group of particularly unbuttoned Christians:
Brunetti, who sometimes walked past as the sound of their evening services emerged, could think of no better adjective.
'In the city, but not that group,' Antonin said.
'Was this other man also a member?' Brunetti asked.
'I don't know,' Antonin said quickly, as though this were an irrelevant detail. 'But what I do know is that, within a month of their meeting, Roberto was already giving him money.'
'Would you tell me how you know this?' Brunetti asked.
'Patrizia told me.'
'And how did she know?'
'Her son's companion, Emanuela, told her.'
'And did she know because there was some sort of decline in the family's finances?' Brunetti asked, wondering why the man couldn't simply tell him what was going on and have done with it. Why did he wait for these repeated, minute questions? The memory flashed into Brunetti's mind of the last confession he had made, when he was about twelve. As he counted out his poor, miserable little-boy sins to the priest, he had become conscious of a mounting eagerness in the priest's voice as he asked Brunetti to explain in detail just what he had done and what he had felt while doing it. And an atavistic warning of the presence of something unhealthy and dangerous had sounded in Brunetti's mind, driving him to excuse himself and leave the confessional, never again to return.
And here he was, decades later, in a parody of that same situation, though this time it was he who was asking the niggling questions. His mind wandered off to a consideration of the concept of sin and the way it forced people to divide action into good or bad, right or wrong, forcing them to live in a black and white universe.
He had not wanted to provide his own children with a list of sins that had to be mindlessly avoided and rules that could never be questioned. Instead, he had tried to explain to them how some actions produced good and some bad, though he had been forced at times to regret that he had not chosen the other option with its easy resolution of every question.
'... He's put it on the market. I told you: he says he wants to give the community the money and go and live with them.'
'Yes, I understand that,' Brunetti lied. 'But when? What happens to this woman Emanuela? And their daughter?'
'Patrizia has said that they can go and live with her -she owns her own apartment - but it's small, only three rooms, and four people can't live in it, at least not for very long.'
'Isn't there anywhere else?' Brunetti asked, thinking of the apartment that belonged to IRE and the lease that was now in this woman Emanuela's name.
'No, not without creating terrible problems,' the priest said, offering no explanation.
Brunetti took this to mean the people living in the apartment had some sort of written agreement with her or were the sort who were sure to cause trouble if told to leave.
Brunetti put on his friendliest smile and asked, in his most encouraging tone, 'You said this woman Patrizia's father is in the hospital where you're chaplain.' When Antonin nodded, he went on. 'What about his home? Is there a chance that they could live there? After all, he's the grandfather ’ Brunetti said, as if to name the relationship was to make the offer inevitable.
Antonin shook his head but gave no explanation, forcing Brunetti to ask, 'Why?'
'He married again after his wife - Patrizia's mother -died, and she and Patrizia have never ... they've never got on.'
'I see,' Brunetti murmured.
To him, it seemed a relatively common story: a family was in danger of losing its home and had to find a place to live. Brunetti saw this as the major problem: a homeless child and her mother, an apartment which they might have to leave and another one to which they could not return. The solution was to find them a home, yet this seemed not to concern Antonin, or if it did concern him, it seemed to do so only because it was related to the sale of the young man's house.
'Where is this apartment
Brunetti, who sometimes walked past as the sound of their evening services emerged, could think of no better adjective.
'In the city, but not that group,' Antonin said.
'Was this other man also a member?' Brunetti asked.
'I don't know,' Antonin said quickly, as though this were an irrelevant detail. 'But what I do know is that, within a month of their meeting, Roberto was already giving him money.'
'Would you tell me how you know this?' Brunetti asked.
'Patrizia told me.'
'And how did she know?'
'Her son's companion, Emanuela, told her.'
'And did she know because there was some sort of decline in the family's finances?' Brunetti asked, wondering why the man couldn't simply tell him what was going on and have done with it. Why did he wait for these repeated, minute questions? The memory flashed into Brunetti's mind of the last confession he had made, when he was about twelve. As he counted out his poor, miserable little-boy sins to the priest, he had become conscious of a mounting eagerness in the priest's voice as he asked Brunetti to explain in detail just what he had done and what he had felt while doing it. And an atavistic warning of the presence of something unhealthy and dangerous had sounded in Brunetti's mind, driving him to excuse himself and leave the confessional, never again to return.
And here he was, decades later, in a parody of that same situation, though this time it was he who was asking the niggling questions. His mind wandered off to a consideration of the concept of sin and the way it forced people to divide action into good or bad, right or wrong, forcing them to live in a black and white universe.
He had not wanted to provide his own children with a list of sins that had to be mindlessly avoided and rules that could never be questioned. Instead, he had tried to explain to them how some actions produced good and some bad, though he had been forced at times to regret that he had not chosen the other option with its easy resolution of every question.
'... He's put it on the market. I told you: he says he wants to give the community the money and go and live with them.'
'Yes, I understand that,' Brunetti lied. 'But when? What happens to this woman Emanuela? And their daughter?'
'Patrizia has said that they can go and live with her -she owns her own apartment - but it's small, only three rooms, and four people can't live in it, at least not for very long.'
'Isn't there anywhere else?' Brunetti asked, thinking of the apartment that belonged to IRE and the lease that was now in this woman Emanuela's name.
'No, not without creating terrible problems,' the priest said, offering no explanation.
Brunetti took this to mean the people living in the apartment had some sort of written agreement with her or were the sort who were sure to cause trouble if told to leave.
Brunetti put on his friendliest smile and asked, in his most encouraging tone, 'You said this woman Patrizia's father is in the hospital where you're chaplain.' When Antonin nodded, he went on. 'What about his home? Is there a chance that they could live there? After all, he's the grandfather ’ Brunetti said, as if to name the relationship was to make the offer inevitable.
Antonin shook his head but gave no explanation, forcing Brunetti to ask, 'Why?'
'He married again after his wife - Patrizia's mother -died, and she and Patrizia have never ... they've never got on.'
'I see,' Brunetti murmured.
To him, it seemed a relatively common story: a family was in danger of losing its home and had to find a place to live. Brunetti saw this as the major problem: a homeless child and her mother, an apartment which they might have to leave and another one to which they could not return. The solution was to find them a home, yet this seemed not to concern Antonin, or if it did concern him, it seemed to do so only because it was related to the sale of the young man's house.
'Where is this apartment
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