Falling in Love

by Donna Leon

  Flavia’s look was absolution itself. ‘I’m honoured, then.’ About to continue, she was interrupted by the return of the maid, who cleared the plates from the table. She was quickly back with their plates of merluzzo con spinaci.

  When she was gone, the Conte tasted the fish, nodded, and said, ‘Hardly, Signora. The theatre is honoured to have you sing there.’

  Flavia raised an eyebrow in open scepticism and glanced across at Brunetti, but addressed the Conte. ‘That’s hardly the case, Signor Conte, though I thank you for the compliment.’ In a more serious voice, she added, ‘It was true forty, fifty years ago. Those were the singers. And any theatre was honoured to have them.’

  While Brunetti’s consciousness was opening itself to the new category of ‘modesty in singers’, the Contessa asked, ‘Is that aimed at the theatre?’

  ‘I’ve found it wise,’ Flavia said, speaking to the Contessa but, Brunetti suspected, to them all, ‘never to comment on the people who offer me work.’ Then she shifted the need to give an opinion to the Conte by asking, ‘You grew up with La Fenice, Conte. You’ve heard the change in the quality of the singers there.’ When he didn’t answer, she added, ‘You have an abbonamento, so you’ve heard the change over the years.’ Brunetti noted the way she avoided asking why he hadn’t bothered to attend this season.

  The Conte leaned back in his chair and took a small sip of wine. ‘I suppose it’s like having a cousin who’s gone to the bad: stolen from the family, taken up with loose women, lied about what he’s done, stayed out of jail only because the family’s rich.’ He smiled, sipped at his wine and, with every sign of enjoying the comparison, added, ‘But no matter what he does, how much he steals, you remember how charming he was when he was younger and what good times you had with him and his friends when you were all boys together. And so, when he calls you, half-drunk, at two in the morning and tells you that he’s got a great new idea for his business, or a new woman he wants to marry, but he needs some money from you to do it, you give it to him, even though you know you shouldn’t. You know he’ll spend it on an expensive vacation, maybe with the new woman, or one from his past; you know you’ll never see anything in return; but most of all you know he’ll do the same thing again in six months or a year.’ The Conte set his glass on the table and shook his head in feigned despair, then looked around at all of them in turn. ‘But it’s family.’

  ‘Great God,’ Flavia burst out, laughing as she spoke. ‘Please don’t let me think of that when I see the Director.’ She laughed so much that she had to cover her mouth with her napkin and look down at her plate. When she stopped, she looked across at the Conte and said, ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you worked there.’

  7

  As if by unspoken agreement that no one could top Flavia’s remark, the topic moved away from opera. Paola asked Flavia about her children: Flavia’s son was the same age as Chiara, her daughter younger than Raffi. Flavia looked pleased to say they were doing well at the international school in Milano, where she lived most of the year, and added – making what seemed an effort not to boast – that they had the advantage of being fluent in Italian, Spanish, and English. Brunetti noted that her only comment about her ex-husband was that he was Spanish.

  Talk became general, and Brunetti contributed a few remarks, but his attention had been caught by the singer’s nervousness. She had seemed happy enough to see him the other night, so it was not caused by meeting someone who had once known a great deal about her private life. The Conte and Contessa, when relaxed and at their ease, would soothe even a whippet, perhaps because the dog would be less likely than a human to notice the Titian portrait in the living room and the engraved crests on the cutlery. And Paola, he observed, was on her best mother-of-children behaviour.

  The Contessa inquired where Flavia would be singing next, and she said she had another week there, singing Tosca, then some time off, then to Barcelona. Brunetti found it interesting that she didn’t say where she would be going after Venice and didn’t bother to mention what she was going to Spain to sing. He had always assumed that most people were all too ready to talk about themselves: one did not expect self-effacement in a diva.

  Paola surprised them all by saying, ‘It must be a difficult life.’

  Flavia’s head snapped towards Paola, but then she lowered her eyes and picked up her wine glass. She took a consciously slow sip, put the glass down, and said, ‘Yes, it can be. There’s the constant travel, staying in a city – alone – for weeks at a time. I miss the kids, but they’re at an age when they don’t much want to spend their free time with their mother.’

  Then, perhaps aware that this might sound like self-pity, she quickly added, ‘After all these years, I’ve worked with so many people that there’s always someone in the production I know. That makes it easier.’

  ‘What’s the worst part of it, if I might ask?’ the Contessa inquired, then tried to lighten her question by adding, ‘I’m so seldom alone that I have to say it sounds tempting.’

  ‘There’s no worst part,’ Flavia answered, and Brunetti thought he was finally hearing her real thoughts. ‘I suspect there isn’t even what I could call a bad part. I’m just whining.’

  She glanced around the table and saw that she had their complete attention. ‘The singing is always a joy, especially if you know you’ve sung well and if you have good colleagues to work with.’ She took a drink of water, then added, ‘I suppose it’s no different from any job that requires a lot of preparation and thought – like restoring paintings or making a pair of shoes: you spend a long time learning how to do it, but at the end you have a finished product that’s beautiful.’

  Brunetti thought the comparison worked only in part. The others had the painting or the shoes: all the singer had was the memory. Before YouTube, at least.

  Flavia was not finished. ‘Days can be very long if you’re alone in a city you don’t know. Or one you don’t like. Maybe that’s the bad part.’

  ‘What ones are those?’ Brunetti interrupted to ask.

  ‘Brussels,’ she said with no hesitation. ‘And Milano.’

  He didn’t like them either, but said nothing about her choice to live in one of them.

  ‘Do you get tired of hearing people say how exciting your life must be?’ the Contessa asked, curious and ready to be sympathetic.

  Flavia laughed. ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve been told that. I suppose people say it to anyone who travels a lot.’

  ‘But no one would say it to an accountant or an insurance salesman, would they?’ Paola asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Flavia answered. Then she lapsed into silence for a moment before saying, ‘The strange thing is that the people who say it probably don’t understand anything about the way we actually live our lives.’

  ‘Are fans really curious about that?’ Paola asked.

  Involuntarily, Flavia moved back in her seat, as though trying to escape the words. ‘What’s wrong?’ the Contessa asked, her alarm as audible as Flavia’s was visible.

  ‘Nothing,’ Flavia said. ‘Nothing.’

  Brunetti felt the air stiffen: Flavia sat, unable to say any more, and the others carefully avoided looking at one another for fear of calling attention to her behaviour. Finally Flavia, in a tight voice, asked Paola, ‘Did someone tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Paola asked, her confusion evident.

  ‘About the flowers.’

  Paola leaned towards the other woman, as if hoping nearness would help. ‘Flavia, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said. She watched Flavia’s face and waited until it was evident that she had registered the words.

  Speaking slowly and clearly, Paola went on, ‘I don’t know anything about flowers.’

  Flavia lowered her head over the empty place in front of her, reached aside and slid the knife to a horizontal position. Index fingers pushing at the ends, she swivelled it repeatedly in a half-circle, as if it were the speedometer in the car of a very er
ratic driver. Without looking at Paola, she said, ‘Someone’s been sending me flowers.’ The nervousness of her tone corrupted the banality of the words.

  ‘And that frightens you?’ Paola asked.

  Flavia slid the knife to vertical before looking back at her. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Dozens of them: ten, twelve bouquets. On the stage. In my dressing room.’ She looked at Brunetti. ‘In front of the door of my apartment.’

  Brunetti asked, ‘In front of the building or inside, by the apartment door?’

  ‘Inside,’ Flavia answered. ‘I asked my friend who lives upstairs if he knew anything about it, but he didn’t: no one asked him to open the door.’

  ‘Are there other people living in the building?’ Brunetti asked, this time sounding like a policeman.

  ‘Yes. But they’re away.’

  This must be what was bothering her, Brunetti realized, not really understanding her evident fear. Flowers were not sent to menace but to give pleasure or offer praise. The delivery man could have found the main door open; a maid could have opened it for him.

  The Conte saved Brunetti from suggesting either of these possibilities by asking, ‘Have you had this sort of thing happen before, my dear?’

  The warm concern in his voice and the final endearment proved too much for Flavia, who looked at him but found herself unable to speak; tears appeared in her eyes but did not fall. She held up her hand and patted at the air between them, and the Conte picked up his glass and held it, waiting for her courage to return. No one spoke.

  Finally Flavia said, ‘I’ve had fans, but it’s always been a friendly thing. Not like this. It frightens me.’

  ‘How long has it been happening, my dear?’ the Count asked, setting his glass down untouched.

  ‘About two months.’ Then she added, ‘In London and St Petersburg. And now here.’

  The Conte nodded to suggest he found her reaction entirely natural and justified.

  ‘It’s too much,’ Flavia continued. ‘There are too many flowers, and it’s all so attention-seeking.’

  ‘To draw attention to you?’ the Conte asked.

  ‘No, to the person who’s sending them. That’s what’s wrong with it. He sent a note saying he knew I threw them away.’ Her voice was higher than usual.

  ‘What did you do with the letter?’ Brunetti asked in a normal voice.

  The look she shot him was suffused with anger. ‘I tore it up and threw it in the garbage at the theatre.’

  Brunetti began to understand her response. People left flowers at the artists’ entrance or came to the front of the theatre and tossed them in homage at the feet of the singer. The audience would watch the flowers and the singer, not the person who brought them. ‘The ones on the stage,’ he said. ‘Do you know who threw them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No idea?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘No.’ Then, in a calmer voice, she said, ‘You saw it the other night, the heap of them. I didn’t want them. You saw how we had to step on them when we came out for our bows.’ She grimaced at the memory.

  ‘They were for you?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Who else would they be for?’ she snapped, sounding like the woman Brunetti had met years before. Flavia, however, had simply been clarifying something that should have been self-evident.

  ‘Did you speak to the people there?’

  ‘The porter at the entrance said two men he’d never seen before brought the flowers that were in my dressing room. That’s all he knew.’ She waved a hand, as if pointing up at the balconies, and said, ‘I didn’t ask about the ones that were thrown down on to the stage.’

  Though the maid had brought the peaches with cream and amaretti while they were talking, none of them had much interest in them, and so, by general agreement, they went back to the main salon and to the sofas. The maid came in with coffee; the Conte asked if anyone would like to join him for a grappa, but only Brunetti was interested.

  Silence settled on the room: they sat for some time, listening to the boats moving up and down the Grand Canal, looking out at the windows on the opposite side. Lights went on and off, but there was no motion to be seen behind the windows.

  Brunetti was struck by how comfortable their silence was, even in the face of events that were, at least, disquieting, at worst . . . he wasn’t sure. Strange and unsettling, out of place in a world that was meant to present beauty and provide pleasure.

  He thought of a friend of his father’s, a man who had fought in the war with him. Angelo was probably illiterate, not so startling for a man born in the desperate Thirties, when young people went to work at the age of ten. His wife did the reading for the family, paid the bills, kept things going.

  Brunetti’s father had once expressed one of his bizarre opinions about the world to Angelo: Brunetti couldn’t remember any longer what it was, although he did recall thinking, at the time, that the idea was strange.

  Hearing it, Angelo had not opposed or contradicted his friend, and when the elder Brunetti insisted that he tell him what he thought, Angelo sat back in his chair and rubbed the side of his face a few times, then said, smiling at his friend, ‘My idea is different from yours, but that’s because all I have is one head, and it lets me have only one idea about things.’ Angelo had made it sound as if he were apologizing for a mental handicap and could never match his friend in being able to hold some more complicated idea in that head of his, or perhaps even more than one idea. Perhaps the person sending the flowers had room in his head for only one idea about how to show his appreciation. Or perhaps he had even stranger ideas.

  Looking at Flavia, Brunetti asked, ‘Would you like me to try to do something about this?’

  She answered him but spoke to everyone in the room. ‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary. It helps just to be able to talk about it and hear how strange it is.’

  ‘Nothing stronger than strange?’ the Conte asked.

  ‘If I were sitting home alone in the apartment, and no one else was in the building, I’d probably say yes,’ Flavia began. Looking around at their concerned faces, she gave a small smile and added, ‘But here, with you, it seems only strange.’

  ‘Who are the people upstairs?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Freddy d’Istria,’ she said, and when they nodded, she amended it to, ‘Federico, that is.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Paola broke in, smiling. ‘We call him Freddy, too.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ Flavia asked.

  ‘He and I were at elementary school together,’ Paola said. ‘We were in the same class for four years, and for three of them we sat beside each other.’

  ‘And I met him in liceo,’ Brunetti said; no more than that.

  ‘A state school?’ Flavia asked Paola without thinking.

  ‘Of course,’ Paola said, as if there were no other sort of school to which children would be sent. ‘It’s the nearest school to both our homes.’

  The Contessa interrupted them. ‘I wanted Paola to learn Veneziano from other children, not only from the staff here. It’s her language, after all. ‘

  ‘Do you speak it, Signora?’ Flavia asked, stopping short of using the title and moving away from her surprise that aristocrats would go to state schools.

  ‘No. I think it’s pretentious to try to speak it if you’re not Venetian,’ the Contessa said. ‘But Paola’s home is here, and I wanted her to grow up speaking it.’

  Paola sat back in the sofa and rolled her eyes, as if she had been hearing this all her life.

  Brunetti watched as Flavia’s eyes went back and forth between the two other women while she searched for something to say. ‘I could have a word with Freddy,’ he interposed. Freddy was as much his friend as Paola’s, after all, perhaps even more so. There were times when Brunetti thought this was because they had met when they were boys, not children, and had been good friends while they ceased being boys and began to be men.

  ‘Flowers in the theatre are one thing; getting into a private home to le
ave them is something else entirely,’ he added.

  He watched her consider what he’d said. Brunetti wasn’t sure about the legal distinction between the two, nor that it was a crime to enter a building where you did not live and into which you had not been invited. Surely, tourists did it every day: how many times had he been told by friends about finding strangers in their courtyard or on their staircase? And what sort of crime was it to leave flowers in front of a person’s door?

  ‘It might be a good idea, my dear,’ the Conte said to Flavia. ‘I think Guido should talk to him, if only to show him that someone is taking this seriously.’

  ‘But are you?’ Flavia turned to Brunetti to ask.

  Brunetti uncrossed his legs and took time to think, then said, ‘I don’t see anything that would persuade a magistrate that it’s worth pursuing. There’s no criminal act and no evidence of threat.’

  The Conte spoke, sounding protective and indignant. ‘Does that mean something else has to happen before you’ll act?’

  ‘Papà,’ Paola broke in, sounding exasperated. ‘That sounds so melodramatic: “something has to happen”. All that’s happened is that Flavia’s been given flowers and a note. Nothing’s even been said to her.’

  ‘It’s bizarre behaviour,’ the Conte replied sharply. ‘A normal person would simply sign a card and send it along. Or have a florist deliver them to the house in the usual way. There’s no reason for the secrecy. It’s not right.’ He turned to Flavia and said, ‘In my opinion, you have every reason to be concerned: you don’t know whom you’re dealing with, and you don’t know what they’ll do next.’

  ‘You don’t have to make it sound so threatening,’ Paola said to her father. And, to Flavia, ‘I don’t agree with my father at all. Whoever’s doing this just wants to be able to tell his friends how strong his passion for music is. It’s all about boasting and proving how much better his taste is, how very strong his aesthetic responses.’ She said it as though she thought it ridiculous.