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“music”, at least not from me.’
    ‘What would he rather hear – that you’d been in a duel?’ Brunetti asked, not at all uncomfortable at undermining the concept of grand-parental authority.
    ‘Oh, he’d love that, especially if it were with sabres.’
    ‘And you went home with a scar across your cheek?’ Brunetti suggested.
    They laughed at the absurdity, and it was like this, easy and comfortably united in gentle mockery of military tradition, that Comandante Bembo found them.

4
    ‘RUFFO!’ A VOICE barked from behind Brunetti.
    The boy’s smile vanished and he straightened up to stand as stiff as one of the pilings in the
laguna
, his heels clacking together at the same instant as his stiff fingers snapped to his forehead in salute.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ Bembo demanded.
    ‘I don’t have a class this hour, Comandante,’ Ruffo answered, staring straight ahead.
    ‘And what were you doing?’
    ‘I was talking to this gentleman, sir,’ he said, eyes still on the far wall.
    ‘Who gave you permission to talk to him?’
    Ruffo’s face was a mask. He made no attempt to answer the question.
    ‘Well?’ demanded Bembo in an even tighter voice.
    Brunetti turned to face the Comandante and acknowledged his arrival with a gentle nod. Keeping his voice mild, he asked, ‘Does he need permission to speak to the police, sir?’
    ‘He’s a minor,’ Bembo said.
    ‘I’m not sure I follow you, sir,’ Brunetti said, careful to smile to show his confusion. He could have understood if Bembo had said something about military rank or the need to respond only to orders from a direct superior, but to cite the boy’s youth as a reason why he should not talk to the police displayed what seemed to Brunetti an inordinate attention to legal detail. ‘I’m not sure I see how Cadet Ruffo’s age is important.’
    ‘It means his parents should be with him when you talk to him.’
    ‘Why is that, sir?’ Brunetti asked, curious to hear Bembo’s reason.
    It took a moment for Bembo to find it. Finally he said, ‘To see that he understands the questions you ask.’
    His doubts as to the boy’s ability to understand simple questions hardly spoke well of the quality of instruction on offer at the school. Brunetti turned back to the cadet, who stood rigid, arms rod-like at his side, his chin a stranger to his collar. ‘You understood what I asked you, didn’t you, Cadet?’
    ‘I don’t know, sir,’ the boy answered, keeping his eyes on the wall.
    ‘We were talking about his classes, sir,’ Brunetti said, ‘and Cadet Ruffo was telling me how much he enjoyed Physics.’
    ‘Is this true, Ruffo?’ the Comandante demanded, not the least concerned that he was openly doubting Brunetti’s veracity.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ the boy answered. ‘I was telling the gentleman that I had two elective subjects and how much I liked them.’
    ‘Don’t you like the required subjects?’ Bembo demanded. Then, to Brunetti: ‘Was he complaining about them?’
    ‘No,’ Brunetti answered calmly. ‘We didn’t discuss them.’ He wondered, as he spoke, why Bembo should be so concerned at the mere possibility that a student had said something negative about his classes. What else would a student be expected to say about his classes?
    Abruptly Bembo said, ‘You can go, Ruffo.’ The boy saluted and, ignoring Brunetti’s presence, walked out of the room, leaving the door open after him.
    ‘I’ll thank you to let me know before you question any of my cadets again,’ Bembo said in an unfriendly voice.
    Brunetti hardly thought it worth contesting the point, so agreed that he would. The Comandante turned towards the door, hesitated for a moment as though he wanted to turn back and say something to Brunetti, but then thought better of it and left.
    Brunetti found himself alone in Ruffo’s room, feeling in some way invited there as a guest and thus bound by the rules of hospitality, one of which was never to betray the host’s trust