Griffoni said a polite goodbye and they started down the calle, heading towards Manuela’s home.
Perhaps prompted by guilt, Brunetti phoned the Contessa the next day. She said she was glad to hear from him and, if the Commissario had time, would be very grateful if he could come and talk to her. It was she who suggested he join Claudia and Manuela for a light lunch on Wednesday, if he didn’t mind coming during the working week.
Having seen how adept Claudia was at handling Manuela, Brunetti had no doubt that she would find a way to leave him alone to talk to the Contessa and so agreed, saying he’d speak to Claudia and come along with them.
When he phoned Griffoni, she suggested that he meet them at one at Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio so that she could take Manuela on a different route. ‘She doesn’t like change, even simple things like which calle to take,’ Griffoni explained. ‘But if I tell her it’s because that’s where we have to pick you up, she’ll agree.’
Brunetti kept back a remark about how important the training of young ladies still seemed to be, but Griffoni must have interpreted his silence differently because she said, ‘She can’t learn to do multiplication and division, but she has learned to be considerate of other people’s convenience.’
‘I’ll see you there at one,’ Brunetti said and hung up.
Because he had promised to go to Rialto with Paola before lunch, Brunetti left the Questura well before lunchtime on Wednesday and met her there. Heavy dark clouds had appeared in the north in the late morning and got worse while Paola and Brunetti were still at Rialto, trying to decide what to have for dinner that night. Cristina, the fishmonger, suggested a rombo, but Paola didn’t like the look of it and so asked about the branzino, a variety of fish that had Cristina’s enthusiastic approval. ‘I thought I’d serve it with artichoke,’ Paola said tentatively. ‘And black rice with peas.’
‘The Findus primavera are very good,’ was Cristina’s sibylline reply as she selected a large fish and handed it to her assistant to clean.
By the time they were finished and stopped at Do Mori for a drink, the first rain had begun to fall. As they stepped out under the rain, Paola asked, ‘You still planning to go and see her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even in this rain?’ she asked, pulling her scarf over her hair and taking a collapsible umbrella from her shopping bag.
‘Yes. I said I would.’
‘Good.’ Paola handed him the umbrella. ‘Here, you’ll need this.’
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Run,’ she said and did just that, out of reach before he could react.
There were few people on the streets, so he was spared the usual jostle and umbrella-sparring as people tried to pass in the narrow calli. Venetians had had ages to develop the technique of tilting the top to the side of the calle and slipping along the walls past the oncoming walker. Tourists had two techniques: either they forged ahead in the face of all human obstacles or they stopped and cowered with their backs against the nearest building, the umbrella extended fully open above them, effectively forcing all traffic into the centre of the street.
It had never occurred to Brunetti to try to cancel the appointment with the Contessa. He did not want to have the conversation, but that was not sufficient reason not to have it. As he entered the campo, he saw Manuela and Griffoni sheltering together under the uncertain protection of the awning of a bar. Griffoni wore something that looked like a man’s fishing hat, dark blue and wide-brimmed, perfect to cover her head in the rain; the rest of her was enveloped in a voluminous raincoat that fell below her knees.
He slipped under the awning and gave his hand to Manuela and said hello to both of them. ‘Lovely day,’ he said, which comment sent Manuela off into delighted peals of laughter.
‘But it’s raining,’ she managed to say and broke out in fresh laughter. When she stopped, she turned to Griffoni and said, ‘Your friend is very funny, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is,’ Griffoni affirmed and patted Brunetti on the arm. Then as a gust of wind lashed at the awning above them, she said, ‘Let’s go. Your grandmother’s waiting.’
‘Will the real lovely day begin when we get there?’ Manuela asked.
Griffoni stamped her feet, which were protected by a pair of low rubber boots, and said, ‘As soon as the door closes behind us, it will.’