‘And is he?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Is who what?’ Santore asked, all grammar forgotten in his confusion.
‘Is he your lover, this singer?’
‘Oh, no. He’s not. More’s the pity.’
‘Is he homosexual?’
‘No, not that, either.’
‘Then why did Wellauer refuse?’
Santore looked at him directly and asked, ‘How much do you know about him?’
‘Very little, and that only about his life as a musician, and only what’s been in the newspapers and magazines all these years. But about him as a man I know nothing.’ And that, Brunetti realized, was beginning to interest him a great deal, for the answer to his death must lie there, as it always did.
Santore said nothing, so Brunetti prompted him. ‘Never speak ill of the dead, vero? Is that it?’
‘And never speak ill of someone you might have to work with again,’ Santore added.
Brunetti surprised himself by saying, ‘That hardly seems to be the case here. What ill is to be spoken?’
Santore glanced across at the policeman and studied his face, giving it the sort of speculative look that he might give to an actor or a singer he was deciding how to use in a performance. ‘It’s mostly rumor,’ he finally said.
‘What sort of rumor?’
‘That he was a Nazi. No one knows for sure, or if they ever knew, no one is saying, or whatever they might have said in the past has been forgotten, dropped into that place where memory does not follow. He conducted for them while they were in power. It’s even said he conducted for the Führer. But he said he had to do it to save some of the people in his orchestra, who were Jews. And they did survive the war, those who were Jews, and managed to play in the orchestra all through the war years. And so did he, play and survive. And somehow his reputation never suffered because of all those years or because of those intimate concerts for the Führer. After the war,’ Santore continued, voice strangely calm, ‘he said he had been “morally opposed” and had conducted against his will.’ He took a small sip of his drink. ‘I’ve no idea what’s true, whether he was a member of the party or not, what his involvement was. And I suppose I don’t care.’
‘Then why do you mention it?’ Brunetti asked.
Santore laughed out loud, his voice filling the empty room. ‘I suppose because I believe it’s true.’
Brunetti smiled. ‘That could be the case.’
‘And probably because I do care?’
‘That as well,’ Brunetti agreed.
They allowed the silence to expand between them until Brunetti asked, ‘How much do you know?’
‘I know that he gave those concerts all during the war. And I know that, in one case, the daughter of one of his musicians went to him in private and begged him to help her father. And I know that the musician survived the war.’
‘And the daughter?’
‘She survived the war.’
‘Well, then?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Then nothing, I suppose.’ Santore shrugged. ‘Besides, it’s always been easy to forget the man’s past and think only of his genius. There was no one like him, and I’m afraid there’s no conductor like him left.’
‘Is that why you agreed to direct this production for him—because it was convenient to forget his past?’ It was a question, not an insult, and Santore clearly took it as such.
‘Yes,’ he answered softly. ‘I chose to direct it so that my friend would get the chance to sing with him. So it was convenient for me to forget all that I knew or suspected, or at least to ignore it. I’m not sure it matters all that much, not anymore.’
Brunetti watched an idea appear in Santore’s face. ‘But now he won’t get to sing with Helmut, ever,’ and he added, to let Brunetti know that the purpose of the conversation had never been far beneath its surface, ‘which would seem to argue that I had no reason to kill him.’
‘Yes, that would seem to follow,’ Brunetti agreed, with no apparent interest, then asked, ‘Did you ever work with him before?’
‘Yes. Six years ago. In Berlin.’
‘Your homosexuality didn’t present difficulties then?’
‘No. It never presented real difficulties, once I was famous enough for him to want to work with me. Helmut’s stand, as a sort of guardian angel of Western morality or biblical standards, was pretty well known, but you can’t survive very long in this world if you refuse to work with homosexuals. Helmut just made his own sort of moral truce with us.’
‘And you did the same with him?’
‘Certainly. As a musician, he was as close to perfection as a man could come. It was worth putting up with the man to be able to work with the musician.’
‘Was there anything else about the man you found objectionable?’
Santore thought a long time before he answered this. ‘No, there’s nothing else I knew about him that would make me dislike him. I don’t find the Germans sympathetic, and he was very Germanic. But its not dislike or liking that I’m talking about. It was this sense of moral superiority he seemed to carry about with him, as if it was—he was—a lantern in dark times.’ Santore grimaced at the last phrase. ‘No, that’s not right. It must be the hour or the brandy. Besides, he was an old man, and now he’s dead.’
Going back to an earlier question, Brunetti asked, ‘What did you say to him during the argument?’
‘The usual things one says in an argument,’ Santore said wearily. ‘I called him a liar, and he called me a faggot. Then I said some unpleasant things about the production, about the music and his conducting, and he said the same things about the stage direction. The usual things.’ He stopped speaking and slumped in his chair.
‘Did you threaten him?’
Santore’s eyes shot to Brunetti’s face. He couldn’t disguise his shock at the question. ‘He was an old man.’
‘Are you sorry he’s dead?’
This was another question the director wasn’t prepared to hear. He thought for a time before he answered it. ‘No, not for the death of the man. For his wife, yes. This will be . . .’ he began, but then didn’t finish the sentence. ‘For the death of the musician, yes, I’m very sorry about that. He was old, and he was at the end of his career. I think he knew that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The conducting, it didn’t have its old glory somehow, didn’t have that old fire. I’m not a musician, so I can’t be clear about just what it was. But something was missing.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘No, maybe it’s just my anger.’
‘Did you talk to anyone about this?’
‘No; one doesn’t complain about God.’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, I did. I mentioned it to Flavia.’
‘La Signora Petrelli?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She’d worked with him before; often, I think. She was bothered by the difference in him, spoke to me about it once.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing specific; just that it was like working with one of the younger conductors, someone with little experience.’
‘Did anyone else mention it?’
‘No, no one; at least not to me.’
‘Was your friend Saverio in the theater tonight?’
‘Saverio’s in Naples,’ Santore responded coldly.
‘I see.’ It had been the wrong question. The mood of easy intimacy was gone. ‘How much longer will you be in Venice, Signor Santore?’
‘I usually leave after the prima has been successfully performed. But Helmut’s death will change things. I’ll probably be here for another few days, until the new conductor is fully at home with the production.’ When Brunetti made no response to this, he asked, ‘Will I be allowed to go back to Florence?’