Donna Leon - Death at La Fenice

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Death atLa Fenice

[CommissarioBrunetti 01]

By DonnaLeon

Scanned& Proofed By MadMaxAU

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Ah,signor, son rea di morte

Ela morte io sol vi chiedo;

Ilmio fallo tardi vedo;

Conquel ferro un sen ferite

Chenon merita piet.

Ah,sir, Im guilty to death

Andall I ask is death;

Toolate I see my sin.

Withyour sword pierce this breast,

Whichmerits no pity.

Cosi Fan Tutte

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CHAPTER ONE

The third gong, announcing that the opera was about tocontinue, sounded discreetly through the lobbies and bars of Teatro La Fenice.In response, the audience stabbed out cigarettes, finished drinks andconversations, and started to filter back into the theater. The hall, brightlylit between acts, hummed with the talk of those returning to their seats. Herea jewel flashed, there a mink cape was adjusted over a naked shoulder or aninfinitesimal speck of dust was flicked from a satin lapel. The upper galleriesfilled up first, followed by the orchestra seats and then the three rows ofboxes.

The lights dimmed, thehall grew dark, and the tension created by an ongoing performance mounted asthe audience waited for the conductor to reappear on the podium. Slowly the humof voices faded, the members of the orchestra stopped fidgeting in their seats,and the universal silence announced everyones readiness for the third andfinal act.

The silence lengthened,grew heavy. From the first gallery, there came a burst of coughing; someonedropped a book, perhaps a purse; but the door to the corridor behind theorchestra pit remained closed.

The first to talk werethe players in the orchestra. A second violinist leaned over to the woman nextto him and asked if she had made her vacation plans. In the second row, abassoonist told an oboist that the Benetton sales were starting next day. Thepeople in the first tiers of boxes, who could best see the musicians, soonimitated their soft chatter. The galleries joined in, and then those in theorchestra seats, as though the wealthy would be the last to give in to thissort of behavior.

The hum grew to a murmur.Minutes passed. Suddenly the folds of the dense green velvet curtain werepulled back and Aamdeo Fasini, the theaters artistic director, steppedawkwardly through the narrow opening. The technician in the light box above thesecond gallery, with no idea of what was going on, decided to center a hotwhite spot on the man at center stage. Blinded, Fasini shot up his arm toshield his eyes. Still holding his arm raised in front of him, as if to protecthimself from a blow, he began to speak: Ladies and gentlemen, and then hestopped, gesturing wildly with his left hand to the technician, who, realizinghis error, switched off the light. Released from his temporary blindness, theman on the stage started again. Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform youthat Maestro Wellauer is unable to continue the performance. Whispers,questions, rose from the audience, silk rustled as heads turned, but hecontinued to speak above the noise. His place will be taken by Maestro Longhi.Before the hum could rise to drown him out, he asked, voice insistently calm, Isthere a doctor in the audience?

His question met a longpause, then people began to look around them: who would be the one to presenthimself? Almost a full minute passed. Finally, a hand rose slowly in one of thefirst rows of the orchestra, and a woman got out of her seat. Fasini waved ahand to one of the uniformed ushers at the back of the house, and the young manhurried to the end of the row where the woman now stood. If you would,Dottoressa, Fasini said, sounding as if he were in pain and needed the doctorfor himself. Please go backstage with the usher.

He glanced up into thehorseshoe of the still-darkened hall, tried to smile, failed, and abandoned theattempt. Excuse, ladies and gentlemen, the difficulty. The opera will nowcontinue.

Turning, the artisticdirector fumbled at the curtain, unable for a moment to find the openingthrough which he had come. Disembodied hands parted the curtain from behind,and he slipped through, finding himself in the bare garret where Violetta wassoon to die. From out in front, he heard the tentative applause that greetedthe substitute conductor as he took his place on the podium.

Singers, chorus members,stagehands appeared from all around him, as curious as the audience had beenbut far more vocal. Though the power of his position usually protected him fromcontact with members of the company as low in standing as these, the directorcould not now avoid them, their questions, their whispers. Its nothing,nothing, he said to no one in particular, then he waved at them all, trying toclear them, with that gesture, from the stage upon which they flocked. Themusic of the prelude was drawing to a close; soon the curtain would open on theevenings Violetta, who now sat nervously on the edge of the cot at the centerof the stage. Fasini redoubled the intensity of his gestures, and singers andstagehands began to move off to the wings, where they continued to whisperamong themselves. He snarled a furious Silenzio and waited for it totake effect. When he saw the curtains inching apart to reveal the stage, hehurried to join the stage manager, who stood off to stage right, beside thedoctor. A short, dark woman, she stood directly under a No Smoking sign, withan unlighted cigarette in her hand.

Good evening, Doctor,Fasini said, forcing himself to smile. She dropped the cigarette into thepocket of her jacket and shook his hand. What is it? she finally asked as,from behind them, Violetta began to read the letter from Germont p re.

Fasini rubbed his handstogether briskly, as if the gesture would help him decide what to say. MaestroWellauer has been... he began, but he found no satisfactory way to finishthe sentence.

Is he sick? asked thedoctor impatiently.

No, no, hes not sick,Fasini said, and then words left him. He returned to rubbing his handstogether.

Perhaps I had better seehim, she said, making it a question. Is he here in the theater?

When Fasini continuedincapable of speech, she asked, Has he been taken somewhere else?

This prodded thedirector. No, no. Hes in the dressing room.

Then hadnt we better gothere?

Yes, of course, Doctor,he agreed, glad of the suggestion. He led her off to the right, past a grandpiano and a harp draped with a dull green dust cover, down a narrow corridor.He stopped at the end, before a closed door. A tall man stood in front of it.

Matteo, Fasini began,turning back toward the doctor. This is Doctor

Zorzi, she suppliedcurtly. This hardly seemed a time for formal introductions.

At the arrival of hissuperior and someone he was told was a doctor, Matteo, the assistant stagemanager, was all too eager to step away from the door. Fasini moved past him,pulled the door half open, looked back over his shoulder, then allowed thedoctor to precede him into the small room.

Death had distorted thefeatures of the man who was slumped across the easy chair at the center of theroom. His eyes stared out at nothingness; his lips were pulled back in a fiercegrimace. His body canted heavily to one side, head thrust against the chairback. A trail of dark liquid stained the starched and gleaming front of hisshirt. For a moment, the doctor thought it was blood. She took a step closerand smelled, rather than saw, that it was coffee. The scent that mingled withthe coffee was equally distinctive, the cutting, sour almond smell she had onlyread about.

She had seen so much ofdeath that it was unnecessary for her to try to find his pulse, but she didplace the fingers of her right hand under his upraised chin. Nothing, but shenoticed that the skin was still warm. She stepped back from the body and lookedaround. On the floor in front of him were a small saucer and the cup that hadheld the coffee that trailed down the front of his shirt. She knelt and placedthe back of her fingers against the side of the cup, but it was cold to thetouch.