Donna Leon - About Face
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- Year:2009
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Why in Gods name would he want to invest in China? Brunetti demanded.
That stopped her. She came to a halt in front of the firemens dining hall, windows dark at this hour and no scent of food spilling into the calle. He was honestly puzzled. Why China? he repeated.
She shook her head in a conscious imitation of complete befuddlement and looked around, as if seeking sympathetic ears. Please, would someone tell me who this man is? I think I see him in the morning sometimes, beside me in bed, but this cant be my husband.
Oh, stop it, Paola, and tell me, he said, suddenly tired and in no mood for this.
How can you read two newspapers every day and not have any idea of why a person would want to invest in China?
He took her arm and turned her towards home. He saw no sense in standing on a public street and discussing this, not when they could do it while heading for home, or in their bed. Of course, I know all that, he said. Soaring economy, fortunes to be made, stock market gone wild, no end in sight. But why would your father want any part of it?
He felt her pace grow slower; fearing a pause for further rhetorical flourishes, he kept moving, forcing her to keep up with him. Because my father has the ichor of capitalism flowing in his veins, Guido. Because, for hundreds of years, to be a Falier has been to be a merchant, and to be a merchant is to make money.
This, Brunetti observed, from a professor of literature who maintains she has no interest in money.
Thats because Im the end of the line, Guido. Im the last person in our family who will carry the name: our children have yours. Her steps slowed, as did her voice, but she did not stop. My father has made money all his life, thus permitting me, and our children, the luxury of not having to take an interest in making it.
Brunetti, who had played what must have been thousands of games of Monopoly with his children, was sure that the capitalist gene had run true to form in them and that they already had the interest, perhaps even the ichor itself.
And he thinks theres money to be made there? Brunetti asked, and then quickly added, if only to prevent her from again demanding how he could ask such a question, Safe money?
She turned to him again. Safe?
Well, he said, hearing himself how silly that had sounded, Clean money?
At least you accept that theres a difference, she said with the bite of her years of voting Communist.
He said nothing for a while. Suddenly he stopped and asked, What was all that about, what did your mother call it, dietary peculiarities? And all that nonsense about what the kids wouldnt eat?
Cataldos wife is a vegetarian, Paola said. And my mother didnt want to call attention to her, so I decided that I should be the one to as you police people say take the fall. She squeezed his arm.
And thus the fiction of my appetite? he could not prevent himself from asking.
Did she hesitate an instant? Regardless, she repeated, tugging his arm and smiling at him, Yes. Thus the fiction of your appetite.
Had Brunetti not warmed to Franca Marinello because of their conversation, he might have remarked that she hardly needed dietary peculiarities to draw attention to herself. But Cicero had intervened to change Brunettis opinion and he had come, he realized, to feel protective of the woman.
They passed in front of Goldonis house, then the sudden left and right and down towards San Polo. As they walked out into the campo, Paola stopped and gazed across the open space. How strange to see it empty like this.
He loved the campo, had loved it since he was a boy, for its trees and its sense of openness: SS Giovanni e Paolo was too small, the statue in the way, and soccer balls were prone to end in the canal; Santa Margherita was oddly shaped, and hed always found it too noisy, even more so now that it had become so fashionable. Perhaps it was the lack of commercialization that made him love Campo San Polo, for only two sides of it held shops, the others having resisted the lure of Mammon. The church, of course, had succumbed and now charged people to enter, having discovered that beauty brought more income than grace. Not that there was all that much to see inside: a few Tintorettos, those Tiepolo Stations of the Cross, a bit of this and that.
He felt Paola tugging at his arm. Come on, Guido, its almost one.
He accepted the truce her words offered, and they made their way home.
Unusually, his father-in-law phoned Brunetti at the Questura the next day. After thanking him for the dinner, Brunetti waited to see what was on the Contes mind.
Well, what did you think? the Conte asked.
Of what? Brunetti asked.
Of her.
Franca Marinello? Brunetti asked, hiding his surprise.
Of course. You sat opposite her all evening.
I didnt know I was supposed to be interrogating her, Brunetti protested.
But you did, the Conte answered sharply.
Only about Cicero, Im afraid, Brunetti explained.
Yes, I know, the Conte said, and Brunetti wondered if it was envy he heard in his voice.
What did you talk about with the husband? Brunetti inquired.
Earth-moving equipment, the Conte said with singular lack of enthusiasm, and other things. After the briefest of pauses, he said, Cicero is infinitely more interesting.
Brunetti remembered that his own copy of the speeches had been a Christmas gift from the Conte and that the dedication on the title page stated that it was one of the Contes favourite books. But? he asked in response to his father-in-laws tone.
But Cicero, the Conte answered, is not much in demand among Chinese businessmen. He considered his own observation and then added, with a theatrical sigh, Perhaps because he had so little to say about earth-moving equipment.
Do Chinese businessmen have more to say? Brunetti prodded.
The Conte laughed. You really cant lose the habit of interrogation, can you, Guido? Before Brunetti could protest, the Conte went on, Yes, the few I know are very interested in it, especially bulldozers. So is Cataldo, and so is his son hes the son from his first marriage who runs their heavy equipment company. Chinas gone crazy with a building boom, so their companys got more orders than they can handle, which means hes asked me to go into a limited partnership with him.
Over the years, Brunetti had learned that circumspection was the appropriate response to anything his father-in-law might divulge about his business interests, so he did no more than mutter an attentive Ah.
But you cant be interested in that, the Conte said, quite accurately as it happened. What did you think of her?
May I ask why youre curious? Brunetti said.
Because I sat next to her at dinner a few months ago, after meeting her here for years and never really talking to her, and the same thing happened to me. We started talking about a story that had been in the paper that day, and then suddenly we were talking about the Metamorphoses. I dont remember how it happened, but it was delightful. All those years, and wed never talked, well, never about anything real. So I suggested Donatella put you across from her while I talked to the husband. Then, with remarkable self-awareness, the Conte added, Youve been forced to sit with so many of our dull friends all these years: I thought you deserved a change.
Thank you, then, Brunetti said, choosing not to comment on the Contes assessment of his friends. It was very interesting. Shes even read the argument against Verres.
Oh, good for her, the Conte all but chirped.
Did you know her before? Brunetti asked.
Before the marriage or before the facelift? the Conte inquired neutrally.
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