Acqua Alta

‘Someone who has to wait until the director of the bank’s computer system goes home,’ was all she revealed.

‘Very well,’ Brunetti said, content with her explanation. ‘I’d like you to check it with Interpol in Geneva, as well. You can contact—’

She cut him short, but she smiled as she did it. ‘I know the address, sir, and I think I know whom to contact.’

‘Heinegger?’ Brunetti asked, naming the captain in charge of the office of financial investigation.

‘Yes, Heinegger,’ she answered and repeated his address and fax number.

‘How did you learn that so quickly, signorina?’ he asked, honestly surprised.

‘I dealt with him often in my last job,’ she replied blandly.

Though he was a policeman, the connection between Banca d’ltalia and Interpol was one he didn’t want to ask about just then. ‘So you know what to do,’ was all he could think of to say.

‘I’ll bring you Heinegger’s reply as soon as it comes in,’ she said, turning to her computer.

‘Yes, thank you. Good morning, signorina.’ He turned and left the office, but not before taking another look at the flowers, framed against the open window behind them.

* * * *

The rain of the last few days had stopped, taking with it the immediate threat of acqua alta and bringing, instead, crystalline skies, so there was no chance of catching Lele at home: he would be somewhere in the city, painting. Brunetti decided to go to the hospital and continue his questioning of Brett, for he still had no clear idea of the reasons that had brought her back halfway across the world.

When he entered the hospital room, he thought for a moment that Signorina Elettra had been at work here as well, for masses of flowers exploded from every available flat surface. Roses, iris, lilies and orchids flooded the room with their mingled sweetness, and the wastepaper basket overflowed with crumpled wrapping paper from Fantin and Biancat, the two florists where Venetians were most likely to go. He noticed that Americans, or at least foreigners, had also sent flowers: no Italian would have sent a sick person those immense bouquets of chrysanthemums, flowers used exclusively for funerals and for the tombs of the departed. He realized that it made him uncomfortable to be in a hospital room with them but dismissed the sensation as the worst sort of superstition.

Both women were, as he had either expected or hoped, in the room, Brett propped up against the raised back of the bed, head cushioned between two pillows, and Flavia sitting in a chair at her side. Spread out on the surface of the bed between them were a number of coloured sketches of women in long, elaborate gowns. Each wore a diadem that surrounded her head in a jewelled sunburst. Brett glanced up from the drawings when he came in, and her lips moved minimally; the smile was all in her eyes. Flavia, after a moment, and at a reduced temperature, did the same.

‘Good morning,’ he said to both of them and glanced down at the pictures. The wave-patterned border at the hem of two of the dresses made them look oriental. But, instead of the usual dragons, the dresses were patterned with abstract splashes that hurled violent colours at one another and yet managed to create harmony, not dissonance.

‘What are those?’ he asked with real curiosity and, as soon as he spoke, realized he should have been asking Brett how she was.

Flavia answered him. ‘Sketches for the new Turandot at La Scala.’

‘Then you are going to sing it?’ he asked. The press had been buzzing with this for weeks, even though the opening night was almost a full year away. The soprano whose name had been ‘hinted at’ as the one ‘rumoured to be’ the ‘possible choice’ — this was the way things were expressed at La Scala — had said she was interested in the possibility and would consider it, which clearly meant she wasn’t, and wouldn’t. Flavia Petrelli, who had never sung the role, was named as the next possibility, and she had issued, just two weeks ago, a statement to the press saying she refused absolutely even to consider the idea, as close to a formal acceptance as a soprano could be expected to come.

‘You should know better than to try to solve the riddles of Turandot,’ Flavia said, voice falsely light, letting him know he had seen something he was not to have seen. She leaned forward and gathered the drawings together. Quickly translated, both messages meant he was to say nothing about this.

‘How are you?’ he finally asked Brett.

Though her jaws were no longer wired together, Brett’s smile was still faintly idiotic, lips separate from one another and pulling up at the corners. ‘Better. I can go home in a day.’

‘Two,’ Flavia corrected.

‘A day or two,’ Brett amended. Seeing him standing there, still in his coat, she said, ‘Excuse me. Please sit down.’ She pointed to a chair that stood behind Flavia. He picked it up and placed it beside the bed, folded his coat over the back and sat.

‘Do you feel like talking about what happened?’ he asked, encompassing both of them in the question.

Puzzled, Brett asked, ‘But we talked about this before, didn’t we?’

Brunetti nodded and asked, ‘What did they say to you? Exactly. Can you remember?’

‘Exactly?’ she repeated, confused.

‘Did they say enough to let you know where they came from?’ Brunetti prompted.

‘I see,’ Brett said. She closed her eyes and put herself momentarily back in the hall of her apartment, remembered the men, their faces and voices. ‘Sicilian. At least the one who hit me was. I’m less sure about the other. He said very little.’ She looked at Brunetti. ‘What difference does it make?’

‘It might help us identify them.’

‘I certainly hope so,’ Flavia broke in, giving no clues whether she spoke in reproach or hope.