more modest home and to his lunch.
7
IN THE APARTMENT , he found the children in the middle of an argument. They stood at the door to the living room, voices raised, and barely glanced in Brunetti’s direction when he came in. Years of evaluating the tones of their various interchanges told him that their hearts weren’t in this one and they were doing little more than going through the motions of combat, rather in the fashion of walruses content to rise to the surface of the water and display their tusks to an opponent. As soon as one backed off, the other would flop down and swim away. The dispute concerned a CD, its ownership as disputed as it was currently divided: Raffi had the disc in his hand, and Chiara held the plastic box.
‘I bought it a month ago at Tempio della Musica,’ Chiara insisted.
‘Sara gave it to me for my birthday, stupid,’ retorted Raffi.
Applauding himself for his self-restraint, Brunetti did not suggest that they emulate a previous judgment, cut the squealing thing in two, and have done with it. Instead, he inquired, ‘Is your mother in her study?’
Chiara nodded but turned immediately back to combat. ‘I want to listen to it now,’ Brunetti heard her say as he went down the corridor.
The door to Paola’s study was open, so he went in, saying, ‘Can I claim refugee status?’
‘Hummm?’ she asked, looking up from the papers on her desk, peering at him through her reading glasses as though uncertain of the identity of the man who had just walked in unannounced.
‘Can I claim refugee status?’
She removed her glasses. ‘Are they still at it?’ she asked. As formulaic as a Haydn symphony, the children’s bickering had moved into an adagio but Brunetti, in expectation of the allegro tempestoso that was sure to come, closed the door and sat on the sofa against the wall.
‘I spoke to your father.’
‘About what?’ she asked.
‘This thing with Claudia Leonardo.’
‘What “thing”?’ she asked, refusing to ask him how he came to know her name.
‘This grandfather and his criminal behaviour during the war.’
‘Criminal?’ Paola repeated, interested now.
Quickly, Brunetti explained what Claudia had told him and what he had learned from her father.
When he was finished, Paola said, ‘I’m not sure Claudia would like other people to know about this. She asked if she could talk to you, but I don’t think she’s the sort of person who’d like her family’s business being made public.’
‘Talking to your father is hardly making what she told me public,’ Brunetti said shortly.
‘You know what I mean,’ she returned in the same tone. ‘I assumed that she spoke to me in confidence.’
‘I didn’t make the same assumption,’ Brunetti said and waited to see Paola’s response. ‘She came to see me in the Questura, so she knows I’m a policeman. How else am I supposed to answer?’
‘As I remember, the question was only a theoretical one.’
‘I needed to know more about it to be able to answer her,’ Brunetti explained for what seemed the hundredth time, conscious of how similar their conversation had become to the one he’d heard on entering the apartment, which conversation, he was happy to note, appeared to have concluded. ‘Look,’ he added in an effort at reconciliation, ‘your father said he’d try to remember more about what happened.’
‘But is there any chance of some sort of legal rehabilitation?’ she asked. ‘That’s all she wants to know.’
‘As I said to you before, I can’t answer that until I know more.’
She studied him a long time, her right hand fiddling idly with one of the earpieces of her glasses , then said, ‘It sounds like you already know enough to be able to give her an answer.’
‘That it’s impossible?’
‘Yes.’
‘It probably is,’ he said.
‘Then why ask my father about it? Is it because you’re curious?’ When he didn’t answer, she said, in a far softer voice, ‘Has my knight in
7
IN THE APARTMENT , he found the children in the middle of an argument. They stood at the door to the living room, voices raised, and barely glanced in Brunetti’s direction when he came in. Years of evaluating the tones of their various interchanges told him that their hearts weren’t in this one and they were doing little more than going through the motions of combat, rather in the fashion of walruses content to rise to the surface of the water and display their tusks to an opponent. As soon as one backed off, the other would flop down and swim away. The dispute concerned a CD, its ownership as disputed as it was currently divided: Raffi had the disc in his hand, and Chiara held the plastic box.
‘I bought it a month ago at Tempio della Musica,’ Chiara insisted.
‘Sara gave it to me for my birthday, stupid,’ retorted Raffi.
Applauding himself for his self-restraint, Brunetti did not suggest that they emulate a previous judgment, cut the squealing thing in two, and have done with it. Instead, he inquired, ‘Is your mother in her study?’
Chiara nodded but turned immediately back to combat. ‘I want to listen to it now,’ Brunetti heard her say as he went down the corridor.
The door to Paola’s study was open, so he went in, saying, ‘Can I claim refugee status?’
‘Hummm?’ she asked, looking up from the papers on her desk, peering at him through her reading glasses as though uncertain of the identity of the man who had just walked in unannounced.
‘Can I claim refugee status?’
She removed her glasses. ‘Are they still at it?’ she asked. As formulaic as a Haydn symphony, the children’s bickering had moved into an adagio but Brunetti, in expectation of the allegro tempestoso that was sure to come, closed the door and sat on the sofa against the wall.
‘I spoke to your father.’
‘About what?’ she asked.
‘This thing with Claudia Leonardo.’
‘What “thing”?’ she asked, refusing to ask him how he came to know her name.
‘This grandfather and his criminal behaviour during the war.’
‘Criminal?’ Paola repeated, interested now.
Quickly, Brunetti explained what Claudia had told him and what he had learned from her father.
When he was finished, Paola said, ‘I’m not sure Claudia would like other people to know about this. She asked if she could talk to you, but I don’t think she’s the sort of person who’d like her family’s business being made public.’
‘Talking to your father is hardly making what she told me public,’ Brunetti said shortly.
‘You know what I mean,’ she returned in the same tone. ‘I assumed that she spoke to me in confidence.’
‘I didn’t make the same assumption,’ Brunetti said and waited to see Paola’s response. ‘She came to see me in the Questura, so she knows I’m a policeman. How else am I supposed to answer?’
‘As I remember, the question was only a theoretical one.’
‘I needed to know more about it to be able to answer her,’ Brunetti explained for what seemed the hundredth time, conscious of how similar their conversation had become to the one he’d heard on entering the apartment, which conversation, he was happy to note, appeared to have concluded. ‘Look,’ he added in an effort at reconciliation, ‘your father said he’d try to remember more about what happened.’
‘But is there any chance of some sort of legal rehabilitation?’ she asked. ‘That’s all she wants to know.’
‘As I said to you before, I can’t answer that until I know more.’
She studied him a long time, her right hand fiddling idly with one of the earpieces of her glasses , then said, ‘It sounds like you already know enough to be able to give her an answer.’
‘That it’s impossible?’
‘Yes.’
‘It probably is,’ he said.
‘Then why ask my father about it? Is it because you’re curious?’ When he didn’t answer, she said, in a far softer voice, ‘Has my knight in
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