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forget the horrors of what had gone on there for so many years. What had happened, had happened, not only to the other inmates, but probably to her grandfather, and there was no changing it. A pardon, however, if such a thing were possible, might change the way people thought about him. If – he found a cynical voice saying – anyone bothered to think about such things any more or if anyone cared about what had happened during the war.
    ‘And what is it you want to obtain for him? Or your grandmother wants to obtain,’ he added, seeking this way to encourage her to be more forthcoming about the source of her request.
    ‘Anything that would exonerate him and clear his name.’ Then, lowering both her voice and her head, she added, ‘It’s the only thing I could give her.’ Then, more softly, ‘It’s the only thing she wants.’
    This was an area of the law with which Brunetti was not familiar, so he could consider her request only in terms of legal principles. He lacked the courage , however, to tell the girl that the law as it was enacted was not always the result of those principles. ‘I think, in legal terms, what might apply here is a legal reversal or overturning of the original judgment. Once it was determined that the verdict was incorrect, your grandfather would, in effect, be declared innocent.’
    ‘Publicly?’ she asked. ‘Would there be some official document that I could show my grandmother?’
    ‘If the courts issued a judgment, then there would have to be official notice of it,’ was the best answer he could supply.
    She considered this for so long that Brunetti finally broke into her silence and asked, ‘Was his name the same as yours?’
    ‘No. Mine is Leonardo.’
    ‘But he was your father’s father?’
    She said simply, ‘My parents weren’t married. My father didn’t acknowledge my paternity immediately, so I kept my mother’s name.’
    Thinking it best not to comment on this, Brunetti asked only, ‘What was his name?’
    ‘Guzzardi. Luca.’
    At the sound of the name, the faintest of faint bells sounded in the back reaches of Brunetti’s memory. ‘Was he Venetian?’ he asked.
    ‘No, the family was from Ferrara. But they were here during the war.’
    The name of the city brought the memory no closer. While seeming to consider her answer, Brunetti was busy trying to think of whom he could ask about events in Venice during the war. Two candidates sprang instantly to mind: his friend Lele Bortoluzzi, the painter, and his father-in-law, Count Orazio Falier, both men of an age to have lived through the war and both possessed of excellent memories.
    ‘But I still don’t understand,’ Brunetti said, thinking that a display of confusion would be a better means of obtaining information than open curiosity, ‘what the purpose of legal action now would be. The original case should have been passed to the Court of Appeals.’
    ‘That was done at the time, and the conviction was upheld; so was the decision to send him to San Servolo.’
    Brunetti assumed a befuddled expression. ‘Then I don’t understand, not at all, how a reversal of judgment would be possible or why anyone would want one.’
    She gave him such a penetrating glance that he wiped the country bumpkin expression from his face and felt distinct embarrassment at having attempted to trick her into revealing the name of this grandmother who wanted to obtain the pardon, a desire he knew was motivated by nothing more than curiosity.
    She started to speak, stopped, studied him as if remembering his attempt to appear less intelligent than he was, then finally said, with an asperity far in advance of her years, ‘I’m sorry but I’m not at liberty to tell you that. All I’ve asked you to do,’ she went on, and he was struck by the dignity with which she spoke, claiming equality with him and basing that claim on the brotherhood they’d established in their talk about books, ‘is to tell me if it’s possible to clear his