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Signora,’ the piano player said. He stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘Ludovico Santello.’
    Flavia shook it and then offered hers formally to the girl. ‘Let me get to work myself,’ she said, smiling at both of them and turning to Riccardo, who stood in the doorway.
    Flavia, with a friendly nod to the girl, left the room and walked down the hallway. The door behind them closed and they heard the sound of voices within. A few people, talking among themselves, came down the hall towards them, and as they passed, Flavia said to Riccardo, ‘That girl’s got a marvellous voice. She’s going to be a fine singer, I think.’
    Riccardo took the key to the room from his pocket and said, ‘If you’ll permit me to say this, she already is.’ He opened the door and held it for her.
    Still speaking, she entered the room. ‘It’s not often that people that young are so . . .’ The sentence was chopped off by the sight of the flowers: a single bouquet of them, in a simple glass vase. They stood on the top of the piano, a small white envelope propped against the vase.
    Flavia walked to the piano and picked up the envelope. Without thinking, she handed it to Riccardo, saying, ‘Would you open this and read it to me, please?’
    If he found her request strange, he gave no sign of it. He slipped his thumbnail under the flap, opened the envelope, and pulled out a simple white card. Turning to her, he read, ‘I’m disappointed that you gave away the roses. I hope you won’t do it again.’
    ‘Is there a signature?’ she asked.
    Riccardo turned the card over, picked up the envelope and looked at the back; he set them on top of the piano. ‘No. Nothing.’
    He glanced at her and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
    ‘Nothing.’ She placed her folder of sheet music on the music stand and took the vase of flowers and put it out in the corridor. ‘I think we were working on the end of the second act,’ she said.

6
    Brunetti and Paola talked about the performance on the way home, each having enjoyed it in a different way. Brunetti had seen Flavia sing Violetta only once, and that had been on television, during the years when the producers at RAI still considered opera sufficiently important to merit broadcasting. Since then, it had disappeared from television, as it had from any serious consideration in the press. Of course, the occasional opera-related story did appear, but more space was dedicated to a singer’s marital status, or lack, or substitute, or change thereof than to their work as an artist.
    It was impossible to believe that so much time had passed since he had last seen Flavia sing La Traviata and watched her die, his heart tight with the desire to step in and save her. He had known then, in the same way he knew that Paolo and Francesca would spend eternity chasing one another through the winds of Hell, that Violetta would cry out her joy at the return of life and vigour and then crash down, dead as only dead can be. It was just a story. So although Tosca had killed Scarpia and was set for the drop, he’d known she’d be back on stage in a matter of minutes, smiling and waving at the audience. But that could not change the reality of the murder or of her suicide. Fact was meaningless: only art was real.
    Paola had grown fonder of opera in recent years and had admired Flavia’s performance without reservation, though she judged the plot ridiculous. ‘I’d like to see her in an interesting opera,’ she said, just as they reached the top of the Rialto Bridge.
    ‘But you told me you liked it.’ He started down the steps, suddenly tired and wanting only to have a drink and go to bed.
    ‘She was thrilling at times,’ Paola agreed. ‘But I cry when Bambi’s mother is killed: you know that.’ She shrugged.
    ‘And so?’ he asked.
    ‘And so I’ll never be carried away by opera the way you are; I’ll always have reservations about how serious it is.’ She patted his arm as she spoke, then latched hers