Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [80]
She set her glass on top of the newspaper – in fact, right on the face of the man who had that day declared his candidacy for mayor – and said, ‘If you’ve stopped for a few ombre on the way home, Guido, then I think we might be wasting this champagne.’
‘No, my sweet. I was borne home on the wings of love and was so driven to be united with your sweet self that I had no time to think of stopping.’
She picked up her glass took another sip, then tipped the base of the glass to point at the photo. ‘Can you believe this? He’s going to remain a cabinet minister and at the same time be mayor.’
‘Which days do we get?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Monday, Wednesday, and Friday? And the government in Rome gets Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday?’ He took a sip and said, ‘Any sane person would think this an insult, both to the nation and to the city.’
She shrugged. ‘Didn’t the last one keep his job in Brussels and his university teaching job?’ she asked.
‘We are ruled by a race of heroes,’ Brunetti declared, reaching to open the refrigerator.
‘Do you think drinking the whole bottle quickly will make them all go away?’ she asked, emptying her glass and holding it out.
He poured, waited, poured, then said, ‘Only for a while, and then they’ll all come back, like cockroaches, but we’ll at least be able to look at them through the bubbles of champagne.’
In quite a conversational voice, she asked, ‘Do you think there are any people on earth who despise their politicians as much as we do?’
He filled his own glass before he said, ‘Oh, I’m sure that, except for places like Scandinavia and Switzerland, most people do.’
She heard the teasing end of that sentence and asked, ‘But?’
Brunetti studied the photo in the newspaper. ‘But we have more cause than most, I think.’ He took a long drink.
‘I often wonder what planet they think they’re living on,’ Paola said, folding the paper closed and shifting it to one side. ‘They speak no language known to man, they know no passions other than greed and—’
‘If you’re listing their passions, don’t forget to include the current one for transsexuals,’ he said, aiming for precision and hoping to lighten her mood, though he was not quite sure how the subject of transsexuals was meant to do that.
‘Their sense of ethics would make that dead transsexual – I can’t even remember her name any more, poor girl – look like the late Mother Teresa.’
‘That is a comparison which many religious people would find offensive,’ he said.
She gave this the consideration it deserved and said, ‘You’re right. Even I find it offensive. But I get carried away by these things.’
He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. ‘I know, my dear, and that’s one of the reasons you have captured my heart.’
‘Oh, stop it, Guido,’ she said, holding out her glass. ‘Pour me some more and I’ll put the water on for the pasta.’
He did as she requested, then helped her set the table, pleased to learn that the kids were both to be there. How life plays tricks with us, he thought, as he folded the napkins and set them beside the plates. When Raffi was just starting to sit at the table and eat with them, dropping as much on the table or the floor as he got into his mouth, sipping and spilling and never quite sure what to do with his fork, Brunetti had viewed his behaviour not as charming, but as a continual distraction from his own meal. Yet here he was, years later, hoping that boy – now fully competent in the use of his fork – would find the time to eat with them and not take himself off to a friend’s house. It had nothing whatsoever to do with his son’s conversation, nor his wit nor his grasp of ideas, Brunetti realized. It simply filled Brunetti’s heart to have them there and to be able to see and hear them, knowing they were safe and warm and well fed.
‘What’s wrong?’ Paola asked from behind him.
‘Hmmm?’ Brunetti asked, turning to face her.
‘You were standing there, staring at the table, and I wondered if something were wrong,’ she said, puzzled.
‘No. Nothing. I was thinking.’
‘Ah,’ she said