only when she spoke to herself.
She heard him coming down the hall and turned to him. 'Did you hear that, Guido? Did you hear that? All three of the killers have said he sent them to kill the judge, and he talks about his commitment to justice. They ought to take him but and hang him. But he's a Member of Parliament, so they can't touch him . Lock the whole lot of them up, just put Parliament, every one of them, in prison and save us all a lot of time and trouble. ’
Brunetti walked across the kitchen and stooped down to put the bottles in the low cabinet beside the refrigerator. There was only one other bottle there, though he had carried five up the day before. 'What's for lunch?' he asked.
She took a small step backwards and shot an accusing finger at his heart. 'The Republic's collapsing, and all he can think about is food,' she said, this time addressing the invisible listener who had, for more than twenty years, been a silent participant in their marriage.
'Guido, these villains will destroy us all . Perhaps they already have. And you want to know what's for lunch.'
Brunetti stopped himself from remarking that someone wearing cashmere from Burlington Arcade made not the best revolutionary and, instead, said, 'Feed me, Paola, and then I’ll go back to my own commitment to justice.'
That was enough to remind her of Trevisan and, as Brunetti knew she would, Paola eagerly abandoned her philosophical fulminations for a bit of gossip. She turned off the radio and asked, 'Has he given it to you? ’
Brunetti nodded as he pushed himself up from his knees. ‘ He observed that I had nothing much to do at the moment. The Mayor has already called, so I leave it to you to imagine the state he's in.' There was no need to provide explication of ‘ it ’ or 'he ’ .
As Brunetti knew she would be, Paola was diverted from considerations of political jus tice and rectitude. 'The story I read said nothing more than that he had been shot. On the train from Torino.'
'He had a ticket from Padua. We're trying to find out what he was doing there.'
'A woman?'
'Could be. Too early yet to say anything. What's for lunch?'
'Pasta fagioli and then cotoletta.' 'Salad?'
'Guido,' she asked with pursed lips and upraised eyes, 'wh en haven't we had salad with cutl ets? ’
Instead of answering her quest ion, he asked, 'Is there any m ore of that good Dolcetto?'
'I don't know. We had a bottle of it last week, didn't we?'
He muttered something and knelt back down in front of the cabinet Behind the bottles of mineral water were three bottles of wine, all white. Getting to his feet again, he asked, 'Where's Chiara?'
'In her room. Why?'
'I want her to do me a favour.'
Paola glanced at her watch. 'It's a quarter to one, Guido. The stores will be closed.'
'Not if she goes up to Do Mori. They're open until one.'
'And you're going to ask her to go up there, just to get you a bottle of Dolcetto?'
Three,' he said, leaving the kitchen and going down the hall towards Chiara's room. He knocked at the door and, from behind him, heard the radio turned on.
'Avanti, papa ,' she called out
He opened the door and walked in. The bed, across which Chiara sprawled, had a white ruffled canopy running above it. Her shoes lay on the floor, next to her school bag and jacke t. The shutters were open, and l ight swept into the room, illuminating the bears and other stuffed animals which shared the bed with her. She brushed a handful of dark blonde hair back from her face, looked up at him, and gave him a smile that competed with the light.
'Ciao, dolc ezza? he said as he came in.
'You're home early, Papa.'
'No, right on time. You been reading?' She nodded, glancing back at her book. 'Chiara, would you do me a favour?' She lowered the book and peered at him over the top of the pages.
'Would you, Chiara?' 'Where?' she asked. 'Just down to Do Mori.' 'What are we out of?' she asked. 'Dolcetto.'
'Oh, Papa, why can't you drink something else with
She heard him coming down the hall and turned to him. 'Did you hear that, Guido? Did you hear that? All three of the killers have said he sent them to kill the judge, and he talks about his commitment to justice. They ought to take him but and hang him. But he's a Member of Parliament, so they can't touch him . Lock the whole lot of them up, just put Parliament, every one of them, in prison and save us all a lot of time and trouble. ’
Brunetti walked across the kitchen and stooped down to put the bottles in the low cabinet beside the refrigerator. There was only one other bottle there, though he had carried five up the day before. 'What's for lunch?' he asked.
She took a small step backwards and shot an accusing finger at his heart. 'The Republic's collapsing, and all he can think about is food,' she said, this time addressing the invisible listener who had, for more than twenty years, been a silent participant in their marriage.
'Guido, these villains will destroy us all . Perhaps they already have. And you want to know what's for lunch.'
Brunetti stopped himself from remarking that someone wearing cashmere from Burlington Arcade made not the best revolutionary and, instead, said, 'Feed me, Paola, and then I’ll go back to my own commitment to justice.'
That was enough to remind her of Trevisan and, as Brunetti knew she would, Paola eagerly abandoned her philosophical fulminations for a bit of gossip. She turned off the radio and asked, 'Has he given it to you? ’
Brunetti nodded as he pushed himself up from his knees. ‘ He observed that I had nothing much to do at the moment. The Mayor has already called, so I leave it to you to imagine the state he's in.' There was no need to provide explication of ‘ it ’ or 'he ’ .
As Brunetti knew she would be, Paola was diverted from considerations of political jus tice and rectitude. 'The story I read said nothing more than that he had been shot. On the train from Torino.'
'He had a ticket from Padua. We're trying to find out what he was doing there.'
'A woman?'
'Could be. Too early yet to say anything. What's for lunch?'
'Pasta fagioli and then cotoletta.' 'Salad?'
'Guido,' she asked with pursed lips and upraised eyes, 'wh en haven't we had salad with cutl ets? ’
Instead of answering her quest ion, he asked, 'Is there any m ore of that good Dolcetto?'
'I don't know. We had a bottle of it last week, didn't we?'
He muttered something and knelt back down in front of the cabinet Behind the bottles of mineral water were three bottles of wine, all white. Getting to his feet again, he asked, 'Where's Chiara?'
'In her room. Why?'
'I want her to do me a favour.'
Paola glanced at her watch. 'It's a quarter to one, Guido. The stores will be closed.'
'Not if she goes up to Do Mori. They're open until one.'
'And you're going to ask her to go up there, just to get you a bottle of Dolcetto?'
Three,' he said, leaving the kitchen and going down the hall towards Chiara's room. He knocked at the door and, from behind him, heard the radio turned on.
'Avanti, papa ,' she called out
He opened the door and walked in. The bed, across which Chiara sprawled, had a white ruffled canopy running above it. Her shoes lay on the floor, next to her school bag and jacke t. The shutters were open, and l ight swept into the room, illuminating the bears and other stuffed animals which shared the bed with her. She brushed a handful of dark blonde hair back from her face, looked up at him, and gave him a smile that competed with the light.
'Ciao, dolc ezza? he said as he came in.
'You're home early, Papa.'
'No, right on time. You been reading?' She nodded, glancing back at her book. 'Chiara, would you do me a favour?' She lowered the book and peered at him over the top of the pages.
'Would you, Chiara?' 'Where?' she asked. 'Just down to Do Mori.' 'What are we out of?' she asked. 'Dolcetto.'
'Oh, Papa, why can't you drink something else with
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