It was two and she was hungry and she was bored to the point of pain, something that had rarely happened during past research. It was all so futile, trying to find some indication of where Steffani might have left treasure, only so his greedy descendants could fight over it. Better to go out and find more novels like the one owned by d’Annunzio and sit reading them until the end of the month, producing inventive reports and translations of the papers she did not read. Perhaps she could use the plots of the novels as sources for her summaries of the unread papers? Perhaps she could go and get something to eat?
She carefully locked the papers away, then locked the door to the office and the door at the bottom of the steps. She went down to Roseanna’s office and found the door open; it had been closed when she came in and had remained so when she knocked on it. So Roseanna had been in and had not come up to check on her. Good or bad?
She left the building and locked the door. During the time she had been inside, the day had turned to glory. The sun beat down, and she was quickly warm, and then so hot she had to remove her jacket. She decided to walk to the Piazza, if only to have the chance to look across at San Giorgio and up the Grand Canal. As to lunch, God would surely provide.
She cut out to the Riva, turned right and walked toward the Piazza, eyes always pulled to her left by the excess on display. There were more boats moored to the side of San Giorgio than she remembered, but everything else was the same. Remove the vaporetti and the other motor-driven boats, and it would look much the same as it had centuries ago. As it had in Steffani’s day, she told herself and liked the thought.
Arrived at the Piazza she stopped and looked around: Basilica, tower, Marciana, columns, flags, clock. The ridiculous beauty of it all moved her close to tears. This was normal for her; this was one of her childhood playgrounds; this was home. She crossed in front of the Basilica, thinking she’d go back toward Rialto, but the crowds coming toward her down the Merceria frightened her, and she turned right past the leoncini and headed back, feeling abandoned by God, toward San Zaccaria.
Halfway to the end of the Basilica, she glanced into one of the numerous glass shops to the left and saw, sitting in a chair behind the cash register, reading a newspaper on the counter in front of him, the man who had followed her the other night. She missed a step but kept moving forward and regained her balance. There had been no doubt about it, no hesitation before she recognized him: it was the same man. She continued walking. It was only when she was long past the window that she turned back and noted the name of the shop.
It provided scant comfort to know he was not a paid killer; seeing him had still been a shock. She might not know who he was, but finding out would not be difficult. She could ask Clara or Cinzia to help. They could take one of their kids to render themselves even more innocent and start talking to him in Veneziano. Clara would be better, for her radiant happiness would pull secrets from anyone. Caterina’s thoughts turned to Clara’s husband, Sergio, who weighed just short of a hundred kilos and stood almost two meters tall. He was a far better choice of visitor.
Immeasurably cheered, she continued down toward San Filippo e Giacomo and turned off to go and have three of the small pizzas, two for lunch, and one to celebrate her discovery of the man who had followed her.
Twenty-four
SHE RETURNED TO THE FOUNDATION AND FOUND ROSEANNA IN her office, sitting at her desk, reading, and looking quite the acting director of the Fondazione Musicale Italo-Tedesca. So fond of her had Caterina become in these days and so accustomed to seeing her that her hairstyle now seemed carefully executed and eye-catching.
“What are you reading?” Caterina asked as she came in.
Roseanna looked up and smiled in greeting. “A book about psychoactive medicine.”
“I beg your pardon,” Caterina said. “Why that?” Few subjects could seem farther from the business of the Foundation.
“My best friend’s been diagnosed with depression, and her doctor wants her to start taking these things.” From the harsh tone Roseanna used, Caterina was left in no doubt about her thoughts on the subject.
“And you disagree?”
Roseanna set the book facedown on the desk. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree, Caterina. I don’t have any medical or pharmacological training, so some of what I read I don’t even understand.”
“And the book?” Caterina asked.
Shrug-smile. “We’ve been friends since school, best friends, and she asked me what I thought she should do. So I thought I’d read about it, both sides, and see if I could make any sense of it.”
“Have you learned anything?”
“Not to trust statistics or numbers or the published results of experiments,” Roseanna said instantly, then added, “Not that I ever did. Well, not much.”
“Why?”
“Because the people who make drugs don’t have to publish the bad results, only the good ones, and medicines are usually tested against a placebo, not against another medicine.” She patted the back of the book affectionately. “This writer makes the observation that it’s not hard to make a medicine that is more effective than a sugar pill.” Her eyes went into half focus for a moment, and then she said, “I’ve never smoked, but I’ve seen how my friends who are smokers seem to relax as soon as they light a cigarette. So you could run a test and show that smoking a cigarette is an excellent way to reduce stress.”
“Better than a sugar pill?” Caterina asked.
“I’d say so.” Then, as if suddenly aware of how far afield this conversation was from their common interest, she asked, “I thought you had gone to the Marciana.”
Caterina shook the suggestion away. “No, I’m going to read through the papers, at least those in the first trunk, before I go to the library again.” She paused and then added, “I can’t make up my mind about him.”
“Because he was a priest?”
“No, not that. It’s because I don’t have any idea what he wanted. Usually we can tell that—what a person most wants—if we’ve been around him for a while or read about him. But, with Steffani, I just don’t know. Did he so desperately need to be accepted as an equal by the people he worked for? Did he really want to save the Church? He writes about his music and the pleasure he takes in writing it, but there’s no compelling desire to be famous for it, to be thought a great composer. It’s obvious that he loved it and loved composing it, but . . . but he gave it up so easily. If it were his compelling passion, he couldn’t have done that. Just stop, I mean.”
Caterina saw no reason why she couldn’t tell Roseanna what she had learned, or thought she had learned, so she added, “He might have been a castrato.” She tried to say it neutrally but she wasn’t sure she succeeded. It was not a remark that lent itself to neutrality.
“Oh, the poor man,” Roseanna said, pressing one hand to her face. “The poor man.”
“I’m not absolutely sure he was,” Caterina said immediately. “But he’s described somewhere as un musico, and that’s the word that was used for them.”
“To fill the choirs to sing the glory of God,” Roseanna said calmly, as if there did not exist sarcasm sufficient for the words.
“There’s only the one reference,” Caterina said, choosing not to mention the Haydn libretto.
Neither of them found anything further to add. “I’ll go back upstairs,” Caterina said.
Roseanna nodded, and Caterina turned and headed toward the door. She was almost there when Roseanna said, “I’m glad they hired you.”
Not turning back, Caterina acknowledged the remark by raising her right hand in the air. “Me, too,” she said and pulled her keys out of her pocket.