platter in the middle of the table, covered with a seafood antipasto sufficient to sate the appetites of the people at the table, in the kitchen, and probably in the adjoining palazzi as well.
The conversation was the normal talk of families: children, relatives, mutual friends, ailments – there was more of that with each passing year – and then on to the condition of the world, which they all agreed was dire.
Later, when the maid was removing the plates that had held gnocchi di patate con ragù, Paola asked, ‘Did you tell Papà about the library?’
The Conte answered, ‘Yes, he did. It’s starting here now, as well.’ He shrugged and took a drink of mineral water. None of them found it necessary to mention the Girolamini Library in Naples, one of the most illustrious in the country, which had been subject to the depredations of its own director, now in prison. Because the catalogue of holdings, such as existed, was believed to have been altered, there was no way to know what was missing: estimates ranged from 2,000 to 4,000 volumes, some of which had surfaced in Munich, Tokyo, in the shops of respectable book dealers and in the libraries of politicians who, of course, expressed astonishment at the presence of those volumes. In MY library? Heavily laden cars were reported to have been seen driving out of the library’s courtyard in the night, groaning under their weight of paper. How many volumes were missing? Who knew? Manuscripts, incunabula, gone, gone, gone.
‘Friends of mine have had things stolen from their libraries,’ the Conte interrupted his own reverie by saying.
‘May I ask … ?’ Brunetti said and immediately regretted having spoken.
The Conte looked at him and smiled. ‘I think they’d be happier if you didn’t know their names, Guido.’
Of course, of course: no one wanted the authorities to know what was in their homes. What happened if and when the government slapped a tax on private possessions? If they could reimpose a tax on your house, or houses, what was to stop them from putting a tax on what was in them?
‘They didn’t report it?’ Brunetti inquired.
The Conte’s smile was indulgent, but he did not bother to answer.
‘At least I stopped the man who was doing it at the university,’ boasted a self-satisfied Paola.
No one commented on this. None of them had wanted dessert, so they were drinking coffee while waiting to see what would appear in response to the Conte’s request for ‘ una grappina ’.
To break the silence that still lingered after Paola’s remark, Brunetti turned to his mother-in-law and said, ‘Contessa Morosini-Albani’s a patron of the Merula, so she’ll have to be told about the thefts. How do you think she’ll react?’
‘Patron? Elisabetta?’ the Contessa repeated. ‘How remarkable.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Elisabetta can be so tight-fisted at times, you’d think she was born here,’ she said, and Brunetti marvelled that Paola’s father let his wife loose among his Venetian friends. In a more reflective, sadder, voice, his mother-in-law continued, ‘She’s mad to be accepted into society, so perhaps being a patron of something is one of the prices she’s willing to pay.’
‘If she’s been here, with you,’ Brunetti said, waving toward a Moroni portrait of one of the Conte’s ancestors, ‘then she’s accepted into society, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, she’s here because she’s one of my oldest friends,’ the Contessa said with a warm smile. ‘But most people won’t have her.’
‘But you do?’
‘Of course. She was very good to me when we were at school together. She’s two years older than I, and she protected me. And so I try to do the same now, where I can and when I can.’ She thought for a moment, placed her coffee cup to the side and said, ‘I never thought about it before, but it’s much the same situation. I was an outsider,and the older girls, the richer girls, bullied me terribly for that. Once
The conversation was the normal talk of families: children, relatives, mutual friends, ailments – there was more of that with each passing year – and then on to the condition of the world, which they all agreed was dire.
Later, when the maid was removing the plates that had held gnocchi di patate con ragù, Paola asked, ‘Did you tell Papà about the library?’
The Conte answered, ‘Yes, he did. It’s starting here now, as well.’ He shrugged and took a drink of mineral water. None of them found it necessary to mention the Girolamini Library in Naples, one of the most illustrious in the country, which had been subject to the depredations of its own director, now in prison. Because the catalogue of holdings, such as existed, was believed to have been altered, there was no way to know what was missing: estimates ranged from 2,000 to 4,000 volumes, some of which had surfaced in Munich, Tokyo, in the shops of respectable book dealers and in the libraries of politicians who, of course, expressed astonishment at the presence of those volumes. In MY library? Heavily laden cars were reported to have been seen driving out of the library’s courtyard in the night, groaning under their weight of paper. How many volumes were missing? Who knew? Manuscripts, incunabula, gone, gone, gone.
‘Friends of mine have had things stolen from their libraries,’ the Conte interrupted his own reverie by saying.
‘May I ask … ?’ Brunetti said and immediately regretted having spoken.
The Conte looked at him and smiled. ‘I think they’d be happier if you didn’t know their names, Guido.’
Of course, of course: no one wanted the authorities to know what was in their homes. What happened if and when the government slapped a tax on private possessions? If they could reimpose a tax on your house, or houses, what was to stop them from putting a tax on what was in them?
‘They didn’t report it?’ Brunetti inquired.
The Conte’s smile was indulgent, but he did not bother to answer.
‘At least I stopped the man who was doing it at the university,’ boasted a self-satisfied Paola.
No one commented on this. None of them had wanted dessert, so they were drinking coffee while waiting to see what would appear in response to the Conte’s request for ‘ una grappina ’.
To break the silence that still lingered after Paola’s remark, Brunetti turned to his mother-in-law and said, ‘Contessa Morosini-Albani’s a patron of the Merula, so she’ll have to be told about the thefts. How do you think she’ll react?’
‘Patron? Elisabetta?’ the Contessa repeated. ‘How remarkable.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Elisabetta can be so tight-fisted at times, you’d think she was born here,’ she said, and Brunetti marvelled that Paola’s father let his wife loose among his Venetian friends. In a more reflective, sadder, voice, his mother-in-law continued, ‘She’s mad to be accepted into society, so perhaps being a patron of something is one of the prices she’s willing to pay.’
‘If she’s been here, with you,’ Brunetti said, waving toward a Moroni portrait of one of the Conte’s ancestors, ‘then she’s accepted into society, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, she’s here because she’s one of my oldest friends,’ the Contessa said with a warm smile. ‘But most people won’t have her.’
‘But you do?’
‘Of course. She was very good to me when we were at school together. She’s two years older than I, and she protected me. And so I try to do the same now, where I can and when I can.’ She thought for a moment, placed her coffee cup to the side and said, ‘I never thought about it before, but it’s much the same situation. I was an outsider,and the older girls, the richer girls, bullied me terribly for that. Once
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