Donna Leon - About Face

With a final glance at him and something that might have been a smile, she returned to her reading.

Brunetti was glad she had turned her attention away from him. There was nothing he could say to this, no response, no question.

He wished her good-night and left the room and went home.

He slept. Paola, about to leave for class, tried to wake him at nine, but she managed no more than to shift him to her side of the bed. Some time later, the phone rang, but it did not penetrate to wherever Brunetti had gone, a place where Pucetti had two good hands, where Guarino was not lying dead in the mud, nor Terrasini on the marble floor, and where Franca Marinello was a lovely woman in her thirties whose whole face moved when she smiled or laughed.

After eleven Brunetti woke, looked out the window and saw that it was raining. He slept again. When next he woke there was bright sun, and for the first moments, Brunetti wondered if he were still asleep and this was a dream. He lay still for at least a minute, and then he pulled one hand slowly from under the covers, happy to hear the rustling of the sheets. He tried to snap his fingers, but all he managed to create was the sound of two fingers rubbing together. But he heard it clearly, with no buzz, and then he shoved back the covers, delighted by the slithery sound of them.

He stood, smiled at the sun, and accepted the fact that he needed a shave and a shower, but more than that, he needed coffee.

He took the coffee back to bed with him and set the cup and saucer on the night table. Kicking off his slippers, he got back under the covers and reached over to pull out his old copy of Ovid from the books beside him. He had found it two days ago but had had no time, no time. Fasti . What had she said, ‘The Something of the King’? He flipped through the table of contents and found it, ‘The Flight of the King’, for 24 February. He pulled up the covers, shifted the book to his right hand, and took a sip of coffee. He replaced the coffee and began to read.

After a paragraph he recognized the story: he thought it was also told in Plutarch, and hadn’t Shakespeare used it for something? Wicked Tarquin, the last king of Rome, driven from the kingdom by the populace at the head of which strode the noble Brutus, outraged by the death of his wife, the fair Lucrezia, who had been driven to suicide by her rape by the even more wicked son of the king, who had threatened to destroy her husband’s reputation.

He read the passage again, then closed the book very softly and placed it on the covers beside him. He finished his coffee, allowed himself to slide lower in the bed, and looked out the bedroom window at the clear sky.

Antonio Terrasini, nephew of a Camorra boss. Antonio Terrasini, arrested for rape. Antonio Terrasini, photographed by a man who was later shot to death in an apparent robbery, the photo in the possession of a man who died in similar fashion. Antonio Terrasini, apparent lover of the wife of a man somehow involved with the first victim. Antonio Terrasini, shot to death by that same woman.

As Brunetti looked out the window he moved these people and facts around on the surface of his memory, prodding them here and there with a recalled detail, then shoving one possibility aside to replace it with some new speculation that lined them up in a different order.

He recalled the scene at the gaming table: the man’s hand on her hip and the look she gave him then; his hands on her breasts and the way she failed to move away, though her entire body seemed to shrink from him. She had been in profile to Brunetti when she shot him, not that her face was capable of indicating much. Her words, then: what words had lit the man’s anger, then quelled it, then set it flaming again?

Brunetti reached for the phone and dialled the number of the home of his parents-in-law. One of the secretaries answered, and he gave his name and asked to speak to the Contessa. Brunetti had learned over the years that the speed with which his call was transferred seemed related to his use of their titles.

‘Yes, Guido?’ she asked.

‘I wonder if I might stop by on my way to work and speak to you,’ Brunetti said.

‘Come along whenever you can, Guido,’ she said.

He turned to look at the bedside clock, amazed to see that it was after one. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour or so; if that’s convenient for you, that is.’

‘Of course, Guido, of course. I’ll expect you, then.’

When she was gone, Brunetti pushed back the covers and went down to shower and shave. Before he left the house, he opened the refrigerator and found the remains of the leftover lasagne. He set it on the counter, took a fork from the cabinet, and ate most of what remained, put the fork in the sink, pulled the plastic wrap back over the ravaged lasagne, and put it back in the refrigerator.

Ten minutes later, he rang the bell to the palazzo and was taken, by some dark-suited person he did not recognize, to the Contessa’s study.

She kissed him when he came in, asked if he wanted coffee, insisted until he agreed, and asked the man who had accompanied Brunetti to bring coffee and biscotti for them both. ‘You can’t go to work without coffee,’ she said. She took her usual place in the easy chair that allowed her to see out over the Grand Canal and leaned over to pat the seat of the chair beside her.

‘What is it?’ she asked when he sat down.

‘Franca Marinello.’

She did not seem surprised. ‘Someone called and told me,’ she said in a sober voice that grew softer as she added, ‘The poor girl, the poor girl.’

‘What did they say?’ he asked, wondering who had called but unwilling to ask.

‘That she was involved in something violent at the Casinò last night and was taken to be questioned by the police.’ She waited for Brunetti to explain and when he did not, she asked, ‘You know about this?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

‘She shot a man.’

‘And killed him?’

‘Yes.’

She closed her eyes, and Brunetti heard her whisper what might have been a prayer, or something else. He thought he heard the word ‘dentist’, but that made no sense. She opened her eyes and looked at him directly. In a voice that had regained its force, she said, ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘She was there in the Casinò with a man. He threatened her, and she shot him.’

She considered this and asked, ‘Were you there?’

‘Yes. But for the man, not for her.’

Again, the Contessa paused a long time before asking, ‘Was it this Terrasini man?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re sure it was Franca who shot him?’

‘I saw her do it.’

The Contessa closed her eyes and shook her head.

There was a knock on the door, and this time it was a woman who came in. She wore sober and formal clothes, though there was no tiny white apron. She set two cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar cubes, two small glasses of water, and a plate of biscotti on the table in front of them, nodded to the Contessa, and left.

The Contessa handed Brunetti his coffee, waited while he dropped in two cubes of sugar, then picked up her own, which she drank without sugar. She set her cup back on the saucer and said, ‘I met her — oh, it was years ago — when she came here as a student. Ruggero, a cousin of mine, had a son who was Franca’s father’s best friend. They were related on the mother’s side, as well,’ she began, then made an exasperated noise and stopped.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it, if we’re related? When she came here to study, Ruggero’s son called and asked me if I’d keep an eye on her.’ She picked up a biscotto, but set it back on the plate untouched.

‘Orazio said you became friends.’