Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [56]
Ignoring them, Brunetti asked, ‘May I join you, Signora?’ and at her smile and wave, sat in the chair to her left, where no one had been seated. He smiled in return and said, ‘As you can well understand, Signora, her son is very troubled by this. You know how close they were.’
She raised her napkin, which Brunetti noticed was cloth and not paper, folded it to a clean patch, and made two dainty dabs at the corner of her left eye, then at the right. ‘It’s a terrible thing,’ she said. ‘But I suppose her son – he’s a doctor, isn’t he? – knew that she was not in good health.’ Her mouth turned down at the sides and she said, ‘It was a heart attack, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was. At least the poor woman didn’t suffer,’ he said, doing his best to use the voice of piety he remembered hearing in his youth.
‘Ah, thank God,’ she said. ‘At least for that.’ Unconsciously, she placed her palm against her chest again; this time the gesture had nothing artificial about it.
‘Her son told me that you were one of the people she mentioned frequently. And she said how much she enjoyed talking to you.’
‘Oh, how very flattering,’ Signora Cannata said. ‘Not that I have much to talk about. Well, perhaps, when I was younger and my husband was still alive. He was an accountant, you know, helped so many important people in the city.’
Brunetti put his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his right palm, ready to sit there all afternoon and listen to the story of her husband’s numerical triumphs. Signora Cannata did not disappoint: her husband had, during his working life, discovered a serious overpayment of tax for the owner of a shipping line, once helped a famous surgeon devise a private accounting system for foreign patients, and had also – though this whole business of computers was something he came to late in life – managed to design a computer system to do the complete billing and bookkeeping for his office.
Brunetti slipped into his most complimentary mode, nodding and smiling at every triumph she recounted, wondering how this woman could possibly have put anyone at risk, save herself from the violence of the people she bored.
‘And how long have you been a guest here, Signora?’ Brunetti asked.
Her smile grew more brittle as she said, ‘Oh, I realized a few years ago that I’d have much more freedom here. And be with people of my own age. Not with people of my son’s generation, or even younger. You know how it is, how insensitive they can be,’ she continued, widening her eyes to display honesty and open-hearted sincerity, to make no mention of human warmth to the point of excess. ‘Besides, people prefer the company of their peers, who have the same memories and history.’ She smiled, and Brunetti gave a nod so filled with agreement it served to shake him fully awake.
‘Well,’ he said, pushing himself with every sign of reluctance to his feet, ‘I don’t want to keep you any longer, Signora. You’ve been very generous with your time and I’m not sure how to thank you.’
‘Well,’ she said, putting on what she probably intended to be a flirtatious smile, ‘one way would be by coming back to talk to me again.’
‘Indeed, Signora,’ Brunetti said and extended his hand. She took it and held it for a long moment, and Brunetti felt himself sink towards compassion. ‘I’ll try to do that.’
Her look was so clear he realized neither of them was fooled one bit by what he said, but both of them decided to stay in role until they were finished with the scene. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she said, taking back her hand and folding it into the other in her lap.
Brunetti smiled. He knew he could not simply move to the other table and start talking to Signora Sartori, who appeared not to have moved since she had finished her cake. He left the room and went down the corridor towards the kitchen. One of the novices came out with a large tray