Donna Leon - About Face

As the Conte paused to order his thoughts, Brunetti wondered how it was that some European port let the ships sail in the first place, a question he thought it best not to propose to the Conte. Instead, he asked, ‘What will happen to the cargo?’

‘He has no choice but to contact the Chinese and make a deal with them. They’re sure to know all about it by now. They learn everything, sooner or later. So they’ll hold him up and he’ll have to pay a fortune to get rid of it.’ Seeing Brunetti’s response, he tried to explain. ‘Cataldo has chartered these ships, mind you: they’re not his,’ the Conte continued. ‘And they’re sailing around in the Indian Ocean, waiting for him to find a place for them to unload. So every day is costing him a significant amount. And the longer they stay there, the more people will know what’s on them and the more the price for taking it will rise.’

‘What is it?’

‘My guess is that it’s nuclear waste and highly toxic chemicals,’ the Conte said in as cool a voice as Brunetti had ever heard him use. After he said this, the Conte turned his attention back to the portrait of the woman, studying her anew. Then, as if he could read Brunetti’s mind, he continued, eyes still on the portrait, ‘I know you, Guido, and I know how you think. So I suspect what I’ve just said has you hoping, even if only half hoping, that I’ve had some sort of epiphany.’

Brunetti kept his face motionless, neither acknowledging nor denying what the Conte had just said.

‘I did have an illumination, Guido, but I’m afraid it’s not the kind you’d like me to have.’ Before Brunetti could ask himself what sort of father-in-law that would make him, the Conte said, ‘I haven’t begun to repent my ways, Guido, and I haven’t been converted to seeing the world the way you do — or Paola does.’

‘Then what’s happened?’ Brunetti asked, keeping his voice level.

‘I’ve spoken to Cataldo’s lawyer: that’s my illumination. Well, to tell the truth, one of my lawyers spoke to one of his lawyers, and he’s learned that Cataldo is stretched too far and too thin — he’s already beginning to sell his real estate here — and his banker has told him it’s better if he doesn’t ask for another loan.’ The Conte turned from the portrait and looked at his son-in-law, reached out to put a hand on his arm. ‘I think this might be privileged information, Guido, and so I’d like you to keep it to yourself.’

Brunetti nodded, understanding now why Signorina Elettra had not been able to see the full extent of Cataldo’s financial difficulties.

‘Greed, Guido, greed,’ the Conte surprised him by saying. He was being descriptive, not judgmental.

‘And so what will happen to him?’

‘I have no idea. The news about him isn’t public yet, but when that happens — and it’s only a matter of time — he won’t be able to find a partner for his Chinese venture. He waited too long.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘He’ll take an enormous loss.’

‘Could you help him?’ Brunetti asked.

‘If I wanted to, I suppose I could,’ the Conte said, turning to meet his glance.

‘But?’

‘But it would be a mistake.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, realizing this was something he did not need to know about. ‘What will you do?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I’ll make the deal in China, but not with Cataldo.’

‘Alone?’

The Conte’s smile was minimal. ‘No. In partnership with someone else.’ Brunetti could not prevent himself from wondering if the someone else was Cataldo’s lawyer. ‘Everything Cataldo told me was wrong. He painted a rosy picture of his contacts in China, but none of it was true. He offered me a chance to get in on the ground floor.’ The Conte closed his eyes, as if he could not imagine someone’s being so foolish as to make him an offer like this and not expect him to investigate.

‘What did you tell him?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I said I was over-extended at the moment and don’t have the capital it would take to form the partnership he suggested.’

‘Why didn’t you just say no and leave it at that?’ Brunetti said, feeling not a little bit foolish with the question.

‘Because, to tell the truth, I’ve always been slightly afraid of Cataldo, but this time I was sorry for him.’

‘And for what was going to happen to him.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But not enough to help him?’

‘Guido. Please.’

Even though Brunetti had had a generation to accustom himself to the Conte’s business ethics, he was still surprised. He glanced away from him, as if suddenly interested in the portrait of the woman, then back at the Conte. ‘And if he’s ruined?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Ah, Guido,’ the Conte said, ‘people like Cataldo are never ruined. I said he’d take a loss, but it won’t ruin him. He’s been in business a long time, and he’s always been politically well connected: his friends will take care of him.’ Conte Falier smiled. ‘Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for him. If you want to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for his wife.’

‘I do,’ Brunetti confessed.

‘I know,’ the Conte said coolly. ‘But why? Because of the sympathy you feel for a person who reads?’ he asked, but without any hint of sarcasm. The Conte was also a reader, and so it was a normal question. He went on, ‘When Cataldo was courting me — and that’s what it was — I went to dinner at their home. I told you, I was placed next to her, not him, and she talked to me about what she was reading. Just as she did with you the other night. All the time she was talking to me about the Metamorphoses , I had the sense that she was very lonely. Or very unhappy.’

‘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.