Beastly Things by Donna Leon Page A

new sun warming their faces and thighs, Brunetti gave Vianello the folder that contained the photos. ‘Pucetti show you this?’
    Vianello nodded as he took the photo and looked at it. ‘I see what you mean about the neck,’ he said and handed it back, then returned to their previous subject and asked, ‘What do you think Scarpa’s really up to?’
    Brunetti raised his palms in a gesture of helpless incomprehension. ‘In this case, I think he’s just trying to cause trouble for someone who’s popular, but I don’t think there’s ever any understanding of what people like Scarpa do.’ Then he added, ‘Paola’s teaching a class in the short story this year, and in one of them, the bad guy – all he’s called is The Misfit – after he wipes out a whole family, even the old grandmother, he sits there calmly and says something like, “There’s no pleasure except meanness.”’ As if to emphasize the truth of this, two seagulls farther up the
riva
began to fight over something, both tearing at it while managing to squawk and flail violently at the same time.
    ‘I tell you, when Paola read it to me,’ Brunetti went on, ‘I thought of Scarpa. He just likes meanness.’
    ‘You mean that literally – that he
likes
it?’ Vianello asked.
    Before Brunetti could answer, they were disturbed by the appearance from the left of a enormous – did it have eight decks? Nine? Ten? – cruise ship. It trailed meekly behind a gallant tug, but the fact that the hawser connecting them dipped limply into the water gave the lie to the appearance of whose motors were being used to propel them and which boat decided the direction. What a perfect metaphor, Brunetti thought: it looked like the government was pulling the Mafia into port to decommission and destroy it, but the ship that appeared to be doing the pulling had by far the smaller motor, and any time the other one chose, it could give a yank on the hawser and remind the other boat of where the power lay.
    When the boats were past, Vianello said, ‘Well?’
    ‘Yes, I think he does like it,’ Brunetti finally said. ‘Some people just do. No divine possession, no Satan, no unhappy childhood or chemical imbalance in the brain. For some people, there’s no pleasure except meanness.’
    ‘That’s why they keep doing it?’ Vianello asked.
    ‘Has to be, doesn’t it?’ Brunetti asked by way of answer.
    ‘
Gesù
,’ Vianello whispered. Then, after being interrupted by the continuing fight between the seagulls, he said, ‘I never wanted to believe that.’
    ‘Who would?’
    ‘And we’ve got him?’ Vianello asked.
    ‘Until he goes too far or gets sloppy.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘And then we get rid of him,’ Brunetti said.
    ‘You make it sound simple.’
    ‘It might be.’
    ‘I hope so,’ Vianello said with the sincerity that most people reserved for prayer.
    ‘About this man – I still don’t understand why no one’s reported a missing person. People have families, for God’s sake.’
    ‘Maybe it’s too soon,’ Vianello said.
    Brunetti, unconvinced, said, ‘The photo should be in the papers tomorrow. With any luck, someone will see it and call us.’ He didn’t tell Vianello he had resisted the idea because the dead man looked so much like a dead person and so little like a man. ‘Someone should react to Pucetti’s.’
    ‘And until then?’ the Inspector asked.
    Brunetti reached over and took the folder, closed it, and said, getting to his feet, ‘Let’s go shoe shopping.’
    The Fratelli Moretti shop in Venice is conveniently close to Campo San Luca. Brunetti had been an admirer of their shoes for a generation but for some reason had never bought a pair. It was not their price – everything in Venice had grown expensive – so much as … Brunetti was suddenly forced to realize that there was no reason whatsoever: he had simply never gone inside the shop, kept out by no reason he could name. Using this as justification, he led Vianello to the