He told himself he could have waited, that he was wet because he was impatient. But he kept walking. The narrowness of the next calle protected him from the rain. He came out into San Aponal, then left at the corner, other hand in his pocket to get his keys, up to the door, zap the key into the lock, push the door and into the enormous entrance hall.
Soaked. His shoes leaked water at every step and were probably ruined, water flowed from his hair and down the collars of his shirt and jacket. Don’t stop. Up. He climbed, one hand holding the dripping umbrella, the other his keys. Up. At the final landing, he looked back down the steps and saw that he was still leaving wet footprints. He stopped in front of the apartment, set the umbrella upright in a corner, and opened the door.
He stuck his arms out sideways, and as he did, he could hear the cloth of his shirt pull away from his body. Paola called from the kitchen, and then she was standing in the doorway to his right.
‘Oh, good,’ she exclaimed when she saw him.
Brunetti sought sarcasm in her tone but heard none.
‘Come into the kitchen,’ she said.
He paused only long enough to push off his shoes and then squished after her.
He was relieved by the warmth of the kitchen; until then, he hadn’t been aware of how cold it had become. He glanced around, grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped the water off his face and hair.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing at the window that gave a view of the mountains to the north.
The mountains were hidden behind the falling rain; no, behind a cascade of water that fell at a distance of ten centimetres from the window.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, waving the towel in the direction of the window.
‘I think the drainpipe must be blocked.’ Paola stood beside him and took his arm, not seeming to mind how wet it was, nor that he was dripping on the tiles. She pulled him back a step and pointed to the wall above the window through which they could see the curtain of water still pouring down. Just at the top, the white paint was beginning to turn a light grey as the damp began to permeate the brick.
‘The water in the drainpipe’s backed up and going down the wall outside,’ she said.
It looked that way to Brunetti, too. He stood and studied it. He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Eyes still on the water beyond the window, he told Paola, ‘Go and get me an umbrella with a hooked handle.’
She disappeared. Brunetti swept everything on the counter to one side. He pulled over a chair and used it to step up on the counter. He was now too high for the window, so knelt in front of it.
Paola came back with the umbrella. Brunetti opened the window and moved aside as a vagrant burst of wind swept the rain into the room and over him. Ignoring it, Brunetti reached for the umbrella. He stuck the hooked end out ofthe window and anchored himself to the frame with his other hand. He leaned out, sticking his arm through the sheet of water, and fished around in the gutter above his head. He moved the umbrella handle back and forth. When he met resistance, he shoved harder, careful to tighten his grip on the window frame, conscious that he was four storeys above a stone pavement.
Back and forth, back and forth, pushing ever more strongly in the direction of the drainpipe at the corner of the building. He leaned out even farther and felt something give way above him. Suddenly Paola was behind him on the counter, her arms wrapped around his chest.
In an instant, all resistance ceased and the umbrella slid freely through the gutter towards the corner of the building. Just as quickly, the curtain of water turned itself off as the trapped water poured towards the drainpipe. He lifted the umbrella and pulled it back through the window, then leaned aside and pushed the window closed.
Paola scrambled off the counter and stood facing him. She put both hands to her head. ‘We’re both crazy. What would have happened if you’d lost your balance?’
‘The window’s too small, I think,’ he said, turning back to assess its size. ‘Especially with you as an anchor, I could never have fitted through it.’
When he turned back to her, he saw that he had not managed to calm her residual fear. ‘Look,’ he said, patting his stomach, made more evident by the wet shirt that clung to it. ‘Your cooking probably saved my life.’
11
As he walked back to the Questura, restored by a long, very hot, shower, and lunch, Brunetti found himself thinking about Patta and about how easy it had been to outwit him: all he’d done was hold out the possibility of his wife’s social advancement, and his superior had fallen like a ripe pear. What was it the woman wanted: to be president of the Lions Club? A Dame of Honour and Devotion of the Order of the Knights of Malta? She had been in Venice for years, and to the best of Brunetti’s knowledge had not managed to enter into any of the religious or social orders that bestowed prestige upon those allowed to join them. Yet he, by the magic of his family connections, was about to make her dreams come true. He felt no triumph in the deed.