Donna Leon - Acqua Alta

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Acqua Alta

[Commissario Brunetti 05]

By Donna Leon

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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Dalla sua pace la mia dipende,

quel che a lei piace vita mi rende,

quel che le incresce morte mi d.

Sella sospira, sospiro anchio,

mia quellira, quel piantomio

e non ho bene sella non lha.

My peace depends upon hers:

what pleases her gives me life,

that which pains her gives me death.

If she sighs, I will sigh as well,

her anger and her sorrows are mine

and I have no joy unless she shares it.

Mozart, Don Giovanni

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Chapter One

Domestic tranquillity prevailed. Flavia Petrelli, the reigning diva of La Scala, stood in the warm kitchen and chopped onions. In separate heaps in front of her lay a pile of plum tomatoes, two cloves of garlic chopped into fine slices, and two plump-bottomed aubergines. She stood at the marble counter, bent over the vegetables, and she sang, filling the room with the golden tones of her soprano voice. Occasionally, she pushed at a lock of dark hair with the back of her wrist, but it was no sooner anchored behind her ear than it sprang loose and fell across her cheek.

At the other end of the vast room that took up much of the top floor of the fourteenth-century Venetian palazzo, its owner and Flavias lover, Brett Lynch, sprawled across a beige sofa, bare feet propped against the far arm, head resting on the other, following the score of I Puritani, the music of which blared out, neighbours be damned, from two tall speakers resting on mahogany pedestals. Music swelled up to fill the room, and the singing Elvira prepared to go mad for the second time. Eerily, two Elviras sang in the room: the first the one Flavia had recorded in London five months before and who now sang from the speakers; the second was the voice of the woman chopping the onions.

Occasionally, as she sang in perfect union with her own recorded voice, Flavia broke off to ask, Ouf, whoever said I had a middle register? or Is that a B flat the violins are supposed to be playing? After each interruption, her voice returned to the music, her hands to the chopping. To her left, a large frying-pan sat on a low flame, a pool of olive oil waiting for the first vegetables.

From four floors below, the doorbell rang. Ill get it, Brett said, placing the score face down on the floor and standing. Probably the Jehovahs Witnesses. They come on Sundays. Flavia nodded, brushed a strand of dark hair from her face with the back of her hand, and returned her attention to the onions and to Elviras delirium, in the midst of which she continued to sing.

Barefoot, glad of the warmth of the apartment on this late January afternoon, Brett walked across the beamed floor and out into the entrance hall, picked up the speakerphone that hung beside the front door, and asked, Chi?

A mans voice answered, speaking Italian, Were from the museum. With papers from Dottor Semenzato.

Strange that the director of the museum at the Doges Palace would send papers, especially on a Sunday, but perhaps he had been alarmed by the letter Brett had sent him from China though he certainly hadnt sounded that way earlier in the week and wanted something read before the appointment he had grudgingly given for Tuesday morning.

Bring them up, if you dont mind. Top floor. Brett replaced the phone and pressed the button that opened the door four floors down, then walked to the door and called to Flavia across the weeping violins, Someone from the museum. Papers.

Flavia nodded, picked up the first of the aubergines and sliced it in half, then, without missing a beat, returned to the serious business of losing her mind for love.

Brett went back towards the front door, paused to bend down and turn over the corner of a carpet, then opened the door to the apartment. Footsteps approached from below, and two men came into sight, pausing at the bottom of the final ramp of steps. There are only sixteen more, Brett said, smiling down at them in welcome, then, suddenly aware of the frigid air of the stairwell that edged in, covered one bare foot with the other.

They stood on the steps below and looked up towards the open door. The first one carried a large manila envelope. They paused for a moment before beginning the final flight and Brett smiled again, calling down encouragement: Forza.

The first one, short and fair-haired, smiled back and started up the last flight of steps. His companion, taller and darker, took a deep breath, then came up behind him. When the first man got to the door, he paused and waited for the other to join him.

Dottoressa Lynch? the blond one asked, pronouncing her last name in the Italian fashion.

Yes, she answered, stepping back from the door to allow them to enter.

Politely, both of them muttered, Permesso, as they stepped into the apartment. The first one, whose light hair was cut very close to his head and who had attractive dark eyes, held out the envelope. These are the papers, Dottoressa. As he handed them to her, he said, Dottor Semenzato asked that you look at them immediately. Very soft, very polite. The tall one smiled and turned away, his attention distracted by a mirror that hung to the left of the door.

She bent her head and began to open the flap of the envelope, which was held together with red sealing wax. The blond man stepped a bit closer to her, as if to take the envelope from her and help her open it, but suddenly he moved past her and grabbed her from behind by both arms, his grip fierce and tight.

The envelope fell, bounced off her bare feet, and landed between her and the second man. He brushed it aside with his foot, as if careful of its contents, and stepped up close in front of her. As he moved, the other one tightened his grip on her arms. The tall one brought his face down from his considerable height and said, voice low and very deep, You dont want to keep that appointment with Dottor Semenzato.

She felt anger before she felt fear, and she spoke out of the first. Let me go. And get out of here. She twisted sharply in an attempt to pull herself free of the mans grip, but he tightened his hands, pinning her arms to her sides.

Behind her, the music soared up and Flavias double voice filled the room. So perfectly did she sing the passage that no one could tell there were two voices, not one, that sang of pain and love and loss. Brett turned her face towards the music, but then by a conscious act of will stopped the motion and asked, turning back to the man in front of her, Who are you? What do you want?

His voice changed as did his face, both growing ugly. Dont ask questions, bitch.

Again, she tried to twist herself free, but it was impossible. Bracing her weight on one foot, she kicked backward with the other, but her bare heel had no effect on the man who held her.

From behind her, she heard the one who, held her say, All right. Do it.

She was turning her head to look at him when the first blow came, catching her in the centre of the stomach. The sudden, explosive pain pulled her forward with such force that she almost broke free from the man who held her, but he pulled her back and jerked her upright. The one in front of her hit her again, this time catching her below the left breast, and her response was the same, an involuntary motion that pulled her body forward to protect itself from this awful pain.

Then quickly, so quickly that she lost count of how many times he did it, he began to punch at her body, catching her repeatedly on the breast and ribs.