Had Brunetti not warmed to Franca Marinello because of their conversation, he might have remarked that she hardly needed dietary peculiarities to draw attention to herself. But Cicero had intervened to change Brunetti’s opinion and he had come, he realized, to feel protective of the woman.
They passed in front of Goldoni’s house, then the sudden left and right and down towards San Polo. As they walked out into the campo, Paola stopped and gazed across the open space. ‘How strange to see it empty like this.’
He loved the campo, had loved it since he was a boy, for its trees and its sense of openness: SS Giovanni e Paolo was too small, the statue in the way, and soccer balls were prone to end in the canal; Santa Margherita was oddly shaped, and he’d always found it too noisy, even more so now that it had become so fashionable. Perhaps it was the lack of commercialization that made him love Campo San Polo, for only two sides of it held shops, the others having resisted the lure of Mammon. The church, of course, had succumbed and now charged people to enter, having discovered that beauty brought more income than grace. Not that there was all that much to see inside: a few Tintorettos, those Tiepolo Stations of the Cross, a bit of this and that.
He felt Paola tugging at his arm. ‘Come on, Guido, it’s almost one.’
He accepted the truce her words offered, and they made their way home.
Unusually, his father-in-law phoned Brunetti at the Questura the next day. After thanking him for the dinner, Brunetti waited to see what was on the Conte’s mind.
‘Well, what did you think?’ the Conte asked.
‘Of what?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Of her.’
‘Franca Marinello?’ Brunetti asked, hiding his surprise.
‘Of course. You sat opposite her all evening.’
‘I didn’t know I was supposed to be interrogating her,’ Brunetti protested.
‘But you did,’ the Conte answered sharply.
‘Only about Cicero, I’m afraid,’ Brunetti explained.
‘Yes, I know,’ the Conte said, and Brunetti wondered if it was envy he heard in his voice.
‘What did you talk about with the husband?’ Brunetti inquired.
‘Earth-moving equipment,’ the Conte said with singular lack of enthusiasm, ‘and other things.’ After the briefest of pauses, he said, ‘Cicero is infinitely more interesting.’
Brunetti remembered that his own copy of the speeches had been a Christmas gift from the Conte and that the dedication on the title page stated that it was one of the Conte’s favourite books. ‘But?’ he asked in response to his father-in-law’s tone.
‘But Cicero,’ the Conte answered, ‘is not much in demand among Chinese businessmen.’ He considered his own observation and then added, with a theatrical sigh, ‘Perhaps because he had so little to say about earth-moving equipment.’
‘Do Chinese businessmen have more to say?’ Brunetti prodded.
The Conte laughed. ‘You really can’t lose the habit of interrogation, can you, Guido?’ Before Brunetti could protest, the Conte went on, ‘Yes, the few I know are very interested in it, especially bulldozers. So is Cataldo, and so is his son — he’s the son from his first marriage — who runs their heavy equipment company. China’s gone crazy with a building boom, so their company’s got more orders than they can handle, which means he’s asked me to go into a limited partnership with him.’
Over the years, Brunetti had learned that circumspection was the appropriate response to anything his father-in-law might divulge about his business interests, so he did no more than mutter an attentive ‘Ah.’
‘But you can’t be interested in that,’ the Conte said, quite accurately as it happened. ‘What did you think of her?’
‘May I ask why you’re curious?’ Brunetti said.
‘Because I sat next to her at dinner a few months ago, after meeting her here for years and never really talking to her, and the same thing happened to me. We started talking about a story that had been in the paper that day, and then suddenly we were talking about the Metamorphoses. I don’t remember how it happened, but it was delightful. All those years, and we’d never talked, well, never about anything real. So I suggested Donatella put you across from her while I talked to the husband.’ Then, with remarkable self-awareness, the Conte added, ‘You’ve been forced to sit with so many of our dull friends all these years: I thought you deserved a change.’
‘Thank you, then,’ Brunetti said, choosing not to comment on the Conte’s assessment of his friends. ‘It was very interesting. She’s even read the argument against Verres.’
‘Oh, good for her,’ the Conte all but chirped.
‘Did you know her before?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Before the marriage or before the facelift?’ the Conte inquired neutrally.
‘Before the marriage,’ Brunetti said.
‘Yes and no. That is, she’s always been more Donatella’s friend than mine. Some relative of Donatella’s asked her to keep an eye on her when she came here to study. Byzantine history, of all things. But she had to leave after two years. Family trouble of some sort. Her father died, and she had to go home and find a job because the mother had never worked.’ Vaguely, he added, ‘I don’t remember all the details. Donatella probably does.’
The Conte cleared his throat and then said, sounding apologetic, ‘Hearing all this, it sounds like the plot summary of a bad television series. You sure you want to hear it?’
‘I never watch television,’ said a falsely virtuous Brunetti, ‘so I find it interesting.’
‘All right, then,’ the Conte said and continued. ‘The story I’ve heard — and I don’t remember whether it was Donatella or other people who told me — is that she met Cataldo while she was modelling — furs, I think — and the rest, as my granddaughter is in the annoying habit of saying, is history.’
‘Was divorce part of the history?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, it was,’ the Conte answered ruefully. ‘I’ve known Maurizio a long time, and he is not a patient man. He offered his wife a settlement, and she accepted.’
The instinct developed over decades of prodding reluctant witnesses suggested to Brunetti that something was not being said here, and so he asked, ‘What else?’
There was a long silence before the Conte answered. ‘He was a guest at my table, so I don’t like to say these things about him, but Maurizio is also said to be a vindictive man, and this might have encouraged his wife to accept the terms he offered.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve heard this story before,’ Brunetti said.
‘Which one?’ the Conte asked sharply.
‘The same one you’ve heard, Orazio: the old man who meets the sweet young thing, leaves his wife, marries her in fretta e furia, and then perhaps they don’t live happily ever after.’ Brunetti himself did not like the sound of his own voice.
‘But it’s not like that, Guido. Not at all.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they are living happily ever after.’ The Conte’s voice held the same longing it had when he spoke of being able to spend an evening discussing Cicero. ‘Or at least that’s what Donatella tells me.’
After some time, the Conte asked, ‘Are you troubled by her appearance?’
‘That’s a delicate way of phrasing it.’
‘I’ve never understood it,’ the Conte said. ‘She was a lovely thing. No real reason for her to do it, but women today have different ideas about. .’ the Conte said, letting the sentence wither.
‘It happened years ago. They went away, ostensibly on a vacation, but they were gone a long time: months. I can’t remember who told me.’ The Conte paused, then said, ‘Not Donatella.’ Brunetti was glad he said this. ‘At any rate, when they came back, she looked the way she looks now. Australia — I think that’s where they said they had been. But a person doesn’t go to Australia for plastic surgery, for God’s sake.’