Donna Leon - About Face

Brunetti said only, ‘I see. Did he say anything else when he came to see you?’

‘He told me that he was certain Maurizio would not want me to know about it. He started by suggesting that Maurizio had asked them to do it directly, but when he saw — Antonio was not stupid, you have to understand — that I couldn’t believe that, he changed the story and said that it might have been no more than a suggestion but that Maurizio had given them the name. I remember: he asked me if I thought there was any other reason Maurizio would have given them the name.’ Brunetti thought she had finished, but then she added, ‘And the wife.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He wanted me, Commissario,’ she said in a voice that had a savage edge to it. ‘I knew him for two years, and I know he was a man with. .’ She left the phrase hanging while she searched for the suitable words. ‘With unpleasant tastes.’ When Brunetti did not respond to the use of those words, she added, ‘Like Tarquin’s son, Commissario. Like Tarquin’s son.’

‘Did Terrasini threaten to call the police?’ Brunetti wondered, though that seemed unlikely, especially since he would be confessing to murder if he did.

‘Oh, no, nothing like that. He told me he was sure that my husband would not want me to know what he had done. No man, he said, would want his wife to know that.’ She turned her head to one side, and Brunetti noticed how tight the skin on her neck was. ‘He argued that Maurizio was responsible for what happened.’ She shook her head. ‘Antonio was not stupid, as I said.’ Then, soberly, ‘He went to Catholic schools. Jesuits.’

‘And so?’ Brunetti asked.

‘And so to keep Maurizio from learning that I knew what had happened, Antonio suggested that he and I come to an accommodation. That was his word: “accommodation”.’

‘Like Tarquin’s son with Lucrezia?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Exactly,’ she answered, sounding very tired. ‘If I agreed to the terms of this accommodation, then Maurizio would never learn that I knew he had told these people about the dentist or that he had given Antonio the idea to do — well — to do what he did. And the name.’ She put both hands on the sides of the teapot as if they had grown suddenly cold.

‘And so?’ Brunetti asked.

‘And so, to save my husband’s honour. .’ she began and when she saw his response, said, ‘Yes, Commissario, his honour, and to let him continue to believe that I respected and loved him — which I do, and did, and shall always do — well, I had one way to ensure that.’ She removed her hands from the warmth of the teapot and folded then neatly on the table in front of her.

‘I see,’ Brunetti said.

She drank more of her tea, thirstily, without bothering to add honey. ‘Do you find that strange?’

‘I’m not sure “strange” is the right word, Signora,’ Brunetti said evasively.

‘I would do anything to save my husband’s honour, Commissario, even if he had told them to do it,’ she said so fiercely that two women sitting at a table near the door turned to look at them.

‘In Australia, Maurizio was with me all the time. He was at the hospital all day, every day, then in my room when they would let him in. He left his businesses to run themselves and stayed with me. His son called and told him he had to come back, but he stayed with me. He held my hand and he cleaned me when I was sick.’ Her voice was low, passionate.

‘And then, when it was all over, after all the operations, he still loved me.’ Her eyes wandered away, off to the Antipodes. ‘The first time I saw myself, I had to go into the bathroom in the hospital to do it: there was no mirror in my room. Maurizio had had them all taken out, and at first, when the bandages came off, I didn’t give it a thought. But then I did begin to think about it and I asked him why there was no mirror.’

She laughed, low and musical; a beautiful sound. ‘And he told me he had never noticed, that maybe they didn’t have mirrors in hospital rooms in Australia. That night, after he was gone, I went down the corridor into the bathroom. And I saw this,’ she said, waving a hand under her chin.

She propped one elbow on the table and pressed three fingers against her mouth, staring off at that distant mirror. ‘It was horrible. To see that face and not be able to smile or frown or do anything with it, really.’ She took the fingers away. ‘And in the beginning it was a shock to see the way people looked at me. They couldn’t help it: they’d see this and a look of dull shock would appear on their faces, and then, a moment later, I’d see the puritanical disapproval, no matter how hard they tried to disguise or hide it. “ L a super liftata ”,’ she said and he heard the rage in her voice. ‘I know what I’m called.’

Brunetti thought she was finished, but that was not so. ‘The next day I told Maurizio what I’d seen in the mirror, and he said it didn’t matter. I still remember the way he waved his hand and said, “ sciochezze ”, as if this face were the least important thing about me.’

She pushed the cup and saucer away from her. ‘And I believe he meant that, and means it still. To him, I’m still the young woman he married.’

‘And during these last two years?’ Brunetti asked.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked angrily.

‘Has he never suspected?’

‘What? That Antonio was my — what do I call him? — my lover?’

‘Hardly,’ Brunetti said. ‘Has he suspected?’

‘I hope not,’ she said instantly. ‘But I don’t know what he knows, or if he can let himself think about it. He knew that I spent time with Antonio, and I think. . I think he was afraid to ask. And I couldn’t tell him anything, could I?’ She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. ‘It’s all such a cliché, isn’t it? The old man with the young wife. Of course she’ll take a young lover.’

‘“And so on both sides is simple truth suppressed,”’ Brunetti surprised himself by saying.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Sorry, something my wife says,’ Brunetti answered, not explaining, not knowing himself how he had dredged that up.

‘Could you tell me about last night?’ he asked.

‘There’s little to say, really,’ she answered, again sounding very tired. ‘He told me to meet him there, and I’d got used to obeying him. So I went.’

‘And your husband?’

‘He’s become as accustomed to it as I have, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I told him I was going out, and he didn’t ask me anything.’

‘You didn’t get home until morning, did you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I’m afraid Maurizio’s grown accustomed to that, as well.’ Her voice was bleak.

‘Ah,’ was the only thing Brunetti could find to say. Then, ‘What happened?’

She propped her elbows on the table and put her chin on her folded hands. ‘Why should I tell you that, Commissario?’

‘Because, sooner or later, you are going to have to tell someone, and I’m a good choice,’ he said, meaning both.

Her eyes, he thought, grew softer, and she said, ‘I knew that anyone who liked Cicero so much had to be a good man.’

‘I’m not,’ he said, meaning that, as well. ‘But I’m curious and, if I can — and within the limits of the law — I’d like to be able to help you.’

‘Cicero spent his life lying, didn’t he?’ she asked.

Brunetti’s first response was to be insulted, but then he realized that what he was hearing was a question, not a comparison. ‘Do you mean in the legal cases?’

‘Yes. He twisted evidence, certainly bribed every witness he could get money to, distorted the truth, and probably used every cheap trick lawyers have ever used.’ She seemed pleased with the list.