Through a Glass Darkly by Donna Leon

‘Does this bus go to Hammersmith?’ Brunetti asked in English, straight faced.
    Signorina Elettra’s expression quit the world of Dante and turned to scripture: her face could have been that of the fleeing Eve on any one of a number of medieval frescos. Ignoring his English, she responded in Veneziano, a language she seldom used with him. ‘This bus will take you straight to
remengo
if you’re not careful,
Dottore
.’
    Where was
remengo
, Brunetti wondered? Like most Venetians, he had been told to go there and had been telling people to go there for decades, yet he had never paused to consider whether it was reachable by foot or boat or, in this case, bus. And was it a place like a city, meant to be written with a capital letter, or a more theoretical location like desperation or the devil and thus reachable only by means of imprecation?
    â€˜. . . can’t bring myself to be the one to tell him it’s hopeless.’ Signorina Elettra’s words brought him back to the present.
    â€˜But you’re still giving him English lessons?’
    â€˜I used to be able to resist him,’ she said. ‘But then he became vulnerable when I knew he was going to be rejected and he thought there was still a chance, and now I can’t keep myself from trying to help.’ She shook her head at the madness of it.
    â€˜Even though you know there’s no hope he’ll get the job?’
    She shrugged and repeated, ‘Even though I know there’s no hope he’ll get the job. Everything was fine until I saw his weakness – how much he wants this job – it was enough to make him human. Or very close. I closed my eyes for a minute and he slipped beneath my radar.’ She tried to shake the thought away but failed.
    Brunetti resisted the temptation to ask her how it was that she was so certain the Vice-Questore had no chance at the job, wished her a good evening and, deciding to walk home, turned left rather than right when he left the Questura. The same magic hand that had been poised over the city for a week remained in place, warding off rain and cold and beckoning forward ever milder temperatures. Urged by some secret motion, plants sprang up everywhere. In passing an iron railing, he noticed vines trailing over the top in an attempt to escape into the
calle
from the garden where they were being kept prisoner. A dog ran past him, followed by another, busy with doggy things. Perched on the wall of an embankment in the increasing chill of the evening were two young men in T-shirts and jeans, a sight which called Brunetti back to his senses, forcing him to button his jacket.
    Paola had said something about lamb that morning, and Brunetti started thinking about the many interesting things that could be doneto lamb. With rosemary and black olives or with rosemary and hot chilli peppers. And what was that one that Erizzo liked so much: the stew with balsamico and green beans? Or simply white wine and rosemary – and why was it that lamb cried out for rosemary more than any other herb? Following the trail of lamb, Brunetti found himself on the top of the Rialto, gazing south toward Cà Farsetti and the scaffolding that still covered the façade of the university down at the bend, the buildings softened by the evening light. Look at those
palazzi
, he told some silent audience of non-Venetians. Look at them and tell me who could build them today. Who could come and stack those blocks of marble one on top of the other and have the finished products display such effortless grace?
    Look at them, he went on, look at the homes of the Manins, the Bembos, the Dandolos, or look farther down to what the Grimanis and the Contarinis and the Trons built in their names. Look on those things and tell me we did not once know greatness.
    A man hurrying across the bridge bumped lightly into Brunetti, excused himself, and ran down the other side. When Brunetti looked back up the canal,