Sunday started out in glory; the sun launched itself into the sky and shot down bolts of heat, intent on driving all life – human or animal – into the shade or into shelter. The humans managed, and the goats huddled under trees, following the slow course of the shade as the sun rose ever higher. The dogs simply disappeared. After making himself a large portion of spaghetti with aglio, olio e peperoncino for lunch, Brunetti decided to go to the bar for a coffee. He pedalled past two mules lying stiff-legged under a fig tree and feared they were dead of the heat until one of them waved a languid tail. Though he wore the baseball cap and long sleeves and had slathered on sunscreen that Paola seemed to have hidden in his suitcase, by the time he reached the bar at the other end of the island, he felt as though he was himself a single tight-skinned blister.
Inside, he asked for a coffee and sat down at a table to read Il Gazzettino, which he had not seen for more than a week. The city, it appeared, was surviving his absence. He read the paper from front to back, even the ads, and found no mention of Ruggieri; not that he had expected to. The passarelle for acqua alta at Rialto had finally been replaced, and it seemed that this time they fitted properly. No work was being done on the MOSE tide barrier other than maintenance and repair; how many years had he been reading this headline? The new mayor had made another dismissive remark about culture in general and, this time, ‘professors’ in particular. Brunetti wondered what it was His Honour objected to. That they could read and write?
Brunetti suddenly realized his head had been moving closer and closer to the page as he read and wondered if his glasses had ceased to work, but when he looked up, he saw that it was because the windows behind him had ceased to provide any light. He folded the paper closed and went to the door. It faced in the general direction of Venice, somewhere there beyond the horizon, no doubt still washed in the golden sunlight of late afternoon. He stepped outside and was surprised to find it had grown cool. After a few paces he turned to face the sea, visible through the Porto del Lido. It had shrunk, or so it seemed. At some incalculable distance offshore, an immense dark curtain had been pulled down from heaven to water, slamming a door in sight’s face. He stood and watched the wall of clouds that seemed to be rolling closer. He was distracted by the sound of an approaching boat, heard it boom as it slammed against the dock with unnecessary force – sloppy pilot. But when he looked towards the dock, there was no boat; then the booming came again, louder this time and coming from the direction of that cloud curtain. Another boom and a sudden excess of light.
Brunetti saw that the curtain had moved closer during the few moments he had turned away from it. Another boom, and this time he saw the flash of lightning, straight out of the cloud, pounding down on the surface of the sea. Instinct drove him to take a step backward, and his right hand rose to his eyes, as though it wanted to fend off the lightning.
Brunetti calculated the time it would take him to get back to the villa, hurried inside, put a Euro on the counter, and waved to the owner. Outside, he yanked the bicycle away from the wall and pushed off in the direction of the house. The wind from his right was powerful, forcing him to pull the handlebars constantly to fight it. After a few minutes, he started to calculate his speed in relation to the wind that was driving the cloud towards him: who would get to the villa first? Who would win? He put his head down and pedalled, but even this expense of energy could not keep him warm in face of the plummeting temperature. A flash of lightning to his right drove away all thought as he waited for the crash of sound.
After four seconds it came, blasting across him with a shock he could feel, thudding into his ears. He moved forward, chilled with the temperature or with fear.
The next bolt of lightning shut his eyes for him. His grip on the handlebars tightened, but the road was straight and smooth and he managed to fight the wind that tried to force him off to the side. When he opened his eyes, he saw he was still heading down the middle of the road. A clap of thunder and a cascade of rain descended at the same instant, causing him briefly to lose control of the bike. He swerved to the left, unable to see through the rain. He squeezed the brakes and came to a stop, and what seemed like a wave washed across him. Soaked, he started again and pedalled madly, guided only by the intermittent white stripes on the road, hoping that any of the rare motorists who might be approaching from the other direction would see him.
He swerved through the gates and up to the front of the house. He dropped the bicycle, pounded up the steps and inside. Like a character in a horror film, he slammed the door behind him and leaned his body against it, eyes closed, pulling in rasping breaths of panic and relief. Behind him, as though following the same script, the monster banged on the sky three times, each thud followed by a long, low growl.
When his heart calmed, Brunetti went up to his bedroom and changed into dry clothing, took the sweater from his bag and pulled it on. He rubbed some warmth back into his feet, pulled on socks and shoes, and went over to close the window, though no rain was coming in. Then he walked around the top floor, checking the rest of the windows. On the side facing the sea, the rain pounded almost horizontally at the glass, making it impossible to see anything.
Back downstairs, he turned on the lights in both sitting rooms, found his phone, and dialled Paola at home. Surely, with a storm like this, she’d be safely inside.
It rang unanswered for a long time. He disconnected and dialled her telefonino. Even before she could speak, he asked, ‘Where are you?’
‘At my parents’,’ she said.
‘Is it raining?’
‘Here?’ Paola asked.
‘Yes.’ As he spoke, another enormous clap of thunder rang out, followed by the long tail of deep sound.
‘What was that?’ she asked, startled.
‘Thunder,’ Brunetti said calmly, speaking easily now that he was inside and safe from the lightning.
When the noise had ebbed away, he went on. ‘We’re having a terrific storm here. If it turns, it’ll be over the city soon.’
‘Good,’ Paola said.
‘What?’
‘Good,’ she repeated, this time a bit more loudly. ‘You should see the streets, Guido. They’re disgusting. It hasn’t rained for weeks, so God knows what we’re tracking into the house every day.’ She paused and then added, ‘I never thought I’d wish acqua alta on the city, but at least it would clean them.’
‘If this storm makes it there, the streets will be clean enough, my dear,’ he said. Then, ‘How are your parents?’
‘Fine, both of them. My father is going to Mongolia on Wednesday.’
‘To buy it?’ Brunetti inquired lightly.
‘Ha ha ha,’ Paola answered, utterly without humour. ‘Well, he is going to buy a little bit of it.’
Brunetti waited.
‘Copper. It seems they have masses of it, still in the ground. And the people who own the mine don’t want to sell it to the Chinese, so they’ve asked my father if he’d be interested.’
Then, casting off the subject, she asked, ‘How are you?’
Sensing that it was not a pro forma question, Brunetti said, ‘I’m busy all day with rowing or riding the bike so I don’t have much time to think. Well, to think seriously about anything, that is. And I like it.’
‘Stay another week, and you’ll come back a mindless fool,’ Paola said, laughing.
‘But with muscles like steel and the sparkle of rude peasant health in my eyes.’