Trace Elements (Commissario Guido Brunetti, #29)

by Donna Leon

it was unlikely that the city would hire a Neapolitan, a far greater handicap than being a woman.

heat had done nothing but increase over the last week, as had the humidity, although there was no talk of rain. The boats were crowded, breezes had died, tempers were short.

‘And they’d never let us pay for water. After walking around, seeing things, being tourists, we couldn’t drink another coffee, so we’d go into a bar and ask for mineral water. But they never let us pay. I’d offer, but they all said, “L’acqua non si paga.”’ He raised his hands in surprise or praise. ‘Think about that. Here, people get charged two Euros for a glass of water. And down there they won’t let you pay.’ Then he added, as if to forestall their question, ‘And they don’t try to give you tap water.’

‘Can I stand in here for a few minutes? I don’t feel well.’ The man, who was Brunetti’s age, perhaps slightly older, answered in dialect. ‘Come over here, Signore.’ He wore thick glasses and had lost most of his hair, but he had a kindly smile and spoke softly, as though Brunetti’s condition demanded that. He waved his hand to draw Brunetti closer and came out from behind the counter, carrying a cane-seated wooden chair. He set it in the tiny open space in front of the counter. ‘Here, Signore, just sit down and rest for a while, and you’ll feel better.’ Brunetti lowered himself into the chair and leaned against the back. The man said, ‘Let me get you some water.’ He disappeared through a curtain behind the counter and was quickly back with a glass of water. He handed it to Brunetti, saying, ‘You can have more if you need it.’ He folded his hands together and waited while Brunetti drank the water. ‘There, that’s good. I hope you feel a little bit better.’

A random small act of kindnesss :)

do, thank you,’ Brunetti said, realizing it was true. Whether it was their shared solitude inside the shop or the simple act of kindness, he had no idea. But he did feel better.

He assumed that promises made to dying people had more weight than those made to healthy people in the prime of life. If you promise food to a hungry person, it’s more important that you give it to them than if you promise it to a fat person. He realized that the comparison would not stand up under the examination of logic, but he didn’t care. It felt right, and that was enough for the moment.

He suddenly shook himself. Brunetti had read for years of characters in books who shook themselves free of some feeling, but he had never seen it done. Nothing could better describe what Veltrini did: like a dog, he shook the top part of his body, hands pointed at the floor, fingers vibrating.