Death at La Fenice

‘Yes, I think so. One of my men is checking the pharmacies in the city, but we could never hope to check all the factories in Marghera or Mestre.’

‘It’s used for developing film, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, and with certain petrochemicals.’

‘There’s enough of that in Marghera to keep your man busy.’

‘For days, I’m afraid,’ he admitted.

Noticing that her drink was gone, he asked, ‘Would you like another?’

‘No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough of the count’s champagne for one evening.’

‘Have you been here other evenings?’ he asked, frankly curious.

‘Yes, a few. He always invites me, and if I’m free, I try to come.’

‘Why?’ The question slipped out before he had a chance to think.

‘He’s my patient.’

‘You’re his doctor?’ Brunetti was too astonished to disguise his response.

She laughed. What was more, her amusement was entirely natural and without resentment. ‘If he’s my patient, then I suppose I’ve got to be his doctor.’ She relented. ‘My office is just on the other side of the campo. I was the servants’ doctor first, but then, about a year ago, I met the count when I was here to visit one of them, and we began to talk.’

‘About what?’ Brunetti was astonished at the possibility that the count was capable of an action so mundane as talking, especially with someone as unpretentious as this young woman.

‘That first time, we talked about the servant, who had influenza, but when I came back, we somehow started to talk about Greek poetry. And that led to a discussion, if I remember correctly, of Greek and Roman historians. The count is particularly fond of Thucydides. Since I’d gone to the classical liceo, I could talk about them without making a fool of myself, so the count decided I must be a competent doctor. Now he comes to my office every so often, and we talk about Thucydides and Strabo.’ She leaned back against the wall and crossed her ankles in front of her. ‘He’s very much like my other patients. Most of them come to talk about ailments they don’t have and pain they don’t feel. The count is more interesting to talk to, but I suppose there’s really not much difference between them. He’s lonely and old, just like them, and he needs someone to talk to.’

Brunetti was shocked to silence by this assessment of the count. Lonely? A man who could pick up the phone and triumph over a Swiss bank’s code of secrecy? A man who could find out the contents of a man’s will before the man was buried? So lonely that he would go and talk to his doctor about Greek historians?

‘He talks about you sometimes as well,’ she said. ‘About all of you.’

‘He does?’

‘Yes. He carries your pictures in his wallet. He’s shown them to me a number of times. You, your wife, the children.’

‘Why are you telling me this, Doctor?’

‘As I told you, he’s a lonely old man. And he’s my patient, so I try to do whatever I can to help him.’ When she saw that he was going to object, she added, ‘Whatever I can, if I think it will help him.’

‘Doctor, is it normal for you to accept private patients?’

If she saw where this was leading, she made no sign of it. ‘Most of my patients are public health patients.’

‘How many private patients do you have?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business, Commissario.’

‘No, I suppose it’s not,’ he admitted. ‘Would you answer one about your politics?’ It was a question that, in Italy, still had some meaning, the parties not yet all being carbon copies of one another.

‘I’m Communist, of course, even with the new name.’

‘Yet you accept as your patient one of the richest men in Venice? Probably one of the richest in Italy?’

‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘I just told you. Because he’s a very rich man.’

‘What’s that got to do with my accepting him as a patient?’

‘I thought that...’

‘That I’d have to refuse him as a patient because he’s rich and can afford better doctors? Is that what you meant, Commissario?’ she asked, making no attempt to disguise her anger. ‘Not only is that personally offensive, but it also shows a rather simplistic vision of the world. I suppose neither surprises me very much.’ That last made him wonder what the count might have said about him during their talks.

He felt that the entire conversation had gotten out of hand. He had intended no offense, had not meant to suggest that the count could find better doctors. His surprise was entirely about this doctor’s having accepted him. ‘Doctor, please,’ he said, and held out a hand between them. ‘I’m sorry, but the world I work in is a simplistic one. There are good people.’ She was listening, so he dared to add, with a smile, ‘. . . like us.’ She had the grace to return his smile. ‘And then there are people who break the law.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, her anger not diminished, after all. ‘And does that give us all the right to divide up the world into two groups, the one we’re in and all the others? And I get to treat those people who share my politics and let the rest die? You make it sound like a cowboy film—the good guys and the lawbreakers, and never the least bit of difficulty in telling the difference between the two.’

Struggling to defend himself, he said, ‘I didn’t say which law; I just said they broke the law.’