Death at La Fenice by Donna Leon: A review

In 1992, Donna Leon's first mystery featuring Commissario of Police Guido Brunetti was published. Since then, she has written twenty-six more, the twenty-seventh one due for publication in March. That is remarkable prolificacy of more than one book a year. If they all provide as pleasurable a read as the first one, Death at La Fenice, I can certainly understand the popularity of the series.

This was recommended to me because I enjoy reading mystery series and several of the series that I have been following for years are ending, or else I am overtaking the writers and waiting impatiently for them to produce their next book. So I have vacancies in my reading schedule that need filling. Enter Guido Brunetti/Donna Leon.

All of these mysteries are set in Venice where the author, born in America, has lived for many years. The city itself is a major character, or at least it was in this first book. Some of the best parts of the book are the writer's descriptions of the city, its atmosphere, and its effect on people. I've noticed this is true of most of the novels that I've read that are set in Italy. Elena Ferrante's Naples springs readily to mind. Not that I'm really comparing Ferrante and Leon, two very different writers, except insofar as the sense of place in their novels is such a strong factor in their stories.

Leon's protagonist, Guido Brunetti, is a particularly attractive and likable character. He is happily married to a woman who comes from an old (and rich) Venetian family. They have two children, a teenage son and a younger daughter. Brunetti goes about his work in a very low-key, methodical manner, and the story is told through his viewpoint so we learn information and sift through clues along with him. After his work day, Brunetti goes home to his wife and family and plays Monopoly with them.

In Death at La Fenice, Brunetti is called to the famous opera house where a legendary conductor has been found dead in his dressing room after the second intermission in La Traviata, the opera that he had been conducting. It is apparent that the man had been poisoned by potassium cyanide that was in a cup of coffee that he drank.

The show must go on, so the back-up conductor carries on with the program while Brunetti and his team get on with the investigation.

The investigation quickly reveals that, even though the dead conductor had been a talented musician of peerless reputation, as a human being he had been a particularly nasty piece of work. The deeper that Brunetti gets into his investigation, the nastier the news of the victim gets.

There is no shortage of candidates who would potentially have wanted to kill the man, from his much younger third wife to old acquaintances from his years as a supporter of the Nazis during World War II. Brunetti has his work cut out for him in trying to puzzle out just what happened and we get to follow along and listen to his thought processes.

This really was an entirely enjoyable read. Not only do the characters seem real, the plot is tight and fast-moving, and the writer displays a felicitous use of language. At one point, she refers to the "fury of frightened people," a phrase which found me nodding my head in recognition. And again, in describing a piece of music she says it is an example of the "repetitive nature of Vivaldi." Now, I do love me some Vivaldi but that phrase is just the perfect description of his music!

I'm already looking forward to my next visit with Guido Brunetti.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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