The Death of Faith by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page B

door. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
     
    As Paola busied herself pouring the pasta and then the sauce into a large bowl, Brunetti explained. ‘Your report card came.’
     
    Chiara’s face fell. ‘Oh,’ was the best she could say. She slid past Brunetti and took her place at the table.
     
    Starting with Raffi’s plate, Paola served up four heaping dishes of pasta and then offered them grated parmegiano, which she sprinkled liberally over their pasta. She began to eat. They all began to eat.
     
    When her plate was empty and she was holding it out to her mother for more, Chiara asked, ‘Religion, huh?’
     
    ‘Yes. You got a very low grade,’ Paola answered.
     
    ‘How low?’
     
    ‘Three.’
     
    Chiara stopped herself from wincing, but just barely.
     
    ‘Do you know why the grade is so low?’ Brunetti asked, placing his hands over his empty plate to tell Paola he wanted no more.
     
    Chiara started on her second helping while Paola spooned the rest into Raffi’s dish. ‘No, I guess I don’t have a reason.’
     
    ‘Don’t you study?’ Paola asked.
     
    ‘There’s nothing to study,’ Chiara said, ‘just that dumb catechism. You can memorize that in an afternoon.’
     
    ‘Then?’ Brunetti asked.
     
    Raffi took a roll from the basket at the centre of the table, broke it in half, and began to wipe the pasta sauce from his plate. ‘Is it Padre Luciano?’ he asked.
     
    Chiara nodded and set her fork down. She looked over toward the stove to see what else was for lunch.
     
    ‘Do you know this Padre Luciano?’ Brunetti asked Raffi.
     
    The boy rolled his eyes in his head. ‘Oh, God, who doesn’t know him?’ Then, turning to his sister, he asked, ‘You ever go to confession to him, Chiara?’
     
    She shook her head quickly from side to side but said nothing.
     
    Paola got up from the table and took their pasta dishes from the plates on which they rested. She went to the oven, opened it, and brought out a platter of cotoletta milanese, placed some sliced lemon wedges around the edge of the platter, and set it on the table. While Brunetti took two cutlets, Paola helped herself to some aubergine, saying nothing.
     
    Seeing that Paola was keeping out of this, Brunetti asked Raffi, ‘What’s it like, to go to confession to him?’
     
    ‘Oh, he’s famous with the kids,’ Raffi said, spooning two cutlets onto his plate.
     
    ‘Famous for what?’ Brunetti asked.
     
    Instead of answering, Raffi shot a glance toward Chiara. Both of her parents saw her give a barely perceptible shake of her head and then bend down and devote her attention to her lunch.
     
    Brunetti set his fork down. Chiara didn’t look up, and Raffi glanced over to Paola, who still said nothing. ‘All right,’ Brunetti said, voice heavier than he would have liked to hear it. ‘What’s going on here, and what aren’t we supposed to know about this Padre Luciano?’
     
    He looked from Raffi, who refused to meet his eyes, to Chiara and was surprised to see that her face was suffused with a dark blush.
     
    Softening his voice, he asked, ‘Chiara, can Raffi tell us what he knows?’
     
    She nodded but didn’t look up.
     
    Raffi imitated his father and set his fork down, too. But then he smiled. ‘It’s not like it’s any big thing, Papà!
     
    Brunetti said nothing. Paola might as well have been mute.
     
    ‘It’s what he says to the kids. When they confess sex things.’ He stopped.
     
    ‘Sex things?’ Brunetti repeated.
     
    ‘You know, Papà. Things they do.’
     
    Brunetti knew. ‘What does he do — Padre Luciano?’ Brunetti asked.
     
    ‘He makes them describe them. You know, talk about them.’ Raffi made a noise, something between a snicker and a groan, and stopped talking.
     
    Brunetti glanced at Chiara and saw that the blush had grown even deeper.
     
    ‘I see,’ Brunetti said.
     
    ‘It’s really sort of sad,’ Raffi said.
     
    ‘Has he ever done this to you?’ Brunetti