Wilful Behaviour by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page A

board and made for the doors of the cabin, only to find his way blocked by an enormous backpack suspended from the shoulders of an even more enormous woman. It seemed to him that in the last few years American tourists had doubled in size. They had always been big, but big in the way the Scandinavians were big: tall and muscular. But now they were lumpish and soft as well as big, agglomerations of sausage -like limbs that left him with the sensation that his hand would come away slick if he touched them.
    He knew it was impossible for human physiology to change at less than glacial speed, but he suspected that some shocking transformation had nevertheless taken place in what was required to sustain human life: these people seemed incapable of survival without frequent infusions of water or carbonated drinks, for they all clutched at their litre-and-a-half-bottles as though they alone offered the possibility of continued life.
    A recidivist, he opened his
Gazzettino
and turned his attention to the second section, dedicating himself to its many delights until the vaporetto pulled up at the Ca’ Rezzonico stop.
    At the end of the long
calle
, he turned right in front of the church, then down into an ever narrower
calle
until he found himself at the immense
portone
of Palazzo Falier. He rang the bell and stepped to the right, placing himself in front of the speaker to announce himself, but the door was opened almost instantly by Luciana, the oldest of the servants who staffed the
palazzo
and who had, by virtue of devotion and the passage of time, become an ancillary member of the family.
    ‘Ah, Dottor Guido,’ she said, smiling and putting her hand on his arm to lead him through the doorway. Her instinctive gesture expressed happiness to see him, concern for his well-being, and something close to love. ‘Paola? The children?’
    Brunetti recalled that it was only a few years ago, when both children already towered over this tiny woman, that she had stopped referring to them as ‘the babies’.
    ‘Everyone’s fine, Luciana. And we’re all waiting for this year’s honey.’ Luciana’s son had a dairy farm up near Bolzano, and every year, for Christmas, she gave the family four one-kilo bottles of the different kinds of honey he produced.
    ‘Is it all gone?’ she asked, voice quick with worry. ‘Would you like some more?’
    He pictured her, if he said yes, catching the first train to Bolzano the next morning. ‘No, Luciana, we still have the
acacia
. We haven’t opened it yet. And there’s still half of the
castagno
, so we should make it until Christmas. So long as we keep it hidden from Chiara.’
    She smiled, long familiar with Chiara’s wolfish appetite. Unpersuaded by his answer, she said, ‘If you run out, let me know, and Giovanni can send some down. It’s no trouble.’
    With another pat on his arm, she said, ‘Il Signor Conte is in his office.’ Brunetti nodded, and Luciana turned back toward the steps that led up to the first floor and the kitchen, where she reigned supreme; no one could recall a time when she had not done so.
    The door to the Count’s office was open when Brunetti arrived, so he entered with only a perfunctory tap on the jamb. The Count looked up and greeted him with a smile so warm Brunetti began to wonder if there was some information the Count wanted in exchange for whatever he could supply.
    Brunetti had no idea how old the Count was, nor was it easy to gauge it from the man’s appearance. Though his close-cropped hair was white, in combination with his sun-darkened skin, it gave an impression of vibrant, active contrast and removed any suggestion that the colour of his hair was an indication of age. Brunetti had once asked Paola how old her father was, and she had answered only that he’d have to find that out by having a look at the Count’s passport; she’d gone on gleefully to explain that he had four of them, from four different countries, all with different dates and