Wilful Behaviour by Donna Leon Page A

heard at the time was that Guzzardi’s lawyer had made a deal and he would be acquitted if the drawings were given back, but then he had some sort of collapse or seizure during the trial, real or fake I don’t know, and the judges ended up convicting him – now that I think about it, it might have been for extortion – and sending him to San Servolo. There was talk that it was all a charade, put on so that the judges could send him there. Then they’d keep him there for a few months , then let him out, miraculously cured. That way, the ambassador would get what he wanted, but Guzzardi wouldn’t really be punished.’
    ‘But he died?’
    ‘Yes, he died.’
    ‘Anything suspicious about that?’
    ‘No, not that I can remember ever hearing. But San Servolo was a death pit.’ The Count considered this for a moment, then added, ‘Not that it’s much better with the way things are organized now.’
    The window of Brunetti’s office looked across to the old men’s home at San Lorenzo, and what he saw there was enough to confirm everything the Count believed about the fate of the old, the mad, or the abandoned who came to be cared for by the current public institutions. He drew himself away from these reflections and glanced at his watch; it was past time for the Count to leave, if he was to be in time for lunch. He got to his feet. ‘Thank you. If you remember anything else…’
    The Count interrupted and finished the thought for him, ‘I’ll let you know.’ He smiled, not a happy smile, and said, ‘It’s very strange to think about those times again.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Just like the French, we couldn’t forget what happened during the war years fast enough. You know my feelings about the Germans,’ he began, and Brunetti nodded to acknowledge the unyielding distaste with which the Count viewed that nation. ‘But to give them credit, they looked at what they did.’
    ‘Did they have a choice?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘With Communists in charge of half the country, the Cold War begun, and the Americans terrified which way they’d go, of course they had a choice. The Allies, once the Nuremberg Trials were over, would never have pushed the Germans’ noses in it. But they chose to examine the war years, at least to a certain degree. We never did, and so there is no history of those years, at least none that’s reliable.’
    Brunetti was struck by how much the Count sounded like Claudia Leonardo, though they were separated by more than two generations.
    At the door of the office, Brunetti turned and asked, ‘And the drawings?’
    ‘What about them?’
    ‘What would they be worth now?’
    ‘That’s impossible to answer. No one knows what they were or how many of them there were, and there’s no proof that it happened.’
    ‘That the Guzzardis took them?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What do you think?’
    ‘Of course they took them,’ the Count said. ‘That’s the sort of people they were. Scum. Pretentious, upstart scum, the usual sort of people who are attracted to that kind of political idea. It’s the only chance they’ll ever have in their lives to have power or wealth, and so they gang together like rats and take what they can. Then, as soon as the game’s up, they’re the first to say they were morally opposed all the time but feared for the safety of their families. It’s remarkable the way men like that always manage to find some high-sounding excuse for what they did. Then, at the first opportunity, they join the winning side.’ The Count threw up one hand in a gesture of angry contempt.
    Brunetti could not remember ever seeing the Count pass so quickly from distant, amused contempt into raw anger. He wondered what particular set of experiences had led the Count to feel so strongly about these far-off events. This was hardly the time, however, to give in to his curiosity, so he contented himself with repeating his thanks and shaking the Count’s hand before leaving Palazzo Falier to return to his