The Jewels of Paradise by Donna Leon Page B

happened?”
    “I threatened to tell his wife he was having an affair with one of my colleagues.”
    Instead of laughing, which would have been her normal response, she asked, “Would you have done it?”
    Ezio shook his head. “I don’t know, really. Maybe.”
    “But he gave in?”
    “Yes. He said we could keep them, but we weren’t to let anyone use them. The bulletin he sent said that the catalogue was to be fully computerized and the only access to the collection was to be via the computer.” Ezio made a gesture that looked suspiciously like spitting on the floor. “He told us to do it, and then he cut our funding. So there’s no money.”
    “And the computer catalogue?”
    He paused, smiled, changed roles, and became any diplomat when asked a direct question. “It’s being worked on.”
    “And your superior?” she inquired.
    Again, the gesture. “He’s been reassigned to a provincial library.” Before she could ask, Ezio explained: “It seems three of the last people he hired were relatives of his wife.”
    “Where is he working now?”
    “Quarto d’Altino.” He smiled. “It’s rather a small library.”
    As so often happened when Caterina heard the tales told by friends or colleagues who had remained to work in Italy, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
    She set her bag on one of the tables at the center of the room and opened it to take out notebook and pencil. When he saw her do this, Ezio said, “I’ll go get you your entrance card.” He pointed to an empty carrel that stood between two of the windows. “You can use that one if you want. Leave the books there while you’re using them. When you’re finished with them, put them on the desk near the door over there,” he said, pointing to the desk, “and they’ll be reshelved.”
    She nodded her thanks. Ezio said, “This might take some time,” and left.
    Caterina went over to the window and looked down at the Piazza. People passed to and fro, no one much bothering to look to the sides of the Piazza. Everyone entering was intent on the facade of the Basilica, as Caterina thought they should be, and those leaving often turned around to have another glimpse of it from a distance, as if needing to assure themselves that it was not an illusion. To her right, the flags flapped in the freshness of springtime and she relaxed into the ridiculous beauty of the place.
    Turning from this, she went to the catalogue and found the drawer that ran from Sc to St . From Scarlatti to Strozzi, which would also contain Stradella and Steffani. Under “Steffani,” she found entries in many different handwritings and just as many different spellings of his name. She also found a cross reference to “Gregorio Piva,” which a feathery note on the card explained was the pseudonym Steffani used for the musical compositions of his later years. She retrieved her notebook and wrote down the call numbers for the books that looked like biographies of Steffani or might be more concerned with his life than with his music, then went to the shelves and began to hunt for the volumes.
    By the time Ezio came back, more than an hour later, Caterina was sitting in the carrel with about forty centimeters of books lined up on the shelf in front of her. She turned when she heard him come in, keeping her finger in the book she was reading. He placed the card on the open page, bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek, and, saying nothing, left the room. Caterina put the card in the pocket of her jacket and went back to reading.
    The habits of the scholar had dominated Caterina’s selection. First check the publisher to see how serious the book was likely to be, and then a quick check for footnotes and bibliography. Anything that appeared to be self-published or that lacked notes or bibliography, she left on the shelves. What scholars were thanked in the acknowledgments? The culling process had taken some time, leaving her delighted that so much had been written about