The Waters of Eternal Youth by Donna Leon

smiled his thanks. ‘I’ll talk to them tomorrow. Is he still living in Santa Croce?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I never spoke to him again.’
    He found this strange but said nothing. He had no more questions, at least none he wanted to ask now. ‘If I have to speak to you again . . . ?’
    â€˜I’m always here,’ the Contessa said. ‘Unless I go to see Manuela.’ She sat quietly but then added, ‘Well, it’s more often that Manuela visits me.’ Her face was transformed by a smile of such surprising warmth that Brunetti was forced to turn away his eyes.
    â€˜Can she get here herself?’ he asked, somehow ashamed of the question.
    â€˜My maid, Gala, goes and gets her. She’s worked for me for years, and she’s known Manuela since she was a baby.’
    He closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. ‘I have enough to begin, I think,’ he said and got to his feet. Usually, after an interview, he thanked the person who had given him information, but that seemed inappropriate here.
    He bowed and kissed her hand when she extended it, left the room, and found the maid seated on a chair at the end of the corridor. She let him out of the
palazzo.

5
    Just as Paola was setting a bowl of
paccheri con tonno
on the table that evening, Chiara said to her father, ‘Can I ask you a question?’ While she waited for him to answer, Chiara took the serving spoon and gave herself a modest portion and then looked at Brunetti.
    â€˜You can’t ask me an answer, can you?’ he replied, a response that had, over the years, become part of family speech ritual, a trap into which the children seemed unable to stop themselves from falling. It was Brunetti’s revenge for the persecution he suffered from his ecologically minded children, who pounded violently on the door of the bathroom the moment he entered the second minute of a shower. They could take care of the environment, and he’d see to the logic, thank you very much.
    Chiara rolled her eyes in exasperation, and Brunetti asked, ‘About what?’
    â€˜The law.’
    â€˜Large topic, I’d say,’ Raffi interjected from across the table.
    Ignoring her brother, Chiara lowered her head and concentrated on her pasta. Paola gave Raffi an icy stare.
    â€˜What about the law?’ Raffi asked; then, when his sister failed to look at him, he added, ‘Specifically.’ He smiled at Paola to show the purity of his intentions.
    Chiara glanced at her mother, who was helping herself to pasta, and then across the table at her brother, as if to test the sincerity of his question. ‘I wondered if it’s against the law to ask people for money on the street.’
    Brunetti set his fork down. ‘Depends,’ he answered.
    â€˜On?’ This from Chiara.
    â€˜On who sent you to ask,’ he answered after some consideration
    â€˜Could you give me an example?’ Chiara asked.
    â€˜If you’re working for Médecins Sans Frontières and you have a permit to be there, then you can ask. Or if you’re A VAPO and sell oranges and use the money to give help to cancer patients in their homes, and you have an authorized booth in Campo San Bortolo, then you can, too.’
    â€˜And if you’re not one of these?’ Chiara asked, dinner forgotten.
    He had to think about this for a moment. ‘Then I suppose you could be considered a mendicant.’
    â€˜And then?’ Paola broke in to ask, suddenly interested in the subject.
    â€˜Then you’re doing something the law – in simple terms – disapproves of. But you’re not breaking it.’ It was only after he’d spoken that Brunetti realized how absurd this sounded.
    â€˜Is it a real law or just a pretend law?’ Chiara asked.
    Though well he knew what she meant, Brunetti felt the obligation to ask, ‘What do you mean by “pretend