Death at La Fenice cgb-1

by Donna Leon

Paola had given him Padovani’s number that morning and told him that the journalist was planning to go back to Rome the following day. Knowing that the lunch could go on his expense account as ‘interviewing a witness,’ Brunetti called Padovani and invited him to lunch at Galleggiante, a restaurant Brunetti liked but could seldom afford. The other man agreed to meet him there at one.

  He called down to the office where the translators worked and asked that the one who worked with German be sent up to him. When she arrived, a young woman he had often nodded to on the stairs or in the corridors of the building, he explained that he needed to put a call through to Berlin and might need her help if the person he spoke to didn’t speak either English or Italian.

  He dialed the number Signora Wellauer had given him. The phone was picked up on the fourth ring, and a woman’s voice said crisply— Germans always sounded crisp to him— ‘Steinbrunner.’ He passed the phone to the translator and could understand enough of what she said to glean that the doctor was in his office, not in his home, which was the number he had been given. He signaled the translator to make the next call, listened while she explained who she was and what the call was about. She held up her hand in a waiting gesture and nodded. Then she handed the phone to him, and he thought that some miracle had occurred and Dr. Steinbrunner had answered his phone in Italian. Instead of a human voice, however, he heard mild-mannered, innocuous music coming across the Alps at the cost of the city of Venice. He handed the phone back to her and watched while she beat time in the air with her hand while they waited.

  Suddenly she pulled the phone closer and said something in German. She spoke a few more sentences and then told Brunetti, ‘His receptionist is transferring the call. She said he speaks English. Do you want to handle it, then?’

  He nodded, took the phone from her, but waved for her to stay there. ‘Wait and see if his English is as good as your German.’

  Before he had finished this sentence, he heard a deep voice at the other end say, ‘This is Dr. Erich Steinbrunner. May I know to whom I’m speaking?’

  Brunetti introduced himself and signaled to the translator that she could leave. Before doing so, she leaned across his desk and pushed a pad and pencil toward him.

  ‘Yes, Commissario, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m investigating Maestro Wellauer’s death, and I’ve learned from his widow that you were a close friend of his.’

  ‘Yes, I was. My wife and I were friends of his for many years. His death has hurt us both.’

  ‘I’m sure it has, Doctor.’

  ‘I wanted to go there for the funeral, but my wife is in very poor health and cannot travel, and I didn’t want to leave her.’

  ‘I’m sure Signora Wellauer understands,’ he said, surprised at the internationality of platitudes.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Elizabeth,’ said the doctor. ‘She seems to be bearing it well.’

  Cued by something in his tone, Brunetti said, ‘She seemed somewhat . . . I’m not sure how to express this. She seemed somewhat reluctant that I call you, Doctor.’ When that got no answer, he added, ‘Perhaps it is too soon after his death for her to want to remember happier times.’

  ‘Yes, that’s possible,’ the doctor responded dryly, making it clear that he thought it wasn’t.

  ‘Doctor, might I ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘I’ve examined the Maestro’s datebook and saw that for the last few months of his life, he saw you and your wife frequently.’

  ‘Yes, we had dinner three or four times.’

  ‘But there were other times when your name alone was listed, Doctor, early in the morning. From the hour, I guessed that it might have been a professional visit—that is, that he was seeing you as a doctor and not as a friend.’ Rather belatedly, he asked, ‘Doctor, may I ask if you’re a . . .’ He stopped, not wanting to offend the man by asking if he was a general practitioner, and said, ‘I’m sorry I’ve forgotten the word in English. Could you tell me what your specialization is?’

  ‘Nose, ear, and throat. But particularly throat. That’s how I met Helmut, years ago. Years ago.’ The man’s voice grew warmer as he said this. ‘I’m known here in Germany as “the singers’ doctor.”‘ Did he sound surprised at actually having to explain this to anyone?

  ‘Is that why he was seeing you, because one of his singers was having trouble? Or was he having trouble with his voice?’

  ‘No, there was nothing wrong with his throat or his voice. The first time, he asked me to meet for breakfast, and it was to speak about one of his singers.’

  ‘And after that, Doctor, there were other morning dates listed in the book.’

  ‘Yes, I saw him twice. The first time, he came to the office and asked me to give him an exam. And then, a week later, I gave him the results.’

  ‘Would you tell me what those results were?’

  ‘Before I do, can you tell me why you think this is important?’

  ‘It seems that the Maestro was deeply preoccupied, worried about something. I’ve learned that from the people I’ve spoken to here. And so I am trying to find out what it might have been—anything that might have influenced his state of mind.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t see how this is pertinent,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Doctor, I’m trying to learn as much as I can about the state of his health. Remember, anything I learn might help me find the person responsible for his death and see that he is punished.’ Paola had often told him that the only way to appeal to a German was to invoke the law. The swiftness of the man’s response seemed to prove her right.

  ‘In that case, I’ll willingly help you.’

  ‘What kind of exam was it that you gave him?’

  ‘As I said, his voice and throat were fine. Eyesight perfect. There was a slight hearing loss, however, and it was this that made him ask for the exam.’

  ‘And what were the results, Doctor?’

  ‘As I said, a slight hearing loss. Minimal. The sort of thing that is to be expected in a man of his age.’ He immediately corrected himself: ‘Of our age.’

  ‘When did you give him the exam, Doctor? The dates I have are for October.’

  ‘Yes, it was sometime then. I’d have to check my records to give you the exact dates, but it was about that time.’

  ‘And do you remember the exact results?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t. But the loss was certainly less than ten percent, or I would have remembered.’

  ‘Is this a significant loss, Doctor?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Is it noticeable?’

  ‘Noticeable?’

  ‘Would it have interfered with his conducting?’

  ‘That’s exactly what Helmut wanted to know. I told him that it was nothing of that order, that the loss was barely measurable. He believed me. But that same morning, I had some other news to give him, and that news disturbed him.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He had sent a young singer to me because she was having vocal problems. I discovered that she had nodes on her vocal cords that would have to be removed surgically. I told Helmut that it would be six months before she could sing again. He had been planning to have her sing with him in Munich this spring, but that was impossible.’

  ‘Is there anything else you remember?’

  ‘No, nothing in particular. He said he’d see me when they got back from Venice, but I took that to mean socially, the four of us together.’

  Brunetti heard the slight hesitation in the man’s voice and asked, ‘Anything else, Doctor?’

  ‘He asked me if I knew anyone in Venice I could recommend. As a doctor. I told him not to be silly, that he was as healthy as a horse. If he got sick, the opera would find him the best doctor they could. But he was insistent, wanted to know if there was someone I could recommend.’

  ‘A specialist?’

  ‘Yes. I finally gave him the name of a doctor I’ve consulted with a few times. He teaches a
t the University of Padova.’

  ‘His name, Doctor?’

  ‘Valerio Treponti. He also has a private practice in the city, but I don’t have his number. Helmut didn’t ask for it, seemed content merely to have the name.’

  ‘Do you remember if he made a note of the name?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. In fact, at the time, I thought he was simply being obstinate. Besides, we were really there to talk about the singer.’

  ‘One last question, Doctor.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘During the last few times you saw him, did you notice any change in him, any sign that he might have been preoccupied or concerned about something?’

  The doctor’s answer came after a long pause. ‘There might have been something, but I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘Did you ask him about it?’

  ‘One did not ask Helmut that sort of question.’

  Brunetti restrained himself from saying that men who had been friends for more than forty years sometimes did. Instead he asked, ‘Have you any idea what it might have been?’

  This pause was just as long as the first. ‘I thought it might have something to do with Elizabeth. That’s why I didn’t mention it to Helmut. He was always very sensitive about her, about the difference in their ages. But perhaps you could ask her, Commissario.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor. I plan to do that.’

  ‘Good. Is there anything else? If not, I really must get back to my patients.’

  ‘No, nothing else. It was very kind of you to talk to me. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘I hope so. I hope you find whoever did this and punish him.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do whatever I can, Doctor,’ Brunetti said politely, failing to add that his only interest was in the first and he didn’t care at all about the second. But perhaps Germans thought about such things differently.

  As soon as the line was clear, he dialed information and asked for the number of Dr. Valerio Treponti in Padova. When he reached the doctor’s office, he was told that Treponti was busy with a patient and could not come to the phone. Brunetti explained who he was, said the call was urgent, and told the receptionist he would hold on.

  While he waited, Brunetti leafed through the morning papers. Wellauer’s death had disappeared from the major national newspapers; it was present in the Gazzettino, on the second page of the second section, because a music scholarship in his name was being established at the conservatory.

  The line clicked, and a deep, resonant voice said, ‘Treponti.’

  ‘Doctor, this is Commissario Brunetti of the Venice police.’

  ‘So I was told. What do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to know if, during the last month, you’ve had as a patient a tall, elderly man who spoke Italian, very good Italian, but with a German accent.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘About seventy.’

  ‘You mean the Austrian. What was his name? Doerr? That’s it, yes, Hilmar Doerr. But he wasn’t German; he was Austrian. Same thing, really. What do you want to know about him?’

  ‘Could you describe him to me, Doctor?’

  ‘Are you sure this is important? I’ve got six patients in my waiting room, and I have to be at the hospital in an hour.’

  ‘Could you describe him to me, Doctor?’

  ‘Haven’t I done that? Tall, blue eyes, middle sixties.’

  ‘When did you see him?’

  In the background at the other end of the line, Brunetti heard another voice say something. Then all sound disappeared as the doctor covered the mouthpiece of the phone. A minute passed, and then he was back, sounding even more hurried and impatient. ‘Commissario, I can’t speak to you now. I have important things to do.’

  Brunetti let that pass and asked, ‘Could you see me today, Doctor, if I came to your office?’

  ‘At five this afternoon. I can give you twenty minutes. Here.’ He hung up before Brunetti could ask him the address. Patiently, forcing himself to remain calm, he redialed the number and asked the woman who answered if she would give him the address of the doctor’s office. When she did so, Brunetti thanked her with deliberate politeness and hung up.

  He sat and thought about the easiest way to get to Padova. Patta, he knew, would order a car, a driver, and perhaps a pair of motorcycle escorts, should the traffic in terrorists be especially heavy on the autostrada that day. Brunetti’s rank entitled him to a car, but his desire to save time led him to call the station and ask when the afternoon trains to Padova left. The express to Milan would get him there in plenty of time to reach the doctor’s office by five. He would have to go to the train station directly after lunch with Padovani.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Padovani was waiting inside the restaurant when Brunetti got there. The journalist stood between the bar and the glass case filled with various antipasti: periwinkles, cuttlefish, shrimp. They shook hands briefly and were shown to their table by Signora Antonia, the Junoesque waitress who reigned supreme here. Once seated, they delayed the discussion of crime and gossip while they consulted with Signora Antonia about lunch. Though a written menu did exist, few regular clients ever bothered with it; most had never seen it. The day’s selections and specialties were listed in Antonia’s head. She quickly ran through the list, though Brunetti knew that this was the merest of formalities. She quickly decided that what they wanted to eat was the antipasto di mare, the risotto with shrimp, and the grilled branzino, which she assured them had come fresh that morning from the fish market. Padovani asked if he might possibly, if the signora advised it, have a green salad as well. She gave his request the attention it deserved, assented, and said they wanted a bottle of the house white wine, which she went to get.

  When the wine was on the table and the first glass poured, Brunetti asked Padovani how much work he had to do before he left Venice. The critic explained that he had two gallery openings to review, one in Treviso and one in Milan, but he’d probably do them by phone.

  ‘Call the reviews down to the newspaper in Rome?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Padovani replied, snapping a bread stick in two and eating half. ‘I do the reviews by phone.’

  ‘Art reviews?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Of paintings?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Padovani answered. ‘You don’t expect me to waste my time going to see that crap, do you?’ When he saw Brunetti’s confusion, he explained. ‘I know both of the painters’ work, which is worthless. Both of them have hired the galleries, and both of them will send friends along to buy the paintings. One of them is the wife of a lawyer in Milan, and the other is the son of a neurosurgeon in Treviso, who runs the most expensive private clinic in the province. Both of them have too much time and nothing to do, so they have decided to become artists.’ He said the last word with undisguised contempt.

  Padovani interrupted himself long enough to sit back and smile broadly as Signora Antonia placed the oblong plates of antipasto in front of them.

  ‘What sort of reviews do you write?’

  ‘Oh, that depends,’ Padovani said, spearing a chunk of octopus with his fork. ‘For the doctor’s son, I say he shows “complete ignorance of color and line.” But the lawyer is a friend of one of the directors of the newspaper, so his wife “displays a mastery of composition and draftsmanship,” when, in fact, she couldn’t draw a square without making it look like a triangle.’

  ‘Does it bother you?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Does what bother me—writing what I don’t believe?’ Padovani asked, breaking another bread stick in half.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the beginning. I suppose it did. But then I realized it was the only way I could be free to write the reviews I really care about.’ He saw Brunetti’s look and smiled. ‘Come now, Guido, don’t tell me you’ve never ignored a piece of evidence or written a report in a way to suggest something other than what that evidence suggested.’

  Before he could answer this, Antonia was back. Padova
ni finished the last shrimp on his plate and smiled up at her. ‘Delicious, Signora.’ She took his plate, then Brunetti’s.

  Immediately she was back with the risotto, steaming and rich. When she saw Padovani reach out for the salt on the table, she said, ‘There’s enough salt already.’ He pulled his hand back as though it had been burned and picked up his fork.

  ‘But come, Guido, you didn’t invite me here—at the city’s expense, I hope—to chat about the progress of my career, nor to examine my conscience. You said that you wanted more information.’

  ‘I’d like to know what else you learned about Signora Santina.’