Free Falling in Love by Donna Leon Page B

continue. ‘When I started down, I felt someone behind me. Too close.
    ‘Then he touched my back and said, “ È mia ”, and he shoved me and I tripped. I think I tried to grab the railing.’ Brunetti leaned forward, the better to hear her. ‘Why would he say “You’re mine”?’ she asked.
    She raised her right hand to touch the bandage on her head. ‘Maybe I hit it. I remember falling, but that’s all. Then there were police, and they put me on a boat. That’s all I remember.’ She shifted her eyes around the corridor and out the windows. ‘I’m in the hospital, aren’t I?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong with me?’ she asked.
    ‘Good heavens,’ Brunetti answered with mock seriousness. ‘I’m not sure that’s any of my business.’
    It took her a moment to understand, then she smiled and added, joining in the joke, ‘Physically, that is.’
    ‘Your left arm is broken, but your chart says it’s not a bad break,’ he said. ‘And there are stitches in your scalp. There’s no evident damage to your brain or skull: no haemorrhage and no fracture.’ He had given the bare facts and felt obliged to add, ‘You have a concussion, so I suppose they’ll keep you here for a day or two to see that they didn’t overlook anything.’
    She closed her eyes again. This time they stayed closed for at least five minutes, but Brunetti remained standing beside the bed.
    When she opened them again, he asked, ‘Are you sure that’s what you heard, “ È mia ”?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said without hesitation or uncertainty.
    ‘Can you tell me anything about the voice?’ Brunetti asked. ‘The tone or the pronunciation?’ It would hardly be much to go on, but if the attacker had come from behind her, that’s all there would be.
    She raised her right hand and waved one finger back and forth in a strong negative. ‘No. Nothing.’ Then, more thoughtfully, ‘Not even the sex.’
    ‘Not high or low?’ he asked.
    ‘No. Whoever spoke was forcing their voice, the way you do when you sing falsetto.’
    Brunetti thought of jigsaw puzzles, the old wooden ones his father had played with in the last years of his life, and he remembered those magic moments when a single piece, perhaps containing half an eye and a dab of flesh, opened up a new colour and made sudden sense of those beige pieces lined up at the edge of the table that had been, until then, meaningless.
    ‘Are you a singer?’
    Her eyes widened and she said, ‘I want to be. But not yet. I have years of work before that.’ With that infusion of passion, her natural voice returned, leaving behind the whisper and the stress, freeing its beauty.
    ‘Where are you studying?’ Brunetti asked, tiptoeing towards a place he could only suspect might be nearby.
    ‘Paris. At the Conservatory.’
    ‘Not here?’ he asked.
    ‘No, my school’s closed for the spring holiday, so I’ve come here to study with my father for a few weeks.’
    ‘Does he teach here?’
    ‘At the Conservatory, but only part time. He’s also one of the freelance ripetitori at the theatre. I’ve been working with him there.’
    ‘La Fenice?’ Brunetti asked, as if the city were full of theatres.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Ah, I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘Does he approve of what the French are teaching you?’
    She smiled and, as happened when young people smiled, grew prettier. ‘My father’s always enthusiastic,’ she said with becoming modesty.
    ‘Only your father?’
    She started to speak, and Brunetti saw her stop herself.
    ‘Who was it?’ he asked.
    ‘Signora Petrelli,’ she whispered, as though she had been asked who she thought could heal her broken arm and had replied, ‘La Madonna della Salute.’
    ‘How is it she heard you singing?’
    ‘She was going to her rehearsal room, and she passed the door where I was with my father, and she . . .’ The girl closed her eyes. And then a soft snoring sound came from her nose, and Brunetti knew he would get no more