by Donna Leon
8
On the boat back to the city, he decided to stop in unannounced and see if Flavia Petrelli had perhaps remembered that she had spoken to the Maestro the night before. Buoyed by the sense of having something to do, he got off the boat at Fondamente Nuove and walked towards the hospital, which shared a common wall with the basilica of Santi Giovanni e Paolo. Like all street addresses in Venice, the one the American had given him was virtually meaningless in a city with only six different names for street addresses and a numbering system without plan or reason. The only way to find it was to get to the church and ask someone who lived in the neighbourhood. She ought to be easy to find. Foreigners tended to live in more fashionable parts of Venice, not this solidly middle-class area, and very few foreigners managed to sound as if they had grown up here, as Brett Lynch did.
In front of the church, he inquired first for the number, then for the American, but the woman he had approached had no idea of where to find either. She told him to go and ask Maria, saying the name as if she expected him to know exactly which Maria she meant. Maria, it turned out, ran the newsstand in front of the grammar school, and if Maria didn’t know where she lived, then the American didn’t live in the neighbourhood.
At the bottom of the bridge in front of the basilica, he found Maria, a white-haired woman of indeterminate age who sat inside her kiosk, dispensing newspapers as though they were fortunes and she the Sibyl. He gave her the number he was looking for, and she replied, ‘Ah, Signorina Lynch,’ saying it with a smile and giving the name the two syllables demanded by Italian. Straight down Calle della Testa, first right, fourth bell, and would he mind taking her newspapers along with him?
Brunetti found the door with no trouble. The name was carved into a brass plate, scratched and tarnished with age, that stood next to the bell. He rang once and, after a moment, a voice through the intercom asked who he was. He resisted the desire to announce that he had come to deliver the papers, and, instead, simply gave his name and title. Whoever it was he had spoken to said nothing, but the door snapped open in front of him, allowing him to enter the building. A single flight of stairs lay off to the right, and he began to climb, noting with pleasure the slight concavity that hundreds of years of use had hollowed out of each step. He liked the way the declivity forced him to walk up the centre of the staircase. He went up a double flight, then another. At the fourth turn, the stairway suddenly broadened out, and the original, worn marble steps were replaced by slabs of clean-cut Istrian marble. This part of the building had been extensively restored, and very recently.
The stairs ended at a black metal door. As he approached it, he sensed that he was being examined through the minuscule spyhole that was cut above the top lock. Before he could raise his hand to knock, the door was pulled open by Brett Lynch, who stepped aside and asked him to come in.
He muttered the ritual ‘Permesso’ without which an Italian could never enter another person’s house. She smiled but didn’t offer her hand and turned to lead him down the hallway into the main room of the apartment.
He was surprised to find himself in a vast open space, easily ten metres by fifteen. The wooden floor was made of the thick oak beams used to support the oldest roofs in the city. The walls had been stripped of paint and plaster and taken down to the original brick. The most remarkable thing in the room was the tremendous brightness that glared from the uncovered skylights, six of them, set in triple pairs on either side of the peaked ceiling. Whoever had received permission to alter the external structure of a building this old, Brunetti reflected, either had powerful friends or had blackmailed both the mayor and the city planner. And it had all been done recently; the smell of fresh wood told him that.
He turned his attention from the house to its owner. The previous night, he had failed to notice how tall she was, tall in that angular way Americans seemed to find attractive. But her body, he noticed, had none of the frailty that often came with tallness. She looked healthy, fit, a quality that was heightened by her clear skin and eyes. He found that he was staring at her, struck by the intelligence in her eyes, struck as well by the fact that he was seeking to find cunning in them. He was curious about his own refusal to accept her for what she seemed to be, an attractive, intelligent woman.
Flavia Petrelli sat, rather artistically, he thought, just to the left of one of the long windows that filled the left side of the room and through which, at a distance, he could see the bell tower of San Marco. She made no acknowledgement of his presence other than a faint nod, which he returned before saying to the other, ‘I brought you your papers.’
He was careful to hand them to her with the front page exposed, turned so that she would see the pictures and read the shouting headlines. She glanced down at them, quickly folded them shut, and said, ‘Thank you,’ before turning to toss them on a low table.
‘I compliment you on your home, Miss Lynch.’
‘Thank you,’ was her minimal reply.
‘It’s unusual to see so much light, so many skylights in a building of this age,’ he said, prying.
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ she said blandly.
‘Come, Commissario,’ interrupted Flavia Petrelli, ‘certainly you didn’t come here to discuss interior design.’
As if to offset the brusqueness of her friend’s remark, Brett Lynch said, ‘Please have a seat, Dottor Brunetti,’ and motioned him to a low divan that stood in front of a long glass table at the centre of the room. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked, the bright hostess, this a purely social call.
Though he had little desire for coffee, he said he’d like some, so as to see how the singer would respond to his declaration that he was there for a while and had no sense of haste. She turned her attention back to a musical score that lay on her lap and ignored him while her friend disappeared to make the coffee.
While she was busy with the coffee and while Petrelli was busy ignoring him, he took a careful look around the apartment. The wall he faced was filled with books from floor to ceiling. He easily recognized the Italian ones by the way their titles ran from bottom to top, the English by their titles running top to bottom. More than half of the books were printed in characters he assumed to be Chinese. All of them looked as if they had been read more than once. Interspersed among the books were pieces of ceramic – bowls and small human figures – that appeared no more than faintly Oriental to him. One shelf was taken up with boxed sets of compact discs, suggesting that they were complete operas. To their left stood very complicated-looking stereo equipment, and in the far corners two large speakers stood on wooden pedestals. The only pictures on the walls were bright modern splashes that didn’t appeal to him.
After a short time, Lynch returned from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray on which stood two small espresso cups, spoons, and a silver sugar bowl. Today, he noticed, she was wearing jeans that had never heard of America and another pair of those boots, this pair a dark reddish brown. A colour for each day of the week? What was it in this woman that irritated him so? The fact that she was a foreigner who spoke his language as well as he did and lived in a house he could never hope to afford?
She set the cup down in front of him and he thanked her, waiting for her to take a seat opposite him. He offered to spoon sugar into the second cup, but she shook her head in refusal. He spooned two sugars into his own cup and sat back on the sofa. ‘I’ve just come from San Michele,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘The cause of death was cyanide.’ She raised her cup to her lips, sipped. ‘It was in the coffee.’
She replaced her cup in the saucer and placed both on the table.
Flavia Petrelli glanced up from the score, but it was the other who spoke. ‘Then at least it was quick. How thoughtful of whoever did it.’ She turned to her friend. ‘Did you want coffee, Flavia?’
Brunetti thought it all a bit too theatrical, but he ignored this and asked the question she had clearly meant to prepare by her remark. ‘Am I to take it that you didn’t like the Ma
estro, Miss Lynch?’
‘No,’ she answered, looking at him directly. ‘I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me.’
‘Was there any particular reason?’
She moved a hand dismissively. ‘We disagreed about many things.’ That, he supposed, was meant to be sufficient reason.
He turned to Petrelli. ‘Was your rapport with the Maestro different from your friend’s?’
She closed the score and set it carefully at her feet before she answered. ‘Yes, it was. Helmut and I always worked well together. We had a great deal of professional respect for one another.’
‘And personal?’
‘That too, of course,’ she answered quickly. ‘But our relationship was primarily professional.’
‘What, if I might ask, were your personal feelings towards him?’ If she was prepared for the question, she nevertheless seemed not to like it. She shifted in her seat, and he was struck by how obvious she was making her discomfort at the question. He had read about her for years and knew her to be a better actress than this. If she had something to hide in her relationship with Wellauer, she knew how to hide it; she would not sit there like a schoolgirl squirming around when asked about her first boyfriend.
He allowed the silence to grow, intentionally not repeating his question.
Finally, she said, with some reluctance, ‘I didn’t like him.’
When she added nothing to this, Brunetti said, ‘If I might repeat my question to Miss Lynch, was there a particular reason for that?’ How polite we’re being, he thought. The old man is lying, cold and eviscerated, across the laguna, and we sit here engaged in grammatical niceties – a subjunctive here, a conditional there: Would you be so kind as to tell me? Could you please tell me? For a moment, he wished himself back in Naples, where he’d spent those awful years dealing with people who ignored the subtlety of words and responded to kicks and blows.
Signora Petrelli cut in on his reverie by saying, ‘There was no real reason. He was simply antipatico.’ Ah, thought Brunetti, hearing that word again, how much better than any exercise in grammar. Just haul out this explanation of any human discord, that someone was antipatico, that some nameless transport of cordiality hadn’t been struck between people, and everything was supposed to be miraculously clear. It was vague, and it was insufficient, but it appeared to be all that he was going to get.
‘Was it mutual?’ he asked, unperturbed. ‘Did the Maestro find something in you to dislike?’
She glanced across at Brett Lynch, who was again sipping at her coffee. If something passed between them, Brunetti didn’t see it.
Finally, as though displeased with the character she was playing, Petrelli raised one hand in an open-fingered gesture, one he recognized from the publicity still of her as Norma that had appeared in the papers that morning. Dramatically, she thrust the hand away from her and said, ‘Basta. Enough of all of this.’ Brunetti was fascinated by the change in her, for the gesture had carried away years with it. She got abruptly to her feet, and the rigidity disappeared from her features.
She turned to face him. ‘You’re bound to hear all of this sooner or later, so it’s better that I tell you.’ He heard the slight tap of porcelain as the other woman set her saucer down on the table, but he kept his eyes on the singer. ‘He accused me of being a lesbian, and he accused Brett of being my lover.’ She paused, waiting to see what his response would be. When he made none, she continued. ‘It started the third day of rehearsal. Nothing direct or clear; just the way he spoke to me, the way he referred to Brett.’ Again she paused, waiting for his response, and again there was none. ‘By the end of the first week, I said something to him, and that developed into an argument, and at the end of that he said he wanted to write to my husband.’ She paused to correct herself. ‘My ex-husband.’ She waited for the impact of that to register on Brunetti.
Curious, he asked, ‘Why would he do that?’
‘My husband is Spanish. But my divorce is Italian. So is the decree that gives me custody of our children. If my husband were to bring an accusation like that against me in this country . . .’ She allowed her voice to trail off, making it clear what she thought the chances would be of her keeping her children.
‘And the children?’ he asked.
She shook her head in confusion, not understanding the question.
‘The children. Where are they?’
‘In school, where they should be. We live in Milan, and they go to school there. I don’t think it’s right to drag them along to wherever I happen to be singing.’ She came closer to him, then sat at the end of the sofa. When he glanced at her friend, he saw that she sat with her face turned away, looking off at the bell tower, almost as if this conversation in no way involved her.
For a long time, no one said anything. Brunetti considered what he had just been told and wondered whether it was the cause of his instinctive backing away from the American. He and Paola had enough friends of variegated sexuality for him to believe that, even if the accusation was true, this would not be the reason.
‘Well?’ the singer finally said.
‘Well what?’ he asked.
‘Aren’t you going to ask if it’s true?’
He dismissed the question with a shake of his head. ‘Whether it’s true or not is irrelevant. All that’s important is whether he would have gone through with his threat to tell your husband.’ Brett Lynch had turned back to face him with speculative eyes.
When she spoke, her voice was level. ‘He would have done it. Anyone who knew him well would have known that. And Flavia’s husband would move mountains to get custody of the children.’ When she said her friend’s name, she glanced over at her, and their eyes locked for a moment. She moved down in her seat, shoved her hands into her pockets, and stretched her feet out in front of her.
Brunetti studied her. Was it those gleaming boots, the careless display of wealth in this apartment, that caused him to feel such resentment towards her? He tried to clear his mind, to see her for the first time, a woman in her early thirties who had offered him her hospitality and, now, appeared to be offering him her trust. Unlike her employer – if that’s what Petrelli was – she didn’t bother with dramatic gestures or try in any way to highlight the sharp Anglo-Saxon beauty of her face.
He noticed that the strands of her beautifully cut hair were damp at the neck, as though she had not long ago stepped from either a bath or a shower. Turning his attention to Flavia Petrelli, he thought that she had about her, too, the fresh smell of a woman who had just finished bathing. He suddenly found himself embroiled in an erotic fantasy of the two women entwined, naked, in the shower, breasts pushed up against breasts, and he was amazed at the power of the fantasy to stir him. Oh, God, how much easier it had been in Naples, with a kick and a shove.
The American released him from his reverie by asking, ‘Does this mean you think Flavia could have done it? Or that I could have?’
‘It’s far too early to speak like that,’ he said, though this was hardly true. ‘It’s far too early to speak of suspects.’
‘But it’s not too early to speak of motive,’ the singer said.
‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed. He hardly needed to point out that she now appeared to have one.
‘I suppose that means I’ve got one as well,’ added her friend, as strange a declaration of love as Brunetti had ever heard. Or friendship? Or loyalty to an employer? And people said Italians were complicated.
He decided to temporize. ‘As I said, it’s too early to talk of suspects.’ He decided to change the topic. ‘How long will you be in the city, Signora?’
‘Until the end of the performances,’ she said. ‘That’s another two weeks. Until the end of the month. Though I’d like to go back to Milan for the weekends.’ It was phrased as a statement, but it was clear that she was asking for permission. He nodded, the gesture conveying both understanding and police permission to leave the city.
She continued. ‘After that, I don’t
know. I haven’t any other engagements until –’ she paused, looking across at her friend, who supplied immediately, ‘Covent Garden, on the fifth of January.’
‘And you’ll be in Italy until then?’ he asked.
‘Certainly. Either here or in Milan.’
‘And you, Miss Lynch?’ he asked, turning to her.
Her glance was cool, as cool as her answer. ‘I’ll be in Milan, as well.’ Though it was hardly necessary, she added, ‘With Flavia.’
He took his notebook from his pocket then and asked if he could have the address in Milan where they would be. Flavia Petrelli gave it to him and, unasked, supplied the phone number. He wrote down both, put the notebook back in his pocket, and stood.
‘Thank you both for your time,’ he said formally.
‘Will you want to speak to me again?’ the singer asked.
‘That depends on what I’m told by other people,’ Brunetti said, regretting the menace in it but not the honesty. Understanding only the first, she picked up the score and opened it, posing it on her lap. He no longer interested her.
He took a step towards the door and, as he did, stepped into one of the beams of light that washed across the floor. Looking up towards its source, he turned to the American and asked, finally, ‘How did you manage to get those skylights?’
She crossed in front of him and went into the hallway, stopped before the door, and asked him, ‘Do you mean how did I get the skylights themselves or the permits to build them?’
‘The permits.’
Smiling, she answered, ‘I bribed the city planner.’
‘How much?’ he asked automatically, calculating the total area of the windows. Six of them, each about a meter square.
She had obviously lived in Venice long enough not to be offended by the indelicacy of the question. She smiled more broadly and answered, ‘Twelve million lire,’ as though she were giving the outside temperature.
