A Venetian Reckoning (Commissario Brunetti, #4)

by Donna Leon

The women’s bodies, as well as that of the driver, were returned by plane to Bucharest, where they were buried under the earth of their native land and under the even greater weight of its bureaucracy.

Avvocato Carlo Trevisan,

was a man of very ordinary past, which in no way impinged upon the fact that he was a man of limitless future.

there sometimes exists a measure of confusion as to the exact meaning of the law. The resulting fluidity of interpretation creates a climate most propitious to lawyers, who claim the ability to understand the law.

he fell, his jacket slid open and she saw the red stains that covered the front of his shirt. The smell of urine and excrement rose up unmistakably from his body. “Maria Vergine,”

Perfectly Put.

Cristina Merli stood in the office of the stationmaster, attempting to explain why she should not be subject to a fine of one million lire for having pulled the train’s alarm.

“Avvocato Assassinato sul Treno,” the headline cried, while La Nuova, ever drawn to melodrama, spoke of “Il Treno della Morte.” Brunetti saw the headlines

Who had been on duty last night? Why hadn’t he been called? And if he hadn’t been called, which one of his colleagues had?

“He wants to see you.” If Vice-Questore Patta wanted to see him

Vice-Questore’s outer office. Behind her desk, looking as though she was there only to meet the photographers from Vogue, sat Signorina Elettra Zorzi, today arrayed, as were the lilies of the field, in a white crêpe de chine dress that fell in diagonal, but decidedly provocative, folds across her bosom.

Brunetti had more than once reflected upon the strangeness of the fact that a woman with Signorina Elettra’s natural inclination toward the duplicitous should have chosen to work for the police.

had apparently had ample time to perform his toilette; the scent of some pungent aftershave hung in the air, and Patta’s handsome face glowed. His tie was wool, his suit silk; no slave to tradition, the Vice-Questore.

“Why don’t you have an answering machine?” “I have two children.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “That if I had an answering machine, I’d spend my time listening to messages from their friends.” Or that he’d spend it listening to his children’s many prevarications as to their lateness or absence.

“Mafia?” Brunetti asked, the way one did, the way one had to. Patta shrugged. “He’s a lawyer,” he answered, leaving it to Brunetti to infer whether this made him more or less likely to merit execution by the Mafia.

She could still knock them over, this old whore of a city, and Brunetti, her true son, protective of her in her age, felt a surge of mingled pride and delight and hoped that those people who walked by would see him and somehow know him for a Venetian

part heir to and part owner of all of this.

Her voice was soft, the accent slightly brushed with the exaggerated aspirants of Florence.

we don’t believe in the old things anymore, and we haven’t found anything new, anything else, to believe in.”

today filled with nothing more elegant, though nothing could hope to be more happy, than a massive bouquet of black-eyed Susans.

In complement to them, Signorina Elettra today wore a scarf the secret of whose color had been stolen from canaries. “Good morning, Commissario,” she said as he came in, breaking into a smile quite as happy as that the flowers wore.

he stopped at Signorina Elettra’s desk. “You have any idea who he’s been talking to?” “No, I don’t, but he’s having lunch at Do Forni,” she said, naming a restaurant once famous for its food, now for its prices.

Paola

served as the perfect listener, prodding him with questions, forcing him to explain things so clearly that she would understand. Often, forced to explain some lingering uneasiness, he better understood

it himself.

always puzzled Brunetti was the ease with which the ancients had accepted slavery.