any of them around here, the vu cumprà?’ Even as he spoke, he regretted it: the words sounded leaden and forced, filled with inappropriate curiosity.
It was some time before the barman answered, ‘Not so anyone would notice.’
‘They come in here?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Brunetti said. ‘Just that I know a lot of people don’t like them, but I’ve always found them very polite.’ Then, as if remembering, ‘One of them even lent me his telefonino one day when I forgot mine and had to make a call.’ He was talking too much and knew it, but still he could not stop.
His example must have fallen short as proof of human solidarity, for the barman said only, ‘I’ve got no complaint against them.’
‘Not like the Albanians,’ came a sepulchral voice from the card table. By the time Brunetti turned to look at them, the three men’s attention had returned to their cards, and there was no way to know which one of them had spoken. From the placidity of their faces, the voice might well have belonged to any member of the chorus.
‘If you see Filippo,’ Brunetti said, ‘tell him Guido said hello.’
‘Guido?’
‘Yes, Guido from maths class. He’ll remember.’
‘Good, I’ll do that,’ the barman said just as one of the men at the table called for more wine, and he turned away to take down a clean glass.
Outside, Brunetti retraced his steps until he was back on Via Garibaldi. He went into the fruit and vegetable shop on the left, saw that the endive was described as coming from Latina, and asked for a kilo. While the woman was selecting the stalks, he asked, still in dialect, ‘Is Alessandro still renting to the vu cumprà?’ He jerked his head back in the direction of the Cuzzoni address.
She looked up, surprised by his leap from endive to real estate. ‘Alessandro. Cuzzoni,’ Brunetti clarified. ‘A couple of years ago, he tried to sell me that house of his back there, around the corner, but I bought a place in San Polo. Now my nephew’s getting married, and they’re looking for a place, and so I thought of Alessandro. But someone told me he was renting to the vu cumprà, and I wondered if he still was. Before I say anything to my nephew, that is.’ Then, before she could grow suspicious of his question and of him, he said, ‘My wife told me to get some melanzane, but the long ones.’
‘All I’ve got are the round ones,’ she said, clearly more comfortable talking about vegetables than about the business of her customers.
‘All right. I’ll tell her it was all I could find. Give me a kilo of the round ones, then, as well.’
She pulled out a second paper bag and selected three plump melanzane. As if comforted by their solidity, she said, ‘I don’t think it’s for sale any more, that house.’
‘Ah, all right. Thank you,’ Brunetti said, understanding that she had answered his question without seeming to. She handed him the plastic bag of vegetables and he paid, hoping that Paola could find some use for them.
He decided to go home, where Paola was pleased at the quality of the endive and said they’d have it that evening. She made no comment on the aubergines, and he forbore to explain that they were, in a certain sense, part of his investigative technique.
Because the children were not home for lunch, the meal was, at least by Brunetti’s standards, spartan, nothing more than risotto with radicchio di Treviso and a plate of cheese. Seeing his badly concealed disappointment at the sight of the selection of cheeses, Paola came and stood close beside him. ‘All right, Guido. I’ll make the pork tonight.’
Brunetti cut a piece of taleggio and set it on his plate. Interested, he looked up at her and asked, ‘Which one?’
‘The one with olives and tomato sauce.’
‘And the endive?’
She looked away from him and addressed, it appeared, the light fixture, ‘How did this happen to me? I married a man, and I find myself living with an appetite.’
‘With butter and parmigiano?’ he asked, spreading a thick layer of the cheese on a slice of bread.
Deciding to ignore his promise to Gravini, he left the apartment at three-fifteen and walked up to Sant’ Aponal, then back towards Fondamenta Businello, where the apartment had to be. He found the number, where the only doorbell bore the name Cuzzoni. He rang, waited a moment, then rang again.
‘Sì?’ a man’s voice finally asked.
‘Signor Cuzzoni?’
‘Yes. What do