can’t be that bad,’ Brunetti said in an interrogative voice.
Once the apple was peeled, Paola quickly cut it into eight slices and removed the pieces of core. She jabbed her fork into the first and ate it before she said, ‘No, I suppose it’s not as bad as what you do . But, believe me, there are days when I long to be locked in a cell: me, two strong policemen, one of the students, and a wide array of fearsome implements.’
‘Why is it so bad all of a sudden?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It’s not really all of a sudden. It’s more that I’ve become aware of how bad it’s become.’
‘Give me an example,’ he said.
‘Ten years ago, I could force them into accepting the fact, or at least giving lip service to the idea, that the culture that formed me, all those books and ideas that our generation grew up on – Plato, Virgil, Dante – that it was superior in some way to whatever fills their lives. Or, if not superior, then at least interesting enough to be worthy of study.’ She ate three more pieces of apple and a thin slice of Montasio before she went on. ‘But that doesn’t happen any more. They think, or at least they seem to think, that their culture, with its noise and acquisitiveness and immediate forgettability is superior to all of our stupid ideas.’
‘Like?’
‘Like our no doubt ridiculous idea that beauty conforms to some standard or ideal; like our risible belief that we have the option to behave honourably and should take it; and like our idiotic idea that the final purpose of human existence is something more than the acquisition of wealth.’
‘No wonder you want the fearsome implements,’ Brunetti said and opened the Calvados.
8
BACK IN HIS office that afternoon, faintly conscious that he had perhaps dined too well, Brunetti decided he might try to get more information about Guzzardi from Lele Bortoluzzi, another prime source of the sort of information that in more ordered societies would lead to accusations of slander. Ordinarily, he would have made the trip across the city to Lele’s gallery, but today Brunetti felt himself weighed down by the Calvados, though he told himself it had been little more than a whisper, and so decided to phone, instead.
‘
Sì
,’ Lele answered after the second ring.
‘
Ciao
, Lele,’ Brunetti said, not bothering to give his name. ‘I need to pick through your archive again, this time for someone called Luca Guzzardi, who…’
‘
Quel figlio di mignotta
,’ Lele interrupted, his voice shot through with an anger Brunetti was unaccustomed to hearing from the painter.
‘So you remember him,’ Brunetti said with a laugh, trying to disguise his surprise.
‘Of course I remember him,’ Lele said. ‘Bastard: he got exactly what he deserved. The only pity is that he died so soon: he should have been kept alive longer, living there like a larva.’
‘At San Servolo?’ Brunetti asked, though there was little doubt what his friend meant.
‘Where he deserved to be. Better than any prison they could have sent him to, the bastard. I’m sorry for the other devils who were kept there: none of them deserved to live like that, worse than animals. But Guzzardi deserved it all, and more.’
Brunetti knew that whatever reason Lele had for this passionate disgust would soon be made clear. Prodding, Brunetti said, ‘I never heard you talk about him before. Strange, if you feel so strongly about him.’
Lele continued. ‘He was a thief and a traitor, and so was his father. There was nothing they wouldn’t do, no one he wouldn’t betray.’
Brunetti noticed that Lele’s condemnation was so much more forceful than the Count’s, but then he recalled that his father-in-law had said he had not been in Venice during the war. Lele had been, for all of it, and two of his uncles had died, one fighting with the Germans and one fighting against them. Brunetti cut into the string of epithets that continued to pour from the phone and said, ‘All right,
Once the apple was peeled, Paola quickly cut it into eight slices and removed the pieces of core. She jabbed her fork into the first and ate it before she said, ‘No, I suppose it’s not as bad as what you do . But, believe me, there are days when I long to be locked in a cell: me, two strong policemen, one of the students, and a wide array of fearsome implements.’
‘Why is it so bad all of a sudden?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It’s not really all of a sudden. It’s more that I’ve become aware of how bad it’s become.’
‘Give me an example,’ he said.
‘Ten years ago, I could force them into accepting the fact, or at least giving lip service to the idea, that the culture that formed me, all those books and ideas that our generation grew up on – Plato, Virgil, Dante – that it was superior in some way to whatever fills their lives. Or, if not superior, then at least interesting enough to be worthy of study.’ She ate three more pieces of apple and a thin slice of Montasio before she went on. ‘But that doesn’t happen any more. They think, or at least they seem to think, that their culture, with its noise and acquisitiveness and immediate forgettability is superior to all of our stupid ideas.’
‘Like?’
‘Like our no doubt ridiculous idea that beauty conforms to some standard or ideal; like our risible belief that we have the option to behave honourably and should take it; and like our idiotic idea that the final purpose of human existence is something more than the acquisition of wealth.’
‘No wonder you want the fearsome implements,’ Brunetti said and opened the Calvados.
8
BACK IN HIS office that afternoon, faintly conscious that he had perhaps dined too well, Brunetti decided he might try to get more information about Guzzardi from Lele Bortoluzzi, another prime source of the sort of information that in more ordered societies would lead to accusations of slander. Ordinarily, he would have made the trip across the city to Lele’s gallery, but today Brunetti felt himself weighed down by the Calvados, though he told himself it had been little more than a whisper, and so decided to phone, instead.
‘
Sì
,’ Lele answered after the second ring.
‘
Ciao
, Lele,’ Brunetti said, not bothering to give his name. ‘I need to pick through your archive again, this time for someone called Luca Guzzardi, who…’
‘
Quel figlio di mignotta
,’ Lele interrupted, his voice shot through with an anger Brunetti was unaccustomed to hearing from the painter.
‘So you remember him,’ Brunetti said with a laugh, trying to disguise his surprise.
‘Of course I remember him,’ Lele said. ‘Bastard: he got exactly what he deserved. The only pity is that he died so soon: he should have been kept alive longer, living there like a larva.’
‘At San Servolo?’ Brunetti asked, though there was little doubt what his friend meant.
‘Where he deserved to be. Better than any prison they could have sent him to, the bastard. I’m sorry for the other devils who were kept there: none of them deserved to live like that, worse than animals. But Guzzardi deserved it all, and more.’
Brunetti knew that whatever reason Lele had for this passionate disgust would soon be made clear. Prodding, Brunetti said, ‘I never heard you talk about him before. Strange, if you feel so strongly about him.’
Lele continued. ‘He was a thief and a traitor, and so was his father. There was nothing they wouldn’t do, no one he wouldn’t betray.’
Brunetti noticed that Lele’s condemnation was so much more forceful than the Count’s, but then he recalled that his father-in-law had said he had not been in Venice during the war. Lele had been, for all of it, and two of his uncles had died, one fighting with the Germans and one fighting against them. Brunetti cut into the string of epithets that continued to pour from the phone and said, ‘All right,
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