It took Brunetti considerable time to explain to Griffoni what il Conte had told him about his best friend and the situation in which he found himself: more than sixty years of friendship put at risk by an infatuation of which Conte Falier did not approve. Brunetti had paused at this point in his account at the realization that he had no idea at all whether his father-in-law approved or not of Gonzalo’s choice, even of whether he believed he had the right to do so. Il Conte had expressed an opinion only of the undescribed behaviour of the two men in Calle de la Mandola. It had been an expression of propriety, not morality.
Brunetti continued to the end, failing to mention his original refusal to help.
‘And your opinion?’ Griffoni asked when he stopped. When he said nothing, she added, ‘About the adoption?’
‘Of course he shouldn’t do it,’ Brunetti said without giving it much thought.
‘Because he’s in his eighties and he’s lost his head over a man at least two generations younger? Why is that so bad?’ Given what she was describing, Griffoni’s tone sounded strangely mild.
Brunetti stared at her. ‘You don’t see anything odd here? More than forty years’ difference in their ages?’
‘If he were his real son, no one would give it a thought, Guido,’ she said. ‘Lots of men have children when they’re fifty, sixty.’
‘Their wives have babies, Claudia. They don’t give birth to adult men.’ He held up his hands about twenty centimetres apart. ‘They have babies.’
‘No need to repeat, Guido. I understood the first time.’
‘I repeated so you’d understand,’ Brunetti said shortly.
‘I do, Guido. And I also understand that most people would assume his interest in a man so much younger would have to be sexual.’
Moderation abandoned him, and Brunetti snapped, ‘Of course it’s sexual.’
‘Ouu, ouu, ouu,’ Griffoni groaned, then put her hands up to her shoulders, palms facing him, in a sign of surrender. She was silent for a while, lowered her hands to her desk and smiled, then asked, ‘And so what if it is?’
Brunetti crossed his arms. Immediately aware how defensive this must make him look, he unwrapped them and rested his hands on his thighs. He wished there were some way to stare off into the far distance. It came to him to wish he could take a longer view of the whole matter.
Not for a moment had he bothered to think about what Gonzalo’s feelings towards this young man might be. Because Gonzalo was gay, was he capable only of lust and not of love? Would he think the same of a heterosexual man with a much younger woman? Of course he would, he realized, but he would be open to the possibility that they loved one another, would probably even wish it for them.
Griffoni stirred in her seat and crossed her legs. He wished she’d sit still: he was thinking, trying to work all this out. He studied the backs of his hands and replayed the conversation, the intensity of their voices, the emphasis both he and Griffoni had placed on single words, the tone of inquiry each had used.
‘All right,’ he said, still not looking at her. ‘All that matters is whether this man loves him and will be good to him.’ In fact, Brunetti saw, whether the young man loved Gonzalo or not was irrelevant: what mattered was whether he would be good to him. Gonzalo was eighty-five. How many years did he have left? He remembered Gonzalo the old man, obviously trying to avoid conversation, walking quickly, and then so slowly, away from him, hand on his hip as if to quiet the pain.
‘Do you think Signorina Elettra’s computer will be able to tell you that?’ Griffoni asked in a voice as mild as a spring breeze.
He raised his head quickly and looked at her, searching for sarcasm, finding none.
It would not, Brunetti knew. But the computer might reveal the man’s past, at least to a certain degree, and that might give some indication of his present and thus of Gonzalo’s likely future.
Brunetti got to his feet, squeezed past Griffoni, and slipped out the door. ‘I need to think about this,’ he said by way of farewell. She said nothing and did not turn to him before he started down the corridor. Halfway to the stairs, he stopped and looked back, then returned and propped himself against the side of the door. She was sitting the same way, back to him, arms folded across her chest, studying the surface of her desk.
She did not acknowledge Brunetti, but her body changed, as if growing more attentive, the better to hear anything he might say. ‘Thanks for saying what you did,’ Brunetti said.
He saw her nod her head, but she did not turn around.