The Waters of Eternal Youth by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page A

possible, its cause. There was a disproportion between the importance of the decision he made and the speed with which he made it, but he chose to ignore this. He gave it little serious consideration, nor did he reflect on what it might require of him. An old woman was in need, and he reacted with as little thought as he would give to putting out a hand to prevent her falling down the stairs. His love for his mother had been unthinking, fierce, and protective, as was his love for his wife and his children: he really had no other choice, had he?
    He saw her reach for the bottle and felt his resolution pause or skip a beat. He had not agreed to anything, and there was still time to change his mind and say he could not help, but then she picked up the cap and screwed it back on to the bottle and set the bottle at the back of the tray.
    She seemed to have regained some strength and now resembled the confident host of last night’s dinner party, as though the confession of her futile wish had purged her of weak illusion. ‘I’m ­eighty-­six years old,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how many years I have left.’ She dismissed this with a shrug and went on. ‘Before I die, I want to know what happened. I know it won’t help Manuela and won’t give her a second chance to become the person she might have become. But I want to die in peace.’
    Brunetti didn’t move, didn’t speak, tried to give no evidence of anything save attention. He both wanted and needed to understand her.
    â€˜I told you suicide was impossible.’ She took two deep breaths. ‘But I’m not sure about that. I never really have been. Manuela had become a troubled girl; joy had fled her life. I don’t want to die thinking I have some responsibility for what she is now.’ Then she said, not at all melodramatic­ally but with calm certainty, ‘I need to know.’
    When it became evident to Brunetti that she was finished, he asked, ‘Do you know what was troubling her?’
    She looked at her hands, and he thought of the way his own children used to hang their heads when he had to reprove them. ‘Something had gone wrong in her life, but I don’t know what it was.’ She took a white handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and wiped at her nose but did not look up at him. ‘Her mother had noticed that she was moody and sad, but she thought it was normal for a girl her age.’ She glanced away, then back at him. ‘I suppose I wanted to believe that.’
    â€˜Is that all her mother told you?’ Brunetti asked.
    â€˜She asked me for money to pay for Manuela to see a psychologist.’ The Contessa cleared her throat and then said in a voice made sharp by remembered anger, ‘I told her that she could use the money she was paying for Manuela’s riding lessons to pay for the psychologist. Or sell the horse.’
    As though frightened by what she had said, the Contessa drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, waiting for her emotions to subside.
    Brunetti sat and waited for her and with her.
    â€˜I gave them the apartment in Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini, years ago, when they were still married. She kept it after the divorce.’ She spoke in a low, tight voice. ‘I made her a monthly payment. I paid her bills, and Manuela’s. I paid for the horse, the lessons, the stable, even the horse’s food. When her mother asked for more, something in me snapped and I refused.’ She looked at Brunetti, waiting for his response.
    â€˜I see,’ Brunetti said.
    â€˜After it happened, her mother told me that Manuela had got worse because she didn’t go to see someone.’ She paused, then volunteered, ‘Later I learned that my son had given her the money, but she never sent Manuela to see a psychologist.’
    Brunetti realized that she was not going to say any more, and so he asked, ‘Did you see her soon before the