By Its Cover

by Donna Leon

  Brunetti had suspected that such lists must exist and said, ‘I’ll have someone do that.’ He, too, had servants to do things for him.

  ‘What else is missing?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think they know yet,’ Brunetti said. ‘The man who cut the pages never requested nor received the two books that are missing.’

  ‘But she’s sure they’re gone?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  After a moment, the Contessa asked, ‘Does this mean there’s more than one thief?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  She made a noise that, in a person who did not have a title, would be called a snort and said, ‘I thought they’d be safe in a library.’

  Brunetti had the wisdom not to speak.

  ‘This man was there for three weeks,’ she continued, ‘and no one saw anything?’

  He heard the harshness but still said nothing.

  ‘She told me he was an American,’ the Contessa said, adding, ‘Not that it makes any difference.’

  Brunetti bent down and took the file from his briefcase. ‘His name is Joseph Nickerson,’ he read, glancing at her to see if it meant anything to her. It obviously did not, so he gave her the rest of the information: the University of Kansas, Maritime and Mediterranean Trade History, letter of introduction, passport.

  ‘Do you have his photo?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, passing her the photocopy of his passport pages.

  ‘He looks like an American,’ she said with mild disdain.

  ‘It’s what he told them at the library.’ Brunetti reached to take the paper back and studied the face again. The people who had spoken to Nickerson had done so in Italian and had heard his accent: in that case, he could as easily have been English or perhaps from some other country. His Italian was fluent. It came to Brunetti to wonder if it was the accent that had been learned and not the language, and the man was perhaps Italian. If the passport was fake, why believe anything on it?

  He took a fresh look at the photo, darkened the hair, let it grow a bit longer. Yes, he supposed it was possible. It was a pity Nickerson hadn’t left a sample of his handwriting, even if only a few words: that was a far more certain sign of origin than accent or appearance.

  The Contessa was silent for a long time, while Brunetti’s mind remained on the idea of handwriting. Had not Nabokov written somewhere that he had consciously stopped putting the crossbar on the number 7 when he moved to America as a public declaration that he had left the Old World behind? How had Nickerson requested books if not by filling out a form? Or was that now computerized, too?

  The Contessa interrupted his thoughts. ‘What am I meant to call you, by the way? “Commissario”? “Dottore”? “Signore”?’

  ‘Paola’s husband’s name is Guido,’ he said. ‘Would it be an imposition to suggest you use that?’

  She tilted her chin to one side and stared at him, subjecting Brunetti to a scrutiny that succeeded in making him uncomfortable. Even though he rested, in a way, under the protective wings of the Falier family, he was not sure she saw them when she looked at him.

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Now, what was it you wanted to know about books?’ she asked, not calling him anything and repeating the formal lei with which he had addressed her.

  It took him a moment to digest her rejection of grammatical intimacy and return his thoughts to the crime. Cui bono? Who would profit from the theft, and how was that profit measured? If the thief and the future owner were not the same person, how did each of them profit? They would want the books or pages for different reasons, one venal and one … he couldn’t think of the right word here, perhaps because he didn’t understand the desire.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the Contessa, who cleared her throat in a sign of impatience.

  ‘You’re known to be a collector,’ he began. ‘An intelligent collector.’ He paused to see if she would respond to this compliment, but she simply waited, face impassive.

  He had no choice but to continue. ‘I don’t understand the desire to have rare books.’ Seeking clarity, he added, ‘That is, a desire so strong as to steal them or have them stolen.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘And so I’d like you to help me understand why someone would do this. And what kind of person would do it.’

  She surprised him by smiling. ‘Donatella’s told me a little about you,’ she said, still addressing him formally.

  ‘Should I worry?’ Brunetti asked lightly.

  Her smile did not change. ‘No, not at all. She’s said you want to understand things.’ Before Brunetti could thank her for the compliment, for he had taken it as such, she continued, ‘But that’s not going to help you here. There’s nothing to understand. People steal them for the money.’

  ‘But …’ Brunetti began, but she talked over him.

  ‘That’s the only reason that animates the thieves. Forget the articles about the men who suffer a mad passion for maps and books and manuscripts: that’s all romantic nonsense. Freud in the library.’ She leaned forward and raised a hand, though it was hardly necessary to catch his attention. ‘People steal books and maps and manuscripts, and they cut out single pages or whole chapters because they can sell them.’

  It cost Brunetti no effort to believe in greed as a motive for human crime, so he asked calmly, ‘And who buys them?’

  ‘I’ve heard talk,’ she said. ‘Dealers, gallerists, auction houses are willing to buy things without asking questions

  ‘Do the thieves steal to order?’

  ‘So long as there’s no library stamp and they’re rare enough, they’ll sell them.’ Then, with savage emphasis, ‘To the better class of client, that is.’

  Brunetti remained silent, then finally asked, ‘Who are?’

  She gave him a long look, as if assessing how much she could tell him. ‘Those people who want beautiful things but want them at cut-rate prices.’

  ‘Are you talking about people you know?’

  ‘I’m probably talking about people you know,’ she answered.

  10

  ‘What can you tell me about the market for these things?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Books and pages?’ she asked, almost as if she believed that hearing the words would keep her anger hot. Then, in a more temperate voice, she went on. ‘I don’t think there’s much else to tell you,’ she said neutrally. ‘Professionals go in and steal them, and they sometimes do it to order.’

  ‘Who buys them?’

  ‘Collectors buy the important things,’ she said and then stopped. ‘Please understand that I’m merely telling you what I’ve inferred from what I’ve heard and overheard during the years.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Small things – individual pages from a book about birds or flowers or mammals – they can be sold to small shops.’ She turned her attention to the windows on the other side of the calle. ‘It’s possible, even likely, that the person buying it for his shop isn’t sure it’s stolen.’ She didn’t sound completely convinced of this, nor was Brunetti, who knew how easily people persuaded themselves into whatever they wanted to believe. But he let it pass without question.

  ‘And I suppose a person who buys it in a shop,’ she went on, ‘would have little reason to suspect that it might be stolen.’ Brunetti looked at her and nodded, then returned his eyes to his notebook.

  ‘There are shops that do framing, street markets and fairs: these places buy as well as sell, so it’s easy for the thief to unload the pages there.’

  ‘Let’s come back to the complete books,’ he said. ‘They’re the most valuable.’

  ‘Ah,’ she began, drawing the sound out for a long time, ‘they’re much harder to hide or disguise. If they come from a library, they’ll have the library stamp on certain pages. Every library uses a different system, but they all stamp multiple pages.’ He nodded: eager that she should not think him completely ignorant about the subject. ‘Once the seal is on the pages, they might as w
ell have “Stolen” embossed on the cover.’

  ‘Then why bother to buy them?’ Brunetti asked.

  She moved farther back in her chair, as if to afford herself a better view of him. Folding her hands in her lap, she said, ‘You are not a credit to your wife’s family, you know.’

  ‘I haven’t heard that for years,’ Brunetti said and smiled.

  She laughed. It was something like a smoker’s cough and surprised him so much that he started to get out of his chair to go to her aid, but she raised a hand to pat the air and, with the gesture, sent him back to the chair. When the noise stopped, she said, ‘I mean that you seem to lack the proper Venetian acquisitive impulse.’

  He shrugged, suspecting this was a compliment, although not entirely sure.

  ‘Many want the books so that they can boast about them, at least with certain friends, show them their impressive new acquisition and know no questions will be asked,’ she said. ‘That they have a Galileo codex or a first edition of this or that. Something rare. A survivor from the sixteenth century. A piece of culture.’ Her voice had darkened, as if she were a magistrate reading out the list of charges. ‘It suggests they’re more sophisticated than the person who buys a Ferrari, I suppose.’ Her contempt was withering.

  He nodded, understanding – but not feeling – the desire.

  ‘I like the fact that it makes no sense to you,’ she said with another smile, though this one ended in a grimace. She pointed to something behind him. Brunetti turned and saw a portrait of a hook-nosed man wearing a dark brown velvet jacket. Sixteenth century, he’d guess, probably from central Italy somewhere: Bologna perhaps?

  ‘How much is that painting worth?’ she asked.

  He put his notebook in his pocket and got to his feet, walked over to the painting and took a closer look. The painter certainly had the gift: one look at the subject’s hands revealed that. Brunetti could have reached out and stroked the velvet, and because he was on a height with the man, he saw the clear intelligence in his eyes, the power of his jaw and the heft of his shoulders. He would be a good friend and a fierce enemy.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Brunetti said, his eyes still on the man. ‘All I can say is that it’s a beautiful painting, wonderfully done.’

  When he turned to her, he saw that she was smiling again. ‘If I told you it was one of my ancestors, then would you agree that it’s worth more to me than to you or to anyone else?’ she asked.

  ‘Other than to someone else in your family,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Brunetti went back to his chair and sat again to face her. ‘What should I know about collectors? And about value?’

  She had clearly been waiting for this question or for one like it. ‘They’re very strange people, most of them. Almost all are men, and most of them like to show off.’ He nodded to tell her he knew both things, and she went on. ‘With watches or cars or houses, it’s easy for your friends to find out what they cost: so they’ll swoon at your new Lamborghini or your Patek Philippe. But not many people understand what books are worth.’

  ‘So why bother to collect them?’ he asked. ‘And why bother to steal them? Or have them stolen? All it does is make you a higher class of thief.’

  She smiled at the turn of phrase. ‘If their friends are thieves, too, then it’s reason for more boasting.’

  Brunetti had not considered this. Had we sunk so low? He thought for a moment of some of the politicians in whose libraries stolen books had been found. Yes, we had sunk this low.

  ‘Some people collect books because they love them and see them as part of our history and culture,’ she said. ‘You hardly need me to tell you that.’

  ‘Was this the case with your husband’s family?’ he asked.

  Again, she laughed, and again he thought she sounded like a heavy smoker. ‘Good God, no. They acquired them as investments. And they were right. They’re worth a fortune now.’

  ‘You’re going to give them all to the library, aren’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘I probably will,’ she said. ‘I’d rather see them safely in a library, where people who are interested in them can read them, than think of them falling into the hands of those who see them only as repositories for money.’

  As if she sensed his reaction, she abruptly asked, ‘Do you have other questions?’

  ‘How much damage does cutting out a page do to a book?’

  ‘It’s irreparable. Even if the pages are found. The book isn’t the same object any more.’

  Brunetti thought it sounded like the idea of female virginity that had been current in his youth, but he thought it prudent not to voice the comparison.

  ‘And the effect on the …’ he hesitated over what word to use. Finally he decided on ‘price?’

  ‘It’s greatly decreased, even by half, if just one page is missing. The book is corrupted.’

  ‘And if the text is untouched?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘If it’s intact. If the text of the book is all still there to be read?’

  She couldn’t stop her mouth from contracting in a moue of disapproval. ‘We aren’t talking about the same thing,’ she said. ‘I’m talking about a book, and you’re talking about a text.’

  Brunetti smiled and slipped the cap on to his pen. ‘I think we’re both talking about the same thing, Contessa: books. We’re just defining them differently.’ He got to his feet.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ Brunetti said. ‘You’ve been generous with your time and your knowledge, Contessa.’

  He closed his notebook and put it into the inside pocket of his jacket. She handed him back the papers, taking one last look at Nickerson’s passport photo. He slipped them into his briefcase.

  She watched him snap it closed. He got to his feet, and she rose from her chair and moved towards the door.

  ‘Again, thank you for your time, Contessa,’ he said, pausing at the door.

  She put her hand on the handle but made no move to press it down. Instead, she looked at him and smiled. ‘If you want to know what texts are worth, Guido,’ she said, calling him by name and using the familiar tu she had denied him all during their conversation, ‘take a walk over to Rio Terà Secondo.’ He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. ‘You’ll find the building where Manutius’ printing press was. You don’t need me to tell you it is the most important printing press in the history of the Western world.

  ‘There are two plaques on the wall of the building. One of them announces that it is the site of the Aldine Press, “which returned the splendour of Greek literature to civilized people”. It was put there by the School of Greek Literature. In Padova. On the ground floor, on the right, there’s an abandoned shop, and on the left there’s a shop selling tourist junk. The day I found it, I asked in four shops nearby, but no one knew who Aldus Manutius was.’

  ‘How did you find it?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘I called a friend and asked. She found it in Wikipedia and called me back. San Polo 2310, in case you want to go and see it.’

  She extended her hand, and again he bent over it to give an invisible kiss. Oh, if only his mother could see her boy now, kissing the hand of a contessa. Her palazzo wasn’t on the Grand Canal, but Brunetti was certain his mother would not mind that in the least: it was still a palazzo, and the woman who had offered him her hand was still a contessa.

  11

  He and Paola had lunch alone that day, lasagne with sausage and melanzane. Chiara had gone to Padova on a school trip and Raffi for a ride on a friend’s boat. ‘He’ll catch his death,’ Paola said. ‘Out there on the laguna in an open boat for hours. What happens if it starts to rain?’

  Brunetti glanced out the kitchen window and saw a sky so blue it could have been cut from the Madonna’s mantle. He had stepped out on to the terrace before lunch and been deafened by the chirping of birds in the pine trees in the courtyard of the house on the other side of the calle. Spring
had clambered atop Juggernaut, and nothing would prevent its advance. In two months, they’d all be whining about the heat.

  ‘I understand what you mean about the Contessa,’ he said, ignoring her remarks.

  At the possibility of something akin to gossip, Paola jettisoned her concern for her firstborn and asked, ‘Which thing that I meant?’

  ‘That she has something less than a gossamer touch in social situations or in disguising her opinions.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘Yes, she can be outspoken, but she was raised as a favourite child and treated like a princess – although she was only a vicontessa – so I suppose it’s understandable.’

  ‘Forgivable?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ she said instantly. ‘It’s more important to understand people than to forgive them.’

  Brunetti wondered if his wife had just discovered why Freud had replaced Christ but did not intend to spend time discussing this possibility with her, not when he wanted more information about the Contessa.

  ‘She has little sympathy for people who collect things,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘Good for her,’ Paola said, suddenly alert.

  They were on the sofa in her study, the room happy with the return of the sun. Instead of wine with lunch, both had wanted the coffee that sat in front of them. Paola sipped at hers, swirled up the last sugar and emptied the cup.

  Recalling his conversation with Contessa Morosini-Albani, Brunetti said, ‘She makes a distinction between people like herself, who understand and love beautiful things, and people who simply want pretty things to put on the walls.’ Even though he had tried to temper it, his uneasiness was audible, even to himself.

  Paola set her cup down without making a sound and turned to him. ‘If I make a distinction between the careful reading you give to Roman history and a journalist who refers to the court of the Emperor Heliogabalus as a parallel for the current situation in Rome while having no idea who Heliogabalus was, would you call that a spurious distinction?’ Her voice was mild, but Brunetti heard the rustle of her tail in the underbrush as she prepared to strike. ‘Or if I refer to my own benighted profession and suggest that my reading of The Portrait of a Lady might be more nuanced than that given in a Hollywood film, is that a spurious distinction?’