‘Yes, thank you, signorina.’
While he was waiting for her, he opened the file on Brett and dialled the number that was given there. He let the phone ring seven times, but there was no answer. Did this mean that she had taken his advice and left the city to go and stay in Milan? Perhaps that was what Flavia had called to tell him.
His musing was cut off by the arrival of Signorina Elettra, in sombre grey today; sombre, at least, until he glanced down and saw wildly patterned black stockings — were those flowers? — and red shoes with heels higher than any Paola had ever dared to wear. She came up to his desk and placed a brown folder in front of him. ‘I’ve circled the phone calls that correspond,’ she explained.
‘Thank you, signorina. Did you keep a copy of this?’
She nodded.
‘Good. I’d like you to get the phone listing for the antique shop of Francesco Murino, in Campo Santa Maria Formosa, and see if there’s a record that either Semenzato or La Capra made calls to him. I’d also like to know if he called either one of them.’
‘I took the liberty of calling AT&T in New York,’ Signorina Elettra said, ‘and asked if they would check to see if either of them has one of their international dialling cards. La Capra does. The man I spoke to said he’d fax us a list of his calls for the last two years. I might have it later this afternoon.’
‘Signorina, did you speak to him yourself?’ Brunetti asked, marvelling to himself. ‘English? A friend in Banca d’ltalia, and English, too?’
‘Of course. He didn’t speak Italian, even though he was working in the international section.’ Was Brunetti meant to be shocked by this lapse? If so, then he would be shocked, for, surely, Signorina Elettra was.
‘And how is it that you come to speak English?’
‘That’s what I did at Banca d’ltalia, Dottore. I was in charge of translation from English and French.’
He spoke before he could stop himself. ‘And you left?’
‘I had no choice, sir,’ she said, then, seeing his confusion, explained, ‘The man I worked for asked me to translate a letter to a bank in Johannesburg into English.’ She stopped speaking and bent down to pull out another paper. And was that all the explanation he was going to get?
‘I’m sorry, signorina, but I’m afraid I don’t understand. He asked you to translate a letter to Johannesburg?’ She nodded. ‘And you had to leave because of that?’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘Well, of course, sir.’
He smiled. ‘I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Why did you have to leave?’
She looked at him very closely, as if she’d suddenly realized he didn’t really understand Italian after all. Very clearly, she pronounced, ‘The sanctions.’
‘Sanctions?’ he repeated.
‘Against South Africa, sir. They were still in effect then, so I had no choice but to refuse to translate the letter.’
‘Do you mean the sanctions against their government?’ he asked.
‘Of course, sir. They were declared by the UN, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, I think they were. And because of that, you wouldn’t do the letter?’
‘Well, there’s no sense in declaring sanctions unless people are going to impose them, is there?’ she asked with perfect logic.
‘No, I imagine there isn’t. And then what happened?’
‘Oh, he became very unpleasant about it. Wrote a letter of reprimand. Complained to the union. And none of them defended me. Everyone seemed to believe that I should have translated the letter. So I had no choice but to resign. I didn’t think I could continue to work for such people.’
‘Of course not,’ he agreed, bowing his head over the file and vowing that he would see to it that Paola and Signorina Elettra never met.
‘Will that be all, sir?’ she asked, smiling down at him, hoping, perhaps, that he understood now.
‘Yes, thank you, signorina.’
‘I’ll bring up the fax when it comes in from New York.’
‘Thank you, signorina.’ She smiled and left the office. How had Patta found her?
There was no question about it: Semenzato and La Capra had spoken to each other at least five times in the last year; eight, if the calls Semenzato had made to hotels in various foreign countries at times when La Capra was travelling there had been to La Capra. Of course, it could be argued - and Brunetti had no doubt that a good defence lawyer would do so — that there was nothing at all unusual in the fact that these men knew each other. Both were interested in works of art. La Capra could have, quite legitimately, consulted Semenzato on any one of a number of questions: provenance, authenticity, price. He looked down at the papers and tried to work out a pattern between the phone calls and transfers of money into and out of the men’s accounts, but nothing emerged.
The phone rang. He picked it up and said his name. ‘I tried to call you earlier.’ He recognized Flavia’s voice instantly, noted again how low-pitched it was, how different from her singing voice. But that surprise was as nothing compared to what he felt at hearing her address him in the familiar ‘tu’.
‘I was seeing someone. What is it?’
‘Brett. She refuses to come to Milan with me.’
‘Does she give a reason?’
‘She says something about not feeling well enough to travel, but it’s just stubbornness. And fear. She doesn’t want to admit she’s afraid of these people, but she is.’
‘What about you?’ he asked, using ‘tu’ and discovering how right it sounded. ‘Are you leaving?’
‘I’ve got no choice,’ Flavia said but then corrected herself. ‘No, I do have a choice. I could stay if I wanted to, but I don’t. My children are coming home, and I’ve got to meet them. And I’ve got to be at La Scala on Tuesday for a piano rehearsal. I’ve cancelled once, but now I’ve said I’ll sing.’
He wondered how all of this was going to be connected to him, and Flavia quickly told him. ‘Do you think you could talk to her? Try to reason with her?’
‘Flavia,’ he began, intensely conscious of the fact that this was the first time he had called her by her first name, ‘if you can’t convince her to go, I doubt that anything I could say would change her mind.’ Then, before she could protest, he added, ‘No, I’m not trying to get out of doing it. I just don’t think it would work.’
‘What about protection?’
‘Yes. I can have a man put in the apartment with her.’ Almost without thinking, he corrected that, ‘Or a woman.’
Her response was immediate. And angry. ‘Just because we choose not to go to bed with men doesn’t mean we’re afraid of being in the same room with one.’
He was silent for so long that she finally asked, ‘Well, why don’t you say something?’