When silence returned, the man went on, now speaking directly to the Contessa, ‘Please know that we members of Salva Serenissima are deeply grateful for your leadership in our efforts to see that the living fabric of this city that we love can remain an integral, inspiring part of our lives and hopes.’ He raised his glass again, but this time he waved it in an all-inclusive circle of praise.
The banker and his companion rose to their feet, as at the end of a particularly moving performance, but when they noticed that the others at the table remained in their chairs, the banker smoothed out a wrinkle in the knee of his trousers and sat down, while she carefully tucked her skirt under her, as if that were why she had risen to her feet.
Salva Serenissima, Brunetti thought, understanding the man’s connection to the Contessa. But before he could try to work out just what the speaker might be doing for the organization, a deep male voice boomed out in English, ‘Hear, hear,’ quite as if this were the House of Lords and His Lordship needed to express his approval. Brunetti put on a smile and joined the others in toasting, though he did not follow through by drinking. His eyes went back to Paola, now in three-quarter profile as she stared down the table to her mother’s friend. As if sensing his attention, Paola turned her head towards him and allowed her eyes to close and then open slowly, as though she’d been told that the Crucifixion had only just begun and there still remained a number of nails.
The man who had spoken, apparently having exhausted his store of praise, sat down and returned to his now-cold dinner. Contessa Lando-Continui did the same. The others attempted to resume their varied conversations. Within minutes the dinner continued to the tinkle of silver voices and silver cutlery.
Brunetti turned to his mother-in-law and found that the Border Collie had been called off, leaving behind a somnolent poodle, highly decorative but bored and inattentive. Contessa Falier, seeing that Paola was busy talking to the banker, set down her fork and moved back in her chair. Brunetti noticed that the woman on his left was busy speaking to the man who had proposed a toast to Contessa Lando-Continui, so he returned his attention to his mother-in-law, a woman whose opinions often surprised him, as did the far-flung sources she consulted in forming them.
Their talk veered to that week’s stories about the vast MOSE engineering project that was meant to protect the city from the danger of the advancing tides. Like many residents of the city, both of them had thought from the very beginning that the whole thing stank: everything that had happened in the last three decades had only increased the odour. Brunetti had heard and read too much to have any hope that the elaborate and pharaonically expensive system of enormous metal barriers intended to block the waters of the sea from entering the laguna would ever actually work. The only certainty was that the maintenance costs would increase every year. The ongoing investigation of the missing millions, perhaps wildly more, was chiefly in the hands of the Guardia di Finanza: the local police knew little more than what was printed in the papers.
At the first revelations of the depth and breadth of the pillaging of European money, the city authorities had grown red-faced with outrage that quickly turned to embarrassment as one high official first claimed his innocence, only to concede that perhaps some of the money intended for the MOSE project had indeed found its way to his election campaign. But, he insisted, he had never touched a euro of it for his personal use, apparently of the belief that buying an election was less reprehensible than buying a Brioni suit.
After a brief flirtation with indignation, Brunetti’s native good sense had asserted itself and he had dismissed disgust as an inappropriate response. Better to think like a Neapolitan and view it all as theatre, as farce, as our leaders at play, doing what they do best.
He felt the moment when both of them tired of the subject. ‘You’ve known her for ever, haven’t you?’ Brunetti asked, giving a quick glance to the head of the table, where Contessa Lando-Continui was speaking to the German journalist.
‘Since I got to Venice,’ she said. ‘Years ago.’ Brunetti wasn’t sure how pleased she sounded at that; she had never, in all these years, revealed very much about her feelings for the city for which she had left her native Florence, beyond her love of her family.
‘She can be the worst sort of battleaxe, I know, but she can also be generous and kind.’ Contessa Falier nodded in affirmation of what she had just said and added, ‘I’m afraid most people don’t see it. But then, poor thing, she doesn’t see many people.’
Contessa Falier glanced around the table before adding, in a quiet voice, ‘This is an exception. She’ll host these dinners with potential sponsors, but she doesn’t like to do it.’
‘Then why do it? Surely they must have an office for fund-raising.’
‘Because everyone loves a lord,’ she answered, lapsing into English.
‘Meaning?’
‘She’s a contessa, so people want to say they’ve eaten at her table.’
‘In this case,’ he said, glancing around the familiar dining room, ‘it’s not even her table, is it?’