Falling in Love by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page A

arrival of Flavia Petrelli, who was shown into the room by the maid. She seemed less tired than she had been the other night and smiled warmly at them all as she entered. The Count was instantly on his feet and moving towards her. ‘Ah, Signora Petrelli, you have no idea how delighted I am you could come.’ He took her hand and bent to kiss the air a few milli-metres above it, then linked his arm in hers to lead her towards the others, quite as proud as a hunter who’d bagged a plump pheasant to bring home for dinner.
    Brunetti got to his feet at their approach but contented himself with shaking her hand and saying what a pleasure it was to see her again. Paola stood, as well, and permitted herself the liberty of exchanging kisses with Flavia. The Contessa remained seated but patted the cushion next to her and asked Signora Petrelli to sit beside her. When Flavia was seated, the Contessa told her she had admired her singing since hearing her debut at La Fenice as Zerlina. The fact that she did not mention the year of that debut reminded Brunetti that the Contessa’s family had contributed a large number of diplomats to both the Vatican and the Italian state.
    ‘That was a lovely production, wasn’t it?’ Flavia asked, a question which led to a discussion of the dramaturgy, the sets and staging, and to the quality of the other singers in the cast. Brunetti noted that she never referred to her own performance and seemed not to have the desire, nor the necessity, to summon up praise for it. He remembered the scene-stealing woman he’d encountered years before and wondered where she had gone, or whether this quiet conversation was merely another example of the remarkable acting skill he had seen in the past.
    The Conte handed Flavia a glass of prosecco and took a seat opposite her, leaving it to his wife to engage the singer in reminiscing about a performance he had not seen. When the conversation moved closer in time to the Tosca , he said he’d already ordered tickets for the last performance because their plans had changed and they would stay only briefly in London.
    ‘If it happens,’ Flavia said to universal confusion.
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ the Conte said.
    ‘There’s talk of a strike for the last two performances. The usual story: a contract hasn’t been renewed, so they say they won’t work.’ Before they could give voice to their surprise, she held up calming hands and said, ‘Only the stage crew, and it’s unlikely anyone else will join them. So even if they do strike, we can still stand on the stage and sing.’
    The maid appeared to tell them that dinner was ready. The Conte stood and offered his arm to Flavia; Brunetti took his mother-in-law’s arm, and then, in a shocking breach of etiquette, pulled Paola up by one hand and, still holding it, took both women into the dining room, all of them leaving behind talk of the possible strike.
    Brunetti ended up opposite the singer, who continued speaking to the Contessa, their topic having moved to Flavia’s impression of the city, she having been away from it for a long time.
    As the maid served involtini with the first green asparagus of the season, Flavia looked around at the faces at the table. ‘You’re all Venetian,’ she said, ‘so perhaps I should keep my opinion to myself.’
    A silence fell. Brunetti used the pause and the way the people at the table dedicated themselves to their food to study Flavia’s face. His original assessment was wrong: far from being relaxed, she bristled with tension. She had eaten little, he noticed, nor had she touched her wine. He remembered how deeply he had been struck, years ago, by the beauty of her speaking voice, not only the tone but the fluidity with which she moved from phrase to phrase, each word pronounced clearly, distinct from the others. This evening, she had occasionally stumbled over words and once had not completed a sentence but seemed to have forgotten what she was saying. The tone,