“Oh, yes,” Signora Salvi said. “They’re upstairs.” To make this clear, she pointed to the ceiling, as if to remove any possible uncertainty Caterina might have had about where upstairs might be.
“Upstairs?”
“In the director’s office.”
Caterina waved her hand around the office. “I thought this was the director’s office,” she said.
“Oh, no. I mean Dottor Asnaldi’s office, well, his ex-office.” Then in a smaller voice, she added, “That’s where the chests are. In the storeroom. They’re safe there.”
Three
Like Lot’s wife, Caterina turned to salt; unlike the other woman, though, she turned immediately back into flesh and said, “But that’s im—” before she stopped herself, realizing she had no idea at all where the chests were or could be, just as, in all of this, she had no idea of what was possible or not. The cousins had spoken of the chests as though they belonged in a bank vault, yet here they were, being kept in an apartment that had rooms on the ground floor with windows without bars. Further, it was an apartment thieves had already entered with no difficulty.
Caterina could not understand the Foundation’s involvement with the chests. What Roseanna called the endowment was almost finished, the offices could have been in Albania, the heat and access to a place to sit drew a number of not quite vagrants to the library, and yet the Foundation was somehow, however peripherally, involved.
Hoping that none of this was visible in her expression, she continued, as though she’d paused to consider the exact word. “Impressive, really impressive. To have them safe in a storeroom.” It was the best she could do, and Roseanna smiled in response so Caterina went on. “How did that happen?”
“The previous owners had the storeroom built into the wall. I don’t know why. It was here when the Foundation first rented the apartment. Dottor Asnaldi used to joke about it. Sometimes he’d put his umbrella inside and close all the locks.” Then, voice lower, Roseanna asked, “They told you some of this, didn’t they?”
“Perhaps not all of it,” Caterina answered. “There was a certain lack of background in what I was told, if I might call it that.” Short of a direct request for information, Caterina could have given no clearer message.
“Since you’re going to be working on the papers, I suppose you should know where they came from.”
Caterina nodded her thanks.
“One of the cousins called Dottor Asnaldi at home about four months ago. I don’t know how he got his number and I don’t remember which one of them it was. He wanted to know if the Dottore would be interested in reading some documents and writing a report on them. All I know is that he met with the two men, the cousins, but he turned down their offer. I never knew why.” Here Roseanna gave a smile/shrug combination that Caterina was beginning to recognize.
Caterina nodded and Roseanna continued. “But he called me because he’d left me in charge and said it might be a good idea to keep the papers here, in the storeroom. That’s why they’re upstairs.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t ask the Marciana or the Conservatory, even a bank. That is, if they think the papers might be valuable,” Caterina said.
In an absentminded gesture, Roseanna ran her hand over the surface of her desk, as if feeling to see if it needed to be waxed. “It’s cheap,” she finally said. “That is, cheaper.”
“Than?”
“Than the Marciana or the Conservatory or a bank. They offered to pay three hundred euros a month, and that was in winter, when we had the heating bill to think about.” She opened her hands in a gesture replete with resignation. “Dottor Asnaldi called me with the suggestion, and I agreed. The others would have cost much more.”
Given that the place had been broken into recently, a bank might also have been safer, though Caterina saw no reason to pass this idea on to Roseanna.
“I was in charge, you see. As acting director, I had to sign the contract.”
She seemed so proud of the title that Caterina said, “Complimenti,” in a low voice, which caused Roseanna to blush.
Feeling that Roseanna’s pause was a suggestion that she inquire, Caterina asked, “What happened then?”
“Dottor Moretti convinced them to find someone competent to read the papers.”
“Did he think this would settle all their problems and end their dispute?”
“Oh,” Roseanna said with a laugh, “I don’t think the person exists who could do that.”
That lightened the mood and gave Caterina the courage to try to satisfy some of her curiosity. “Presumably, the trunks are safe up there.”
“Of course. The storeroom is really just a small closet, but it has una porta blindata. If you think about it, it’s much more than most shops have.” Then, as an addition, “There’s another, smaller cabinet, where the archives are kept.”
“The archives?” Caterina asked.
“The letters,” Roseanna said. “But Dottor Asnaldi always called them the archives.”
“Where are they?”
Roseanna raised her eyes and gazed at the ceiling, reminding Caterina of the holy cards of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux so often found lying on the tables in the back of empty churches. The hair snakes on her head, ironed flat, would have looked just like the saint’s black veil. “Upstairs.”
The unsummoned images came to Caterina of Ugolino imprisoned in the tower, Vercingetorix in the Mamertine—quickly canceled because that prison was underground—Casanova escaping from the Piombi. First there was the Director’s office and now there were the archives. How many other things were hidden away on the next floor?
“Upstairs?” Caterina repeated unnecessarily.
“It’s in the same room, but it’s only a simple wall cabinet with a key.”
“What’s kept in the archives?”
“Some scores that Dottor Dardago collected,” Roseanna explained.
“Are they part of the endowment?” Caterina asked, wondering why, if they were, they had not been sold to continue with sponsorship or, at least, alleviate some of the misery around them.
“No. Dottor Dardago left them to the Marciana, to be given if the Foundation ever ceased to function. I suppose he didn’t want things ever to be sold off, piece by piece. The Foundation merely has the use of them for as long as it’s in existence. That’s always been very clear.” But then, in a lower, more confidential voice, she added, “It’s only a few things, really, a printed copy of an opera by Porpora and some musical scores.” Before Caterina could ask, Roseanna said, sounding sad to have to say it, as if she were confessing to some minor vulgarity on the Foundation’s part, “No, only copies, and not even from the times they were written.” Then, after time enough to decide she could say it, she said, “I’m afraid Dottor Dardago was an amateur.”
To Caterina, this amateur’s collection hardly sounded like something that belonged under lock and key, but her work did not concern the archive, and so she asked nothing further about it.
“How do you get there?” Caterina asked.
Roseanna’s glance made her confusion obvious. “The stairs.” For a moment, it looked as if she were going to add something, but she did not.
“Can a person go up there?”
Roseanna made as if to push away Caterina’s question. “I don’t know if you can go up there yet.”
Like most people, Caterina disliked being told she could not do something. Like most professional women who had risen in a male-dominated profession by dint of skill and tenacity and superior talent that was never acknowledged and seldom could be admitted, she had learned to stifle her instinctive desire to shout at the source of the prohibition, though she had never learned to control the pounding of her heart that resulted from unexplained opposition.
After a few moments, Caterina asked, in a voice she ma
naged to make sound entirely normal, “Sooner or later, I have to go up, don’t I? If I’m going to be working there.” As if suddenly recalling something, she added, “You mentioned that you receive letters. Would it be possible for me to have a look at them?” When Roseanna did not respond with an immediate negative, she continued, “It’s possible that people who contacted the Foundation in the past—with musicological information or questions, that is—might be the sort of amateur a researcher dreams of finding.” The only dream researchers had about amateurs and their suggestions were nightmares, but Roseanna need not be told this.
“We never know what will be useful,” Caterina added with a broad smile meant to include Roseanna among that we. “Whose rule is it, anyway?”
Roseanna thought about this for a moment and then said, “It’s not a rule, really. It’s just that the cousins are rather . . .”
“Secretive?”
This time her smile was bigger than her shrug.
Caterina smiled in return and said, unwilling to admit to no motive higher than her own mounting curiosity about the Foundation, “All I want to do is save time by learning if there are any people who might eventually be able to help in the research.” Then, as if confessing uncertainty to a friend, she said, “I don’t know if it will help me with these documents, but it might be useful to know who the interested people are. They often know a lot more than the experts do, especially in a field as narrow as this one.” It was lame, and she knew it, but Roseanna might not.
Apparently sufficient goodwill had been restored because Roseanna got to her feet, saying, “I suppose you can.” Then, with a smile of solidarity, she added, “Besides, I’m the acting director, aren’t I?”
She led the way from her office, turning toward the back of the building. The hallway ended in a door. She stopped and took a set of keys from her pocket, opened the door, and started up a set of steps. Caterina followed her. At the top, another door led into a small entrance corridor with wooden doors facing each other on both sides.
Roseanna opened a door on the left and let them into an office that looked like one, complete with barred windows. The desk was large, and a dark wooden cabinet was fitted into the wall to the left of it. On either side of the cabinet hung etchings of bewigged men. Even from this distance, she recognized round-faced Jommelli. The other might have been Hasse. She liked him; any man who would marry Faustina Bordoni had to be a hero.
Roseanna nodded toward the wooden cabinet, saying, “All of the correspondence is in there.” Caterina saw that the key was in the lock. Looking around for the storeroom, Caterina noticed a pair of smooth metal doors, almost a meter high, set into the wall to the right of the desk and partly blocked from her sight by both the desk and the chair.
Pointedly ignoring those doors, she asked, “How far back does the correspondence date, Roseanna?”
“To the beginning.”
“What sort of things do people write about?” Caterina asked with genuine interest.
“Oh, all sorts of things. You’d be amazed. Some send us copies of manuscripts or scores and ask us to identify them or verify the handwriting, and some ask for biographical information about the composers. Or what we think of new CDs, or whether we think it’s worth going to see a particular production. Sometimes people have even sent us documents and manuscripts, but never anything of great importance. There’s no telling.” She studied the cabinet for a moment and then said, “If you read through the files, you’ll get an idea.”
“If it’s no trouble,” Caterina said, interested in the letters and even more interested in showing Roseanna that she had come up here in good faith and not in the hope of learning something about the identity of the composer whose manuscripts might well be behind those thick metal doors, doors she continued to ignore.
Roseanna turned the key of the cabinet, latched her fingers expertly under the side of one door, and pulled it open. The other swung after it.
Caterina had met Roseanna only a brief time ago, but she had seen enough—the conservative clothing, the neatness with which the snakes were wrapped around one another—to know she could not have been responsible for the chaos inside the cabinet.
There were two shelves, each sized to hold manila folders, and on each of them files lay splashed about. Some leaked papers, others appeared untouched; still others were strewn across the shelves as if by a heavy wind.
Roseanna’s gasp was entirely involuntary. “Maria Vergine,” she exclaimed. No liar, Caterina thought, would say that. Then Roseanna gave her astonishment an upgrade and whispered, “Oddio.”
When Roseanna reached toward the files, Caterina said, “No, Roseanna. Don’t touch anything.”
“What?”
“Don’t touch anything,” she repeated.
The other woman looked at her with open curiosity. Then, “I don’t want the police here again,” she said with sudden energy.
Caterina leaned forward to put her body closer to the shelves. “But look at it. Someone’s been through those papers.” Then, remembering no doubt what she had seen in the cinema, she asked, “Who else has a key to this room?”
“I do. That’s all.”
“Dottor Moretti gave me one to the building,” Caterina said, wondering how difficult it would be to get into this office. “No one else has one?” she asked and no sooner saw Roseanna’s expression than she realized she had gone too far. She tried to modify the effect by going on, as if naturally, “This must be a terrible shock for you, Roseanna. To have someone come in and do this.” Her tactic of thus excluding Roseanna herself as a possible suspect was as crude as it was obvious.
Caterina ran through what she knew about the police. Their first suspects would be anyone with keys to the building. Or, learning that the disturbance—she didn’t even know if it had been a theft—concerned correspondence about centuries-old music and the men who wrote it, they would simply leave. That is, if they came in the first place.
Using her most placatory tone, Caterina said, “You’re right, of course. This is nothing for the police.” That made them partners and equally complicit.
“What’s missing?” Caterina moved back from the cabinet, as if to give physical evidence of her trust in Roseanna’s competence. Her sister Cinzia had been involved with an anthropologist for some years and had passed on to her sisters what she had learned from him about dominance displays in simians. Caterina thought of this as she moved back from the desk, leaving access to the cabinet entirely to Roseanna.
The acting director leaned into the cabinet and gathered the files on each shelf into a stack, tapping papers back inside the folders out of which they projected. She put the first pile on the desk and beside them those from the shelf below. Beginning with the first pile, she opened each file and straightened the papers until she had them in an order she seemed to like, then did the same with those on the second pile.
Next she went back to the top file on the first stack and began to page through the letters. Caterina, to disguise her impatience, went and studied the second portrait to see if there was a name printed at the bottom. Beside her, Roseanna methodically opened one file after another, fingering the papers in each before putting it down and taking up another one.
Caterina returned her attention to the men with the wigs.
“Caterina,” Roseanna said.
“Sì?”
“I don’t understand this,” she said hesitantly. Perhaps this was merely an expression of her surprise that anyone would have bothered to snoop around in the files of the Fondazione Musicale Italo-Tedesca.
“What?”
“Nothing seems to be missing.”
Four
“What?” Caterina asked, amazed that someone would have gone to the trouble of breaking in and then not have taken anything. What she had seen did not suggest vandalism. Nothing had spilled out
of the cabinet, nothing had been destroyed. There were signs of a hasty, careless search, nothing more.
Roseanna gave her a manila folder. Neatly typed (yes, typed) on the flap was “Sartorio, Antonio, 1630–1680.”
“What’s in it?” Caterina asked as she handed it back without opening it.
“The letters we’ve received over the years concerning him,” Roseanna said, hefting it in her right hand, as if she could judge by the weight.
“Everything seems to be here,” Roseanna said. “And in this one,” she added, passing another file to Caterina. “But I can check.”
Caterina began to read the top letter in the file she held, which was in German and addressed to the director of the Foundation by title and not by name. The writer began by saying that, the last time he had been in Venice, he had been unable to find Hasse’s grave in the church of San Marcuola and asked, in a peremptory manner, why the Foundation had not seen to the placing of a memorial plaque in the church. The writer was a member of the Hasse Society in . . .
Caterina pulled her attention from the letter and asked, “What did you just say?”
“I wanted to check if anything’s missing from the Porpora file.”
“How?” Caterina asked, suddenly interested in what Roseanna had said.
Instead of answering, Roseanna turned back to the cabinet and reached inside to place her hand on one of the decorative knobs on the inlaid panels that ran perpendicular to the shelves. She gave it a sharp twist and the panel tilted forward and down, revealing a vertical drawer the width of the panel, about ten centimeters. She reached in and pulled out a student’s notebook, on its cover the bronze equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius.
She set the notebook on the desk, opened it toward the front, and pressed it flat by running her hand down the center. She set the file she was holding beside the notebook and removed the letters. Methodically, she paged through them, each time putting her forefinger on an entry in the notebook; it was too far from Caterina for her to read. When she had checked all the letters, Roseanna turned to her and said, “They’re all here.”