by Donna Leon
‘I see. Could you give me their address?’
‘Commissario, I fail to see why this is important.’
‘I’ve explained to you why I think it’s important. If you’re unwilling to give me their address, I’m sure there are other friends of your husband’s who could give it to me.’
She reeled off a street address and explained that it was in Berlin, then paused while he took out his pen and poised it above the paper he still held in his hand. When he was ready, she repeated it slowly, spelling every word, even Strasse, which he thought was an excessive comment on his stupidity.
‘Will that be all?’ she asked when he had finished writing.
‘Yes, Signora. Thank you. Now might I speak to your maid?’
‘I’m not sure I see why that’s necessary.’
He ignored her and asked, ‘Is she here in the apartment?’
Saying nothing, Signora Wellauer rose to her feet and went to the side of the room, where a cord hung down one wall. She pulled it, saying nothing, and went to stand in front of the window that looked out upon the rooftops of the city.
Soon after, the door opened and the maid entered the room. Brunetti waited for Signora Wellauer to say something, but she remained rigid in front of the window, ignoring them both. Brunetti, having no choice, spoke so that she could hear what he said to the maid. ‘Signora Breddes, I’d like to have a few words with you, if I might.’
The maid nodded but said nothing.
‘Perhaps if we might use the Maestro’s study,’ he said, but the widow was unrelenting and refused to turn back from the window. He went and stood at the door, gesturing for the maid to pass through before him. He followed her down the corridor to the now familiar study. Inside, he closed the door and motioned to a chair. She took her seat, and he went back to the chair he had sat in when he examined the papers.
She was in her mid-fifties, and she wore a dark dress that could be a sign of either her employment or her grief. The midcalf length was unfashionable, and the cut emphasized the angularity of her body, the narrowness of her shoulders, the flatness of her chest. Her face matched her body perfectly, the eyes a bit too narrow and the nose more than a little too long. She reminded him, as she sat upright on the edge of the chair, of one of the long-legged, long-necked sea birds that perched on the pilings of the canals.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, Signora Breddes.’
‘Signorina,’ she corrected automatically.
‘I hope there will be no trouble if we speak in Italian,’ he said.
‘Of course not. I’ve lived here for ten years.’ She said it in a way to suggest she was offended by his remark.
‘How long did you work for the Maestro, Signorina?’
‘Twenty years. Ten in Germany, and now ten years here. When the Maestro bought the apartment here, he asked me to come and take care of it. I agreed. I would have gone anywhere for the Maestro.’ From the way she spoke, Brunetti realized that she saw having to live in a ten-room apartment in Venice as a sort of suffering she would be willing to endure only because of her devotion to her employer.
‘Do you have charge of the house?’
‘Yes. I’ve been here since shortly after he bought it. He came down and gave instructions about the furniture and the painting. I was in charge of getting it organized and then of seeing that it was taken care of while he was away.’
‘And while he was here?’
‘Yes; that too.’
‘How often did he come to Venice?’
‘Two or three times a year. Seldom more than that.’
‘Did he come to work? To conduct?’
‘Sometimes. But he also came to visit friends, go to the Biennale.’ She managed to make all this sound like so much earthly vanity.
‘And while he was here, what were your responsibilities?’
‘I did the cooking, though there was an Italian cook who would come in for parties. I chose the flowers. I oversaw the work of the maids. They’re Italian.’ This, he assumed, explained the need for the overseeing.
‘Who did the shopping for the house? Food? Wine?’
‘While the Maestro was here, I planned the meals and sent the maids to Rialto every morning to get fresh vegetables.’
Brunetti thought she might be ready, now, to begin answering the real questions. ‘So the Maestro got married while you were working for him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did this cause any changes? When he came to Venice, that is.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, though it was clear she did.
‘In the running of the house. Were your duties any different after the Maestro was married?’
‘No. Sometimes the signora cooked, but not often.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Did the presence of the signora’s daughter cause you any problems?’
‘No. She ate a lot of fruit. But she was no trouble.’
‘I see, I see,’ Brunetti said, taking a piece of paper from his pocket and idly sketching some words on it. ‘Tell me, Signorina Breddes, during these last weeks that the Maestro was here, did you notice anything, well, anything different about his behavior, anything that struck you as peculiar?’
She remained silent, hands clasped on her lap. Finally, she said, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Did he seem strange to you in any way?’ Silence. ‘Well, if not strange in any way’—and he smiled, asking her to understand how difficult this was for him—’unusual in any way, out of the ordinary.’ When she still said nothing, he added, ‘I’m sure you would have noticed anything out of the ordinary, since you had known the Maestro so long and were certainly more familiar with him than anyone else in the house.’ It was a blatant sop to her vanity, but that didn’t mean it might not work.
‘Do you mean with his work?’
‘Well,’ he began, and flashed her a smile of complicity, ‘it could have been with his work, but it could have been with anything, perhaps something personal, something that had nothing to do with his career or with his music. As I said, I’m sure your long familiarity with the Maestro would have made you particularly sensitive to anything like this.’
Watching as the bait floated toward her, he flicked at the line to bring it even closer. ‘Since you had known him for so long, you would have noticed things that others would have overlooked.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ she admitted. She licked her lips nervously, drawing closer to the bait. He remained silent, motionless, unwilling to disturb the waters. She played idly with one of the buttons at the front of her dress, twisting it back and forth in a semicircle. Finally, she said, ‘There was something, but I don’t know if it’s important.’
‘Well, perhaps it will be. Remember, Signorina, anything you can tell me will help the Maestro.’ Somehow he knew that she was blind to the colossal idiocy of this statement. He put his pen down and folded his hands, priestlike, and waited for her to speak.
‘There were two things. Ever since he came down this time, he seemed to be more and more distracted, as if his thoughts were somewhere else. No, that’s not it, not exactly. It’s as if he didn’t care any longer what happened around him.’ She trailed off, not satisfied.
‘Perhaps you could give me an example,’ he prompted.
She shook her head, not liking this at all. ‘No, I’m not saying this right. I don’t know how to explain it. In the past, he would always ask me what had happened while he was away, ask about the house, about the maids, and what I had been doing.’ Was she blushing? ‘The Maestro knew that I loved music, that I went to concerts and operas while he was away, and he was always very careful to ask me about; them. But this time when he came, there was none of that. He said hello when he arrived, and he asked me how I was, but he didn’t seem to care at all about what I said to him. A few times—no, there was one time. I had to go into the study to ask him what time he wanted me to have dinner ready. He had a rehearsal tha
t afternoon, and I didn’t know what time it was supposed to end, so I went to the study to ask him. I knocked and went in, just the way I always did. But he ignored me, pretended I wasn’t there, made me wait a few minutes while he finished writing something. I don’t know why he did it, but he kept me waiting there, like a servant. Finally, I was so embarrassed that I started to leave. After twenty years, he wouldn’t do that to me, keep me waiting like a criminal in front of a judge.’ As she spoke, Brunetti saw her agony rekindled in her eyes.
‘At last, when I turned around to leave, he looked up and pretended that he had just seen me there. He pretended I had appeared out of nowhere to ask him a question. I asked him when he planned to be back. I’m afraid I spoke angrily. I raised my voice to him, for the first time in twenty years. But he ignored that and just told me what time he would be back. And then I suppose he was sorry about how he had treated me, because he told me how beautiful the flowers were. He always liked to have flowers in the house when he was here.’ She trailed away, adding irrelevantly, ‘They’re delivered from Biancat. From all the way across the Grand Canal.’
Brunetti had no idea whether what he was hearing was outrage or pain, or both. To be a servant for twenty years is certainly to win the right not to be treated like a servant.
‘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 slopped.
‘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.
* * * *
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Since he was already so close to the theater, 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 up there.’ The man placed some money on the bar and picked up his violin case. He led the way back through the theater 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 Cosi 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.’