Free The Jewels of Paradise by Donna Leon Page A

us.” Signor Stievani broke in to say. Then the clincher, “And she signed it.”
    “We want copies,” his cousin concluded.
    “And on what, if I might ask, is the Dottoressa supposed to write these reports?” Dottor Moretti asked, as if neither man had spoken.
    Scapinelli turned to her and said, “We’re not buying you one.”
    Rather than answer, Caterina turned to Dottor Moretti, leaving it to him to fight her corner for her.
    “Most places of employment provide their employees with a computer.”
    “She’s hired as una libera professionista ,” Stievani broke in to say. “She should have her own.” He spoke of her, Caterina thought, as though she were a blacksmith who should show up with his own bag of pliers, hammers, and horseshoes. They’d provide the fire—perhaps—but the tools were up to her.
    In a voice that had become softer, Dottor Moretti said, “I think I can take care of that.” Four faces turned to him. “A few months ago, our office upgraded the computers we give our younger associates. The laptops they were using are still in a closet in my secretary’s office. I can have someone who knows how to do it take out whatever refers to our office. I think access to the Internet is built into these things.” He waited for comment, and when none was forthcoming, added, speaking directly to Caterina, “It’s only a few years old, but it should certainly be adequate for what you have to do here.”
    “That’s very kind of you, Dottore,” Roseanna said, apparently delighted that a man could so casually confess to imperfect familiarity with computers. “On behalf of the Foundation I thank you for this largesse.” Ah, yes, Caterina thought, ‘largesse,’ charmed to hear Roseanna rise to the level of Dottor Moretti’s speech. She was also impressed with the way her graciousness was likely to prevent any embarrassing questions as to why the Foundation had no computer.
    “What were you going to do with them?” Signor Scapinelli broke in to ask.
    Dottor Moretti was momentarily confused by the question but then answered, “We usually give them to the children of our employees.”
    “You give them away?” Scapinelli asked with a mixture of astonishment and disapproval.
    “That way, we can deduct them from our taxes,” Dottor Moretti said, an answer that seemed to calm Signor Scapinelli’s troubled spirit, at least to the degree that a usurer’s spirit can ever be calm at the revelation of an unmade profit.
    “You mentioned a few things that needed to be settled,” Caterina reminded him.
    “Ah, yes. Thank you, Dottoressa,” Dottor Moretti said. “We’d like to establish some parameters for the handling of the actual papers.”
    “Parameters,” she repeated, for the first time unimpressed by his use of language.
    “Yes. We have to settle how we will go about the actual opening of the chests and decide who will be there when you remove the contents and begin to work.”
    “Let me say one thing,” Caterina declared. “I don’t care who’s there when the chests are opened, but I can’t have anyone present while I’m working.”
    “ Can’t ?” Dottor Moretti inquired.
    “Can’t because having someone there, looking over my shoulder —even sitting at the other side of the room—would slow me down terribly. It would double the time it will take me to do the research.”
    “Simply having someone in the room with you?” Dottor Moretti asked.
    Before she could answer, Signor Stievani said, sounding angry or impatient, “All right, all right. If we’re there when they’re opened, and we’re sure there’s only papers in there, then there’s nothing to worry about.” Caterina wondered if a life spent on boats led a man to believe that papers could have no value.
    “We don’t want her spending the rest of her life doing this, you know,” Signor Stievani went on, this time addressing Dottor Moretti directly, who ignored the sarcasm and heard the statement.
    “Quite