Donna Leon - The Jewels of Paradise

Caterina returned her attention to the paper he had given her. Was a lawyer supposed to speak of his clients this way, she wondered? The cousins might have enough money to pay a man wearing a suit like his, but they seemed to lack the price of his respect. They must be very sure of Dottor Moretti’s ability to find the best person to lead them to whatever treasure there might be, but then she remembered what Roseanna had told her about her being the only person interviewed, and she wondered how concerned the cousins were about anything except price. Further, was she meant to be complimented or flattered by the slighting way he spoke of them, as if to suggest he was being open and honest with her?

“I see there are other conditions,” she said, holding up her copy of the paper. “What’s this about having to read any papers in the order in which I find them?” she asked tersely. “Of course I will.” She felt her voice growing sharp and paused a moment to try to relax. “How else would a scholar go through papers?” Her visceral resentment told her a good deal about the way she felt about the cousins.

“Unfortunately,” Dottor Moretti began, putting on a serious face, “I did not make the list of requirements, Dottoressa, nor is it in my competence to question them. They were given to me, and it’s my task to persuade you to follow them.”

“Of course, I’ll follow them,” she said, “but these gentlemen might consider the fact that they are paying me for my expertise, and part of that is knowing how to deal with documents.” In the face of his silence—neither obstinate nor patient, just silence—she went on. “I have only a general historical context for any documents I might find,” she said. “I’m at home in the music of the period, but I foresee needing to do research beyond reading the actual documents so as to put them into an historical context.” He said nothing, and so she concluded, “I would like to establish that as one of my conditions.”

“One?” he asked.

She held up the paper and said, “I haven’t finished reading this yet. There might be more.”

Roseanna broke in here and said, “Perhaps they’re hoping that there will be a folder on the top with neat lettering on the outside, saying, ‘Last will and testament.’ And below it in a different hand, just to save time, ‘List of everything of value and where to find it.’” If she was trying to make a joke, one glance at Dottor Moretti’s face showed she had not succeeded.

“You’ve told me he died intestate,” Caterina said. “I can only hope I do find a will among the papers, or something in which he makes his desires known. But I’d still have to read the rest of the papers, of course, to see that he did not subsequently contradict this.”

If she had expected surprise or disagreement from Dottor Moretti about this, she was mistaken. “Of course,” he muttered and then gestured toward the paper in her hand, as if to suggest she finish reading it.

“And this,” she said, tapping at the paper with her finger, “that I will not write anything, neither article nor book, about any personal information contained in the trunks and that I will not speak of it in public or private. Not until I am given permission by both of the heirs, as well as by you.” She paused a moment and then asked, feeling a flutter of anger at what she saw as petty, ignorant obstructionism, “I assume this does not apply to my reports?” Her smile was falsity itself.

Dottor Moretti used the universal gesture of surrender and held up both hands in front of his chest. “I don’t make the rules, Dottoressa. I only transmit them.” Then, with a small smile, he added, “If you’ll continue reading, Dottoressa, you’ll see that this prohibition does not extend to any musicological information that might be contained in the documents.”

“Meaning?” she asked.

“Meaning that you have the exclusive rights to edit any scores that might be found, whether of orchestral or of vocal music, that you judge to be of artistic importance.” He pointed to his copy, and she found the sentence on hers.

She kept her face impassive as she read, though this hope had at least partially animated her willingness to toss over the job in Manchester. He was giving her a possibility for which most musicologists would have traded their firstborn. Two chests possibly filled with the papers of a once famous composer of the Baroque period. They could contain operas, many of his famous chamber duets, unpublished arias. And she would be the one to write the articles and edit the scores. Boosey & Hawkes, she also knew, had begun to publish Baroque music: she knew she could not find a better company. If anything could launch her career, this was it.

She nodded, quite as if this were a normal part of any job she’d ever had. Then she asked, “And if I were to publish any of the other papers?”

He lowered his hands and said, “I do civil law, Dottoressa. Breach of contract is something my office deals with every day.”

“What does that mean, Dottore?” Caterina asked, conscious that her tone had changed.

He considered her question and her tone and answered, “To do so would be a breach of contract, Dottoressa, in which event a case surely would be brought against you. It would be a very long and a very expensive case.” He left it to her to assume that, though the length would concern them both equally, perhaps the cost would be more of a burden to her.

“How long would a case like this take to pass through the courts?” she asked, then explained, “If I might ask for the sake of curiosity.”

He leaned farther back against Roseanna’s desk and let the hand that still held the paper fall to his side. “I’d imagine the least it could take is eight or nine years. That is, if the verdict were appealed.”

“I see,” Caterina said, preferring not to ask how much it might cost. “I’m perfectly willing to agree to the conditions.”

His whole body seemed to relax when she said that, and she wondered if perhaps he had had some personal interest in controlling the information in the trunks. What could he and the cousins fear would be hidden in those documents? What scandal might have survived all these generations, quietly ticking away inside two locked chests? Caterina gave herself a mental shake and dismissed the idea. To think like this was to enter into the same world of paranoia in which the cousins seemed to live.

Before Dottor Moretti could thank her for agreeing, she held up a hand and said, “I want to make something clear.” He leaned forward, the very picture of attention. “I want to repeat that I am not a historian, so it might be necessary for me to spend time reading about the historical background in the Marciana to get some sense of what was going on when these documents were written. Is that understood?”

Dottor Moretti smiled. “Your letters of recommendation said you were an eager student and researcher, Dottoressa. I’m happy to see signs of it now.” His smile broadened. “Of course you can read. It will be of invaluable use, I hope, in helping you to put any events mentioned into their correct historical context.”

Roseanna broke in to say, “I doubt that they’ll like paying for historical context.” In response to Caterina’s glance, she said, “You’ve met them, they have blunt minds. They think in numbers and yes and no.” She looked across at Dottor Moretti.

“I think you’re right, Signora, that they won’t grasp the need to understand the background,” he said. Then to Caterina, “You’re a scholar. Of course you have to do the background reading, otherwise it makes no sense for you to read anything. They won’t like it, but I think I have sufficient influence with them to encourage them to allow it.” Then, after a pause, “I think it’s both essential and prudent that you do it.”