Death at La Fenice (Commissario Brunetti, #1)

by Donna Leon

they noticed that more people had arrived and the music had increased in volume, keeping pace with the sound of conversation.

There was none of the abrasive moral stocktaking that had transpired between him and the doctor. She and Paola had performed some sort of instant evaluation and been immediately pleased with what they found.

Her response, he came to realize only years later, made perfect sense: ‘I want to see how many different ways the same lies can be told.’ Nothing he had read in the ensuing years had come close to suggesting that her approach was wrong. Today it was the Communist lie; tomorrow the Christian Democrats would get their chance.

‘And that night, the night the Maestro died?’ ‘The central control wasn’t there. There were times when the orchestra grew so loud that I couldn’t hear the singers, and I’m sure they must have had trouble hearing one another. There were other times when the orchestra played too fast and the singers had to struggle to keep up with them. Or the opposite.’

He wandered back to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and towelled it dry, avoiding the eyes of the man in the mirror. Before coffee, he didn’t trust anyone.