‘I can’t think about food until the sun goes down,’ she said.
‘Ramadan?’ Brunetti inquired lightly.
She laughed. ‘No! But the sun comes into the living room in the afternoon, so I have to hide in my study most of the day. It’s too hot to go out, so all I can do is sit and read.’
For most of the academic year, Paola spoke longingly of the summer vacation, when she looked forward to sitting in her study and reading. ‘Ah, poor you,’ Brunetti said, just as if he meant it.
‘Guido,’ she said in her sweetest voice, ‘it takes a liar to recognize another one. But thank you for the sentiment.’
‘I’ll be home after sunset,’ he said, quite as though she had not spoken, and replaced the phone.
Talk of food had made Brunetti feel something akin to hunger but nothing strong enough to cause him to risk leaving the building to go in search of food. He opened his drawers one after another but found only half a bag of pistachios he could not remember having seen before, a packet of corn chips, and a chocolate bar, with hazelnuts, that he had brought to the office last winter.
He prised open one of the pistachios, put it in his mouth and bit down, only to make contact with something the consistency of rubber. He spat it into his palm and tossed it and the rest of the bag into the wastepaper basket. By comparison, the corn chips were excellent, and he enjoyed them. It was good, he told himself, to eat lots of salt in this heat. These would protect him, he was sure, at the Equator.
When he tore open the chocolate bar, he noticed that it was covered with a thin white haze, the chocolate equivalent of verdigris. He took out his handkerchief and rubbed the bar vigorously until it looked like chocolate again: dark chocolate with hazelnuts. His favourite. He whispered ‘Dessert’, and took a bite. It was perfect, as smooth and creamy as it would have been six months before. Brunetti marvelled at this fact as he finished the bar, then lowered his head to look in the back of the drawer in hope that there might be another one, but there was not.
He glanced at his watch and saw that it was still lunchtime. That meant the squad room computer might be free for him to use. As he entered, he saw Riverre at the desk he shared with Officer Alvise, just pulling on his jacket.
‘You on your way to lunch, Riverre?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, trying to salute, but with his arm caught in his sleeve, he made a mess of it.
Brunetti followed the path of habit and ignored what had just happened. ‘Could you stop at Sergio’s on your way back and bring me some tramezzini?’
Riverre smiled. ‘Sure thing, Commissario. Anything special you’d like?’ When Brunetti hesitated, Riverre suggested, ‘Crab? Egg salad?’
In this heat, those were probably the two most likely to go off, but Brunetti said only, ‘No, maybe tomato and prosciutto.’
‘How many, sir? Four? Five?’
Good Lord, what did Riverre think he was? ‘No, thanks, Riverre. Two ought to be enough.’ He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but the officer held up both hands, like a Christian catching sight of the devil. ‘No, sir. Don’t even think of it. You’ll insult me.’ He started towards the door, calling back over his shoulder, ‘I’ll get you some mineral water, too, sir. Got to drink a lot in this heat.’
Brunetti called his thanks after Riverre’s retreating back, then said under his breath, in English, though he was never entirely certain of the context in which this phrase was meant to be used: ‘From the mouths of babes.’
Someone had left the computer with its Internet connection open, so Brunetti, using four fingers, typed in ‘Oroscopo’.
When Riverre returned more than an hour later, Brunetti was still at the computer, though it was a wiser man who sat there. One site had led to another, one reference had spurred him to think of something else, and so he had, in that brief time, taken a tour through a world of belief and faith and the sort of deception so obvious as to leave him marvelling. ‘Horoscope’ had led to ‘Prediction’, which had led to ‘Card Reader’, and that in its turn had led to ‘Psychic Consultant’, ‘Palm Reader,’ and an endless list of consultants who answered specific needs. He found, as