minutes to their walk, but it would also mean they could go at least that far with Flavia, who was staying only a few minutes from the bridge. Since she had no reason to know where their home was, she would not see Paola’s long detour as the protective gesture it was.
Brunetti, still curious about the changes that seemed to have taken place in Flavia over the years, wondered if they would talk of music and thus put her at the centre of the conversation. She, however, chose to speak of those things that parents talk about. She told them that she worried terribly about drugs, even though neither of her children had ever shown much interest in them. And she feared that one of them – she admitted that she feared more for her daughter than for her son – would fall into the wrong company and be led to do things she would not ordinarily do.
When Paola asked what she feared most, Flavia shook her head in exasperation, either with the world or with her own formless fears, and said, ‘I don’t know. I can’t imagine the world they live in. I always have this low-grade noise in my mind, worrying about them.’
Paola leaned closer, linking her arm in Flavia’s as they walked. ‘People think they have babies,’ Paola said. ‘But we don’t: we have people, and we have them all their lives, and we never stop worrying about them. Never.’ Then, in a thoughtful tone Brunetti recognized, she said, ‘I think someone should invent a special telephone for parents of teenage children.’
‘That does what?’ Flavia asked.
‘That can’t ring between one and six in the morning.’
Flavia laughed out loud and said, ‘If you ever find it, please get me one.’
At ease as with old friends, they reached the museum and the bridge and stopped at the bottom of the steps. Flavia kissed Paola on both cheeks and stepped back to turn to Brunetti. ‘I can’t thank all of you enough. I had no idea how much I needed an evening like this: conversation and good food and nothing to worry about.’
A Number One vaporetto heading towards the Lido revved its engine into reverse and banged into the imbarcadero . So common a sound was it that neither Brunetti nor Paola really heard it, but Flavia started and turned towards the noise. When the few people from the boat had dispersed, she went on, ‘I’d like to thank you for your patience.’ She smiled, but it was a faint shadow of the smile Brunetti remembered from years before.
To reassure her, Brunetti said, ‘I’ll talk to Freddy. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him, and this is a good reason to call him or meet for a drink.’
‘Only if you think it might be useful.’
Brunetti bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘It’s always useful to see old friends, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes on his. ‘Old friends.’
The night was clement, the moon only a day short of being full. They stopped at the top of the bridge and looked out towards the Lido and, behind it, the Adriatic.
‘Do you think of her as an old friend?’ Paola asked. There was no wind, so the moon was reflected as though on a plate of dark glass. No boats came for some minutes, and Brunetti remained silent, as if afraid that the sound of his voice would shatter the surface of the water and thus destroy the moon. The footsteps on the bridge stopped, and for a long time there was silence. A Number One appeared down at Vallaresso and crossed over to La Salute, breaking the spell and then the reflection. When Brunetti turned towards San Vidal, he saw motionless people on the steps below him, all transfixed by the now-shimmering moon and the silence and the façades on either side of the canal. He looked to his right and saw that the railing was lined with more motionless people, faces raised for the moon’s benediction.
He took Paola’s hand, and they descended the steps, heading home the long way.
‘It feels like an old friendship, although I don’t know why I think that,’ he
Brunetti, still curious about the changes that seemed to have taken place in Flavia over the years, wondered if they would talk of music and thus put her at the centre of the conversation. She, however, chose to speak of those things that parents talk about. She told them that she worried terribly about drugs, even though neither of her children had ever shown much interest in them. And she feared that one of them – she admitted that she feared more for her daughter than for her son – would fall into the wrong company and be led to do things she would not ordinarily do.
When Paola asked what she feared most, Flavia shook her head in exasperation, either with the world or with her own formless fears, and said, ‘I don’t know. I can’t imagine the world they live in. I always have this low-grade noise in my mind, worrying about them.’
Paola leaned closer, linking her arm in Flavia’s as they walked. ‘People think they have babies,’ Paola said. ‘But we don’t: we have people, and we have them all their lives, and we never stop worrying about them. Never.’ Then, in a thoughtful tone Brunetti recognized, she said, ‘I think someone should invent a special telephone for parents of teenage children.’
‘That does what?’ Flavia asked.
‘That can’t ring between one and six in the morning.’
Flavia laughed out loud and said, ‘If you ever find it, please get me one.’
At ease as with old friends, they reached the museum and the bridge and stopped at the bottom of the steps. Flavia kissed Paola on both cheeks and stepped back to turn to Brunetti. ‘I can’t thank all of you enough. I had no idea how much I needed an evening like this: conversation and good food and nothing to worry about.’
A Number One vaporetto heading towards the Lido revved its engine into reverse and banged into the imbarcadero . So common a sound was it that neither Brunetti nor Paola really heard it, but Flavia started and turned towards the noise. When the few people from the boat had dispersed, she went on, ‘I’d like to thank you for your patience.’ She smiled, but it was a faint shadow of the smile Brunetti remembered from years before.
To reassure her, Brunetti said, ‘I’ll talk to Freddy. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him, and this is a good reason to call him or meet for a drink.’
‘Only if you think it might be useful.’
Brunetti bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘It’s always useful to see old friends, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes on his. ‘Old friends.’
The night was clement, the moon only a day short of being full. They stopped at the top of the bridge and looked out towards the Lido and, behind it, the Adriatic.
‘Do you think of her as an old friend?’ Paola asked. There was no wind, so the moon was reflected as though on a plate of dark glass. No boats came for some minutes, and Brunetti remained silent, as if afraid that the sound of his voice would shatter the surface of the water and thus destroy the moon. The footsteps on the bridge stopped, and for a long time there was silence. A Number One appeared down at Vallaresso and crossed over to La Salute, breaking the spell and then the reflection. When Brunetti turned towards San Vidal, he saw motionless people on the steps below him, all transfixed by the now-shimmering moon and the silence and the façades on either side of the canal. He looked to his right and saw that the railing was lined with more motionless people, faces raised for the moon’s benediction.
He took Paola’s hand, and they descended the steps, heading home the long way.
‘It feels like an old friendship, although I don’t know why I think that,’ he
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