Fatal Remedies by Donna Leon Page A

turned away from her without answering, started towards the stairs, but instead turned and left the Questura. He walked up the embankment towards the Greek church, crossed the bridge, and went into the bar that stood facing him.
     
    ‘Buon giorno, Commissario,’ the barman greeted him. ‘Cosa desidera?’
     
    Before knowing what to order, Brunetti looked down at his watch. He’d lost all sense of time and was surprised to see that it was almost noon. ‘Un’ombra,’ he answered and, when it came, drank the small glass of white wine without bothering to sip or taste it. It didn’t help at all, and he had sense enough to know that another would help even less. He dropped a thousand lire on the counter and went back to the Questura. He spoke to no one, merely went up to his office and got his coat, then left again and went home.
     
    At lunch, it was clear that Paola had told the children about what had happened. Chiara looked at her mother with obvious confusion, but it seemed that Raffi looked at her with interest, perhaps even curiosity. No one brought up the subject, so the meal passed in relative calm. Ordinarily, Brunetti would have rejoiced in the fresh tagliatelle and porcini, but today he barely tasted them. Nor did he much enjoy the spezzatini and fried melanzane which followed. When they had finished, Chiara went to her piano lesson and Raffi to a friend’s to study maths.
     
    Alone, the table still littered with plates and serving bowls, Paola and Brunetti drank their coffee, his laced with grappa, hers black and sweet. ‘You going to get a lawyer?’ he asked.
     
    ‘I spoke to my father this morning,’ she said.
     
    ‘What did he say?’
     
    ‘Do you mean before or after he yelled at me?’
     
    Brunetti was forced to smile. ‘Yell’ was not a verb he ever would, even in his wildest flights of imagination, have associated with his father-in-law. The incongruity amused him.
     
    ‘After, I think.’
     
    ‘He told me I was a fool.’
     
    Brunetti recalled that this had been the Count’s response to Paola’s declaration, twenty years ago, that she was going to marry him. ‘And after that?’
     
    ‘He told me to hire Senno.’
     
    Brunetti nodded at the name of the best criminal lawyer in the city. ‘Perhaps a bit excessive.’
     
    ‘Why?’
     
    ‘Senno’s good at defending rapists and murderers, rich kids who beat up their girlfriends, those same girlfriends caught selling heroin to pay for their habit. I hardly think you’re in that class.’
     
    ‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.’
     
    Brunetti shrugged. Neither was he.
     
    When Paola volunteered nothing more, he asked, ‘Are you?’
     
    ‘I won’t hire a man like him.’
     
    Brunetti pulled the grappa bottle towards him and poured a bit more into his empty coffee cup. He swirled it around and drank it down in a single mouthful. Leaving her last remark to hang between them, he asked, ‘Who are you going to hire?’
     
    She shrugged. ‘I’ll wait to see what the charge is. Then I’ll decide.’
     
    He thought for a moment about drinking another grappa, but realized he didn’t want it. Making no offer to help with the washing up or even with clearing the table, Brunetti stood and pushed his chair under the table. He glanced down at his watch, this time surprised to see that it was still so early, not yet two. ‘I think I’ll lie down for a while before I go back,’ he said.
     
    She nodded, stood, and began stacking the plates one on top of the other.
     
    He went down the corridor to their room, removed his shoes and sat on the side of the bed, aware of how tired he was. He lay back, latched his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. From the kitchen came the sound of running water, plates clicking against one another, the clang of a pan. He pulled one arm out from under his head and covered his eyes with his forearm. He thought about his schooldays, hiding in his room whenever he brought