Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(36)

‘I’m happy to learn that, too,’ Brunetti said, even more confused and deciding to accept her whimsy.

‘But,’ Griffoni went on as though he had not spoken, ‘the instant I start to speak with a Neapolitan accent – and I wasn’t speaking Napolitano with Alaimo, or . . .’ she paused here and took a breath – ‘you might have fainted at the sound.’ A depth charge exploded in Brunetti’s conscience, and he felt his face redden.

‘At the mere sound of my accent, you began to assume that everything I’ve done in the last years is open to question, and at heart I might remain the ignorant terrona that many of our colleagues still suspect me of being.’

It was by force of will that Brunetti kept her gaze and allowed her to see the flush of shame he could not control and could not stop. For a horrible moment, Brunetti feared that he would begin to cry.

He opened his mouth to speak but could find no words. He was her closest colleague here, he knew things about her that no one else here did, and yet she still saw this in him. The shame of it was that she was right. Was this what Blacks and Jews and gays lived with – the possibility that the crack would open in the ice beneath their feet at any step, sucking down all hope of friendship, all hope of love, all hope of common humanity?

He put his palms to his eyes and rubbed at them until he could look at her again.

‘I apologize, Claudia,’ he said, his voice hoarse and uncontrollable. ‘From the deepest place in me. Please forgive me.’

‘We’re friends, Guido. And there’s more than enough good in you to make up for this.’ She reached over and touched the side of his face. ‘It’s gone, Guido. Gone.’ She turned away and started walking again. When he drew up beside her, she said, ‘So shall we work on the premise that Alaimo bears further examination?’

He wanted to say that she was the expert on Naples but thought it might be wise to remain distant from the city until the risk of volcanic activity was eliminated, then had an attack of guilt at still being able to think so lightly of Naples. He wondered when they would be able to talk naturally to one another again. It might help if someone took a shot at one of them, who was then saved only by the valiant heroism of the other. Immediately, he regretted no longer being able to make jokes like this with her. She had said that it was gone, but Brunetti thought it might take a bit more time before that could be true.

‘Yes,’ he finally answered. He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was almost 12:30. In need of time to get away from the justice of Griffoni’s observations and admitting his cowardice to himself, he said, ‘Let’s have a closer look after lunch.’

She smiled and nodded, then after a long pause, said, ‘Good idea. I’ll see you this afternoon.’

The children were there for lunch, so Brunetti did not mention the – he didn’t even know what to call it: scene, interchange, confrontation, conversation – with Griffoni. Paola had prepared a risotto with cauliflower and quick-fried veal cutlets, two of his favourites, but he barely finished the risotto and refused her offer of a second cutlet. Nor did he drink a glass of wine, as was his habit at lunch.

Conversation thus fell to the children, who vied with one another in their enthusiasm for the various foreign television series they watched on their computers. Brunetti feared these programmes were hacked – he preferred the verb ‘pirated’ – and wondered if Raffi was capable of doing that. He avoided the question because he didn’t know how he should respond if his son admitted to a crime. Or his daughter.

He was certain that neither of them was capable of theft: Chiara had once found a briefcase on the vaporetto and, uncertain that it would be properly reported by the crew, had chosen to give it to her father at lunch, leaving him to open it, find the name of the owner, and call him to report its being found.

But streaming services, it seemed, were fair game to both of them. He had inquired about this some time before and been told that, because the programmes and films did not belong to a specific person, no one would be hurt if they were not paid for. Brunetti presented the argument of copyright, only to be told that there was no single author in this case, but an enormous multinational company that, it turned out, owned huge palm oil plantations in Indonesia and thus, it seemed from what they told him, had renounced all moral right to profit of any sort. The most tangential facts could be put together in justification of almost anything. How was it that he had missed the coronation of the non sequitur?

After the kids had disappeared, Paola asked him what was wrong; Brunetti kissed her cheek and said he’d tell her later, then left and grumbled his way back to the Questura.





14


The first thing Brunetti did when he got back to his office was phone Griffoni and ask her to come down, saying he was reluct-ant to risk his life again by encountering the obstacles presented by her chair and desk. Her laughter was a presage, he hoped, of a return to their easy collaboration.

A few minutes later, she came in without bothering to knock and took her usual seat facing him. She leaned forward and placed a manila cover on his desk, opened it, removed a single sheet of paper, and placed it on his desk too. Then she took out a set of papers held by a paperclip and set that beside the single sheet. In response to his question, Griffoni covered the single sheet and said, ‘From Elettra. About Vio and Duso.’ Finally, Brunetti thought, they’ve come to a first-name basis.