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Blood from a Stone
Blood from a Stone
Blood from a Stone
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Blood from a Stone

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

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When an immigrant dies on a Venice street, it will take a determined detective to pursue the case to its shocking end: “[An] outstanding series.” —Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review
 
On a cold Venetian night shortly before Christmas, a street vendor is killed in a scuffle in Campo San Stefano. The closest witnesses to the event are the tourists who had been browsing the man’s wares before his death—fake handbags of every designer label.
 
The dead man was one of the many African immigrants purveying goods outside normal shop hours and trading without a work permit. Once Commissario Guido Brunetti begins to investigate this unfamiliar Venetian underworld, he discovers that matters of great value are at stake within the secretive society. And his boss’s warning to avoid getting involved only makes Brunetti more determined to unearth the truth behind this mysterious killing.
 
“[A] stunning novel . . . an engrossing, complex plot.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review
 
“The appeal of Guido Brunetti, the hero of Donna Leon’s long-running Venetian crime series, comes not from his shrewdness, though he is plenty shrewd, nor from his quick wit. It comes, instead, from his role as an Everyman . . . [his life is] not so different from our own days at the office or nights around the dinner table. Crime fiction for those willing to grapple with, rather than escape, the uncertainties of daily life.” —Booklist
LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 1, 2007
ISBN9781555848965
Blood from a Stone

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Rating: 3.5941476984732823 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Not brilliant
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Good mystery.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I learned that I prefer reading Leon's books to listening to them. The pace seemed very slow, and I kept dozing off. I'll go back to reading about Commissario Brunetti, which I've always found quite enjoyable.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I read this book after vacationing and loving Venice. Inspector Brunetti investigates the murder of a Vuo Compra - one of the Africans that illegally sells knock-off purses in the streets. I found the book a fun read because while we were in Italy, a police officer yelled at us for browsing the conterfeit sunglasses. Of course since I don't speak Italian, he might have been commenting about something else... I loved the description of Venice - the places, food, people - but I found the plot a bit weak. Perfect book to get you in the mood if you are traveling to Italy.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Better than Through a Glass Darkly but still not strong on plot. The principal characters and the atmosphere are good but this is crime which is not solved by the detective. Not comparable to the scandinavian authors such as Mankell or Marklund.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Donna Leon takes us inside the workings of governmental agencies in Venice and we see how even good men (Commissario Brunetti) are reduced to cynicism by the dishonesty and graft. Also discouraging is the fact that work is accomplished by finding ways around laws which impede his investigations. Here we see him and his two stalwart assistants who have no qualms about using devious investigative methods, exploring the world of the illegal African immigrants who sell purses on the streets. One is murdered and the question is why is the Commissario being warned off the case by his superiors. Good writer.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Donna Leon offers another somewhat more complex novel featuring Comimissario Brunetti as he must unravel the mysterious death of an immigrant street vendor. As the investigation unfolds Brunetti discovers an unfamiliar world where nothing is really as it seems, and where far reaching implications affect not only the daily life and politics in Venice, but rather globally as well. Thought provoking, Leon delivers with her usual biting style.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    Thoroughly rotten. This is first Donna Leon I've tried, and I only made it a third of the way through this trite little number. Leon's posturing as an 'enlightened expatriate' condescending to educate her American countrymen is irritating in the extreme.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A curl-up-and-get-comfortable mystery: one clean murder (5 quick shots), no sadism, nothing much of purient interest (the 7 deadly sins come up but talk is mostly about gluttony), a bit of police procedure, great walks/boat rides thru Venice (probably should go first in my list), lots about rich food, the running saga of the detective's middle-class, urbane, and likable family, and a lot of discussion about life and work in the corrupt Venitian society (where no one bothers to hide the corruption).Not a page turner where you can't wait for the next twist, but a slowly winding trail you dont mind leaving for a drink or a sandwich or even a good nap.I will only write about this book but the whole series featuring Commissario Guido Brunetti fits this description (OK, some have a bit more blood and messiness but often you have 5 quick wacks to the head or some other lets-get-the-murder-done-so-I-can-write-about-lunch action) .BTW I am loading up my e-reader for the flight home with a couple of Leons tonight.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Much like the others, but here the corruption is more international than Italian.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Im Vergleich zu anderen Büchern dieser Reihe gefiel mir dieses nicht ganz so gut. Vielleicht lag es am Thema oder am unruehmlichen Ende, da bin ich nicht ganz sicher. Aber trotzdem ist es ein gutes Buch, das sich schön lesen lässt.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This time, our simpatico detective is called in when an illegal black street vendor, presumed to be Senegalese, is murdered by professional hit-men while surrounded by his co-workers and a group of tourists vying to buy the counterfeit handbags they have on offer. While searching through the man's personal effects, Brunetti discovers a big cache of uncut diamonds hidden in a box of salt. He calls on a old friend of his father's, a local diamond seller, to help him find the provenance of the diamonds which he hopes will lead him to narrow down the most likely suspects. Once again, as seems to always happen, his superior, Vice-Questore Patta, forbids Brunetti to pursue the matter, but the latter's need for answers is only exacerbated when he discovers both the Italian ministries of Interior AND of Exterior Affairs have had a hand in halting the investigation. On the home front, Guido Brunetti and his wife Paola face the possibility that they may have inadvertently influenced their daughter when she makes an offhand comment about the murder victim only being a Vu' Compra*, which may or may not have been meant as a racist comment.* The peddlers in Venice are nicknamed "Vu' Compra" because as foreigners, they often use what is considered bad Italian to say "Do you want to buy?"
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Another good Commissario Brunetti murder mystery. This time, the odds seem stacked against him and his team against finding the identity of the murdered victim and his killer. Even more puzzling is the reason why the victim was killed.Adding to the obstacles in his way is the fact that his boss inform him that he is not to follow through with this homicide investigation, but fails to give him any reason why he should stop.Soon, computer files are missing, diamonds are found in a box of salt, both the Ministry of the Interior and Ministry of Foreign Affairs appear to have invisible fingers in the mystery, and his various sources of information such as a gems dealer, his father-in-law, an ex-colleague, a Swiss Professor specializing in African arts and the unflappable Signorina Elettra all seem to be providing pieces of the puzzle that doesn't fit to provide a full picture.The confusion and frustration that dogs him in his work is balanced by the warmth and solidity of his family life. In this book, the author brings to our awareness racial prejudices that often befall illegal foreigners and the political bargaining that takes place behind closed doors. This murder mystery doesn't show any cracks at all and the answer at the end is surprising but apt.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The same formula as the other books about commissario Brunetti. But it works.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The story begins with the execution-style murder of an illegal African street vendor in a busy Venetian campo while he was attempting to sell his fake designer handbags to a group of American tourists.This book deals with issues surrounding immigrants, race and immigrant labor. The detective Guido Brunetti must fight the racism and corruption in the police and judicial system in Venice as he works towards solving the murder of a vu cumpra (street vendor).An engrossing read. The characters are wonderfully depicted, such as Vice Questore Patta, Brunetti’s slow-witted boss, and his (Patta's) secretary, the computer savvy Signorina Elettra, who helps Brunetti without Patta's knowledge. Much of the novel’s appeal lies in the details of Brunetti’s life. He enjoys pastries, his wife Paola cooks exquisite lunches, he dislikes Christmas shopping and he admires the beautiful architecture of his city as he goes about his police business. I also enjoyed the glimpses into another culture. This was my first Donna Leon novel, but definitely not my last. Highly Recommended.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    Brunetti never seems to solve a case & what really put me off is the fact that he got himself a "telefonino" under the false identification of Signor Rossi this time. So who gets the phone bill? Ridiculous story & shallow characters & Signorina Elletra sort of solves the case. Same old, same old, only that Ms Leon(and her editor) gets worse.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    An African street seller is assassinated while selling his wares in Venice - Brunetti is warned not to investigate. A brooding novel set in a cold, grey and rainy Venice in which Brunetti is frustrated by the machinations of the powers that be in Italy and is left with a bitter taste in his mouth. Not one of my favourites in this series but still worth reading.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    (Audiobook) Donna Leon's books are more than just police procedurals books that take place in Venice. They always, in my experience, deal with an issue confronting Italy and there's always a sub-current of corruption. In this book, she tackles the difficult subject of street peddlers, quasi-immigrants from Africa who buy knock-off bags cheap and then resell them to tourists. Two American tourists, both physicians, see an immigrant, ostensibly from Sierra Leone, assassinated in the square. The case, as you might suspect, revolves around the sale of "blood" diamonds. The characters, now familiar after having read at least 10 in the series, are used by Leon as springboards to focus on an issue in addition to the ubiquitous Italian corruption.The Leon books will not please readers who prefer chases, gun shots, and action. If you like characterization, fine writing, and intriguing stories, I recommend this series highly. Well read by David Colacci although he will never replace Anna Fields, aka Kate Fleming.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I loved the descriptions of Venice and life there throughout the story. The author attempted to tackle tough issues in the story, but fell just a tad short in the end. Leon attempted to explore racism and immigration with the vu cumpra, but she never truly explored the world. The victim was never really given an identity, he was just a victim that Brunetti felt sorry for throughout the case.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A professional hit on an African immigrant street vendor is outside the realm of the ordinary and nothing follows ordinary procedure as Commissario Brunetti is warned off the case immediately after he discovers something that compels him to keep on looking, though he must keep his efforts from his superiors.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    When an African street vendor selling counterfeit brand name bags dies, Brunetti gets called to the scene. With only American tourists as witnesses, he begins to reconstruct what happened and begins investigating the man's identity and residence. A search of the man's home reveals hidden gems of high value. However, Patta tells Brunetti to quit investigating. Two higher agencies take over the investigation. Brunetti smells something amiss. The reader is left asking questions as this one leaves many matters hanging or speculative. While I enjoyed the installment to an extent, the lack of answers left me slightly unsatisfied. I loved David Colacci's narration.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    In the days leading up to Christmas, an African street vendor is murdered in a crowded street in front of multiple witnesses. It looks like a professional hit job to Commissario Brunetti, but why would a street vendor be a target for this type of murder? Might it have something to do with the knock-off products they’re selling? Or is the murder connected to the victim’s country of origin? Brunetti is up against a closed world of immigrants who operate under the radar. Establishing the victim’s identity won’t be easy, let alone finding the motive for the murder.I found this series installment less satisfactory than most of the other books in the series. I’ve come to accept that the murderers will elude justice in this series, and that Brunetti (and the readers) have to be satisfied with the knowledge of the killer’s identity. However, this book ended with more loose ends than usual. Even the victim’s identity is still uncertain at the end of the book. The answer is hinted at, but Brunetti (and the readers) have to accept that the full story will never be known.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This story turns a magnifying glass on the plight as well as the ethics of illegal immigration. A seemingly innocuous man from Senegal is gunned down while selling his knockoff hand bags in a public square. He is like a ghost because no one knows his name, or where he lives or what lead to his murder. Commissario Guido Brunetti probes into the man and his life but learns little that isn't conjecture or speculation.

    The story takes place at Christmas time and the background of how this holiday is celebrated is interesting. There is a lot of discussions about the place for and the treatment of people who are strangers from another place. In this particular situation the Senegalese are polite well mannered street vendors for the most part and thus the authorities leave them alone. But there are strong feelings from those whose livelihood is threatened by those who peddle without paying taxes and all the other fees for a business. If it was a Venetian who was selling on the streets they would be arrested in a flash the the conundrum of the double standard is well explored.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Campo San Stefano is the location in Venice where street vendors are trying to sell their wares to the tourists. Suddenly shots ring out and a black African vendor is gunned down. Because of his probable illegal status, no one will identify the victim. Commissario Brunetti has to try to determine who the man is as well as why he was murdered. Having little evidence to lead him to the killer, Brunetti attempts identification by contacting other Africans. Trying not to scare them off because he is with the police is a difficult effort, but by finding their living quarters, the Commissario finds a possible motive when he discovers millions in conspiracy diamonds in the salt tin.This installment in this series has a strong presence - prejudices not only shown in the main storyline but also in the home arena with Chiara's Muslim friend as well as governmental interference in favor of the rich. Again Brunetti has to fight the rich for justice.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    #14 in the Commissario Brunetti series, set in Venice, Italy.Illegal street vendors have long been a fixture in Venice’s Campo San Stefano. Over the years, different ethnic groups have sold various wares; in recent years, Africans have made up the ranks of the ambulanti, who usually sell imitation Gucci and other name brand handbags and similar merchandise. So when one is murdered, just before the Christmas holidays, in what is clearly a professional-style killing, Brunetti is surprised. Who would want to murder a vu cumprá, as they are known locally?Brunetti’s investigation runs into one blind alley after another, as the near-impossibility of penetrating a closed community cuts him off from needed information. Then, in a search of the victim’s room, Brunetti finds millions of euros worth of uncut diamonds. His investigation takes an unexpected turn when his superior,Vice-Questore Patta, seriously warns him off the investigation, implying that it represents danger for Brunetti himself.This is one of Leon’s strongest entries, with fine writing and her superb characterizations, again particularly of Brunetti’s family. She uses Chiara in particular to illuminate the kind of unconscious, thoughtless racism that exists at all levels of society, showing up even in a family as enlightened as Brunetti’s, with a strong mother possessed of a radical social conscience.This book was written before the movie Blood Diamond, but has the same theme--the sale of illegally obtained diamonds for arms. The denouement is so dark that one is left, along with Brunetti, with feelings of rage and despair at the lengths to which governments--any government--will go to stay in power and to accumulate wealth for its richest citizens. International borders mean nothing, ideals mean nothing--all that matters is money.Leon tells an absorbing but very grim story, an excellent police procedural that is in addition both an illumination of and a protest against that modern evil. Highly recommended.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    It's Christmastime in Venice and Commissario Brunetti is investigating the assassination of an African street vendor in a public square. There's no apparent motive for the killing, but Brunetti's investigation is shut down by his superiors without explanation. It's a suspenseful story set against the atmospheric background of Venice in winter. As the story progresses Brunetti and those around him face personal jeopardy as he continues his investigation. It's an entertaining and informative story, with a frustrating conclusion, demonstrating that might makes right and that you cannot believe everything the news tells you. This is a solid addition to Donna Leon's Brunetti series of crime novels.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Christmas time, a vu cumpra is found dead on the street. Vu cumpras are illegal immigrants who sell fake fashion items to make money. At first glance it is thought to be due to an argument among the vu cumpra.When Commissario Guido Brunetti investigates deeper, the murder looks more like a professional job. Strange for an illegal from Africa. Determined to learn more to solve the case, he is told to let it be by Vice-questore Patta, his boss. Brunettis is to back off and stop investigating.Brunetti persists and he finds himself trying to navigate the shadowy world of illegal immigrants from Africa and their survival in a foreign country. Brunettis also reconfirms the powers of the government and how they can bury cases they wish left alone, be it for political or personal reasons.I am still enjoying the books in this series. The plot lines are solid, but it is the characters that keep me reading even more.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The death of an African man on a cold night in Venice brings Brunetti into an almost invisible world of immigrants and diamond smuggling.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Death of a black street vendor followed by political pressure to stop the investigation of the murder. Brunetti stumbles through his investigation hampered by government interference. We are left to believe the interference was a sign of corruption.Characters cleverly drawn and more insights into Brunetti’s family.Set at Christmas time, the cold weather plays a role in daily activities.Another cleverly plotted story with a few political undertones and insights.

Book preview

Blood from a Stone - Donna Leon

Praise for Blood from a Stone and Donna Leon

In this stunning novel, the fourteenth to feature the dogged, intuitive Venetian police detective Guido Brunetti, Leon combines an engrossing, complex plot with an indictment of the corruption endemic to Italian society…. Many of Leon’s favorite characters appear…. They balance this dark, cynical tale of widespread secrecy, violence and corruption.

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

Commissario Guido Brunetti’s fourteenth case may be his best yet—not that he’d see it that way himself…. Leon’s most adroit balance of teasing mystery, Brunetti’s droll battles with his coworkers and higher-ups, and intimations of something far deeper and darker behind the curtain.

—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

The appeal of Guido Brunetti, the hero of Donna Leon’s long-running Venetian crime series, come not from his shrewdness, though he is plenty shrewd, nor from his quick wit. It comes, instead, from his role as an everyman… not so different from our own days at the office or nights around the dinner table. Crime fiction for those willing to grapple with, rather than escape, the uncertainties of daily life.

—Bill Ott, Booklist (starred review)

Another of her fabulous Italian mysteries…. She has her finger on the pulse.

Bookseller

Gives the reader a feel for life in Venice…. The story is filled with the average citizen’s cynicism, knowledge of corruption, and deep distrust and fear of government and police. Characters are brilliantly portrayed. Even bit players become real and individual and Brunetti and his family are multifaceted and layered.

—Sally Fellows, Mystery News

A PENGUIN / GROVE PRESS MYSTERY

BLOOD FROM A STONE

Donna Leon, who was born in New Jersey, has lived in Venice for many years and previously lived in Switzerland, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and China, where she worked as a teacher. Her other novels featuring Commissario Brunetti have all been highly acclaimed, most recently Friends in High Places, which won the CWA Macallan Silver Dagger for Fiction, Death in a Strange County, Acqua Alta, A Noble Radiance, Uniform Justice, and Doctored Evidence.

DONNA LEON

BLOOD FROM A STONE

PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc)

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

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(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

First published in the United Kingdom by William Heinemann,

The Random House Group Limited, London 2005

First published in the United States of America by Atlantic Monthly Press,

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. 2005

Published in Penguin Books 2006

1   3   5   7   9   10   8   6   4   2

Copyright © Donna Leon and Diogenes Verlag AG Zurich

All rights reserved

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE HARDCOVER EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

Leon, Donna.

Blood from a stone / Donna Leon.

p.   cm.

A commissario Guido Brunetti mystery.

ISBN 0-87113-887-5 (hc.)

ISBN 0 1430.3698 X (pbk.)

1. Brunetti, Guido (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Street vendors—Crimes

against—Fiction. 3. Police—Italy—Venice—Fiction. 4. Africans—Italy—Fiction.

5. Venice (Italy)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3562.E534B55 2005

813’.54—dc22     2005040961

Printed in the United States of America

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

for Gesine Lübben

Weil ein Schwarzer hässlich ist.

Ist mir denn kein Herz gegeben?

Bin ich nicht von Fleisch und Blut?

Thus a Blackmoor is considered ugly.

Didn’t I receive a heart as well?

Aren’t I made of flesh and blood?

—Mozart, Die Zauberflöte

BLOOD FROM A STONE

1

Two men passed under the wooden arch that led into Campo Santo Stefano, their bodies harlequined by the coloured Christmas lights suspended above them. Brighter light splashed from the stalls of the Christmas market, where vendors and producers from different regions of Italy tempted shoppers with their local specialities: dark-skinned cheeses and packages of paper-thin bread from Sardinia, olives in varying shape and colour from the entire length of the peninsula; oil and cheese from Tuscany; salami of all lengths, compositions, and diameters from Reggio Emilia. Occasionally one of the men behind the counters shouted out a brief hymn to the quality of his wares: ‘Signori, taste this cheese and taste heaven’; ‘It’s late and I want to go to dinner: only nine Euros a kilo until they’re gone’; ‘Taste this pecorino, signori, best in the world’.

The two men passed the stalls, deaf to the blandishments of the merchants, blind to the pyramids of salami stacked on the counters on either side. Last-minute buyers, their number reduced by the cold, requested products they all suspected could be found at better prices and of more reliable quality at their local shops. But how better to celebrate the season than by taking advantage of shops that were open even on this Sunday, and how better to assert one’s independence and character than by buying something unnecessary?

At the far end of the campo, beyond the last of the prefabricated wooden stalls, the men paused. The taller of them glanced at his watch, though they had both checked the time on the clock on the wall of the church. The official closing time, seven-thirty, had passed more than a quarter of an hour before, but it was unlikely that anyone would be out in this cold to check that the stalls ceased trading at the correct time. ‘Allora?’ the short one asked, glancing at his companion.

The taller man took off his gloves, folded them and put them in the left pocket of his overcoat, then jammed his hands into his pockets. The other did the same. Both of them wore hats, the tall one a dark grey Borsalino and the other a fur cap with ear flaps. Both had woollen scarves wrapped around their necks, and as they stepped beyond the circle of light from the last stand, they pulled them a bit higher, up around their ears, no strange thing to do in the face of the wind that came at them from the direction of the Grand Canal, just around the corner of the church of San Vidal.

The wind forced them to lower their faces as they started forward, shoulders hunched, hands kept warm in their pockets. Twenty metres from the last stall, on either side of the way, small groups of tall black men busied themselves spreading sheets on the ground, anchoring them at each corner with a woman’s bag. As soon as the sheets were in place, they began to pull samples of various shapes and sizes from enormous sausage-shaped bags that sat on the ground all around them.

Here a Prada, there a Gucci, between them a Louis Vuitton: the bags huddled together in a promiscuity usually seen only in stores large enough to offer franchises to all of the competing designers. Quickly, with the speed that comes of long experience, the men bent or knelt to place their wares on the sheets. Some arranged them in triangles; others preferred ordered rows of neatly aligned bags. One whimsically arranged his in a circle, but when he stepped back to inspect the result and saw the way an outsized dark brown Prada shoulder bag disturbed the general symmetry, he quickly re-formed them into straight lines, where the Prada could anchor their ranks from the back left corner.

Occasionally the black men spoke to one another, saying those things that men who work together say to pass the time: how one hadn’t slept well the night before, how cold it was, how another hoped his son had passed the entrance exam for the private school, how much they missed their wives. When each was satisfied with the arrangement of his bags, he rose to his feet and moved back behind his sheet, usually to one corner or the other so that he could continue to talk to the man who worked next to him. Most of them were tall, and all of them were slender. What could be seen of their skin, their faces and their hands, was the glossy black of Africans whose ancestry had not been diluted by contact with whites. Whether moving or motionless, they exuded an atmosphere not only of good health but of good spirits, as if the idea of standing around in freezing temperatures, trying to sell counterfeit bags to tourists, was the greatest fun they could think of to have that evening.

Opposite them a small group was gathered around three buskers, two violinists and a cellist, who were playing a piece that sounded both baroque and out of tune. Because the musicians played with enthusiasm and were young, the small crowd that had gathered was pleased with them, and not a few of them stepped forward to drop coins into the violin case that lay open in front of the trio.

It was still early, probably too early for there to be much business, but the street vendors were always punctual and started work as soon as the shops closed. By ten minutes to eight, therefore, just as the two men approached, all of the Africans were standing behind their sheets, prepared for their first customers. They shifted from foot to foot, occasionally breathing on to their clasped hands in a futile attempt to warm them.

The two white men paused just at the end of the row of sheets, appearing to talk to one another, though neither spoke. They kept their heads lowered and their faces out of the wind, but now and then one of them raised his eyes to study the line of black men. The tall man placed his hand on the other’s arm, pointed with his chin towards one of the Africans, and said something. As he spoke, a large group of elderly people wearing gym shoes and thick down parkas, a combination that made them look like wrinkled toddlers, flowed around the corner of the church and into the funnel created by the buskers on one side, the Africans on the other. The first few stopped, waiting for those behind to catch up, and when the group was again a unit, they started forward, laughing and talking, calling to one another to come and look at the bags. Without pushing or jostling, they assembled themselves three-deep in front of the line of Black men and their exposed wares.

The taller of the two men started towards the group of tourists, his companion following close behind. They halted on the same side as the church, careful to stand behind two elderly couples who were pointing at some of the bags and asking prices. At first the man whose sheet it was did not notice the two, since he was attending to the questions of his potential customers. But suddenly he stopped talking and grew tense, like an animal scenting menace on the wind.

The black man at the next sheet, aware of his colleague’s distraction, turned his attention to the tourists and decided instantly that he would have good luck with them. Their shoes told him to speak English, and he began: ‘Gucci, Missoni, Armani, Trussardi. I have them all, ladies and gentlemen. Right from factory.’ In the dimmer light here, his teeth glowed with Cheshire cat brilliance.

Three more of the tourist group insinuated their way past the two men to stand with their friends, all excitedly commenting on the bags, their attention now evenly divided between the items on both sheets. The taller man nodded, and as he did, both moved forward until they were standing just a half-step behind the Americans. Seeing them advance, the first trader pivoted on his right foot and started to arch himself away from the sheet, the tourists, and the two men. As he moved, the men took their right hands from their pockets with a smooth, practised ease that called no attention to itself. Each held a pistol, their barrels extended by tubular silencers. The taller of the two was the first to fire, though the only sound the gun made was a dull thwack, thwack, thwack, accompanied by two similar noises from the pistol of his companion. The buskers had worked their way towards the end of the allegro, and their music plus the shouts and squeals of the encircling crowd all but covered the sound of the shots, though the Africans to either side turned instantly towards them.

Momentum continued to carry the bag seller away from the people in front of his sheet; then gradually his motion slowed. The men, their guns now in their pockets, backed through the crowd of tourists, who politely moved out of their way. The men separated, one moving towards the Accademia bridge and the other towards Santo Stefano and Rialto. Quickly they disappeared among the people hurrying in both directions.

The bag seller cried out and threw one arm out in front of him. His body completed its half-circle, then sprawled to the ground beside his bags.

Like gazelles who panic and take flight at the first sign of danger, the other black men froze for an instant and then exploded with frightening energy. Four of them abandoned their wares and took off, running for the calle that led towards San Marco; two paused long enough to grab four or five bags in each hand, then disappeared over the bridge that led towards Campo San Samuele; the four remaining men left everything and fled towards the Grand Canal, where they alerted the men whose sheets were spread at the bottom of the bridge, over which they all ran, separating at the bottom and disappearing into the calli of Dorsoduro.

A white-haired woman was standing in front of the trader’s sheet when he collapsed. When she saw him fall, she called out to her husband, who had been separated from her, and knelt beside the fallen man.

She saw the blood that seeped out from under him, staining the sheet red. Her husband, alarmed by her cry and her sudden sinking to the ground, pushed roughly through their friends and knelt beside her. He moved to put a protective arm around her shoulder, but then he saw the man on the sheet. He placed his hand at the man’s throat, kept it there for long seconds, then removed it and got to his feet awkwardly, his knees reluctant with age. He bent and helped his wife to stand.

They looked around and saw only the people in their group, all gaping back and forth between each other’s confused faces and the man who lay at their feet. On either side of the broad street extended the rows of outspread sheets, most still covered with neatly positioned bags. As the crowd in front of them turned away one by one, the buskers stopped playing.

It was another few minutes before the first Italian approached, and when he saw the black man, the sheet, and the blood, he pulled his telefonino from the pocket of his coat and dialled 113.

2

The police arrived with a speed that astonished the Italian bystanders as much as it scandalized the Americans. To Venetians, half an hour did not seem a long time for the police to organize a boat and a squad of technicians and officers and reach Campo Santo Stefano, but by that time most of the Americans had drifted away in exasperation, telling one another that they would meet back at the hotel. No one bothered to keep an eye on the crime scene, so by the time the police finally did arrive, most of the bags had disappeared from the sheets, even from the one on which the body lay. Some of those who stole the dead man’s bags left red footprints on his sheet; one set disappeared towards Rialto in a bloody trail.

The first officer on the scene, Alvise, approached the small crowd that still stood near the dead man and ordered them to move back. He walked over to the man’s body and stood, looking down at him as if confused as to what to do now that he could see the victim. Finally, a lab technician asked him to move aside while he set up a wooden stanchion, and then another, and then another until they ringed the sheet. From one of the boxes the technicians had brought to the scene he took a roll of red and white striped tape and ran it through slots in the tops of the wooden stanchions until a clear demarcation had been created between the body and the rest of the world.

Alvise went over to a man who was standing by the steps of the church and demanded, ‘Who are you?’

‘Riccardo Lombardi,’ the man answered. He was tall, about fifty, well-dressed, the sort of person who sat behind a desk and gave orders, or so thought Alvise.

‘What are you doing here?’

Surprised at the policeman’s tone, the man answered, ‘I was walking by, and I saw this crowd, so I stopped.’

‘Did you see who did it?’

‘Did what?’

It occurred to Alvise only then that he had no idea what had been done, only that the Questura had received a call, saying that a black man was dead in Campo Santo Stefano. ‘Can you show me some identification?’ Alvise demanded.

The man took out his wallet and extracted his carta d’identità. Silently, he handed it to Alvise, who glanced at it before handing it back. ‘Did you see anything?’ he asked in the same voice.

‘I told you, officer. I was walking by, and I saw these people standing around here, so I stopped to look. Nothing more.’

‘All right. You can go,’ Alvise said in a tone that suggested the man really had no choice. Alvise turned away from him and went back to the crime team, where the photographers were already packing up their equipment.

‘Find anything?’ he asked one of the technicians.

Santini, who was on his knees, running his gloved hands over the paving stones in search of shell casings, looked up at Alvise and said, ‘A dead man,’ before returning to his search.

Not deterred by the answer, Alvise pulled out a notebook from the inside pocket of his uniform parka. He flipped it open, took out a pen, and wrote ‘Campo Santo Stefano’. He studied what he had written, glanced at his watch, added ‘20.58’, capped the pen, and returned both notebook and pen to his pocket.

From his right, he heard a familiar voice ask, ‘What’s going on, Alvise?’

Alvise raised a languid hand in something that resembled a salute and said, ‘I’m not sure, Commissario. We had a call, saying there was a dead man here, so we came over.’

His superior, Commissario Guido Brunetti, said, ‘I can see that, Alvise. What happened to cause the man to be dead?’

‘I don’t know, sir. We’re waiting for the doctor to get here.’

‘Who’s coming?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Who’s coming where, sir?’ Alvise asked, utterly at a loss.

‘Which doctor is coming? Do you know?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I was in such a hurry to get the team here that I told them at the Questura to call and have one of the doctors sent.’

Brunetti’s question was answered by the arrival of Dottor Ettore Rizzardi, medico legale of the city of Venice.

‘Ciao, Guido,’ Rizzardi said, shifting his bag to his left hand and offering his right. ‘What have we got?’

‘A dead man,’ Brunetti said. ‘I got the call at home, saying someone had been killed here, but nothing more than that. I just got here myself.’

‘Better have a look, then,’ Rizzardi said, turning towards the taped-off area. ‘You speak to anyone?’ he asked Brunetti.

‘No. Nothing.’ Talking to Alvise never counted.

Rizzardi bent and slipped under the tape, placing one hand on the pavement to do so, then held the tape up to make it easier for Brunetti to join him. The doctor turned to one of the technicians. ‘You’ve taken pictures?’

‘Sì, Dottore,’ the man answered. ‘From every side.’

‘All right, then,’ Rizzardi said, setting down his bag. He turned away, took out two pairs of thin plastic gloves and gave one pair to Brunetti. As they slipped them on, the doctor asked, ‘Give me a hand?’

They knelt on either side of the dead man. All that was visible was the right side of his face and his hands. Brunetti was struck by the very blackness of the man’s skin, then bemused by his own surprise: what other colour did he expect an African to be? Unlike the black Americans Brunetti had seen, with their shading from cocoa to copper, this man was the colour of ebony buffed to a high gloss.

Together, they reached under the body and turned the man on to his back. The intense cold had caused the blood to congeal. Their knees anchored the sheet, so when they moved him, his jacket stuck to the cloth and pulled away from both his body and the pavement with a sharp sucking sound. Hearing it, Rizzardi let the man’s shoulder fall back on to the ground; Brunetti lowered his side, saying nothing.

Points of blood-stiffened cloth stood up on the man’s chest, looking like the whorls a pastry chef’s fantasy might create on a birthday cake.

‘Sorry,’ Rizzardi said, either to Brunetti or the dead man. Still kneeling, he bent over and used a gloved finger to touch each of the holes in his parka. ‘Five of them,’ he said. ‘Looks like they really wanted to kill him.’

Brunetti saw that the dead man’s eyes were open; so too was his mouth, frozen in the panic that must have filled him at the first shot. He was a handsome young man, his teeth gleaming in striking contrast to that burnished skin. Brunetti slipped one hand into the right-hand pocket of the man’s parka, then the left. He found some small change and a used handkerchief. The inside pocket contained a pair of keys and a few Euro bills in small denominations. There was a ricevuta fiscale from a bar with a San Marco address, probably one of the bars in the campo. Nothing else.

‘Who’d want to kill a vu cumprà?’ Rizzardi asked, getting to his feet. ‘As if the poor devils don’t have enough as it is.’ He studied the man on the ground. ‘I can’t tell, looking at him like this, where they got him, but three of the holes are grouped pretty near the heart. One would have been enough to kill him.’ Stuffing his gloves into his pocket, Rizzardi asked, ‘Professional, you think?’

‘Looks like it to me,’ Brunetti answered, aware that this made the death even more confusing. He had never had to trouble himself with the vu cumprà because few of them were ever involved in serious crime, and those few cases had always fallen to other commissarios. Like most of the police, indeed, like most residents, Brunetti had always assumed that the men from Senegal were under the control of organized crime, the reason most often offered to explain their politeness in dealing with the public: so long as their manner did not call attention to them, few people would trouble to ask how they so successfully managed to remain invisible to and undisturbed by the authorities. Brunetti had come over the years no longer to notice them nor to remember when they had displaced the original French-speaking Algerian and Moroccan vu cumprà.

Though there was an occasional round-up and examination of documents, the vu cumprà had never attracted sufficient official attention to become the subject of one of Vice-Questore Patta’s ‘crime alerts’, which meant there had never been a serious attempt to address the patent illegality of their presence and their profession. They were left to ply their trade virtually untroubled by the forces of order, thus avoiding the bureaucratic nightmare that would surely result from any serious attempt to expel hundreds of undocumented aliens and return them to Senegal, the country from which most of them were believed to come.

Why then a killing like this, one that had the stamp of the professional all over it?

‘How old do you think he was?’ Brunetti asked for want of anything else to say.

‘I don’t know,’ Rizzardi answered with a puzzled shake of his head. ‘It’s hard for me to tell with blacks, not until I get inside them, but I’d guess in his early thirties, maybe younger.’

‘Do you have time?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Tomorrow afternoon, first thing. All right?’

Brunetti nodded.

Rizzardi leaned over and picked up his bag. Hefting it, he said, ‘I don’t know why I always bring this with me. It’s not as if I’m ever going to have to use it to save anyone.’ He thought about this, shrugged, and said, ‘Habit, I suppose.’ He put out his hand, shook Brunetti’s, and turned away.

Brunetti called to the technician who had taken the photos, ‘When you get him to the hospital, would you take a couple of shots of his face from different angles and get them to me as soon as you’ve got them developed?’

‘How many prints, sir?’

‘A dozen of each.’

‘Right. By tomorrow morning.’

Brunetti thanked him and waved over Alvise, who lurked just within earshot. ‘Did anyone see what happened?’ he asked.

‘No, sir.’

‘Who did you speak to?’

‘A man,’ Alvise answered, pointing in the direction of the church.

‘What was his name?’ Brunetti asked.

Alvise’s eyes widened in surprise he could not disguise. After a pause so long that anyone else would have found it embarrassing, the officer finally said, ‘I don’t remember, sir.’

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