Donna Leon - Beastly Things

He did; she spread the towel in her hands and placed it over his head. He raised his own hands to cover hers and began to rub it back and forth. Face hidden, he said, ‘Would you put the clothes I wore yesterday in a plastic bag for me? And the shirt.’

‘Already done,’ she said in her most amiable voice.

For a moment, he was tempted to play the scene for all it was worth and tell her to give it to Caritas, but then he remembered how much he liked the jacket, so he uncovered his face and said, ‘It should all go to the cleaners.’

Brunetti had told her, yesterday morning, where he and Vianello were going, but she hadn’t asked him about it and still did not. Instead, she asked, ‘Would you like that sweater you got in Ferrara last year?’

‘The orange one?’

‘Yes. It’s warm; I thought you might like to wear it.’

‘After parboiling myself, you mean?’ he asked. ‘And opening up all my pores?’

‘Thus weakening your entire system for the attack of the germs,’ she continued, speaking the last phrase with the same silent capital letters with which his mother, for decades, had maintained her belief in the dangers of the body’s exposure to excessive temperatures of any sort, especially those caused by hot water.

‘At least an assault by those that aren’t on perpetual duty outside the open windows of trains so they can launch their attack from un corrente d’aria ,’ he continued, smiling at the memory of his mother’s insistence on preaching these two gospels and of the good spirit in which she had always endured his joking and Paola’s obvious refusal to believe them.

Stepping back into the hallway, she said, ‘When you’re dressed, come and tell me about it.’

BRUNETTI WAS AWAKENED the next morning by a smell; by two of them, in fact. The first was the smell of springtime, a soft sweetness that drifted through the window they had left open for the first time the night before, and the second, quickly dominating and replacing the first, was the smell of coffee, brought to him by Paola. She was dressed to go out, though he could see that her hair was not yet fully dry.

She stood by the bed until he sat up against his pillow, when she handed him the cup and saucer. ‘I thought someone should do something nice for you after the days you’ve had,’ she explained.

‘Thank you.’ Dulled by sleep, that was all he could think of to say. He took a sip, enjoying the mingled bitterness and sweetness. ‘You’ve saved my life.’

‘I’m off,’ she said, unmoved by his compliment, if that was what it was. ‘I have a class at ten, and then the appointments committee meets.’

‘Do you have to go?’ he asked, wondering what the effect of this would be on his lunch.

‘You’re so transparent, Guido,’ she said and laughed.

He studied the liquid in his cup and saw that she had taken the time to froth the milk she added to his coffee.

‘It’s a meeting I want to attend, so you’re on your own for lunch.’

Stunned, he blurted out, ‘You want to attend a meeting of your department?’

She glanced at her watch then sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Remember I asked you what you had to do if you knew about something illegal that was going to happen?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s why I have to go.’

He finished the coffee and set the empty cup on the night table. ‘Tell me,’ he said, suddenly fully awake.

‘I have to go so I can vote no about someone who’s being considered for a professorship.’

After trying to figure this out, Brunetti said, ‘I don’t understand how your vote is criminal.’

‘It’s not my vote that’s criminal. It’s the person we’re voting about.’

‘And so?’ he prodded.

‘Though not in this country, at any rate. He’s been caught in France and Germany, stealing books – and maps – from university libraries. But because he’s so well connected politically, they decided not to press charges. But his teaching position in Berlin was cancelled.’

‘And he’s applied here?’

‘He’s teaching already, but only as an assistant, and that contract ends this year. He’s applied for a permanent position, and today the appointments committee meets to decide whether to appoint him or, indeed, to renew his temporary contract.’

‘Teaching literature, I take it?’ he asked.

‘Yes, something called “The Semiotics of Ethics”.’

‘Does the syllabus include theft?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No doubt.’

‘And you’re going to vote against him?’

‘Yes. And I’ve convinced two other members of the committee to vote with me. That should suffice.’

‘You said he’s politically well connected,’ Brunetti said. ‘Aren’t you afraid of that?’

She smiled the shark smile he had come to recognize when she was at her most dangerous. ‘Not at all. My father is far better connected than his patrons are, so he can’t touch me.’

‘And the others who are voting with you?’ he asked, worried that her crusade would put other people at risk.

‘One of them is his father’s lover, who loathes him, and there’s nothing he can do to her.’

‘And the other?’

‘Four of his ancestors were doges, he owns two palazzi on the Grand Canal, as well as a chain of supermarkets.’

Brunetti recognized immediately the man she meant. ‘But you’ve always said he’s an idiot.’

‘I said he’s a lousy teacher. They are not the same thing.’

‘Are you sure he’ll vote with you?’

‘I told him about the theft of books from a library. I don’t think he’s recovered yet.’

‘Is he still stealing books?’ Brunetti inquired.

‘For a while, but I had him stopped.’

‘How?’

‘The library has changed its policy. To enter the stacks, anyone less than a full professor has to have a card. His contract is not permanent, so he has no card and will not be issued one. So if he wants to use a book, he has to ask for it at the main desk, and after he’s used it, the librarians keep him there while they check the condition of the book.’

‘Condition?’

‘In the Munich Library, he sliced out pages.’

‘And this man is teaching at the university? Ethics?’

‘Not for long, dear,’ she said and got to her feet.

Brunetti ambled – there is no better word for it – into the Questura at eleven and went directly to Signorina Elettra’s office. ‘Ah, Commissario,’ she said, ‘I’ve called you twice this morning.’

‘Delayed by official business,’ he said with a smile.

‘I’ve some information for you, sir,’ she said, pushing a few sheets of paper across her desk towards him. Before he could pick them up, however, she added, ‘First you might like to look at this,’ and hit a few keys on her computer.

Leaving the papers, he came around her desk to look at the screen. He saw a head shot of a woman: dark, sultry, with hair that fell below her shoulders and out of the photo. Her expression was one of mild dissatisfaction, the sort of look which, if seen on the face of a woman as pretty as this one, triggers a masculine impulse to remove it. On a less attractive woman, it would appear as the warning sign it was. Brunetti recognized Giulia Borelli instantly: longer haired, younger, but unconfoundably the same.

He had not heard the sigh that escaped him, but he did hear Signorina Elettra observe, ‘She was younger when the photo was taken.’

‘What have you found?’

‘As you said, sir, she was previously employed by a firm called Tekknomed, where she worked in the accounts department until she left to become the assistant to Dottor Papetti. This is the photo used for her company ID. I’ll have a look at him this afternoon.’ Brunetti had no doubt about this.