Fatal Remedies by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page B

and domination.’ She stopped here and glanced down at her right hand, idly picking at a rough piece of cuticle on the nail of her thumb. ‘That’s all, I think. End of sermon.’
     
    The silence between them stretched out until Brunetti broke it, but tentatively.
     
    ‘Do you believe all men or just some men think like this?’ he asked.
     
    ‘Just some, I think. The good ones - like you’re a good man - they don’t.’ But before he could say anything, she added, ‘They don’t think like us, either, like women. I don’t think that the idea of love as lust and violence and the exercise of power - I don’t think that idea is as entirely alien to them as it is to us.’
     
    ‘To all women? Alien to all of you?’
     
    ‘I wish. No, not to all of us.’
     
    He looked up at her. ‘Have we resolved anything, then?’
     
    ‘I don’t know. But I want you to know how serious I am about this.’
     
    ‘And if I were to ask you to stop, not to do anything more?’
     
    Her lips pressed together as she pulled her mouth closed, a gesture he’d watched for decades. She shook her head without saying anything.
     
    ‘Does that mean you won’t stop or you don’t want me to ask you?’
     
    ‘Both.’
     
    ‘I will ask you and I do ask you.’ But before she could give an answer, he raised a hand towards her and said, ‘No, Paola, don’t say anything because I know what you’ll say and I don’t want to hear it. But remember, please, that I’ve asked you not to do this. Not for me or my career, whatever that means. But because I believe that what you’re doing and what you think should be done is wrong.’
     
    ‘I know,’ Paola said and pushed herself to her feet.
     
    Before she moved away from the desk he added, ‘And I too love you with all my soul. And always will.’
     
    ‘Ah, that’s good to hear, and know.’ He heard the relief in her voice and from long experience he knew that some dismissive, joking remark would have to follow it. As had been the case for all the important years of his life, she did not disappoint. ‘Then it’s safe to put knives on the table for dinner.’
     
    * * * *
     

6
     
     
    The next morning Brunetti did not take his usual route to the Questura but turned right after he crossed the Rialto Bridge. Rosa Salva, it was generally agreed, was one of the best bars in the city; Brunetti especially liked their small ricotta cakes. So he stopped there for coffee and a pastry, exchanged pleasantries with a few people he knew, nods with some he only recognized.
     
    He left the bar, heading down Calle della Mandola towards Campo San Stefano, a route that would lead him eventually to Piazza San Marco. The first campo he crossed on his way was Campo Martin, where four workmen were lifting a large sheet of glass from a boat on to a wooden roller to transport it to the travel agency where it was to be installed.
     
    Brunetti joined the other spectators who gathered to watch the men roll the plate of glass across the campo. The workmen had wadded towels between the glass and the wooden frame that held it upright. Two on either side, they rolled it towards the gaping hole that awaited it.
     
    As the men crossed the campo, opinions rolled behind them from person to person. ‘Gypsies did it.’ ‘No, someone who used to work there came back with a gun.’ ‘I heard it was the owner who did it to collect the insurance.’ ‘What stupidity; it was hit by lightning.’ Typically, each of them was absolutely convinced of the truth of his version and had nothing but scorn for the alternatives.
     
    When the wooden trolley reached the window, Brunetti pulled himself away from the small crowd and continued on his way.
     
    Inside the Questura, he stopped at the large room where the uniformed officers worked and asked to see the crime reports of the previous night. Little had happened and none of it interested him in any way. Upstairs, he spent most of the morning in the seemingly