something to eat in her
desk;
‘Thanks, Anita,’ he said
and picked up one of the pears. He plucked out the stem and bit into the pear,
ripe and perfect. In five quick bites, it was gone, and he reached for the
second one. A bit less ripe, it was still sweet and soft. Juggling the two damp
cores in his left hand, he took the third pear, thanked her again, and went out
of the office, now fortified for the ride to Piazzale Roma and his meeting with
Doctor Peters. Captain Peters.
* *
* *
4
He got to the Carabinieri station at Piazzale Roma at
twenty minutes before seven, leaving Monetti in the launch to wait for him to
come back aboard with the doctor. He realized, although it no doubt made a
statement about his prejudices, that he found it more comfortable to think of
her as a doctor than as a captain. He had called ahead, so the Carabinieri knew
he was coming. It was the usual bunch, most of them Southerners, who seemed
never to leave the smoke-filled station, the purpose of which Brunetti could
never understand. Carabinieri had nothing to do with traffic, but traffic was
all there was at Piazzale Roma: cars, campers, taxis, and, especially during
the summer, endless rows of buses parked there just long enough to disgorge
their heavy cargoes of tourists. Just this last summer there had been added to
them a new sort of vehicle, the diesel-burning, fume-spewing buses that
lumbered there overnight from a newly freed Eastern Europe and from which
emerged, dazed with travel and lack of sleep, scores of thousands of very
polite, very poor, very stocky tourists, who spent a single day in Venice and
left it dazzled by the beauty they had seen in that one day. Here they had
their first taste of capitalism triumphant, and they were too thrilled by it to
realize that much of it was no more than papier-mâché masks from Taiwan and
lace woven in Korea.
He went into the station
and exchanged friendly greetings with the two officers on duty. ‘No sign of her
yet, La Capitana,’ one of them said, then added a scornful chuckle at
the idea that a woman could be an officer. At the sound of it, Brunetti
determined to address her, at least It’she came anywhere within hearing of
these two, by her rank and to give her every sign of the respect to which her
rank entitled her. Not for the first time, he cringed when he saw his own
prejudices manifest in other people.
He engaged in a few
desultory remarks with the Carabinieri. What chance did Napott have of winning
this Weekend? Would Maradona ever play again? Would the government fall? He
stood looking out of the glass door and watched the waves of traffic flow into
the Piazzale. Pedestrians danced and wove their way through the cars and buses.
No one paid the least attention to the zebra crossing or to the white lines
that were meant to indicate the separation of lanes. And yet the traffic flowed
smoothly and quickly.
A light green sedan cut
across the bus lane and drew up behind the two blue and white Carabinieri
vehicles. It was an almost anonymous rectangle, devoid of markings or rooftop
light, its only distinguishing mark a number plate which read ‘AFI Official’.
The driver’s door opened, and a uniformed soldier emerged. He bent and opened
the door behind him and held it while a young woman in a dark-green uniform got
out. As soon as she stood clear of the car, she put on her uniform cap and
looked around her, then over towards the Carabinieri station.
Without bothering to say
goodbye to the men inside, Brunetti left the station and went towards the car. ‘Doctor
Peters?’ he said as he approached.
She looked up at the
sound of her name and took a step towards him. As he came up, she held out her
hand and shook his briefly. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with curly
dark-brown hair that pushed back against the pressure of her hat. Her eyes were
chestnut, her skin still brown from a summer tan. Had she smiled, she would
have
desk;
‘Thanks, Anita,’ he said
and picked up one of the pears. He plucked out the stem and bit into the pear,
ripe and perfect. In five quick bites, it was gone, and he reached for the
second one. A bit less ripe, it was still sweet and soft. Juggling the two damp
cores in his left hand, he took the third pear, thanked her again, and went out
of the office, now fortified for the ride to Piazzale Roma and his meeting with
Doctor Peters. Captain Peters.
* *
* *
4
He got to the Carabinieri station at Piazzale Roma at
twenty minutes before seven, leaving Monetti in the launch to wait for him to
come back aboard with the doctor. He realized, although it no doubt made a
statement about his prejudices, that he found it more comfortable to think of
her as a doctor than as a captain. He had called ahead, so the Carabinieri knew
he was coming. It was the usual bunch, most of them Southerners, who seemed
never to leave the smoke-filled station, the purpose of which Brunetti could
never understand. Carabinieri had nothing to do with traffic, but traffic was
all there was at Piazzale Roma: cars, campers, taxis, and, especially during
the summer, endless rows of buses parked there just long enough to disgorge
their heavy cargoes of tourists. Just this last summer there had been added to
them a new sort of vehicle, the diesel-burning, fume-spewing buses that
lumbered there overnight from a newly freed Eastern Europe and from which
emerged, dazed with travel and lack of sleep, scores of thousands of very
polite, very poor, very stocky tourists, who spent a single day in Venice and
left it dazzled by the beauty they had seen in that one day. Here they had
their first taste of capitalism triumphant, and they were too thrilled by it to
realize that much of it was no more than papier-mâché masks from Taiwan and
lace woven in Korea.
He went into the station
and exchanged friendly greetings with the two officers on duty. ‘No sign of her
yet, La Capitana,’ one of them said, then added a scornful chuckle at
the idea that a woman could be an officer. At the sound of it, Brunetti
determined to address her, at least It’she came anywhere within hearing of
these two, by her rank and to give her every sign of the respect to which her
rank entitled her. Not for the first time, he cringed when he saw his own
prejudices manifest in other people.
He engaged in a few
desultory remarks with the Carabinieri. What chance did Napott have of winning
this Weekend? Would Maradona ever play again? Would the government fall? He
stood looking out of the glass door and watched the waves of traffic flow into
the Piazzale. Pedestrians danced and wove their way through the cars and buses.
No one paid the least attention to the zebra crossing or to the white lines
that were meant to indicate the separation of lanes. And yet the traffic flowed
smoothly and quickly.
A light green sedan cut
across the bus lane and drew up behind the two blue and white Carabinieri
vehicles. It was an almost anonymous rectangle, devoid of markings or rooftop
light, its only distinguishing mark a number plate which read ‘AFI Official’.
The driver’s door opened, and a uniformed soldier emerged. He bent and opened
the door behind him and held it while a young woman in a dark-green uniform got
out. As soon as she stood clear of the car, she put on her uniform cap and
looked around her, then over towards the Carabinieri station.
Without bothering to say
goodbye to the men inside, Brunetti left the station and went towards the car. ‘Doctor
Peters?’ he said as he approached.
She looked up at the
sound of her name and took a step towards him. As he came up, she held out her
hand and shook his briefly. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with curly
dark-brown hair that pushed back against the pressure of her hat. Her eyes were
chestnut, her skin still brown from a summer tan. Had she smiled, she would
have
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