by Donna Leon
The Waters of Eternal Youth
Also by Donna Leon
Death at La Fenice
Death in a Strange Country
Dressed for Death
Death and Judgment
Acqua Alta
Quietly in Their Sleep
A Noble Radiance
Fatal Remedies
Friends in High Places
A Sea of Troubles
Willful Behaviour
Uniform Justice
Doctored Evidence
Blood from a Stone
Through a Glass, Darkly
Suffer the Little Children
The Girl of His Dreams
About Face
A Question of Belief
Drawing Conclusions
Handel’s Bestiary
Beastly Things
Venetian Curiosities
The Jewels of Paradise
The Golden Egg
My Venice and Other Essays
By its Cover
Gondola
Falling in Love
Donna Leon
The Waters of Eternal Youth
Atlantic Monthly Press
New York
Copyright © 2016 by Donna Leon and Diogenes Verlag AG, Zurich
Endpaper map © ML Design
Jacket design by Royce M. Becker
Jacket photograph Brian Law/Trevillion Images
Author photograph © Regine Mosimann/ Diogenes Verlag AG Zürich
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First published in Great Britain in 2016 by William Heinemann.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-8021-2480-7
eISBN 978-0-8021-9031-4
Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
groveatlantic.com
For Megan and Martin Meyer
Ah, perché, oh Dio,
Perché non mi lasciasti
crudel, morir nell’acque, e mi salvasti?
Ah, why, oh God,
Did you not leave me, oh cruel One,
to drown in the waters, but saved me?
Radamisto
Handel
1
He had always hated formal dinners, and he hated being at this one. It made no difference to Brunetti that he knew some of the people at the long table, nor was his irritation lessened by the fact that the dinner was being held in the home of his parents-in-law and, because of that, in one of the most beautiful palazzi in the city. He had been dragooned into coming by his wife and his mother-in-law, who had claimed that his position in the city would add lustre to the evening.
Brunetti had insisted that his ‘position’ as a commissario di polizia was hardly one that would add lustre to a dinner held for wealthy foreigners. His mother-in-law, however, using the Border Collie tactics he had observed in her for a quarter of a century, had circled his heels, yipping and yapping, until she had finally herded him to the place where she wanted him to be. Then, sensing his weakness, she had added, ‘Besides, Demetriana wants to see you, and it would be a great favour to me if you’d talk to her, Guido.’
Brunetti had conceded and thus found himself at dinner with Contessa Demetriana Lando-Continui, who sat perfectly at ease at the end of a long table that was not her own. Facing her at the other end was the friend of her heart, Contessa Donatella Falier, the use of whose home she had requested in order to host this dinner. A burst pipe in the room above her own dining room, which had managed to bring down a good portion of the ceiling, had rendered the room unusable for the foreseeable future, and she had turned to her friend for help. Contessa Falier, although not involved in the foundation for which this benefit dinner was being given, was happy to oblige her friend, and thus they sat, two contessas, a bit like bookends, at either end of the table at which were seated eight other people.
A small woman, Contessa Lando-Continui spoke lightly accented English in a voice she had to strain to make carry down the entire table but seemed at ease speaking in public. She had taken care with her appearance: her hair was a cap of dull gold curls, cut short in a youthful style that seemed entirely natural to someone as small as she. She wore a dark green dress with long sleeves that allowed attention to be paid to her hands, long-fingered and thin and entirely unblemished by the spots of age. Her eyes were almost the same colour as the dress and complemented her choice of hair colour. As he studied her, Brunetti renewed his conviction that she must have been a very attractive woman a half-century before.
Tuning back into her conversation, Brunetti heard her say, ‘I had the good fortune to grow up in a different Venice, not this stage set that’s been created for tourists to remind them of a city where, in a certain sense, they’ve never been.’ Brunetti nodded and continued eating his spaghetti with shellfish, thinking of how much like Paola’s it was, probably because the cook who had prepared it was the same woman who had helped Paola learn to cook.
‘It is a cause of great sadness that the city administration does everything it can to bring more and more of them here. At the same time,’ the Contessa began and raised her eyes in a quick sweep of the faces before her, ‘Venetian families, especially young ones, are driven out because they cannot afford to rent or buy a home.’ Her distress was so palpable that Brunetti glanced across the table at his wife, Paola, and met her eyes. She nodded.
To the Contessa’s left sat a pale-haired young Englishman who had been introduced as Lord Something or Other. On his other side sat a famous English historian whose book about the Savoia family Brunetti had read, and liked. Professor Moore’s invitation had perhaps been prompted by her having made no mention in her book of the involvement of her hostess’ late husband’s family, the Lando-Continui, with Mussolini’s regime. On her left sat another Englishman who had been introduced to Brunetti as a banker and then, just opposite Brunetti, his own wife, sitting at her mother’s right hand.
Brunetti thus sat next to his mother-in-law and opposite his wife. He suspected this placement was somehow in violation of the rules of etiquette, but his relief at being near them put paid to his concern for politesse. On his left sat the banker’s companion, a woman who turned out to be a Professor of Law at Oxford, then a man Brunetti had seen on the streets over the years, and last, a German journalist who had lived in the city for years and who had arrived at a point of such cynicism as almost to make him an Italian.
Brunetti glanced back and forth between the two contessas and was struck, as he ever was when seeing them together, by what odd pairings life makes for us. Contessa Falier had inherited the other Contessa when the latter b
ecame a widow. Although they had been friends for years, the bond between them had grown stronger upon the death of Conte Lando-Continui, and they had passed from being fast friends to being true friends, a fact Brunetti pondered each time he met the second Contessa, so different was the sobriety of her person from that of his mother-in-law. Contessa Lando-Continui had always been polite to him, at times even warm, but he had always wondered if he were being treated as an appendage of his wife and mother-in-law. Did most wives feel this way? he wondered.
‘I repeat,’ Contessa Lando-Continui resumed, and Brunetti returned his full attention to her. While she was gathering her breath to fulfil that promise, she was interrupted by a flourish of the hand of the second man to her right, the one Brunetti had vaguely recognized. Dark-haired, somewhere close to forty, and with a beard and moustache much influenced by the style of the last Russian Tsar, he interjected, speaking loudly into the pause his gesture had created.
‘My dear Contessa,’ he said, getting slowly to his feet, ‘we’re all guilty of encouraging the tourists to come, even you.’ The Contessa turned towards him, apparently confused by this rare conjunction of the words ‘guilty’ and ‘you’, and perhaps nervous that this person might know some way they might legitimately be conjoined. She placed both hands, palms down and beginning to tighten, on either side of her plate, as if prepared to pull the tablecloth to the floor should the conversation veer towards that conjunction.
A confused hush fell on the table. The man smiled in her direction and entered the gap created by her silence. He was speaking in English in deference to the majority of the people at the table, over whom he swept his eyes. ‘For, as you all know, the largesse of our hostess in aiding the restoration of many monuments in the city has preserved much of the beauty of Venice and thus added without measure to its desirability as a destination for those who love it and appreciate its wonders.’ He looked around and smiled at his audience.
Because he was standing near to her and spoke clearly, the Contessa could not have missed the word ‘largesse’, at the sound of which her expression softened and she released her death grip on the tablecloth. She raised one hand, palm forward, in his direction, as if hoping to stop all and any praise. But, Brunetti reflected, the voice of truth was not to be gainsaid, and so the man took his glass and raised it in the air. Had he memorized his speech, Brunetti wondered, so easily had it flowed.
Then, leaning forward and seeing that the man was thick of body, Brunetti remembered he’d been introduced to him at a meeting of the Circolo Italo-Britannico some years ago. That would explain his ease with English. A small photo of his bearded face had appeared in an article in the Gazzettino a few weeks ago, reporting that he’d been appointed by the Fine Arts Commission to lead a survey of the carved marble wall plaques in the city. Brunetti had read the article because there were five such plaques over the door of Palazzo Falier.
‘My friends, and friends of La Serenissima,’ he went on, his smile growing warmer, ‘I would like to take the liberty to toast our hostess, Contessa Demetriana Lando-Continui, and I would like to thank her, personally as a Venetian and professionally as someone working to preserve the city, for what she has done to protect the future of my city.’ He looked towards the Contessa, smiled and added, ‘Our city.’ Then, raising his free hand to encompass the others and forestall any feeling that he had excluded the non-Venetians, he broadened his smile. ‘Your city. For you have taken Venice into your hearts and into your dreams and thus have become, along with us, Veneziani.’ This last was followed by applause that went on so long he finally had to set down his glass in order to raise both hands to push back the fervour of their response.
Brunetti wished he’d been seated beside Paola, for he wanted to ask her if they were in danger of being propelled into charm-shock; a quick glance in her direction showed him that she shared his concern.
When silence returned, the man went on, now speaking directly to the Contessa, ‘Please know that we members of Salva Serenissima are deeply grateful for your leadership in our efforts to see that the living fabric of this city that we love can remain an integral, inspiring part of our lives and hopes.’ He raised his glass again, but this time he waved it in an all-inclusive circle of praise.
The banker and his companion rose to their feet, as at the end of a particularly moving performance, but when they noticed that the others at the table remained in their chairs, the banker smoothed out a wrinkle in the knee of his trousers and sat down, while she carefully tucked her skirt under her, as if that were why she had risen to her feet.
Salva Serenissima, Brunetti thought, understanding the man’s connection to the Contessa. But before he could try to work out just what the speaker might be doing for the organization, a deep male voice boomed out in English, ‘Hear, hear,’ quite as if this were the House of Lords and His Lordship needed to express his approval. Brunetti put on a smile and joined the others in toasting, though he did not follow through by drinking. His eyes went back to Paola, now in three-quarter profile as she stared down the table to her mother’s friend. As if sensing his attention, Paola turned her head towards him and allowed her eyes to close and then open slowly, as though she’d been told that the Crucifixion had only just begun and there still remained a number of nails.
The man who had spoken, apparently having exhausted his store of praise, sat down and returned to his now-cold dinner. Contessa Lando-Continui did the same. The others attempted to resume their varied conversations. Within minutes the dinner continued to the tinkle of silver voices and silver cutlery.
Brunetti turned to his mother-in-law and found that the Border Collie had been called off, leaving behind a somnolent poodle, highly decorative but bored and inattentive. Contessa Falier, seeing that Paola was busy talking to the banker, set down her fork and moved back in her chair. Brunetti noticed that the woman on his left was busy speaking to the man who had proposed a toast to Contessa Lando-Continui, so he returned his attention to his mother-in-law, a woman whose opinions often surprised him, as did the far-flung sources she consulted in forming them.
Their talk veered to that week’s stories about the vast MOSE engineering project that was meant to protect the city from the danger of the advancing tides. Like many residents of the city, both of them had thought from the very beginning that the whole thing stank: everything that had happened in the last three decades had only increased the odour. Brunetti had heard and read too much to have any hope that the elaborate and pharaonically expensive system of enormous metal barriers intended to block the waters of the sea from entering the laguna would ever actually work. The only certainty was that the maintenance costs would increase every year. The ongoing investigation of the missing millions, perhaps wildly more, was chiefly in the hands of the Guardia di Finanza: the local police knew little more than what was printed in the papers.
At the first revelations of the depth and breadth of the pillaging of European money, the city authorities had grown red-faced with outrage that quickly turned to embarrassment as one high official first claimed his innocence, only to concede that perhaps some of the money intended for the MOSE project had indeed found its way to his election campaign. But, he insisted, he had never touched a euro of it for his personal use, apparently of the belief that buying an election was less reprehensible than buying a Brioni suit.
After a brief flirtation with indignation, Brunetti’s native good sense had asserted itself and he had dismissed disgust as an inappropriate response. Better to think like a Neapolitan and view it all as theatre, as farce, as our leaders at play, doing what they do best.
He felt the moment when both of them tired of the subject. ‘You’ve known her for ever, haven’t you?’ Brunetti asked, giving a quick glance to the head of the table, where Contessa Lando-Continui was speaking to the German journalist.
‘Since I got t
o Venice,’ she said. ‘Years ago.’ Brunetti wasn’t sure how pleased she sounded at that; she had never, in all these years, revealed very much about her feelings for the city for which she had left her native Florence, beyond her love of her family.
‘She can be the worst sort of battleaxe, I know, but she can also be generous and kind.’ Contessa Falier nodded in affirmation of what she had just said and added, ‘I’m afraid most people don’t see it. But then, poor thing, she doesn’t see many people.’
Contessa Falier glanced around the table before adding, in a quiet voice, ‘This is an exception. She’ll host these dinners with potential sponsors, but she doesn’t like to do it.’
‘Then why do it? Surely they must have an office for fund-raising.’
‘Because everyone loves a lord,’ she answered, lapsing into English.
‘Meaning?’
‘She’s a contessa, so people want to say they’ve eaten at her table.’
‘In this case,’ he said, glancing around the familiar dining room, ‘it’s not even her table, is it?’
The Contessa laughed.
‘So she invites them here and you feed them, and in return they contribute to Salva Serenissima?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Something like that,’ the Contessa admitted. ‘She’s dedicated to the work they do, and as she’s grown older, she’s become more and more intent on seeing that young Venetians can continue to live here and raise their families here. No one else bothers with that.’ She glanced around the table, then at Brunetti, and finally said, ‘I’m not sure the work Salva Serenissima did on the smaller mosaics on Torcello was all that good. In places, you can see which are the new tesserae. But they did some structural work, too, so it’s more good than bad.’
Because he had not been inside the church in years and had no more than a vague memory of sinners being sent to Hell and a great deal of pink flesh, Brunetti could only shrug and sigh, something he had taken to doing often in recent years.