that Brunetti could not hear. She smiled and gave her attention to him, and she continued speaking to him until the dessert – a cream cake so rich as to atone fully for any lack of meat – was finished and the plates had been taken away. Brunetti, called back to the conventions of social intercourse, devoted his attention to the wife of Avvocato Rocchetto, who informed him of the latest scandals involving the administration of Teatro La Fenice.
‘. . . finally decided not to bother to renew our abbonamento. It’s all so terribly second-rate, and they will insist on doing all that wretched French and German rubbish,’ she said, almost quivering with disapproval. ‘It’s no different from a minor theatre in some tiny provincial French town,’ she concluded, sweeping the theatre to oblivion with a wave of her hand and taking French provincial life along with it. Brunetti reflected upon Jane Austen’s suggestion that a character ‘save his breath to cool his tea’, and thus resisted the temptation to observe that Teatro la Fenice was, after all, a minor theatre in a tiny provincial Italian town and so no great things should be expected of it.
Coffee came, and then a waiter moved around the table pushing a wheeled tray covered with bottles of grappa and various digestive. Brunetti asked for a Domenis, which did not disappoint. He turned in Paola’s direction to ask her if she wanted a sip of his grappa, but she was listening to something Cataldo was saying to her father. She had her chin propped on her palm, the face of her watch towards Brunetti, and so he saw that it was well after midnight. Slowly, he slid his foot along the floor until it came up against something hard but not as solid as the leg of a chair. He gave it two slight taps.
Not more than a minute later, Paola glanced at her watch and said, ‘Oddio, I’ve got a student coming to my office at nine, and I haven’t even read his paper yet.’ She leaned forward and said down the table to her mother, ‘It seems I spend my life either doing my homework or having to read someone else’s.’
‘And never getting it done on time,’ the Conte added, but with affection and resignation, making it clear that he was not speaking in reproach.
‘Perhaps we should think about going home, as well, caro?’ Cataldo’s wife said, smiling at him.
Cataldo nodded and got to his feet. He moved behind his wife and pulled her chair back as she rose. He turned to the Conte. ‘Thank you, Signor Conte,’ he said with a small inclination of his head. ‘It was very kind of you and your wife to invite us. And doubly so because we had a chance to meet your family.’ He smiled in Paola’s direction.
Napkins were dropped on to the table, and Avvocato Rocchetto said something about needing to stretch his legs. When the Conte asked Franca Marinello if they would like him to have them taken home in his boat, Cataldo explained that his own would be waiting at the porta d’acqua. ‘I don’t mind walking one way, but in this cold, and late at night, I prefer going home in the launch,’ he said.
In staggered pairs, they made their way back through the salone, from which had already vanished all sign of the drinks that had been served there, and towards the front hall, where two of the evening’s servants helped them into their coats. Brunetti glanced aside and said softly to Paola, ‘And people say it’s hard to find good staff these days.’ She grinned but someone on his other side let out an involuntary snort of laughter. When he turned, he saw only Franca Marinello’s impassive face.
In the courtyard, the group exchanged polite farewells: Cataldo and his wife were led towards the porta d’ acqua and their boat; Rocchetto and his wife lived only three doors away; and the other couple turned in the direction of the Accademia, having laughed off Paola’s suggestion that she and Brunetti walk them to their home.
Arm in arm, Brunetti and Paola turned towards home. As they passed the entrance to the university, Brunetti asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
Paola stopped and looked him in the eye. Instead of answering, she asked, coolly, ‘And what, pray tell, was that all about?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Brunetti answered, stalling.
‘You beg my pardon because you don’t understand my question, or you beg my pardon because you