Donna Leon's Literally Sickening Corruption

THE GENESIS, and huge international success, of the Venetian suite policière involving Commissario Guido Brunetti has to be one of the oddest publishing stories in years. Donna Leon (if that isn’t a nom de plume it should be), a New Englander of Irish descent, came to rest in Venice about thirty years ago, after short spells as an itinerant teacher in countries as diverse as China, Switzerland, and Saudi Arabia. Though English Lit. was her stock-in-trade and the novels of Henry James her abiding obsession, she had never for one moment considered embarking on a career of fiction, let alone crime fiction, herself. On her own account, this happened by complete accident. Another of her major interests happened to be baroque music, opera in particular. A well-connected woman, she found herself one day chatting with the reigning diva at La Fenice, the great old Venice opera house, in her dressing-room. Talk turned to a certain conductor, whom they both detested (his name has never been revealed, but if I had to guess I’d say it was von Karajan). What a pleasure it would be to murder him. How would one go about it?