‘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. Padovani 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.’
