it seemed a waste of time to take the photo of a man we’d arrested six or seven times and who we say hello to on the street.’ He pushed the papers closer to Brunetti and added, ‘We call them tu by now, and they address us all by name.’
Brunetti pulled the papers towards him. ‘Why do you still bother?’
‘What, to arrest them?’
Brunetti nodded.
‘Dottor Patta wants arrests, so we go and arrest them. It makes the statistics look good.’
Brunetti had suspected this would be the answer, but he asked, ‘You think it really does any good?’
‘God knows,’ Rubini said with a resigned shake of his head. ‘It keeps the Vice-Questore off our backs for a week or two, and I suppose if we were to be serious about it, arrest them and take all their bags, they’d simply decide to go somewhere else.’
‘But?’ Brunetti asked.
Rubini crossed his legs, pulled out a cigarette and lit it without bothering to ask if he could. ‘But my men always leave them a couple of bags when they confiscate them, even though they’re supposed to take them all. After all, they’ve got to eat, these guys, whether they’re African or Italian. If we take all of their bags, they’ve got nothing to sell.’
Brunetti shoved the top of a Nutella jar towards the inspector. ‘And the bags?’ he asked.
Rubini took an enormous pull at his cigarette and let the smoke filter slowly from his nose. ‘You mean the ones we leave them or the ones we take?’
‘There’s the warehouse in Mestre, isn’t there?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Two of them by now.’ Rubini leaned forward and flicked ash into the proffered ashtray. ‘It’s all in there,’ he went on, using the hand with thecigarette to point to the files. ‘So far this year we’ve confiscated something like ten thousand bags. No matter how fast we chop them up or burn them, we keep confiscating more. Soon there won’t be enough room to store them.’
‘What’ll you do?’
Rubini crushed the cigarette and said, making no attempt to disguise his exasperation, ‘If it were my decision, I’d give them back to the vu cumprà so they wouldn’t have to pay to buy new ones all over again. But then what happens to all those people who work in the factories in Puglia where they make them?’ Abruptly he got to his feet, pointed at the files and said, ‘If there’s anything else you want to know, give me a call.’ At the door, he paused and looked back at Brunetti, and raised a hand in an expression of utter hopelessness. ‘It’s
‘About last night?’ Rubini asked over the phone.
‘Yes. You hear anything?’
‘No,’ Rubini answered. ‘But I didn’t expect to.’ There was a pause, and then he asked, ‘Should I bring my files?’
‘Please.’
‘I hope you’ve got a long time, Guido.’
‘Why?’
‘There must be two metres of them.’
‘Then should I come down there?’
‘No, I’ll just bring the summaries of the ones I’ve submitted. It will still take you the rest of the morning to read them.’ Brunetti thought he heard Rubini laugh quietly but wasn’t sure. He replaced the phone.
When Rubini showed up more than ten minutes later, a stack of files in his hands, he explained that the delay was caused by his having searched for the file containing all of the photos that had been taken of the Africans who had been arrested in the last year. ‘We’re supposed to photograph them every time we arrest them,’ he explained.
‘Supposed to?’ Brunetti asked.
Rubini set a large stack of papers on Brunetti’s desk and sat down. From Murano, Rubini had been on the force for more than two decades and, like Vianello, had moved up through the ranks slowly, perhaps blocked by the same refusal to curry favour with the men in power. Tall and so thin as to seem emaciated, Rubini was in fact a passionate rower and every year was among the first ten to cross the finish line of the Vogalonga.
‘We did at the beginning, but after a while it seemed a waste of time to take the photo of a man we’d arrested six or seven times and who we say hello to on the street.’ He pushed the papers closer to Brunetti and added, ‘We call them tu by now, and they address us all by name.’
Brunetti pulled the papers towards him. ‘Why do you still bother?’
‘What, to arrest them?’
Brunetti nodded.
‘Dottor Patta wants arrests, so we go and arrest them. It makes the statistics look good.’
Brunetti had suspected this would be the answer, but he asked, ‘You think it really does any good?’
‘God knows,’ Rubini said with a resigned shake of his head. ‘It keeps the Vice-Questore off our backs for a week or two, and I suppose if we were to be serious about it, arrest them and take all their bags, they’d simply decide to go somewhere else.’
‘But?’ Brunetti asked.
Rubini crossed his legs, pulled out a cigarette and lit it without bothering to ask if he could. ‘But my men always leave them a couple of bags when they confiscate them, even though they’re supposed to take them all. After all, they’ve got to eat, these guys, whether they’re African or Italian. If we take all of their bags, they’ve got nothing to sell.’
Brunetti shoved the top of a Nutella jar towards the inspector. ‘And the bags?’ he asked.
Rubini took an enormous pull at his cigarette and let the smoke filter slowly from his nose. ‘You mean the ones we leave them or the ones we take?’
‘There’s the warehouse in Mestre, isn’t there?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Two of them by now.’ Rubini leaned forward and flicked ash into the proffered ashtray. ‘It’s all in there,’ he went on, using the hand with thecigarette to point to the files. ‘So far this year we’ve confiscated something like ten thousand bags. No matter how fast we chop them up or burn them, we keep confiscating more. Soon there won’t be enough room to store them.’
‘What’ll you do?’
Rubini crushed the cigarette and said, making no attempt to disguise his exasperation, ‘If it were my decision, I’d give them back to the vu cumprà so they wouldn’t have to pay to buy new ones all over again. But then what happens to all those people who work in the factories in Puglia where they make them?’ Abruptly he got to his feet, pointed at the files and said, ‘If there’s anything else you want to know, give me a call.’ At the door, he paused and looked back at Brunetti, and raised a hand in an expression of utter hopelessness. ‘It’s
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