by Donna Leon
‘There were other things too, but I didn’t think anything of them at the time.’
‘What things?’
‘He seemed . . .’ she said, thinking as she spoke of a way to say something and not to say it at the same time. ‘He seemed older. I know, it had been a year since I last saw him, but the difference was greater than that. He had always been so young, so full of life. But this time he seemed like an old man.’ To offer evidence of this, she added, ‘He had begun to wear glasses. But not for reading.’
‘Did that seem strange to you, Signorina?’
‘Yes; people of my age,’ she said frankly, ‘we usually begin to need them for reading, for things that are close to us, but he didn’t wear them for reading.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because sometimes I’d take him his afternoon tea and I’d find him reading, but he wouldn’t be wearing them. When he saw me, he’d pick them up and put them on, or he’d just signal me to put the tray down, as if he didn’t want to be bothered or interrupted.’ She stopped.
‘You said there were two things, Signorina. May I ask what the other was?’
‘I think I’d rather not say,’ she replied nervously.
‘If it’s not important, then it won’t matter. But if it is, it might help us find whoever did this.’
‘I’m not sure; it’s nothing I’m sure about,’ she said, weakening. ‘It’s only something I sensed. Between them.’ The way she said the last word made it clear who the other part of the ‘them’ was. Brunetti said nothing, determined to wait her out.
‘This time they were different. In the past, they were always . . . I don’t know how to describe it. They were close, always close, talking, sharing things, touching each other.’ Her tone showed how much she disapproved of this as a way for married people to behave. ‘But this time when they came, they were different with each other. It wasn’t anything other people would have noticed. They were still very polite with each other, but they never touched anymore, the way they used to, when no one could see them.’ But when she could. She looked at him. ‘I’m not sure if this makes any sense.’
‘Yes, I think it does, Signorina. Have you any idea of what might have caused this coolness between them?’
He saw the answer, or at least the suspicion of an answer, surface in her eyes, but then he watched it just as quickly disappear. Though he had seen it there, he could not be sure if she was aware of what had just happened. ‘Any idea at all?’ he prodded. The instant he spoke, he realized he had gone too far.
‘No. None.’ She shook her head from side to side, freeing herself.
‘Do you know if any of the other servants might have seen this?’
She sat up straighter in her chair. ‘That is not something I would discuss with servants.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he muttered. ‘I certainly didn’t mean to suggest that.’ He could see that she already regretted having told him what little she had. It would be best to minimize what she had told him so that she would not be reluctant to repeat it, should this ever become necessary, or to add to it, should this ever become possible. ‘I appreciate what you’ve told me, Signorina. It confirms what we’ve heard from other sources. There is certainly no need to tell you that it will be held in strictest confidence. If you think of anything else please call me at the Questura.’
‘I don’t want you to think . . .’ she began, but couldn’t bring herself to name what he might think of her.
‘I assure you that I think of you only as someone who continues to be very loyal to the Maestro.’ Since it was true, it was the least he could give her. The lines in her face softened minimally. He stood and extended his hand. Hers was small, birdlike, surprisingly fragile. She led him down the corridor to the door of the apartment, disappeared for a moment, and returned with his coat. ‘Tell me, Signorina,’ he asked, ‘what are your plans now? Will you remain in Venice?’
She looked at him as though he were a madman who had stopped her on the street. ‘No; I plan to return to Ghent as soon as possible.’
‘Have you any idea of when that will be?’
‘The signora will have to decide what she wants to do with the apartment. I will stay until she does that, and then I will go home, where I belong.’ Saying that, she opened the door for him and then closed it silently behind him. On his way down the steps, Brunetti stopped at the first landing and gazed out the window. Off in the distance, the angel on top of the bell tower spread his wings in benediction above the city and all those in it. Even if exile is spent in the most beautiful city in the world, Brunetti realized, it is still exile.
16
Since he was already so close to the theatre, he went there directly, stopping only long enough to have a sandwich and a glass of beer, not really hungry but feeling the vague uneasiness that came upon him when he went for long periods of time without eating.
At the stage entrance, he showed his ID card and asked if Signore Traverso had come in yet. The portiere told him that Signore Traverso had arrived fifteen minutes before and was waiting for the commissario in the backstage bar. There, when Brunetti arrived, he found a tall, cadaverous man who had a familial resemblance to his cousin, Brunetti’s dentist. The noise and confusion of many people passing by, both in and out of costume, made it difficult for them to talk, so Brunetti asked if they could go someplace quiet.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the musician. ‘I should have thought of that. The only place to go is one of the dressing rooms that aren’t being used. I suppose we could go there.’ The man placed some money on the bar and picked up his violin case. He led the way back through the theatre and up the stairs Brunetti had used the first night he had come. At the top of the staircase, a stout woman in a blue smock came forward to ask them what they wanted.
Traverso had a few words with her, explaining who Brunetti was and what they needed. She nodded and led them along the narrow corridor. Taking an immense bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a door and stepped back to let them enter. No theatrical glamour here, just a small room with two chairs on either side of a low table and a bench in front of a mirror. They seated themselves on the chairs, facing each other.
‘During the rehearsals, did you notice anything unusual?’ Brunetti asked. Because he didn’t want to suggest what he was looking for, he kept his question general – so general, he realized, as to be virtually meaningless.
‘Do you mean about the performance? Or about the Maestro?’
‘Either. Both.’
‘The performance? Same old stuff. The sets and staging were new, but we’ve used the costumes twice before. Singers are good, though, except for the tenor. Ought to be shot. Not his fault, though.
Bad direction from the Maestro. None of us had much of an idea what we were supposed to be doing. Well, not at the beginning, but by the second week. I think we played from memory. I don’t know if you understand.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘It was Wellauer; like his age caught up with him all of a sudden. I’ve played with him before. Twice. Best conductor I’ve ever worked with. No one like him today, though there are a lot who imitate him. Last time, we played Così with him. We never sounded so good. But not this time. He was suddenly an old man. It was like he wasn’t paying any attention to what he did. Part of the time, when we reached a crescendo, he’d perk up and point that baton at anyone who was as little as an eighth of a beat late. It was beautiful then. But the rest of the time, it just wasn’t any good. But no one said anything. We just seemed to decide among ourselves to play the music the way it was written and take the lead from the concertmaster. I suppose it worked. The Maestro seemed content with it. But it wasn’t like those other times.’
‘Do you think the Maestro was aware of this?’
‘Do you mean did he know how bad we sounded?’
‘Yes.’
‘He must have. You don’t get to be the best conductor in the world and not hear what your orche
stra is doing, do you? But it was more like he was thinking about something else most of the time. Like he wasn’t there, just not paying any attention.’
‘How about the night of the performance? Did you notice anything unusual?’
‘No, I didn’t. We were all too busy trying to keep together, so it wouldn’t sound as bad as it might have.’
‘Nothing at all? He didn’t speak to anyone in a strange way?’
‘He didn’t speak to anyone that night. We didn’t see him except when he came to the podium, down in the orchestra pit with us.’ He paused, chasing at memory. ‘There was one thing, hardly worth mentioning.’
‘What?’
‘It was at the end of the second act, right after the big scene where Alfredo throws the money at Violetta. I don’t know how the singers got through the ensemble. We were all over the place. Well, it ended, and the audience – they haven’t got ears – they began to applaud, and the Maestro, he gave this funny little smile, like someone had just told him something funny. And then he set his baton down. Didn’t toss it down on the podium, the way he usually did. Set it down very carefully, and then he smiled again. Then he stepped down from the podium and went backstage. And that’s the last I saw of him. I thought he was smiling because the act was over and maybe the rest would be easy. And then they changed conductors for the third act.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing you were looking for.’
He reached down for his violin, and Brunetti said, ‘One last thing. Did the rest of the orchestra notice this? Not the smile, but the difference in him?’
‘A number of us did, those who had played with him before. For the rest, I can’t say. We get so many lousy conductors here, I’m not sure if they can tell the difference between them. But maybe it’s because of my father.’ He saw Brunetti’s confusion and explained. ‘My father. He’s eighty-seven. He does the same thing, looks over his glasses at us as if we’ve been keeping a secret from him and he wants to know what it is.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘I’ve got to go. It’s only ten minutes until the curtain.’
‘Thank you for your help,’ Brunetti said, though he wasn’t sure what to make of what the musician had just told him.
‘Sounded like a lot of useless gossip to me. Nothing more. But I hope it can help.’
‘Would there be any trouble if I stayed in the theatre during the performance?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No, I don’t think so. Just tell Lucia when you leave, so she can lock this room.’ Then, hurriedly, ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Thank you again.’
‘It was nothing.’ They shook hands, and the musician left.
Brunetti stayed in the room, already planning that he would take the opportunity to see how many people walked around backstage during a performance and during intermissions and how easy it would be to go into or out of the conductor’s dressing room unnoticed.
He waited in the room for a quarter of an hour, grateful for the chance to be by himself in a quiet place. Gradually, all the noise that had filtered through the door stopped, and he realized that the singers would have gone downstairs to take their places onstage. Still he lingered in the room, comforted by the silence.
He heard the overture, filtering up the stairs and through the walls, and decided it was time to find the conductor’s dressing room. He stepped out into the hall and looked around for the woman who had let them into the room, but she was nowhere to be seen. Because he had been charged with seeing that the room was locked, he walked along the hall and glanced down the stairway. ‘Signora Lucia?’ he called, but there was no reply. He went to the door of the first dressing room and knocked, but there was no reply. Nor at the second. At the third, someone called ‘Avanti!’ and he pushed the door open, ready to explain that he had left and the dressing room could be locked.
‘Signora Lucia,’ he began as he entered the room, but he stopped when he saw Brett Lynch sprawled in an easy chair, book open in her lap, glass of red wine in one hand.
She was as startled as he but recovered more quickly. ‘Good evening, Commissario. May I help you in any way?’ She set her glass down on the table beside her chair, flipped her book closed, and smiled.
‘I wanted to tell Signora Lucia she could lock that other dressing room,’ he explained.
‘She’s probably downstairs, watching from the wings. She’s a great fan of Flavia’s. When she comes back up, I’ll tell her to lock it. Don’t worry, it’ll be taken care of.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Aren’t you watching the performance?’
‘No,’ she answered. Seeing his response, she asked, ‘Does that surprise you?’
‘I don’t know if it does or it doesn’t. But if I asked you, then I suppose it does.’
Her answering grin pleased him, both because it was not the sort of thing he expected from her and because of the way it softened the angularity of her face.
‘If you promise not to tell Flavia, I’ll confess to you that I don’t much like Verdi and I don’t much like Traviata.’
‘Why not?’ he asked, curious that the secretary and friend – he left it at that – of the most famous Verdi soprano of the day would admit to not liking the music.
‘Please have a seat, Commissario,’ she said, pointing to the chair opposite her. ‘Nothing much goes on for another’ – she glanced at her watch – ‘twenty-four minutes.’
He took the seat she indicated, turned it to face her more directly, and asked, ‘Why don’t you like Verdi?’
‘It’s not exactly that. I do like some of the music. Otello, for example. But it’s the wrong century for me.’
‘Which do you prefer?’ he asked, though he was sure of the answer he’d get. Wealthy, American, modern-minded: she would have to prefer the music of the century in which she lived, the century that had made her possible.
‘Eighteenth,’ she said, surprising him. ‘Mozart and Handel, neither of which, for my sins, Flavia feels any great desire to sing.’
‘Have you tried to convert her?’
She picked up her glass and sipped at it, set it back down on the table. ‘I’ve converted her to some things, but I can’t seem to tempt her away from Verdi.’
‘I think that must be considered our great fortune,’ he answered, slipping easily into her tone, which implied far more than it said. ‘The other must be yours.’
She surprised him by giggling, and he surprised himself by laughing with her. ‘Well, that’s done. I’ve confessed. Now perhaps we can talk like human beings and not like characters in a cheap novel.’
‘I’d very much like that, Signorina.’
‘My name is Brett, and I know yours is Guido,’ she said, using the informal second person and thus making the initial step towards familiarity. She got up from her chair and went over to a small sink in the corner. Beside it was a bottle of wine. She poured some into a second glass, brought it and the bottle back, and handed the glass to him.
‘Are you back here to talk to Flavia?’ she asked.
‘No, that wasn’t my intention. But I’ll have to talk to her, sooner or later.’
‘Why?’
‘To ask what she was doing in Wellauer’s dressing room after the first act.’ If she found this at all surprising, she gave no sign of it. ‘Do you have any idea?’
‘Why do you say she was there?’
‘Because at least two people saw her go in. After the first act.’
‘But not after the second?’
‘No, not after the second.’
‘She was up here, with me, after the second act.’
‘The last time we spoke, you said she was up here, with you, after the first act, as well. And she wasn’t. Is there any reason I should believe you’re telling me the truth now, when you lied then?’ He took a drink of the wine. Barolo, and very good.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Why should I believe that?’
‘I suppose there’s no real reason.’ She
sipped at her wine again, as though they had the entire evening before them for discussion. ‘But she was.’ She emptied her glass, poured a little more into it, and said, ‘She did go to see him after the first act. She told me about it. He’d been playing with her for days, threatening to write to her husband. So, finally, she went back to talk to him.’
‘It seems a strange time to do it, during a performance.’
‘Flavia’s like that. She doesn’t think much about what she does. She simply acts, does what she wants. It’s one of the reasons she’s a great singer.’
‘I would imagine it’s difficult to live with.’
She grinned. ‘Yes, it is. But there are compensations.’
‘What did she tell you?’ When she didn’t understand, he added, ‘About seeing him.’
‘That they’d had an argument. He wouldn’t give a clear answer about whether or not he had written to her husband. She didn’t say much more than that, but she was still shaking with anger when she came back up here. I don’t know how she managed to sing.’
‘And did he write to her husband?’
‘I don’t know. She hasn’t said anything else about it. Not since that night.’ She saw his surprise. ‘As I said, she’s like that. When she’s singing, she doesn’t like to talk about anything that bothers her.’ She added ruefully, ‘She doesn’t much like to do it when she’s not singing, either, but she says it destroys her concentration if she has to think about anything except the music. And I suppose everyone has always let her get away with it. God knows, I do.’
‘Was he capable of doing it, writing to her husband?’
‘The man was capable of anything. Believe me. He saw himself as some sort of protector of human morals. He couldn’t stand it if someone lived in violation of his definition of right and wrong. It maddened him that anyone would dare. He felt some sort of divine right to bring them to justice, his justice.’
‘And what was she capable of doing?’
‘Flavia?’
‘Yes.’
The question didn’t surprise her. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think she could do it like that, not in cold blood. She’d do anything to keep the children, but I don’t think . . . no, not like that. Besides, she’d hardly be walking around with poison, would she?’ She seemed relieved to have thought of this. ‘But it isn’t finished. If there’s a trial or some sort of hearing, then it’ll come out, won’t it, what they argued about?’ Brunetti nodded. ‘And that’s all her husband will need.’
