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translation.’
    ‘For your classes?’ she asked.
    ‘Sometimes,’ Brunetti said. ‘But most often because I liked them.’
    She looked at Brunetti, opened her mouth as if to say something, but then moved off towards what Brunetti calculated must be the back of the building.
    Brunetti remembered his own university career and the eternities he had spent in libraries: find the title in the card catalogue, fill out the request form in duplicate (maximum three books), give the forms to the librarian, wait for the books to be delivered, go to a desk and read, give the books back at the end of the day. He remembered bibliographies and reading through them avidly in hopes that they would provide other titles on the subject of his research. Sometimes a professor would mention a few useful sources, but this was the rare exception; most of them hoarded what information they had, as if theybelieved that to give it to a student would be to lose control of it for ever.
    ‘Was there some common element in the books requested by the American?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘Travel,’ she said. ‘Venetian explorers of the New World.’ She rustled the papers. ‘At least that was the subject of his original requests. After two weeks, he started asking for books by writers who weren’t Venetian, and then …’ She broke off to consult the last of the pages in her hand. ‘Then he began to ask for books on natural history.’ Returning her attention to Brunetti, she said, ‘They’re all here.’
    ‘But what did they have in common?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘Illustrations,’ she said, confirming what he already suspected. ‘Maps, drawings of native species made by the explorers and the artists that went with them. Many of them were watercolours; done when they were printed.’ As if surprised by what she had just said, the Dottoressa lifted the hand with the papers to cover her mouth and her eyes snapped shut.
    ‘What is it?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘The Merian,’ she said, confusing him utterly. She stood stock still for so long Brunetti feared she was about to have some sort of seizure. Then he saw her relax: her hand fell to her side, and she opened her eyes.
    ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
    She nodded.
    ‘What was it?’ Brunetti asked, careful to make no move towards her.
    ‘A book.’
    ‘Which one?’
    ‘A book of drawings by a German woman,’ she said, her voice slowly growing calmer. ‘We have a copy of it. I was afraid he might have got his hands on that, but it’s – Iremembered – it’s on loan to another library.’ She closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Thank God.’
    Brunetti let a long time pass before he dared to ask, ‘Do you have his application?’
    ‘Yes,’ she answered, smiling, as if she were glad of the change of subject. ‘It’s in my office. A letter from his university explaining his research with a recommendation, and a copy of his passport.’ She turned and started across the room.
    At the door she used the plastic sensor card she wore on a long lanyard around her neck to open it. Brunetti followed her inside and closed the door behind them. She led him into a long corridor illuminated only by artificial light.
    At the end of the corridor, she used her card key again and let them into a vast room filled with rows of bookshelves so close together that only one person could pass through them at a time. Here inside, the scent was more pronounced: Brunetti wondered if the people who worked here ceased to smell it after a time. Just inside the door the Dottoressa took a pair of white cotton gloves from her pocket. While she put them on, she said, ‘I haven’t had time to check the other books he used, only the ones he left behind today. Some of them are here. We can do it now.’
    She glanced at the top sheet, then turned left and went to the third row of shelves. Without seeming even to bother looking at the spines of the books, she stopped halfway along and reached down to pull one from the bottom