‘I think you better tell me in a way I can understand, Lorenzo,’ he said, welcoming the diversion.
‘You know Nadia reads, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and the verb forced his thoughts to another woman who read.
‘Well, she’s been reading an introduction to anthropology, or something like that. Sociology, maybe. She talks about it at dinner.’
‘Talks about what?’
‘Lately she’s been reading about inheritance rules and behaviour, as I said. Anyway, there’s this theory about why men are so aggressive and competitive — about why so many of us are bastards. She says it’s because we want to have access to the most fertile females.’
Brunetti propped his elbows on his desk and sank his head in his hands, moaning. He had wanted diversion, but not this.
‘All right, all right. But you needed the introduction,’ Vianello protested. ‘Once they get the most fertile females, they impregnate them, and that way they’re sure that the children who inherit the goats are really their own.’ Vianello looked across the desk to see if Brunetti was following, but he still had his head buried in his hands. ‘It made sense to me when she explained it, Guido. We all want our stuff to go to our kids, not to some cuckoo.’
Brunetti’s continuing silence — at least he had stopped moaning — forced Vianello to add, ‘So that’s why men compete. Evolution’s programmed it into us.’
‘Because of the goats?’ Brunetti raised his head to ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mind if we talk about this some other time?’
‘As you will.’
Their light-heartedness seemed suddenly out of tune to Brunetti, who looked at the papers on his desk, at a loss what to say. Vianello got to his feet, said something about having to talk to Pucetti, and left. Brunetti continued to look at the papers.
His phone rang. It was Paola, reminding him that she had to attend the farewell dinner for a retiring colleague that evening and that the kids were attending a horror film festival and would not be there for dinner, either. Before he could ask, she told him she’d leave him something in the oven.
He thanked her, then asked, remembering the Conte’s request and his failure to pursue it, ‘Did your father say anything about Cataldo?’
‘The last time I spoke to my mother, she said she thought he was going to turn him down, but she didn’t know why.’ Then she added, ‘You know my father enjoys talking to you, so pretend you’re his concerned son-in-law and call him and ask. Please, Guido.’
‘I am his concerned son-in-law,’ Brunetti found himself protesting.
‘Guido,’ she said, with a long pause after his name. ‘You know you never take any interest — or at least you never voice any interest — in his business dealings. I’m sure he’d be glad to hear you finally doing so.’
Brunetti’s position vis-à-vis his father-in-law’s business dealings was an uneasy one. Because Brunetti’s own children would some day inherit the Falier fortune, any display of curiosity on Brunetti’s part, no matter how innocent, was open to the interpretation of self-interest: even the idea caused Brunetti a certain embarrassment.
Asking about Cataldo, he realized, as Paola waited for his response, was complicated, for the man was married to a woman who had so interested Brunetti that he had not managed to disguise that fac-t. ‘All right,’ he forced himself to say, ‘I’ll call him.’
‘Good,’ she said and was gone.
Left with the phone still in his hand, Brunetti dialled the number of his father-in-law’s office, gave his name, and asked to speak to Conte Falier. This time there were none of the usual clicks, hums, or delays, and within seconds he heard the Conte’s voice, ‘Guido, how good of you to call. You’re fine? The kids?’ Someone unfamiliar with their family, and with the fact that Paola spoke to her parents every day, would no doubt believe a significant time had passed since the Conte had last had news of the family.
‘Everyone’s fine, thank you,’ Brunetti answered. Then, with no preamble, ‘I wondered if you’d decided what to do about that investment. I’m sorry I never got back to you, but I haven’t heard anything, certainly nothing you didn’t already know.’ The habit of discretion while speaking on the phone had so seeped into Brunetti’s bones that, even in what was no more than an expression of interest in the doings of a member of his family, he followed the drill of using no names and giving as little information as possible.
‘That’s all right, Guido,’ his father-in-law’s voice broke into his reflections. ‘I’ve decided what to do.’ After a pause, he added, ‘If you like, I can tell you more about it. Are you free for an hour or so?’
With the prospect of an empty house before him, Brunetti said he was, and the Conte went on, ‘I’d like to go and have another look at a painting I saw last night. If you’re interested, you could come along. Tell me what you think of it.’
‘Gladly. Where should we meet?’
‘Why not San Bortolo? We can go together from there.’
They agreed on seven-thirty, the Conte certain that the dealer would stay open if he called and asked. Brunetti glanced at his watch and saw that there was time to attend to some of the papers that had rained on to his desk that day. He collared his wandering attention and read on. In less than an hour, one entire pile had moved from right to left, though Brunetti, however proud of his industry, remembered little of what he had read. He got up and walked to his window and stared at the church across the canal without really seeing it. He retied his shoes, opened the door to the armadio to look for the wool-lined boots that had lain there, abandoned, for years: he’d last worn them during a particularly high acqua alta. He had noticed, months ago, that one of them was covered in mould, and he now took the opportunity to put them both in the wastebasket, hoping he would not be trapped at the Questura by another flood and find himself without boots. He hoped even more that Signorina Elettra would not discover that he had put rubber in the paper garbage.
Back at his desk, he had a look at the staffing plan and saw that Alvise was scheduled to be at the front desk all of next week. He switched this around and sent him out on patrol with Riverre.
Finally it was time to go. He decided to walk, something he regretted as soon as he turned into Borgoloco S. Lorenzo and the temperature skidded down, leaving him wishing he had taken the scarf from the armadio. The wind abated as he entered Campo Santa Maria Formosa, but when he saw the ice splashed on the pavement around the fountain, he felt still colder.
He cut around the church, down to San Lio, through the underpass and out into the campo, where the wind awaited him. As did Conte Orazio Falier, his throat comfortably nestled in a pink woollen scarf few men his age would dare to wear.
The two men kissed, as had become their habit with the passing of the years, and the Conte latched his arm into Brunetti’s, turning him away from the statue of Goldoni and down towards Ponte del’ovo.
‘Tell me about the painting,’ Brunetti said.
The Conte nodded to a man passing by and stopped to shake hands with an elderly woman who looked familiar to Brunetti. ‘It’s nothing special, but there’s something about his face I like.’
‘Where did you see it?’
‘Franco’s. We can talk there,’ the Conte answered as he nodded to an elderly couple.
They neared Campo San Luca, walked past the bar that had replaced Rosa Salva, then over the bridges and down towards what had been done to La Fenice. In front of the theatre they turned to the left, past Antico Martini, both disappointed that the time was not right to slip in for a meal, and into the gallery at the bottom of the bridge. Franco, long known to both of them, waved at the pictures on the wall, inviting them to look, and returned to his book.