floor, blowing across the old man’s legs, did no more than shove the smell
around the room.
Brunetti said good-morning and
asked where he could find Giovanni Feltrinelli.
At the mention of the name, the portiere shoved his chair back and got to his feet. ‘I’ve warned him not to
have any more of you come to this building. If he wants to do his job, then he
can go do it in your cars or in the open fields, with the other animals, but he’s
not going to do his filthy work here, or I’ll call the police.’ As he said it,
his right hand reached out for the telephone on the wall behind him, his fiery
eyes running up and down Brunetti with disgust he did nothing to disguise.
‘I am the police,’ Brunetti said
softly and pulled his warrant card from his wallet, holding it out for the old
man to see. He took it roughly from Brunetti, as if to suggest that he, too,
knew where these things could be faked, and pushed his glasses up on his nose
to read it.
‘It looks real,’ he finally
admitted and handed it back to Brunetti. He took a dirty handkerchief from his
pocket, removed his glasses, and began to rub at the lenses, first one and then
the other, carefully, as though he had spent his life doing this. He put them
back on, careful to hook them behind each ear, put the handkerchief back in his
pocket, and asked Brunetti, in a different voice, ‘What’s he done now?’
‘Nothing. We need to question him
about someone else.’
‘One of his faggot friends?’ the
old man asked, returning to his aggressive tone.
Brunetti ignored the question. ‘We’d
like to speak to Signor Feltrinelli. Perhaps he can give us some information.’
‘Signor Feltrinelli? Signor?’ the
old man asked, repeating Brunetti’s words but turning the formality into an
insult. ‘You mean Nino the Pretty Boy, Nino the Cocksucker?’
Brunetti sighed tiredly. Why
couldn’t people learn to be more discriminating in whom they chose to hate, a
bit more selective? Perhaps even a bit more intelligent?
Why not hate the Christian
Democrats? Or the Socialists? Or why not hate people who hated homosexuals?
‘Could you tell me Signor
Feltrinelli’s apartment number?’
The old man retreated behind his
desk and sat back down to his task of sorting the mail. ‘Fifth floor. The name’s
on the door.’
Brunetti turned and left without
saying anything further. When he was at the door, he thought he heard the old
man mutter, ‘Signor,’ but it could have been only an angry noise. On the other
side of the marble-floored hallway, he pushed the button for the elevator and
stood waiting for it. After a few minutes, the elevator still had not come, but
Brunetti refused to go back to ask the portiere if it was working.
Instead, he moved over to the left, opened a door to the stairs, and climbed to
the fifth floor. By the time he reached it, he had to loosen his tie and pull
the cloth of his trousers away from his thighs, where it clung wetly. At the
top, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his face.
As the old man had said, the name
was on the door: ‘Giovanni Feltrinelli - Architeito’.
He glanced at his watch: 11.35.
He rang the bell. In immediate response, he heard quick footsteps approach the
door. It was opened by a young man who bore a faint resemblance to the police
photo Brunetti had studied the night before: short blond hair, a squared and
masculine jaw, and soft dark eyes.
‘Si?’ he said, looking up at Brunetti
with a friendly smile of enquiry.
‘Signor Giovanni Feltrinelli?’
Brunetti asked, holding out his warrant card.
The young man barely glanced at
the card, but he seemed to recognize it immediately, and that recognition wiped
the smile from his face.
‘Yes. What do you want?’ His
voice was as cool as his smile had become.
‘I’d like to talk to you, Signor
Feltrinelli. May I come in?’
‘Why bother to ask?’
around the room.
Brunetti said good-morning and
asked where he could find Giovanni Feltrinelli.
At the mention of the name, the portiere shoved his chair back and got to his feet. ‘I’ve warned him not to
have any more of you come to this building. If he wants to do his job, then he
can go do it in your cars or in the open fields, with the other animals, but he’s
not going to do his filthy work here, or I’ll call the police.’ As he said it,
his right hand reached out for the telephone on the wall behind him, his fiery
eyes running up and down Brunetti with disgust he did nothing to disguise.
‘I am the police,’ Brunetti said
softly and pulled his warrant card from his wallet, holding it out for the old
man to see. He took it roughly from Brunetti, as if to suggest that he, too,
knew where these things could be faked, and pushed his glasses up on his nose
to read it.
‘It looks real,’ he finally
admitted and handed it back to Brunetti. He took a dirty handkerchief from his
pocket, removed his glasses, and began to rub at the lenses, first one and then
the other, carefully, as though he had spent his life doing this. He put them
back on, careful to hook them behind each ear, put the handkerchief back in his
pocket, and asked Brunetti, in a different voice, ‘What’s he done now?’
‘Nothing. We need to question him
about someone else.’
‘One of his faggot friends?’ the
old man asked, returning to his aggressive tone.
Brunetti ignored the question. ‘We’d
like to speak to Signor Feltrinelli. Perhaps he can give us some information.’
‘Signor Feltrinelli? Signor?’ the
old man asked, repeating Brunetti’s words but turning the formality into an
insult. ‘You mean Nino the Pretty Boy, Nino the Cocksucker?’
Brunetti sighed tiredly. Why
couldn’t people learn to be more discriminating in whom they chose to hate, a
bit more selective? Perhaps even a bit more intelligent?
Why not hate the Christian
Democrats? Or the Socialists? Or why not hate people who hated homosexuals?
‘Could you tell me Signor
Feltrinelli’s apartment number?’
The old man retreated behind his
desk and sat back down to his task of sorting the mail. ‘Fifth floor. The name’s
on the door.’
Brunetti turned and left without
saying anything further. When he was at the door, he thought he heard the old
man mutter, ‘Signor,’ but it could have been only an angry noise. On the other
side of the marble-floored hallway, he pushed the button for the elevator and
stood waiting for it. After a few minutes, the elevator still had not come, but
Brunetti refused to go back to ask the portiere if it was working.
Instead, he moved over to the left, opened a door to the stairs, and climbed to
the fifth floor. By the time he reached it, he had to loosen his tie and pull
the cloth of his trousers away from his thighs, where it clung wetly. At the
top, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his face.
As the old man had said, the name
was on the door: ‘Giovanni Feltrinelli - Architeito’.
He glanced at his watch: 11.35.
He rang the bell. In immediate response, he heard quick footsteps approach the
door. It was opened by a young man who bore a faint resemblance to the police
photo Brunetti had studied the night before: short blond hair, a squared and
masculine jaw, and soft dark eyes.
‘Si?’ he said, looking up at Brunetti
with a friendly smile of enquiry.
‘Signor Giovanni Feltrinelli?’
Brunetti asked, holding out his warrant card.
The young man barely glanced at
the card, but he seemed to recognize it immediately, and that recognition wiped
the smile from his face.
‘Yes. What do you want?’ His
voice was as cool as his smile had become.
‘I’d like to talk to you, Signor
Feltrinelli. May I come in?’
‘Why bother to ask?’
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