finally answered as they entered Campo Santo Stefano. ‘I haven’t seen her for years, and I don’t think we were really friends either time I knew her.’ He thought about this for some time and then said, ‘Perhaps friendship comes to you with the memory of hard times together.’
‘You make it sound as if you were in the trenches with her, the way your father used to talk about his friends.’
‘Yes, he did, didn’t he?’ Brunetti answered. ‘We hardly suffered as much as they did, she and I. But there was violence, and people did suffer.’
‘I wonder what’s she been doing all these years,’ Paola said to move him away from those memories. ‘Other than becoming even more famous, that is.’
They approached the bridge leading to Campo Manin, and Brunetti paused to look into the window of the book dealer. When he moved away and started up the bridge, he said at last, ‘I have no idea. I’ve seen as much as you have; perhaps even less because I don’t read the music reviews.’
‘Lucky you,’ Paola said. ‘Overblown,’ she added, and nothing more.
‘The reviews, presumably,’ Brunetti said as they passed in front of the lion.
This made Paola laugh. ‘Flavia’s name comes up now and again. The reviews are always good. More than good.’ Then, as they crossed San Luca, ‘You heard her the other night, didn’t you? Saw her?’
‘I’d like to hear her in something with music that’s more . . .’ Brunetti had no idea of how to twist himself out of this sentence.
‘Respectable?’ Paola suggested.
This time it was he who laughed.
Talking of this and that, veering away from music to discuss Raffi’s apparent cooling towards Sara Paganuzzi, only to return to music, they crossed the Rialto on the left side and started along the riva . The restaurants were closed or closing, the waiters visibly weary at the end of a long day.
They said little as they walked along the water. Just before they turned right under the passageway, both of them turned back and saw the moon’s reflection looking as though it were about to slide under the bridge.
‘We live in Paradise, don’t we?’ Paola asked.
The call would have slipped past Paola’s parental telephone because it came at six-fifteen two mornings later. Brunetti answered with his name at the third ring.
‘It’s me,’ a man’s voice said, and Brunetti’s mind chugged.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, identifying the voice as that of Ettore Rizzardi, one of the city’s pathologists, who should not be calling him at this hour.
‘It’s Ettore,’ the doctor said, though there was hardly need of that. ‘I’m sorry to call you this early, Guido, but there’s something I think you should know about.’
‘Where are you?’ Brunetti asked.
‘At the hospital,’ he answered.
To Brunetti, that meant the mortuary: where else would Rizzardi be?
‘What’s happened?’ Brunetti asked, shying away from what he wanted to ask: Who’s died?
‘I came in this morning for the autopsy on that boy who shot himself,’ Rizzardi said. ‘I wanted to get it done before the day began.’
‘Why?’ Brunetti asked, though it was none of his business.
‘I’ve got a new doctor here, just out of medical school, and I don’t want her to have to see this. Not yet.’
‘Is that why you’re calling me?’ Brunetti asked, hoping – coming as close to praying as he was capable of doing – that Rizzardi had no doubts about the suicide.
‘No, it’s something one of the nurses told me. You know her, Clara Bondi, Araldo’s wife.’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, wondering what was going on and why none of this was making sense. ‘What did she say?’
‘There’s a girl in the Emergency Room. She’s got a broken arm, and they put six stitches in her scalp.’
‘What happened?’ Brunetti turned to look at the clock. Almost six-thirty. No chance of going back to sleep.
‘She fell down the steps on Ponte de le Scuole.’
The elongated mass
‘You make it sound as if you were in the trenches with her, the way your father used to talk about his friends.’
‘Yes, he did, didn’t he?’ Brunetti answered. ‘We hardly suffered as much as they did, she and I. But there was violence, and people did suffer.’
‘I wonder what’s she been doing all these years,’ Paola said to move him away from those memories. ‘Other than becoming even more famous, that is.’
They approached the bridge leading to Campo Manin, and Brunetti paused to look into the window of the book dealer. When he moved away and started up the bridge, he said at last, ‘I have no idea. I’ve seen as much as you have; perhaps even less because I don’t read the music reviews.’
‘Lucky you,’ Paola said. ‘Overblown,’ she added, and nothing more.
‘The reviews, presumably,’ Brunetti said as they passed in front of the lion.
This made Paola laugh. ‘Flavia’s name comes up now and again. The reviews are always good. More than good.’ Then, as they crossed San Luca, ‘You heard her the other night, didn’t you? Saw her?’
‘I’d like to hear her in something with music that’s more . . .’ Brunetti had no idea of how to twist himself out of this sentence.
‘Respectable?’ Paola suggested.
This time it was he who laughed.
Talking of this and that, veering away from music to discuss Raffi’s apparent cooling towards Sara Paganuzzi, only to return to music, they crossed the Rialto on the left side and started along the riva . The restaurants were closed or closing, the waiters visibly weary at the end of a long day.
They said little as they walked along the water. Just before they turned right under the passageway, both of them turned back and saw the moon’s reflection looking as though it were about to slide under the bridge.
‘We live in Paradise, don’t we?’ Paola asked.
The call would have slipped past Paola’s parental telephone because it came at six-fifteen two mornings later. Brunetti answered with his name at the third ring.
‘It’s me,’ a man’s voice said, and Brunetti’s mind chugged.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, identifying the voice as that of Ettore Rizzardi, one of the city’s pathologists, who should not be calling him at this hour.
‘It’s Ettore,’ the doctor said, though there was hardly need of that. ‘I’m sorry to call you this early, Guido, but there’s something I think you should know about.’
‘Where are you?’ Brunetti asked.
‘At the hospital,’ he answered.
To Brunetti, that meant the mortuary: where else would Rizzardi be?
‘What’s happened?’ Brunetti asked, shying away from what he wanted to ask: Who’s died?
‘I came in this morning for the autopsy on that boy who shot himself,’ Rizzardi said. ‘I wanted to get it done before the day began.’
‘Why?’ Brunetti asked, though it was none of his business.
‘I’ve got a new doctor here, just out of medical school, and I don’t want her to have to see this. Not yet.’
‘Is that why you’re calling me?’ Brunetti asked, hoping – coming as close to praying as he was capable of doing – that Rizzardi had no doubts about the suicide.
‘No, it’s something one of the nurses told me. You know her, Clara Bondi, Araldo’s wife.’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, wondering what was going on and why none of this was making sense. ‘What did she say?’
‘There’s a girl in the Emergency Room. She’s got a broken arm, and they put six stitches in her scalp.’
‘What happened?’ Brunetti turned to look at the clock. Almost six-thirty. No chance of going back to sleep.
‘She fell down the steps on Ponte de le Scuole.’
The elongated mass
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