'I'd rather have blackberries.'
Neither of them spoke until they saw the single campanile of Poveglia on their right, when Vianello asked, 'How are we going to do this, sir?'
‘I think we should try to find out more about the waiter's story, about his brother and anything that might have come of that argument. See if you can find the brother and see what he says, and I'll go back and talk to Signora Follini.'
'You're a brave man, Commissario,' Vianello said, deadpan.
'My wife has promised to call the police if I'm not home by dinnertime.'
'I doubt that even we would be any good against Signora Follini.'
'I'm afraid you might be right, Sergeant, but still, a man must do his duty.'
'Like John Wayne.'
'Precisely. After I've spoken to her, I'll try the other bar: I think there was one up the street from the restaurant, on the other side.'
Vianello nodded. He'd seen it, but it had been closed the day they were there. 'Lunch?' he asked.
'Same place,' Brunetti answered. 'If you don't mind having to pass over the clams and fish.'
'Believe me, sir, I don't mind in the least.'
'But it's the food we grew up with,' Brunetti surprised himself by insisting. 'You must mind not eating it any more.'
'I told you, sir,' Vianello said, turning to look him in the face as he spoke, one hand holding his hat down against a sudden gust of wind, 'everything I've read tells me not to eat them.'
'But you've still got to miss them, want to eat them,' Brunetti insisted.
'Of course I miss them. I wouldn't be human if I didn't. People who stop smoking always miss cigarettes. But I think they'll kill me, really I do.' Before Brunetti could question or ridicule, he continued, 'No, not one plate of them and not fifty plates of them. But they're loaded with chemicals and heavy metals. God knows how they live themselves. I just don't want to eat them; the idea makes me faintly sick.'
'Then how can you miss them?'
'Because I'm Venetian, and they're what I grew up eating, as you said. But they weren't poisoned then. I loved them, loved eating them, loved my mother's spaghetti with clam sauce, her fish soup. But now I know what's in them, and I just can't eat them.' Aware that he still hadn't satisfied Brunetti's curiosity, he said, 'Maybe it's what Indians feel about eating cows.' He thought about it for a while, then corrected himself. 'No, they never eat them to begin with, so they can't stop, can they?' He considered the question further, finally gave up. ‘I can't explain what it's like, sir. I suppose I could eat them if I wanted to; it's just that I don't want to.'
Brunetti started to say something, but Vianello asked, 'Why does it confuse you so much? You wouldn't react like this if someone stopped smoking, would you?'
Brunetti considered this. 'I suppose not.' He laughed. 'It's probably because it's about food, and I find it hard to believe that anyone could stop eating something as good as clams, regardless of the consequences.'
That seemed to settle the issue, at least for the moment. Bonsuan gave the engine full throttle, and its noise blocked out any further attempt to talk. Occasionally they passed boats on either side, anchored in the water, men sitting idly with fishing rods in their hands, engaged more in contemplation than in the attempt to catch fish. Hearing the speed of the approaching boat, most of the men looked up, but when they saw that it was a police boat they returned their attention to the water.
Too soon, as far as Brunetti was concerned, they saw the long dock of Pellestrina. A narrow gap showed the place where the Squallus still lay on the bottom, the masts emerging from the water at the same crazy angle. Bonsuan took them to the end of the pier, cut the motor, and glided silently until they were less than a metre from the riva, when he suddenly shot the motor into reverse for a few seconds, then as quickly shut it down. The boat drifted silently to the dock. Vianello tossed a mooring rope around the metal stanchion, easily pulling the boat into place. With quick precision, he knotted the rope and dropped it on deck.
Bonsuan leaned out of the cabin and said, 'I'll wait for you.'
'That's all right, Bonsuan,' Brunetti said. 'I've no idea when we'll finish; we can take the bus back to the Lido and the boat from there.'
'I'll wait for you,' Bonsuan repeated as if Brunetti had never spoken or he hadn't heard what his superior said.
Since Bonsuan's duties were those of a pilot only, Brunetti could hardly ask him to move among the population of Pellestrina, asking for information about the murder of the Bottins. Nor did he want to order him to return to the Questura, even though the boat might be needed there. He compromised by asking, 'What'll you do all day?'
Bonsuan turned and pulled open the lid of the locker to his left. He bent down and pulled out three fishing rods and a small plastic-covered pail. 'I'll be out there,' he said, indicating the water to their right. He looked directly at Brunetti and said, 'If you like, I could go and have a coffee in the bar after I'm done fishing.'
'That might be a good idea,' Brunetti agreed and stepped up on to the pier.
He and Vianello walked towards the clustered houses of the small village. Brunetti looked down at his watch. 'It's after eleven now. I'll meet you at the restaurant.'
When they reached what passed as the centre of Pellestrina, Brunetti turned to his left and approached Signora Follini's store, while Vianello continued on ahead, intending to stop at the restaurant and see if the waiter could tell him where to find his brother.
Signora Follini was already standing behind the counter, talking to an old woman. Signora Follini glanced up when he came in and started to smile. But as Brunetti watched, he saw her suddenly remember the presence of the other woman and change the smile into a formal acknowledgement of the arrival of a stranger who had no claim to anything beyond civility.
'Buon giorno,' Brunetti said.
Signora Follini, today wearing an orange dress with large bands of ivory-coloured lace at neck and waist, returned his greeting but immediately turned her attention back to the old woman, who was watching Brunetti. She looked at him, eyes the clouded grey of advancing age, but no less keen for that. If she had teeth, she hadn't bothered to wear them that day. She was short, at least a head shorter than Signora Follini, and she was entirely dressed in black. Looking at her, Brunetti thought that the word 'swathed' would be more appropriate, for it was difficult to distinguish just what it was she wore. A long skirt came to well below her knees, and some sort of woollen coat was buttoned tightly over that. Wrapped around her shoulders and covering her head was a crocheted woollen scarf the ends of which hung down almost to her waist.
Her clothing declared her widowhood as indisputably as would a hand-held placard or a giant letter pinned to her breast. The South was full of women like this, shrouded in black and destined to pass, cloud-like, through the remaining years of their lives, the limits of their behaviour as strictly delineated as those of peasant women in Bengal or Peru. But that was the South, and this was Venice, where widows wore bright colours, went dancing if and with whom they pleased, married again if they so chose.
He felt her eyes on him, nodded, and said, 'Good morning, Signora.'
She ignored him and turned back to Signora Follini. 'And a package of candles and half a kilo of flour,' Brunetti thought she said, though her dialect was so strong he wasn't sure. Here he was, less than twenty kilometres from his own home, and he found it hard to understand the natives.
He moved towards the back of the store and started to examine the goods on the shelves. He picked up a can of Cirio tomatoes and, out of curiosity, turned it over to look at the sell-by date. It had expired two years before. He set the can carefully back into the ring of dust that had surrounded it and moved towards the soap powder.