The Waters of Eternal Youth Read Free

often in recent years.
    Lowering his voice and moving away from the thought of sinners going to Hell, Brunetti asked, ‘The man who spoke? Who is he?’
    Before she replied, Contessa Falier picked up her napkin and wiped at her lips, replaced it and took a sip of water. Both of them glanced at the man near the end of the table and saw that he was now speaking across the table to the historian, who appeared to be taking notes on a small piece of paper as she listened to him. Contessa ­Lando-­Continui and the English lord were engaged in amiable conversation, he speaking in loud, heavily accented Italian.
    Apparently feeling protected by the deep boom of his voice, his ­mother-­in-­law leaned towards Brunetti and said, ‘Sandro ­Vittori-­Ricciardi. He’s a protégé of Demetriana’s.’
    â€˜And he does what?’
    â€˜He’s an interior designer and a restorer of stone and marble; he works for her foundation.’
    â€˜So he’s involved in the things she’s doing for the city?’ Brunetti asked.
    Her tone sharpened. ‘These
things
save the city about three million euros a year, please remember, Guido. As well as the money to restore the apartments that are rented to young families.’ Then, to emphasize the importance, she added, ‘It replaces money the government won’t give any more.’
    Brunetti sensed a presence behind him and sat up straighter to allow a waiter to remove his plate. He paused until the Contessa’s had been removed, and said in a conciliatory voice, ‘Of course, you’re right.’
    He knew that tonight’s dinner was meant to bring together potential foreign donors and native Venetians – he was one of those on offer. Come to the zoo and meet the animals that your donations help survive in their native habitat. Come at feeding time. Brunetti was not fond of the part of himself that entertained such thoughts, but he knew too much to stifle them.
    Contessa ­Lando-­Continui had been trying for years, he knew, to get her hand into Count Falier’s pocket. He had been both gracious and adamant in deflecting her every attempt. ‘If so much weren’t stolen, Demetriana, the city could pay for restorations, and if politicians’ families and friends didn’t get public housing, you wouldn’t have to ask people to help you restore the apartments,’ Brunetti had once heard the Conte tell her.
    Unrebuffed by Count Falier’s remarks, she continued to invite him to her dinners – she had even invited him to this one in his own home – and each time she did, the Conte remembered a ­last-­minute meeting in Cairo or a dinner in Milano; once he had begged off by mentioning the Prime Minister; tonight, for all Brunetti knew, it had been an appointment with a Russian arms dealer. Brunetti thought the Conte didn’t much care how believable his excuses were, so long as he could amuse himself by inventing ­stories that would agitate the Contessa.
    So there they were in his absence, he and Paola and his ­mother-­in-­law, offered as a sop to the insistence of the Contessa and, perhaps, as a treat to the visitors: not only Contessa ­Lando-­Continui but Contessa Falier, two real aristocrats for the price of one. And the next generation tossed in as lagniappe.
    The dessert came, a
ciambella con zucca e uvetta
that delighted Brunetti, as did the sweet wine served with it. When the maid came around again to offer a second helping, Paola caught her husband’s eye. He smiled back and shook his head at the maid’s offer as if he had meant to do it, failing to persuade Paola but managing to convince himself.
    That done, he felt entirely justified in accepting a small glass of grappa. He pushed his chair back a bit, stretched out his legs, and lifted his glass.
    Contessa Falier, as if there had been no interruption, returned to their former