For some reason, this seemed to satisfy Signora Vivarini, and she led Brunetti back into the corridor and across to the room opposite. She left the door open and preceded him.
It had the same comfortable feeling as did the study. An old Tabriz lay at the foot of the large double bed, faded from too many years beneath west-facing windows and worn ragged at one corner. Grey linen curtains were drawn back from the windows on the far wall, beyond which Brunetti saw the windows of the building on the opposite side of the canal. Between the windows were bookcases, with books stuffed in horizontally on top of every row.
The last window on the right led to a low-walled terrace, just big enough to hold the two chairs Brunetti saw on it. 'That must be a wonderful place to sit and read in the evening,' Brunetti said, waving towards the glass door.
She smiled for the first time and her face suddenly ceased to be ordinary. 'Yes. Giorgio and I spend a lot of time there.' Then she asked, 'Are you a reader?'
'When I have time, yes, I try to be,' Brunetti answered. It was no longer possible to ask another person how they voted, and in a Catholic country it was hardly necessary to ask about a person's religion. Questions about sexual behaviour were impolite, and food was usually discussed during meals: so perhaps the only personally revealing question left was whether a person read or not, and if so, what. Tempting as it would be to follow this reflection, Brunetti asked, 'Would you show me where these objects were, Signora?'
She pointed to a low walnut bureau with four wide drawers that looked as if they would be hard to open. As Brunetti approached, the first thing he saw was a framed wedding photograph. Even more than twenty years younger and in her wedding dress, she had still been a completely ordinary-looking woman, but the man beside her, happiness radiant in his face, was more than handsome. To the right of the photo was a porcelain tray with an image of two brightly coloured dancing peasants in the centre. 'It was my mother's,' she said, as if to justify the workmanship and colours. The tray held two separate keys, a pair of nail scissors, a few seashells, and a book of vaporetto tickets.
She stood looking at the objects on the tray for some time. She glanced away from them and around the room, then out beyond the terrace, then back at the objects on the tray. Lightly, she placed a finger on the vaporetto tickets and slid them to one side, then turned over two of the seashells. She said, 'There was a small garnet ring here, too, and a pair of cuff links with small pieces of lapis; they're gone, as well.'
'Were they valuable?' Brunetti asked.
She shook her head. 'No. It wasn't even a real garnet: just a piece of glass. But I liked it.' She paused, then added, 'The cuff links were silver.'
Brunetti nodded. It would be impossible for him to tell what was or what was not lying, just now, on the top of the dresser in his and Paola's bedroom. The emerald ring Paola's father had given her when she finished university was often left there, as was her IWC watch, but Brunetti had no idea when he had last seen them.
Is anything else missing?' he asked.
'I don't think so’ she said, running her eyes across the surface of the bureau.
Brunetti walked over to the door to the terrace and looked at the house opposite. To see the canal, he would have to lean out from the terrace. Instead, he thanked her and went out into the corridor. When she joined him, he asked, 'Signora, could you tell me where you were on Wednesday night?'
'Wednesday,' she repeated, but not as a question.
'Yes.'
'At the opera, with my son and my sister and her husband, then at dinner with them.' 'May I ask where?'
'At their home. They had invited me and my husband, but he was away on this trip, so Matteo took his place.' She added, making it sound as if she thought it best to ask pardon for it, 'My son likes the opera.' Brunetti nodded, knowing her story could be easily checked.
As if reading his mind, she said in a voice grown louder, 'Her husband's name is Arturo Benini. They live in Castello.'
Again she anticipated his next question and said, 'We were there until at least one’ Sounding as if she might soon run out of patience, she added, 'My daughter was asleep when I got in, so I'm afraid there's no one you can check with about when we got back.' Brunetti heard the difficulty with which she controlled the anger that was seeping into her voice.
'Thank you, Signora,' he said and started back towards the room where Vianello waited. But suddenly the door at the end of the corridor opened and Botticelli's Venus walked into the apartment.
17
Married for more than twenty years to a woman he thought beautiful, with a daughter who was quickly becoming just that, Brunetti was accustomed to the sight of female beauty. He lived in a country that bombarded his eyes with lovely women: on posters, on the street, standing behind the counters in bars; even one of the new officers at the station in Cannaregio had caused his heart to stop the first time he saw her. Officer Dorigo, however, had turned out to be both a complainer and a troublemaker, so Brunetti's appreciation of her had turned into something that resembled window shopping: he was perfectly happy to observe her, just so long as he did not have to speak to or listen to her.
Nevertheless, he was still not prepared for the sight of the young girl who came in the door, turned to close it, and walked towards them smiling, saying,
She kissed her mother, put out her hand to Brunetti in what he thought a charming imitation of adult sophistication, and said, 'Good afternoon. I'm Ludovica Fornari’
Closer to, Brunetti saw that the resemblance to Botticelli's painting was superficial. The long blonde hair was the same, surely, but the face was more rectangular, the eyes, a translucent blue, more broadly spaced. He took her hand and gave his name but not his rank.
She smiled again, and he saw that her left incisor was faintly chipped. He wondered why it had not been fixed: certainly a family with a house like this could afford it. Brunetti found himself feeling protective of this girl and wondered if something could be said to her mother. Good sense intervened here, and he turned to Signora Vivarini and said, ‘I won't keep you, Signora. Thank you for your time. I'll just get Ispettore Vianello.'
The girl made a noise and put her hand to her mouth, then started to cough. When Brunetti turned to look, the girl was bent over with her hands braced on her knees while her mother patted her repeatedly on the back. Uncertain how to help, he watched as the girl brought the coughing under control. She nodded, said something to her mother, who took her hand away, and then the girl stood upright.
'Sorry,' she whispered to Brunetti, smiling, tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. 'Something stuck,' she said, pointing at her throat. Saying that launched her into another fit of coughing. After a time, she held up one hand and smiled. She took a few quick, shallow breaths, then said to her mother, her voice hoarse, 'It's all right now,
Relieved, Brunetti crossed the corridor and opened the door to the other room. Vianello sat on the sofa, reading the magazine they had found there. The Inspector got to his feet, placed the magazine on the table, and joined Brunetti at the door. Emerging into the corridor, Vianello saw the girl, who smiled in his direction but did not extend her hand. The two men left the apartment, ignored the lift that still stood there with one door open, and took the stairs.
As soon as they were outside, Vianello asked, 'The daughter?' 'Yes.'
'Pretty girl.'
Instead of answering, Brunetti walked down to the edge of the canal, where he turned back and studied the facade of the building they had just left.
Vianello asked, looking in the same general direction, 'What are you looking for?'
'The roof, to see what sort of angle it has,' Brunetti answered, shielding his eyes from the sun with an upraised hand. They were too close, so they saw only the facade and the underside of the gutters; there was no way they could back up to improve the perspective.
'Their bedroom is at the back,' Brunetti said, thrusting his hand away from his face and gesturing towards the building. 'There were two other doors on that side of the corridor.'
