Read Online The Jewels of Paradise by Donna Leon - Free Book Online

to suggest he was being open and honest with her?
    “I see there are other conditions,” she said, holding up her copy of the paper. “What’s this about having to read any papers in the order in which I find them?” she asked tersely. “Of course I will.” She felt her voice growing sharp and paused a moment to try to relax. “How else would a scholar go through papers?” Her visceral resentment told her a good deal about the way she felt about the cousins.
    “Unfortunately,” Dottor Moretti began, putting on a serious face, “I did not make the list of requirements, Dottoressa, nor is it in my competence to question them. They were given to me, and it’s my task to persuade you to follow them.”
    “Of course, I’ll follow them,” she said, “but these gentlemen might consider the fact that they are paying me for my expertise, and part of that is knowing how to deal with documents.” In the face of his silence—neither obstinate nor patient, just silence—she went on. “I have only a general historical context for any documents I might find,” she said. “I’m at home in the music of the period, but I foresee needing to do research beyond reading the actual documents so as to put them into an historical context.” He said nothing, and so she concluded, “I would like to establish that as one of my conditions.”
    “One?” he asked.
    She held up the paper and said, “I haven’t finished reading this yet. There might be more.”
    Roseanna broke in here and said, “Perhaps they’re hoping that there will be a folder on the top with neat lettering on the outside, saying, ‘Last will and testament.’ And below it in a different hand, just to save time, ‘List of everything of value and where to find it.’” If she was trying to make a joke, one glance at Dottor Moretti’s face showed she had not succeeded.
    “You’ve told me he died intestate,” Caterina said. “I can only hope I do find a will among the papers, or something in which he makes his desires known. But I’d still have to read the rest of the papers, of course, to see that he did not subsequently contradict this.”
    If she had expected surprise or disagreement from Dottor Moretti about this, she was mistaken. “Of course,” he muttered and then gestured toward the paper in her hand, as if to suggest she finish reading it.
    “And this,” she said, tapping at the paper with her finger, “that I will not write anything, neither article nor book, about any personal information contained in the trunks and that I will not speak of it in public or private. Not until I am given permission by both of the heirs, as well as by you.” She paused a moment and then asked, feeling a flutter of anger at what she saw as petty, ignorant obstructionism, “I assume this does not apply to my reports?” Her smile was falsity itself.
    Dottor Moretti used the universal gesture of surrender and held up both hands in front of his chest. “I don’t make the rules, Dottoressa. I only transmit them.” Then, with a small smile, he added, “If you’ll continue reading, Dottoressa, you’ll see that this prohibition does not extend to any musicological information that might be contained in the documents.”
    “Meaning?” she asked.
    “Meaning that you have the exclusive rights to edit any scores that might be found, whether of orchestral or of vocal music, that you judge to be of artistic importance.” He pointed to his copy, and she found the sentence on hers.
    She kept her face impassive as she read, though this hope had at least partially animated her willingness to toss over the job in Manchester. He was giving her a possibility for which most musicologists would have traded their firstborn. Two chests possibly filled with the papers of a once famous composer of the Baroque period. They could contain operas, many of his famous chamber duets, unpublished arias. And she would be the one to write the articles and edit the scores. Boosey