CB18 About Face (2009) (20 page)

‘Why?’ Brunetti asked, struck by how her choice of reading brought his attention back to her face and the changes it must have undergone.

‘Well, there’s the fact that she reads what she does, but there’s also her face. People immediately think what they want about her because of all the lifting.’

‘And what do you think they think?’ Brunetti asked.

The Conte turned to the portrait of the woman and studied it for some time. ‘We find that face strange,’ he observed, waving a negligent hand at the painting. ‘But in her epoch she was probably perfectly acceptable, perhaps even attractive. Whereas to us, she’s just a fat barrel of a woman with greasy skin.’ Then, unable to resist the temptation, he added, ‘Not unlike the wives of many of my business associates.’

Brunetti saw the similarities but said nothing.

‘In our times,’ the Conte went on, ‘Franca Marinello is not acceptable because of the way she looks. What she has done to her face is too unusual for most people to observe without comment.’ He paused; Brunetti waited. The Conte closed his eyes and sighed. ‘God knows how many of the wives of my friends have done it: the eyes, the chin, then the whole face.’ He opened his eyes and looked at the portrait, not at Brunetti. ‘So she’s doing what they’re doing, only she’s doing it to a degree that makes the whole thing grotesque.’ He looked at Brunetti and said, ‘I wonder, when women talk about her, whether they’re thinking about themselves and whether, by talking about her as though she were some sort of freak, they’re trying to assure themselves that they’d never do anything like that, that they’d stop themselves from going so far.’

‘That still doesn’t explain why she did it, though, does it?’ Brunetti asked, recalling that strange, otherworldly face.

‘God knows,’ the Conte said, then, after a moment, ‘Perhaps she told Donatella.’

‘Told her?’ Brunetti asked, wondering why Marinello should tell such a thing to anyone, let alone the Contessa.

‘Why she did it, of course. They’ve been friends since she was a girl at the university. Donatella has a cousin who’s a priest up there where she comes from, and Franca’s related to him somehow. He gave Donatella her name when she came to Venice and didn’t know anyone. And they became great friends.’ Then, before Brunetti could speak, the Conte said, holding up one hand, ‘Don’t ask me. I don’t know how, only that Donatella thinks very highly of her.’ With a grin that was both boyish and mischievous, he asked, ‘Didn’t you wonder why she ended up opposite you?’

Of course he had. Brunetti said, ‘No, not really.’

‘Because Donatella knows how much Franca misses being able to talk about what she reads. You, too. So she agreed when I suggested that you would enjoy talking to her.’

‘I did.’

‘Good. Donatella will be pleased.’

‘Did
she
?’

‘Who?’

‘Signora Marinello,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Enjoy herself, that is.’

The Conte gave him a strange look, as though surprised by both his formality of address and his question, but said only, ‘I’ve no idea.’ Then, as if tired of this talk of a living woman, the Conte waved toward the painting, saying, ‘But we were talking of beauty. Someone thought this woman beautiful enough to paint her or commission a portrait of her, didn’t they?’

Brunetti considered the suggestion, then the painting, and reluctantly said ‘Yes.’

‘So someone, perhaps Franca herself, is likely to find what she has had done to her face beautiful,’ the Conte said. More soberly, he added, ‘I’ve heard talk that there’s someone else who does. You know what this town is like, Guido: there’s always talk.’

‘You mean there’s talk about another man?’

The Conte nodded. ‘Donatella let drop something the other evening, but when I tried to ask her what she meant, she realized she had said too much and went clam-like.’ He could not resist adding, ‘I imagine you are familiar with this behaviour in Paola.’

‘Am I not,’ Brunetti observed. After a moment’s reflection, he asked, ‘What else have you heard?’

‘Nothing. It isn’t exactly the sort of thing people tell me.’

Suddenly reluctant to prolong talk of Franca Marinello, Brunetti asked abruptly, ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

Disappointment – and could it be offence? – flashed across the Conte’s face. Brunetti watched him prepare an answer, and eventually the Conte said, ‘There was no precise reason, Guido. I enjoy conversation with you: nothing more than that. And we seldom get to talk, what with one thing and another.’ He flicked a speck from his sleeve, then looked back at Brunetti and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

Brunetti leaned across and placed his hand on the Conte’s forearm. ‘I’m delighted, Orazio,’ he said, unable to explain fully how touched he was by the Conte’s remark. Then he turned his attention back to the portrait of the woman. ‘Paola would probably say it’s the portrait of a woman, not a lady.’

The Conte laughed and said, ‘No, she won’t do, not at all, will she?’ He got to his feet and went over to the portrait of the young man, saying, ‘That, however, is something I’d like to have.’ He went to the back of the gallery to talk to the dealer, leaving Brunetti to contemplate the two paintings, the two faces, the two visions of what was beautiful.

By the time they had walked back to Palazzo Falier, Brunetti carrying the carefully wrapped portrait under one arm, and then discussed where to hang it, it was after nine.

The Contessa was not at home, Brunetti was disappointed to learn. In recent years, he had come to appreciate both her decency and her good sense, and he had half a mind to ask her if she would talk to him about Franca Marinello. Instead, he took his farewell of an unusually silent Conte, still warmed by their conversation and pleased that the older man took such pleasure in something as simple as a new painting.

He walked home slowly, vaguely discomfited, as he was every winter, by the early arrival of the darkness and oppressed by the dampness and cold that had been increasing since the morning. At the bottom of the bridge where he had first seen Franca Marinello and her husband, he paused to lean against the parapet, struck by how much he had learned in the last – how long had it been? – less than a week, he was surprised to realize.

Suddenly Brunetti recalled the Conte’s expression when he had asked why his father-in-law had wanted to speak to him, with its implication that he could be motivated only by self-interest. Brunetti had been concerned at first that his question had offended the Conte, but what he had failed to admit then was the other man’s pain. It was the pain of an old man who feared the rejection of his family, the expression he had seen on the faces of elderly people when they feared they were no longer loved, or had never been. The image of that bleak field in Marghera seeped back into his memory.

‘
Sta bene
,
Signore
?’ a young man asked, pausing beside him.

Brunetti looked at him, tried to smile, and nodded. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking of something.’

The boy was wearing a bright red ski parka, his face surrounded by the fur that lined the hood. As Brunetti met his gaze, the boy’s face drifted slightly out of focus, and Brunetti wondered if this was what happened before people fainted. He turned to look out over the waters, seeking the other side of the Grand Canal, and saw the same cloudiness there. He placed his other hand on the parapet. He blinked, hoping to clear his sight, blinked again.

‘Snow,’ he said, turning back to the boy with a smile.

The boy gave him another long look, then continued over the bridge and past the gates of the university.

Just at the top of the bridge ahead of him, preserved by the cooler surface, the snow was sticking to the pavement. Keeping his hand on the railing, Brunetti crossed the bridge and walked carefully down the other side. The pavement here was wet, and there was not enough snow to make it slippery. He remembered all those stories he had read as a boy about Arctic explorers trudging off to their deaths in the endless wasteland of snow. He thought of the descriptions he had read of the way they walked, head down into the oncoming wind, their only thought to place one resolute foot ahead of the other and keep going. So too did Brunetti place his feet ahead of him, intent only on getting back to warmth and to a place where he could rest and stop, if only for a time, this ceaseless struggle toward some eternally retreating goal.

The spirit of Captain Scott carried him up the stairs and into his apartment. He was so caught up in the image of his trek that he almost bent down to remove his sealskin boots, toss his fur-lined parka on the ground. Instead, he removed his shoes and hung his coat from one of the hooks beside the door.

He measured his strength, found that he still had enough, and went into the kitchen to open a cabinet, take a glass, and uncork the grappa. He poured out a generous helping and took it into the living room, where darkness awaited him. He snapped on the light, which prevented him from seeing the snow banging against the windows to the terrace. He switched it off again.

He lowered himself on to the sofa, lay back and pulled up his feet. He stretched out, pounded two pillows into submission, and took a sip of the grappa, then another. He watched the snow fall, thinking of how tired Guarino had seemed at the realization that everyone worked for Patta.

In moments of great necessity, his late mother was known to call upon a few saints she kept in reserve. There was Saint Gennaro for the protection of orphans; Saint Mauro, who kept a watchful eye on cripples, in which task he was aided by Sant’Egidio; and there was Santa Rosalia, generally invoked for protection against pestilence, and thus invoked by his mother against measles, mumps, and influenza.

Brunetti lay on the sofa, sipping at his grappa, waiting for Paola to come home, and thought about Saint Rita di Cascia, who protected against loneliness. ‘Santa Rita,’ he prayed, ‘
aiutaci
.’ But whom, he wondered, was he asking her to help? He set his empty glass on the table and closed his eyes.

He heard a voice, and for a moment he thought it was his mother’s, praying. He lay still, happy at the thought of listening to her voice, even though he knew that she was gone, and he would never hear her or see her again. He wanted the illusion, knew it would do him good.

The voice continued for another moment, then he felt a kiss on his forehead, where his mother used to kiss him when she put him to bed. But the scent was different.

‘Grappa before dinner?’ she asked. ‘Does this mean you’re going to start beating us and end up in the gutter?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be at some dinner?’ he replied.

‘At the last minute,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t stand the idea. I went as far as the restaurant with them and then said I felt sick – which is certainly true – and came home.’

A warm flush of contentment at her mere physical presence flooded Brunetti. He felt the weight of her body on the edge of the sofa. He opened his eyes and said, ‘I think your father is lonely and afraid of being old.’

In a calm voice, she said, ‘At his age, that’s normal.’

‘But he shouldn’t,’ Brunetti protested.

She laughed out loud. ‘Emotions don’t respond to “should” and “shouldn’t”, Guido. There are enough impulsive murders in the world every year to prove that.’ She saw his response and said, ‘I’m sorry. I should have found a better comparison. Enough impulsive marriages, then?’

‘But do you agree?’ Brunetti asked. ‘You know him better than I do, so you should know what he’s thinking. Or feeling.’

‘Do you really think that?’ she asked, sliding down the sofa to sit at the end, beside his feet, which she patted and tucked behind her hip.

‘Of course. You’re his daughter.’

‘Do you think Chiara understands you better than anyone else?’ she countered.

‘That’s different. She’s still a teenager.’

‘So it’s age that makes the difference?’

‘Oh, stop pretending you’re Socrates,’ he shot back and asked, ‘Do you think it’s true?’

‘That he feels old and lonely?’

‘Yes.’

Paola placed a hand on his shin, flicked away a piece of mud that clung to the cuff of his trousers, and allowed some time to pass before she said, ‘Yes, I think he does.’ She rubbed his leg. ‘But if it’s any consolation to you, I’ve believed he’s felt lonely most of my adult life.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s intelligent and cultured and spends most of his working life in the company of people who aren’t. No,’ she said with two gentle taps on his leg to stop him from protesting, ‘before you contradict me, let me admit that many of them are intelligent, but not in the way he is. He functions at the abstract level, and the people he works with are usually concerned with profit and loss.’

‘And he’s not?’ Brunetti asked, voice clear of any hint of scepticism.

‘Of course he wants to make money. I told you, it runs in the family. But he’s always found it too easy. What he really wants to do is think things out, see big patterns and understand them.’

‘The failed philosopher?’ Brunetti asked.

She gave him a sharp look. ‘Don’t be mean-spirited, Guido. I’m not saying this well, I know. I think what troubles him, now that he can’t deny how old he’s become, is that he thinks his life has been a failure.’

‘But . . .’ Brunetti could think of no way to begin the list of his objections: A happy marriage, a wonderful child, two decent grandchildren, wealth, financial success, social position. He wiggled his toes to call her attention. ‘I really don’t understand.’

‘Respect. He wants people to respect him. I think it’s as simple as that.’

‘But everyone does.’

‘You don’t,’ she shot back with such force that Brunetti suddenly suspected she had been waiting years, perhaps decades, to say this.

He pulled his feet out from under her and sat up. ‘I realized today that I love him,’ he offered.