Read Online Beastly Things by Donna Leon - Free Book Online

talk to Foa then.’
    ‘He’s not on shift until four, anyway. Plenty of time.’
    Brunetti, the two brioches rumbling at him from inside, decided to walk all the way home but then immediately changed his mind and walked up the Riva degli Schiavoni to get the vaporetto.
    Within five minutes, he had begun to regret his decision. Instead of being able to walk untroubled and uncrowded through Campo Santa Maria Formosa and Campo Santa Marina before confronting the inevitable logjam of Rialto, he had chosen to launch himself directly into the flood of tourists, even here. As he turned right on the
riva
, he saw the onrushing wave of them, though they moved far more slowly than any wave he had ever encountered.
    Like any man of sense, he fled to the vaporetto stop, got on the One, and found a seat inside, to the left. It was a far safer place from which to allow the assault of the beauty of the city. The sun jumped off the still surface of the
bacino
, forcing him to squint his eyes as they passed the newly restored Dogana and the church of the Salute. He’d been inside the first recently, thrilled to see how well it had been restored, appalled by what was on display inside.
    When had they sneaked in and switched the rules? he wondered. When did the garish become artistic, and who had the authority to make that declaration? Why was banality of interest to the viewer, and where, oh where, had simple beauty gone? ‘You’re an old fart, Guido,’ he whispered to himself, causing the man in front of him to turn around and stare. Brunetti ignored him and returned his attention to the buildings on the left.
    They passed a
palazzo
where a friend of his had offered to sell him an apartment six years before, assuring him that he would make a fortune on the deal: ‘Just keep it for three years and resell it to a foreigner. You’ll make a million.’
    Brunetti, whose ethical system was monosyllabic in its simplicity, had refused the offer because something about profiting from land speculation made him uncomfortable, as did the idea of being indebted to anyone for having earned an easy million Euros. Or, for that fact, ten Euros.
    They passed the university, and Brunetti looked at it with double fondness: his wife worked there, and his son was now a student. Raffi had, to Brunetti’s delight, chosen to study history, not the history of the ancients that so fascinated Brunetti, but the history of modern Italy which, though it also fascinated Brunetti, did so in a manner that led him close to despair.
    Their arrival at the San Silvestro stop pulled his mind away from its continuing contemplation of the parallels to be found between the Italy of two thousand years ago and that of today. It was a matter of minutes until he was opening the front door of the building and turning into the first flight of steps. At each landing, Brunetti felt the weight of the brioche fall away from him, and by the time he got to his apartment he was sure he had burned it all off and was prepared to do justice to whatever remained of lunch.
    When he entered the kitchen, he saw his children at their places, their untouched lunch in front of them. Paola was just placing a dish of what looked like tagliatelle with scallops in front of his place. Walking back to the stove, she said, ‘I was late today: had to talk to a student. So we decided to wait for you.’ Then, as if to prevent him from forming any idea of her occult powers, she added, ‘I heard you come in.’
    He bent to kiss both children on the head, and as he took his place, Raffi asked, ‘Do you know anything about the war in Alto Adige?’ Seeing Brunetti’s surprise at the question, he added, ‘The First World War.’
    ‘You make it sound as long ago as the war against Carthage,’ Brunetti said with a smile, opening his napkin and spreading it on his lap. ‘Your great-grandfather fought in the war, remember.’
    Raffi sat silently with his elbows on the table and chin propped on his folded