‘Is that the way it was?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes; Papa said he was one of the worst. Or best, depending on how you look at it. They got divorced after the war.’
‘Because of that sort of thing?’
‘Papa wasn’t sure. Seems a safe bet. Or it might have been because he backed the wrong side.’
‘Then what happened, when Santina came back to Italy?’
‘He came down to conduct a
‘Yes.’ It had been in the file Miottis from the Rome and Venice newspapers of decades ago.
‘They found another soprano, and Wellauer had a triumph.’
‘What happened? Did she continue to see him?’
‘This is where things get very cloudy, Papa says. Some people said they stayed together for a while after that. Others say that he broke it off as soon as she wasn’t singing anymore.’
‘What about the sisters?’
‘Apparently, when Clemenza stopped singing, Wellauer picked up the slack with another one.’ Michele had never been known for his delicacy of expression, especially when talking about women.
‘And then what?’
‘That went on for a while. And then there was what used to be called an “Illegal operation.” Very easy to get, even then, my father tells me, if you knew the right people. And Wellauer did. No one knew much about it at the time, but she died. It might not even have been his child, but people seemed to think so at the time.’
‘And then what?’
‘Well, she died, like I said. Nothing was ever printed, of course. You couldn’t write about that sort of thing back then. And the cause of death was given in the papers as “after a sudden illness.” Well, I suppose it was, in a sense.’
‘And what about the other sister?’
‘Papa thinks she went to live in Argentina, either right at the end of the war or soon after. He thinks she might have died there, but not until years later. Do you want to see if Papa can find out?’
‘No, Michele. She’s not important. What about Clemenza?’
‘She tried to make a comeback after the war, but the voice wasn’t the same. So she stopped singing. Papa said he thinks she lives here. Is that true?’
‘Yes. I’ve spoken to her. Did your father remember anything else?’
‘Only that he met Wellauer once, about fifteen years ago. Didn’t like him, but he couldn’t give any specific reason for it. Just didn’t like him.’
Brunetti heard the change in Michele’s voice that marked his passage from friend to journalist. ‘Does any of this help, Guido?’
‘I don’t know, Michele. I just wanted to get some idea of the sort of man he was, and I wanted to find out about Santina.’
‘Well, now you know.’ Michele’s voice was curt. He had sensed the policeman in the last answer.
‘Michele, listen, it might be something, but I don’t know yet.’
‘Fine, fine. If it is, then it is.’ He wouldn’t bring himself to ask for the favor.
‘If it does turn out to be anything, I’ll call you, Michele.’
‘Sure, sure; you do that, Guido. It’s late, and I’m sure you want to get back to sleep. Call me if you need anything else, all right?’
‘I promise. And thanks, Michele. Please thank your father for me.’
‘He’s the one who thanks you. This has made him feel important again. Good night, Guido.’
Before Brunetti could say anything, the line went dead. He switched off the light and slid down under the covers, aware now only of how cold it was in the room. In the dark, the only thing he could see was the photo in Clemenza Santina’s room, the carefully arranged V in which the three sisters posed. One of them had died because of Wellauer, and another had perhaps lost her career as a result of knowing him. Only the little one had escaped him, and she had had to go to Argentina to do it.
* * * *
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Early the next morning, Brunetti padded into the kitchen well before Paola was awake and, not fully conscious of his actions, started the coffee. He wandered back to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and toweled it dry, avoiding the eyes of the man in the mirror. Before coffee, he didn’t trust anyone.
He got back to the kitchen just as the coffeepot erupted. He didn’t even bother to curse, just grabbed the pot from the flame and slapped off the gas. Pouring coffee into a cup, he spooned in three sugars and took the cup and himself out onto the terrace, which faced west. He hoped the morning chill would succeed in waking him if the coffee failed.
Scraggy-bearded, rumpled, he stood on the terrace and stared off at the point on the horizon where the Dolomites began. It must have rained heavily in the night, for the mountains had manifested themselves, sneaking close in the night and now magically visible in the crisp air. They would pack up and disappear before nightfall, he was sure, forced out of sight by waves of smoke that rose up ever fresh and new from the factories on the mainland
