Give Unto Others

Revenge, that deformed child of justice, fed itself with blind desire, incapable of seeing what was ahead, caring nothing about means or method, about what it left destroyed in its wake.

friends knew the reasons for the divorce, the unfinished degree, the move to a smaller apartment, the lost job, while the chips could provide only the written records. Chips read the documents; friends try to read the heart.

In Campo Manin, the bodies of dead shops lined the way to the canal. There was a dead Middle Eastern fast-food place, a dead sporting goods shop, a dead clothes shop with two dead mannequins in the window, and, at last, the dead travel agency. Luckily, shops didn't have toes, for then each of them would have had a tag tied to their left big toe listing their name, age and presumed cause of death. Those here in the campo had all died of Covid.

While del Balzo spoke, Brunetti turned off his ears and observed the speaking man, a habit he had developed during years of interrogating suspects, listening to witnesses, or sometimes hearing his children explain their school grades. Usually, some uncontrolled part of the bod–-a foot, a finger, or even a nose--gave evidence of the state of affairs inside the speaker; further, the non-listening listener could not be lulled by flattery or charm, nor by persuasive numbers. He simply watched a person, looking for evidence that what they were saying was not what they knew or believed.

He slowed his pace to hers, and they walked automatically, neither of them having to hesitate about where to turn or which bridge to take: the unconscious navigation of the average Venetian is surpassed only by that of the albatross.

Still recovering from the idea that there existed people who sent money through the post, Brunetti asked, ‘Anyone else?

Cicero’s Against Verres and its denunciation of a corrupt official, Brunetti’s

Have you been reading the letters of Rosa Luxemburg again, Donatella?’ Brunetti asked in a normal voice. She laughed her bright laugh, a sound he delighted in hearing because to be thought clever or amusing by this woman was, to Brunetti, a jewel of great price. ‘No dear, not recently. Besides, they’re very serious and filled with lofty thoughts about the inner contradictions of capitalism, and I’m too old to enjoy reading things like that.’ She gave him a level glance as though she were testing how far she could go – the same look he had sometimes been given by her daughter – and added, ‘And too rich.’ This time it was Brunetti who laughed.

The autumn had been unseasonably dry, and the vines that had taken up residence on the canal side of the brick wall surrounding the property extended themselves in parched desperation towards the water. Brunetti was struck by the resemblance between the vines, exposed to the sun almost all day, every day, and The Raft of the Medusa. The human limbs in the foreground of the painting, like the vines on the wall, fell weakly towards the water, while the figures behind stretched towards a glimpse of what might be a boat, a speck of land, or yet another swiftly arriving wave, bent on their destruction. How much worse the vines looked than the men on the raft, even though the accounts of the incident that had inspired the painting spoke of dehydration and starvation.

He remembered, years ago, trying to tell her that they did the same thing, he and she: they tried to discover why people did things. They listened to people talk about themselves and others, and they realized that some of them were, and some were not, telling the truth. They realized further that some people said things that were not true because they’d been told them by people who were lying or mistaken. The last time they’d talked about this, Brunetti said that what his daily routine lacked was the luxury of a reliable narrator. Paola did nothing more than smile.

Brunetti was certain she had gone to Catholic schools: it was only there that children mastered the alchemical formula of untruth and hypocrisy that was sure to persuade even the most sceptical listener.

time had been busy with the flesh around her eyes and under her chin.