Sea of Troubles Read Online Free PDF Page B

you recommend today?' Brunetti asked.
    'The antipasto di mare is good. We've got cuttlefish milk or sardines if you'd like them, instead.'
    'What else?' Vianello asked.
    'There was still some asparagus in the market this morning, so there's a salad of asparagus and shrimp.'
    Brunetti nodded at this; Vianello said he wouldn't have antipasto, so the waiter passed on to the primi piatti.
    'Spaghetti alle vongole, spaghetti alle cozze, and penne all' Amatriciana,' he recited and then stopped.
    'That's all?' Vianello couldn't help asking.
    The waiter waved one hand in the air. 'We've got fifty people coming for a wedding anniversary tonight, so we've only got a few things on the menu today.'
    Brunetti ordered the vongole and Vianello the all' Amatriciana.
    The choice of main courses was limited to roast turkey or mixed fried fish. Vianello chose the first, Brunetti the second. They ordered a half-litre of white wine and a litre of mineral water. The waiter brought them a basket of bussolai, the thi ck oval breadsticks that Brunett i especially liked.
    When he was gone, Brunetti picked one up, broke it in half, and took a bite. It always surprised him how they remained so crisp in this seaside climate. The waiter brought the wine and water, set them on the table, and hurried over to remove the plates from in front of the elderly couple.
    'We come out to Pellestrina and you don't eat fish,' Brunetti said, making it a statement rather than a question, though it was.
    Vianello poured them each a glass of wine, picked up his, and sipped at it. 'Very good,' he said. 'It's like what my uncle used to bring back from Istria on his boat.'
    'And the fish?' Brunetti asked, not letting it go.
    'I don't eat it any more,' Vianello said. 'Not unless I know it comes from the Atlantic'
    Lunacy had many forms, Brunetti knew, and most of them had to be detected in the early stages. 'Why?' he asked.
    ‘I joined Greenpeace, you know, sir,' Vianello said by way of answer.
    'And Greenpeace doesn't let you eat fish?' he asked, trying to make a joke of it.
    Vianello started to say something, stopped, took another sip of wine, and said, 'That's not true, sir.'
    Neither of them spoke for a long time, and then the waiter was back, bringing Brunetti his antipasto, a small mound of tiny pink shrimp on a bed of slivered raw asparagus. Brunetti took a forkful: they'd been sprinkled with balsamic vinegar. The combination of sweet, sour, sweet, salty was wonderful. Ignoring Vianello for a moment, he ate the salad slowly, relishing it, perpetually delighted by the contrast of flavours and textures.
    He set his fork on the plate and took a sip of wine. 'Are you afraid to ruin my meal by telling me what polluting horrors lie in wait for me inside the shrimp?' he asked, smiling.
    'Clams are worse,' said Vianello, smiling back but with no further attempt at clarification.
    Before Brunetti could ask for a list of the deadly poisons that lurked in his shrimp and clams, the waiter took his plate away, then was quickly back with the two dishes of pasta.
    The rest of the meal passed amiably as they talked idly of people they'd known who had fished in the waters around Pellestrina and of a famous footballer from Chioggia whom neither of them had ever seen play. When their main courses came, Vianello could not help giving Brunetti's a suspicious glance, though he had forgone the opportunity to comment further upon the clams. Brunetti, for his part, gave silent proof of the high regard in which he held his sergeant by not repeating to him the contents of an article he had read the previous month about the methods used in commercial turkey farming, nor did he list the transmissible diseases to which those birds are prone.
    5
    After they'd drunk their coffee, Brunetti asked for the bill. The waiter paused, as if from a habit too strong for him to control, and Brunetti added, ‘I don't need a receipt.' The waiter's eyes grew wide as he registered this new reality: a man who must