Death Of A Conductor

Donna Leon's Death at La Fenice has a leisurely pace I'm not used to in murder mysteries. There's very little tension within the story, as Commissario Brunetti investigates the poisoning of a great conductor. Brunetti does have one of those cop superiors more concerned with closing the case quickly - to appease newspapers - than correctly. But Brunetti's able to avoid him easily enough, aided by said superior's apparent laziness so there's no real pressure from above. There are no scenes where Brunetti is attacked by the murderer, or pulled aside by powerful or dangerous people who want him to back off. Chapters are far more likely to end with him rushing to an interview or leaving one on cordial terms than anything tense. It's surely more realistic, as it's all about asking the right questions to the right people and connecting all the disparate pieces together, rather than shootouts and foot chases.

Which makes for an unusual reading experience for me. It's novel to see a mystery where the detective isn't so obsessed with his work he has no friends or family (because his work comes between him and everyone else), or he's suffered some awful trauma in his past that causes him to bury himself in his work. Leon spends a chapter introducing us to Brunetti's kids as he, they, and his wife Paola play Monopoly (the Italian version), which is different. At the same time, it doesn't make for a gripping read. It's not poorly written by any means, but I kept going waiting to see why I should care this "Maestro" is dead, or to figure out why Brunetti is a police officer. It isn't as though Brunetti doesn't want to find the truth, but he doesn't get stressed about it, so I have a hard time caring myself. The lack of urgency works against the book. I wound up finishing it because after a certain point I was far enough along it seemed a waste of time not to finish.

The dialogue has a stiltedness to it, as if the characters are purposely playing roles for each other. Considering the story starts in the midst of an opera, that's appropriate, but it adds to the unusual feel of the book. A part of it may simply be Venetian society, which seems to have certain rules for conversation that are different from what I'm accustomed to.

One thing about Brunetti I'd like to understand is his tendency to take out a notebook and pretend to take notes while interviewing people. I imagine part of it is he's expected to, but I'd think people would be more at ease talking to a policeman if they didn't see him taking notes, figuring he wouldn't possibly remember everything. A person might never know when they'd let some embarrassing detail about them slip, whether it has to do with the case or not.