generations lived in Castello and dealt in sausage and preserved meat.
New were the ranks of silver-framed photos that stood on a not particularly distinguished copy of a sixteenth-century Florentine credenza. Brunetti paused to examine them and saw reflected in them the trajectory of Perulli’s career: the young man with his friends; the university graduate posed with one of the leaders of the political party to which Perulli had then given allegiance; while the adult man stood arm in arm with a former mayor of the city, the Minister of the Interior, and the Patriarch of Venice. Behind them, in an even more elaborate frame, Perulli’s face smiled from the cover of a news magazine that had since abandoned publication. This photo, and Perulli’s need that people see it, filled Brunetti, against his will, with an enormous sadness.
‘Can I offer you something?’ Perulli asked from the other side of the living room, standing in front of a leather sofa and clearly wanting to settle this before he sat down.
‘No, nothing,’ Brunetti said. ‘Thanks.’
Perulli sat, pulling fussily at both legs of his trousers to keep them from stretching at the knees, a gesture Brunetti had observed before, but only in the old. Did he sweep the bottom part of his overcoat aside before he sat down on the vaporetto?
‘I don’t suppose you want to pretend we’re still friends?’ Perulli asked.
‘I don’t want to pretend anything, Augusto,’ Brunetti said. ‘I just want to ask you a few questions, and I’d like you to give me honest answers.’
‘Not like the last time?’ Perulli asked with a grin he tried to make boyish but succeeded only in making sly. It caused Brunetti a moment’s uncertainty: there was something different about Perulli’s mouth, about the way he held it.
‘No, not like the last time,’ Brunetti said, surprised at how calm he sounded, calm but tired.
‘And if I can’t answer them?’
‘Then tell me so, and I’ll go.’
Perulli nodded, and then said, ‘I didn’t have any choice, you know, Guido.’
Brunetti acted as though the other hadn’t spoken and asked, ‘Do you know Fernando Moro?’
He watched Perulli react to the name with something stronger than mere recognition.
‘Yes.’
‘How well do you know him?’
‘He’s a couple of years older than we are, and my father was a friend of his, so I knew him well enough to say hello to on the street or maybe go and have a drink with, at least when we were younger. But certainly not well enough to call him a friend.’ Some sense warned Brunetti what was going to come next, so he was prepared to hear Perulli say, ‘Not like I know you,’ and so did not respond.
‘Did you see him in Rome?’
‘Socially or professionally?’
‘Either.’
‘Socially, no, but I might have run into him a few times at Montecitorio. But we represented different parties, so we didn’t work together.’
‘Committees?’
‘No, we worked on different ones.’
‘What about his reputation?’
‘What about it?’
Brunetti restrained the sigh that seeped up from his chest and answered neutrally, ‘As a politician. What did people think of him?’
Perulli uncrossed his long legs and immediately recrossed them the opposite way. He lowered his head and raised his hand to his right eyebrow and rubbed at it a few times, something he had always done when he considered an idea or had to think about his response. Seeing Perulli’s face from this new angle, Brunetti noticed that something was different about the angle of his cheekbones, which seemed sharper and more clearly defined than they had been when he was a student. His voice, when he finally spoke, was mild. ‘I’d say people generally thought he was honest.’ He lowered his hand and tried a small smile, ‘Perhaps too honest.’ He enlarged the smile, that same engaging smile that girls, then women, had proven unable to resist.
‘What does that mean?’ Brunetti asked, striving to fight
New were the ranks of silver-framed photos that stood on a not particularly distinguished copy of a sixteenth-century Florentine credenza. Brunetti paused to examine them and saw reflected in them the trajectory of Perulli’s career: the young man with his friends; the university graduate posed with one of the leaders of the political party to which Perulli had then given allegiance; while the adult man stood arm in arm with a former mayor of the city, the Minister of the Interior, and the Patriarch of Venice. Behind them, in an even more elaborate frame, Perulli’s face smiled from the cover of a news magazine that had since abandoned publication. This photo, and Perulli’s need that people see it, filled Brunetti, against his will, with an enormous sadness.
‘Can I offer you something?’ Perulli asked from the other side of the living room, standing in front of a leather sofa and clearly wanting to settle this before he sat down.
‘No, nothing,’ Brunetti said. ‘Thanks.’
Perulli sat, pulling fussily at both legs of his trousers to keep them from stretching at the knees, a gesture Brunetti had observed before, but only in the old. Did he sweep the bottom part of his overcoat aside before he sat down on the vaporetto?
‘I don’t suppose you want to pretend we’re still friends?’ Perulli asked.
‘I don’t want to pretend anything, Augusto,’ Brunetti said. ‘I just want to ask you a few questions, and I’d like you to give me honest answers.’
‘Not like the last time?’ Perulli asked with a grin he tried to make boyish but succeeded only in making sly. It caused Brunetti a moment’s uncertainty: there was something different about Perulli’s mouth, about the way he held it.
‘No, not like the last time,’ Brunetti said, surprised at how calm he sounded, calm but tired.
‘And if I can’t answer them?’
‘Then tell me so, and I’ll go.’
Perulli nodded, and then said, ‘I didn’t have any choice, you know, Guido.’
Brunetti acted as though the other hadn’t spoken and asked, ‘Do you know Fernando Moro?’
He watched Perulli react to the name with something stronger than mere recognition.
‘Yes.’
‘How well do you know him?’
‘He’s a couple of years older than we are, and my father was a friend of his, so I knew him well enough to say hello to on the street or maybe go and have a drink with, at least when we were younger. But certainly not well enough to call him a friend.’ Some sense warned Brunetti what was going to come next, so he was prepared to hear Perulli say, ‘Not like I know you,’ and so did not respond.
‘Did you see him in Rome?’
‘Socially or professionally?’
‘Either.’
‘Socially, no, but I might have run into him a few times at Montecitorio. But we represented different parties, so we didn’t work together.’
‘Committees?’
‘No, we worked on different ones.’
‘What about his reputation?’
‘What about it?’
Brunetti restrained the sigh that seeped up from his chest and answered neutrally, ‘As a politician. What did people think of him?’
Perulli uncrossed his long legs and immediately recrossed them the opposite way. He lowered his head and raised his hand to his right eyebrow and rubbed at it a few times, something he had always done when he considered an idea or had to think about his response. Seeing Perulli’s face from this new angle, Brunetti noticed that something was different about the angle of his cheekbones, which seemed sharper and more clearly defined than they had been when he was a student. His voice, when he finally spoke, was mild. ‘I’d say people generally thought he was honest.’ He lowered his hand and tried a small smile, ‘Perhaps too honest.’ He enlarged the smile, that same engaging smile that girls, then women, had proven unable to resist.
‘What does that mean?’ Brunetti asked, striving to fight
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