He marshalled all his bien pensant principles about social justice, equality, and human rights, but was left only with anger that any man could touch his daughter against her will. How close we are to the cave, he thought, but still his anger remained.
To rid himself of these thoughts he turned on his computer and, in the absence of any word from Signorina Elettra, put in the name of Contessa Demetriana Lando-Continui, then hit ENTER boldly, sending a wish off to the cybergods.
His prayer was answered with a long list of entries bearing her name, although he soon understood that the major portion of them were offers to provide the Contessa’s address and phone number and nothing else. Her photo appeared in a number of articles about dinners and parties given by Salva Serenissima. He studied the photos and thought he saw her in two of them, nestled amidst small groups of women of her age and, he assumed, social stature and wealth.
After three such articles, as well as repeated references to the Contessa on Facebook, he gave up and switched to reading that day’s papers. The experience was hardly more informative.
‘How about Salva Serenissima?’ he asked himself aloud and turned his attention to that organization. He found a long list of articles. There was no Wikipedia entry, but a Facebook page and a Twitter account were given as possible sources of information. Brunetti was not lured into consulting either one. He found a listing of the board of directors and spent some time studying it. There was the usual sprinkling of noble names, their titles dazzling forth from the screen: he particularly enjoyed reading the hyphenated surnames tumbling one after the other, like otters in a shallow pool. In the shadow cast by the noble titles huddled the commoners, some of whose names he recognized. One name towards the end of the list caught Brunetti’s eye because he had, more than once, been in the Questura when this man’s wife was brought in, accused of shoplifting.
‘Lookie, lookie,’ another name caused him to exclaim, having picked up the expression from Paola, who used it to proclaim surprise and delight. There was his old friend Leonardo, Marchese di Gamma Fede, who had been at university with Brunetti, then disappeared into the family textile business in Asia, remaining in intermittent touch over the years. Brunetti remembered the letters and cards Lolo had sent him during the years when the kids were interested in collecting stamps: enormous manila envelopes half covered with scores of brightly coloured stamps of very low denomination, but always more than enough to get the envelope, however slowly, to Italy. There had been a herd of elephants from India, near-fluorescent birds from Indonesia, and a mob of kangaroos from Australia. He still remembered them all, as did the kids.
Brunetti hadn’t heard from Lolo in more than a year, even though they now communicated by email. No stamps, alas. It delighted him to see Lolo’s name on the list, for it meant that he must be spending time in Venice; only after that did it occur to him to be glad of it for professional reasons. Lolo was not a fool, and Brunetti had always thought him to be an honest person. He made a mental note to contact Lolo.
He returned to his consideration of the list. One of the nobles on it had years ago rented an apartment to a friend of Brunetti’s, who had discovered only when he moved in that the elevator shaft also served as a conduit of smells from the Chinese restaurant on the ground floor. The smell from the elevator filled the landing in front of their door, but worse came from an exhaust shaft that ran past their bedroom and flooded it with the same odours. Giving in to the landlord’s threats of legal action should they break their contract by leaving, they had, in the end, been forced to pay three thousand euros to be quit of the place, and of him. Seeing this noble name on the ‘Honorary Board’ brought Brunetti a smile and a sense of the rightness of the world.
Alessandro Vittori-Ricciardi was listed among the members of the ‘Administrative Board’, whatever that was. He was in company with a count and a viscount as well as three lesser mortals.
It was only after Brunetti finished reading through the list a second time that he noticed that fewer than half of the names were Italian. Then he saw that some appeared on the list twice. He marvelled at the various categories into which they were divided, each group with a title. He recalled being at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, at a particularly tedious performance of something by Verdi; so many years had passed that he couldn’t now remember what the opera had been. During one of the intermissions, he had opened the programme and found the seemingly endless list of patrons: at least the Americans had the courage of their vulgarity and listed them according to how much they gave.