‘I think it’s time we went to bed,’ Brunetti said.
She made no response. He studied her face and noticed that her long nose was red at the end. With that and the two euro-coin-sized red circles on her cheekbones, Paola had the look of a clown, a very tired one. He leaned down and touched her shoulder. ‘That’s it for tonight,’ he said and helped her to her feet.
8
Brunetti passed a restless night. Paola, as was her wont, well or ill, slept the sleep of the heavily sedated beside him. At three, some urge to fear woke him and lifted him to his feet beside the bed. Fully awake, shaking, he tried to remember the dream that had shocked him, but it was gone: he remembered only fear and concern for Chiara’s safety.
He went down the corridor to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, then another, trying to remember any detail, however small, that might have chilled his soul to this degree. Leaving the light on in the corridor and telling himself he was not behaving like a superstitious fool, he went to Chiara’s room and pushed open the door. Having done this countless times when she was a child, Brunetti knew exactly how far he could open it without having the light shine on her pillow. He stuck his head around the edge of the door. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he saw her ruffled head, lying where it was supposed to lie, her jeans lying where they were not meant to lie, the rest of her clothes in a joy-inducing heap on the chair at the end of her bed.
He pulled his head back and closed the door silently, rejoicing in the glimpse of her and of her desk, dripping papers and laden with abandoned books. Oh, thank heaven for the mess my children make. Give praise that they do not clean up after themselves but give proof of youth and energy by leaving a trail of objects, clothing, books, shoes, videos, everything and anything, all shouting out that they are alive.
Brunetti went back to the kitchen and leaned forward over the sink, his hands braced on the edge. He stood like that for some time, until the euphoria passed. When it did, he remained where and how he was, thinking about children and the terrifying cost of having them. When he had grown calm, he pushed himself back from the counter, turned off the light, and went back to the bedroom. He slipped noiselessly under the covers, though well he knew he could bring drummers and a band and Paola would sleep on. He turned to her and wrapped his left arm around her and saw again the photo of the girl with her arm draped over the shoulder of her horse. But then sleep had him, and the girl and the horse rode away into the night.
By the time he got to the Questura the next morning, the effect of the dream and his response to it had worn off, and he arrived in good spirits aided by having given in to weakness and stopped for coffee and a brioche at both Ballarin and Rosa Salva. He stopped to see Vianello in his office, intending to ask if he had managed to go over to Chiara’s school to have a look at what was going on.
The Inspector was at his desk, reading that morning’s Gazzettino. ‘You know, there should be a warning wrapper on that,’ Brunetti said, nodding towards the newspaper.
‘Saying what?’ Vianello asked.
‘That it could be harmful to your health,’ Brunetti answered, touching his head, then waving his fingers in front of his face to signal madness.
‘I’ve been reading it for thirty years,’ Vianello answered. ‘So I’m either crazy or immune.’
Brunetti refused to pay for a paper copy and seldom found time to read it online, and so he was leading a relatively Gazzettino-less life. Had he been asked, he would have said he regretted it. Certainly it, along with the other local paper, La Nuova di Venezia, was essential for a well-informed life, even if the information pertained to which pharmacies were open on Sunday or at night, what weather was predicted, the forecast of the level of acqua alta, and the deaths of local residents. There was also passing reference to the rest of the world.
‘My friend Bobo Ferruzzi always warned me: “Per diventar cretin’, leggi il Gazzetin’ ”,’ Brunetti said by way of comment.
He paused, remembering his late friend, ‘But it must not work because Bobo read it every day, and he never became a cretin.’
Vianello, apparently having exhausted his interest in the newspaper, said casually, ‘I went over to Chiara’s school yesterday. I stopped in a bar for a coffee and waited for the kids to get out of class.’ He smiled and added, ‘It was like a visit to my own schooldays: hanging around and waiting for the girls to walk by.’
Brunetti smiled but said nothing.
‘After I’d been there about ten minutes, an African appeared from the calle to the left of the school. About five minutes after he got there, the kids started coming out, and he started asking them – but only the girls – for money. At least that’s what it looked like to me.’