Brunetti thus sat next to his mother-in-law and opposite his wife. He suspected this placement was somehow in violation of the rules of etiquette, but his relief at being near them put paid to his concern for politesse. On his left sat the banker’s companion, a woman who turned out to be a Professor of Law at Oxford, then a man Brunetti had seen on the streets over the years, and last, a German journalist who had lived in the city for years and who had arrived at a point of such cynicism as almost to make him an Italian.
Brunetti glanced back and forth between the two contessas and was struck, as he ever was when seeing them together, by what odd pairings life makes for us. Contessa Falier had inherited the other Contessa when the latter became a widow. Although they had been friends for years, the bond between them had grown stronger upon the death of Conte Lando-Continui, and they had passed from being fast friends to being true friends, a fact Brunetti pondered each time he met the second Contessa, so different was the sobriety of her person from that of his mother-in-law. Contessa Lando-Continui had always been polite to him, at times even warm, but he had always wondered if he were being treated as an appendage of his wife and mother-in-law. Did most wives feel this way? he wondered.
‘I repeat,’ Contessa Lando-Continui resumed, and Brunetti returned his full attention to her. While she was gathering her breath to fulfil that promise, she was interrupted by a flourish of the hand of the second man to her right, the one Brunetti had vaguely recognized. Dark-haired, somewhere close to forty, and with a beard and moustache much influenced by the style of the last Russian Tsar, he interjected, speaking loudly into the pause his gesture had created.
‘My dear Contessa,’ he said, getting slowly to his feet, ‘we’re all guilty of encouraging the tourists to come, even you.’ The Contessa turned towards him, apparently confused by this rare conjunction of the words ‘guilty’ and ‘you’, and perhaps nervous that this person might know some way they might legitimately be conjoined. She placed both hands, palms down and beginning to tighten, on either side of her plate, as if prepared to pull the tablecloth to the floor should the conversation veer towards that conjunction.
A confused hush fell on the table. The man smiled in her direction and entered the gap created by her silence. He was speaking in English in deference to the majority of the people at the table, over whom he swept his eyes. ‘For, as you all know, the largesse of our hostess in aiding the restoration of many monuments in the city has preserved much of the beauty of Venice and thus added without measure to its desirability as a destination for those who love it and appreciate its wonders.’ He looked around and smiled at his audience.
Because he was standing near to her and spoke clearly, the Contessa could not have missed the word ‘largesse’, at the sound of which her expression softened and she released her death grip on the tablecloth. She raised one hand, palm forward, in his direction, as if hoping to stop all and any praise. But, Brunetti reflected, the voice of truth was not to be gainsaid, and so the man took his glass and raised it in the air. Had he memorized his speech, Brunetti wondered, so easily had it flowed.
Then, leaning forward and seeing that the man was thick of body, Brunetti remembered he’d been introduced to him at a meeting of the Circolo Italo-Britannico some years ago. That would explain his ease with English. A small photo of his bearded face had appeared in an article in the Gazzettino a few weeks ago, reporting that he’d been appointed by the Fine Arts Commission to lead a survey of the carved marble wall plaques in the city. Brunetti had read the article because there were five such plaques over the door of Palazzo Falier.
‘My friends, and friends of La Serenissima,’ he went on, his smile growing warmer, ‘I would like to take the liberty to toast our hostess, Contessa Demetriana Lando-Continui, and I would like to thank her, personally as a Venetian and professionally as someone working to preserve the city, for what she has done to protect the future of my city.’ He looked towards the Contessa, smiled and added, ‘Our city.’ Then, raising his free hand to encompass the others and forestall any feeling that he had excluded the non-Venetians, he broadened his smile. ‘Your city. For you have taken Venice into your hearts and into your dreams and thus have become, along with us, Veneziani.’ This last was followed by applause that went on so long he finally had to set down his glass in order to raise both hands to push back the fervour of their response.
Brunetti wished he’d been seated beside Paola, for he wanted to ask her if they were in danger of being propelled into charm-shock; a quick glance in her direction showed him that she shared his concern.