discovered that the beauty of the day lay in wait for them.
Returned to the sun and to the live world, Brunetti was overcome by a craving for coffee, or maybe it was sugar he wanted. As the three of them descended the low steps of the hospital and started across the campo , Niccolini put his head back again and let the sun wash over his face in a gesture Brunetti found almost ritualistic. They stopped near the statue of Colleoni, Brunetti eyeing with longing the row of cafés on the other side of the campo . Without asking, Rizzardi broke away from them and headed towards Rosa Salva, then turned and waved them both into motion.
Inside, Rizzardi ordered a coffee, and when the others joined him, they nodded to the barman for the same. People stood around, eating pastry, some already eating tramezzini , or drinking coffee, others having a late-morning spritz . How wonderful, and yet how terrible, to emerge from there and enter here, amidst the hiss of the coffee machine and the click of cups on saucers, and come face to face with this reminder of what we all know and feel uncomfortable knowing: that life plugs along, no matter what happens to any of us. It puts one foot in front of the other, whistling a tune that is dreary or merry by turn, but it always puts one foot in front of the other and moves on.
When the three coffees were on the bar in front of them,Rizzardi and Brunetti ripped open envelopes of sugar and stirred them into their cups. Niccolini stood looking at the cup as though uncertain just what it was. It was not until he was nudged by a man reaching past to replace his cup and saucer on the counter that he took a packet of sugar and poured it into his coffee.
When they were finished, Rizzardi put money on the counter, and the three men went back into the campo . A little boy, seeming no higher than Brunetti’s knee, whizzed past on a scooter, pushing with one foot, screaming with the wild thrill of it. A moment later, his father pounded past, out of breath and shouting, ‘Marco, Marco, fermati .’
Rizzardi walked to the railing surrounding the base of the statue of Colleoni and leaned back against it, looking down Barbaria delle Tole, the basilica on his left. Brunetti and Niccolini arranged themselves on either side of him. ‘Your mother died of a heart attack, Dottore,’ Rizzardi said with no introduction, eyes looking straight ahead of him. ‘It would have been very fast. I don’t know how painful it was, but I can assure you that it was very quick.’
Behind them they could hear Marco’s continued shouts and his delight at the day and the discovery of speed.
Niccolini took a deep breath in which Brunetti heard the relief anyone would feel at the doctor’s words. The three men listened to the voice of the child and the antiphon of the father’s caution.
Niccolini cleared his throat and said, his voice hesitant, raw, ‘Signorina Giusti – my mother’s neighbour – said she saw blood.’ That said, he stopped, and when Rizzardi did not answer, he asked, ‘Is that true, Dottore?’ Brunetti looked at Niccolini’s hands and saw that they were drawn into fists that shook with tension.
The little boy screamed as he whizzed past them, and when he reached the other end of the campo , Rizzardi turned to Brunetti, as if asking him to contribute in some way, butBrunetti offered no help, curious to know how the pathologist would answer Niccolini.
Rizzardi reached back to grab the top of the railing and propped his weight against it. ‘Yes, there was some physical indication to explain that, but nothing inconsistent with a heart attack,’ Rizzardi said. The doctor’s lapse into medical jargon, Brunetti noticed, made no mention of the faint mark he had seen on Signora Altavilla. He excluded the possibility that the pathologist thought it meaningless: had that been the case, Rizzardi would surely have mentioned it, only to dismiss it.
Brunetti turned to see how Niccolini would respond to this
Returned to the sun and to the live world, Brunetti was overcome by a craving for coffee, or maybe it was sugar he wanted. As the three of them descended the low steps of the hospital and started across the campo , Niccolini put his head back again and let the sun wash over his face in a gesture Brunetti found almost ritualistic. They stopped near the statue of Colleoni, Brunetti eyeing with longing the row of cafés on the other side of the campo . Without asking, Rizzardi broke away from them and headed towards Rosa Salva, then turned and waved them both into motion.
Inside, Rizzardi ordered a coffee, and when the others joined him, they nodded to the barman for the same. People stood around, eating pastry, some already eating tramezzini , or drinking coffee, others having a late-morning spritz . How wonderful, and yet how terrible, to emerge from there and enter here, amidst the hiss of the coffee machine and the click of cups on saucers, and come face to face with this reminder of what we all know and feel uncomfortable knowing: that life plugs along, no matter what happens to any of us. It puts one foot in front of the other, whistling a tune that is dreary or merry by turn, but it always puts one foot in front of the other and moves on.
When the three coffees were on the bar in front of them,Rizzardi and Brunetti ripped open envelopes of sugar and stirred them into their cups. Niccolini stood looking at the cup as though uncertain just what it was. It was not until he was nudged by a man reaching past to replace his cup and saucer on the counter that he took a packet of sugar and poured it into his coffee.
When they were finished, Rizzardi put money on the counter, and the three men went back into the campo . A little boy, seeming no higher than Brunetti’s knee, whizzed past on a scooter, pushing with one foot, screaming with the wild thrill of it. A moment later, his father pounded past, out of breath and shouting, ‘Marco, Marco, fermati .’
Rizzardi walked to the railing surrounding the base of the statue of Colleoni and leaned back against it, looking down Barbaria delle Tole, the basilica on his left. Brunetti and Niccolini arranged themselves on either side of him. ‘Your mother died of a heart attack, Dottore,’ Rizzardi said with no introduction, eyes looking straight ahead of him. ‘It would have been very fast. I don’t know how painful it was, but I can assure you that it was very quick.’
Behind them they could hear Marco’s continued shouts and his delight at the day and the discovery of speed.
Niccolini took a deep breath in which Brunetti heard the relief anyone would feel at the doctor’s words. The three men listened to the voice of the child and the antiphon of the father’s caution.
Niccolini cleared his throat and said, his voice hesitant, raw, ‘Signorina Giusti – my mother’s neighbour – said she saw blood.’ That said, he stopped, and when Rizzardi did not answer, he asked, ‘Is that true, Dottore?’ Brunetti looked at Niccolini’s hands and saw that they were drawn into fists that shook with tension.
The little boy screamed as he whizzed past them, and when he reached the other end of the campo , Rizzardi turned to Brunetti, as if asking him to contribute in some way, butBrunetti offered no help, curious to know how the pathologist would answer Niccolini.
Rizzardi reached back to grab the top of the railing and propped his weight against it. ‘Yes, there was some physical indication to explain that, but nothing inconsistent with a heart attack,’ Rizzardi said. The doctor’s lapse into medical jargon, Brunetti noticed, made no mention of the faint mark he had seen on Signora Altavilla. He excluded the possibility that the pathologist thought it meaningless: had that been the case, Rizzardi would surely have mentioned it, only to dismiss it.
Brunetti turned to see how Niccolini would respond to this
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