A Beautiful Crime

by Christopher Bollen

  “Nothing!” he exclaimed, then lowered his voice. “Nothing at all. Clay was coming to Venice to check on Il Dormitorio, and I decided to tag along. He thought it was too crowded in the palazzino with all the stuff of Freddy’s he has to settle. That’s why he asked if I could stay with you.” He hated lying to Daniela. But it was safer this way.

  “Mmmm,” Daniela hummed incredulously. “You should be aware of something. Venice is very small.” Nick used to make that claim about New York—the mammoth global metropolis was really just a provincial village of nosy neighbors. New York did feel claustrophobic at times, but in reality that city could accommodate multiple selves and several double lives without much risk of ever being exposed. What Daniela said about Venice sounded like a threat.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Nick replied coolly. “Because I need you to give me directions to the Rialto fish market.”

  Nick gave himself forty minutes to reach the fish market. Daniela promised it would take no more than fifteen and instructed him to follow the arrowed signs for the Rialto Bridge—the market was in the same vicinity, and at a certain point he could trust his nose to guide him. Nick entered the slow migration of sightseers, most of them seemingly as clueless to direction as he was. Cell phones had long replaced the messy paperwork of foldout maps, every screen blinking an electronic breadcrumb trail. What separated Nick from the other tourists was a purpose—he had somewhere to be, and, more anxiety-inducing, something specific to do once he arrived. From his years of living in New York, Nick understood that the distinction between visitor and resident often came down to a walking style. Nick tried for speed and sureness, hurrying confidently over bridges, awake to the stone-tap of his shoes, weaving eel-like through knots of window-shoppers and gelato-lickers. The coin that Clay had placed in his right loafer winked in the sunlight, a little amulet to remind him why he was about to con his way into Richard West’s life.

  Nick should have consulted his phone. He reached a dead-end alley, retraced his steps, and somehow managed to reach the same dead end ten minutes later. Finally, after a half hour of searching, he stumbled upon two lanes of T-shirt stalls at the foot of the Rialto Bridge. Near the bridge and just as a blister on his left heel was pronouncing the alligator loafers terrible footwear for Venice, a vast brick building introduced itself in gold letters as MERCATO DEL PESCE AL MINUTO. Nick fixed his jacket collar, smoothed his white Oxford, and told himself not to think of yesterday’s fiasco with the Warbly-Gardeners. Still, he double-checked the wallet in his back pocket, for today it would need to be extracted. Nick entered the chilly, oceanic dark of the market. Puddles of water glimmered on the floor. In every direction, routine bartering and bagging was taking place over stalls of chipped ice.

  Nick had memorized the photo of Richard Forsyth West, and he knew from Clay that the man favored white linen suits. He felt certain he could pick West out in a crowd, even one as chaotic and shadowy as the market. Locals crowded the stalls, barking out their fish orders. Tourists with bulky camera equipment and safari zoom lenses shot still lifes of sleek gray marine life with open eyes and white price cards pinned to its bellies. There was scampi nostrani, branzini, di mari, and metal buckets full of unnamed sea creatures. The safari zoom lens turned to shoot the locals ordering their provisions, attempting to capture a fleeting trace of normal everyday life that Venice so rarely provided.

  Two middle-aged men, a couple, one in a denim shirt and the other in tangerine cotton, separately took notice of Nick with cruisy, admiring glances. Each hid their interest from the other in the guise of an overperformed scan of the market. “Maybe the scallops are fresher farther down, David,” Denim Shirt suggested before sneaking a second thirsty glance. These ephemeral flirtations buoyed Nick’s confidence; they had come to matter to him the way he imagined being recognized in the street mattered to a famous person—they worked as an empirical measure of his worth to the world. Nick never smiled back. Sometimes he rolled his eyes in irritation. But for the most part he was extremely grateful.

  He sailed through the stalls, searching for an older man with white hair, a wide forehead, and a mole above the left eyebrow. Many of the rubber-aproned vendors had already sold out of their daily catches, leaving mere tissues of lettuce strewn across rectangles of ice. He hoped he wasn’t too late. Clay had told him 10:00 a.m. It was now 10:17, and he was nearing the light-blue ribbon of the Grand Canal that signaled the end of the fish market. On the other side of the water, the peaches and yellows of palazzo facades glowed in the sharp daylight.

  When Nick turned his head, he realized that the market continued outside the building in a tentlike jumble of metal roofs and tarps. This outdoor annex was reserved primarily for fresh produce, while also serving to collect the tourist overspill from the Rialto Bridge. The crowd thickened with the buzz and swell of souk activity. Sweat slicked Nick’s forehead as he pushed through the aisles, fearing he’d underestimated the simplicity of his mission. Where was Richard West? Had he even bothered to come here today?

  Nick tripped over a bucket of flowers and apologized to the vendor. He stopped to examine a crate of limes simply as an excuse to examine the crowd more thoroughly.

  The back of a head gleamed salt white two aisles over. The head turned into profile, revealing a scruffy white five-o’clock shadow and a sturdy, handsome face. Nick let go of the limes and stepped cautiously in the man’s direction. He was ninety percent sure this was Richard West. When some exotic delicacy caught the man’s eye and he turned his head, the mole above the brow confirmed it.

  Richard Forsyth West wore a cream cowl-neck sweater and white linen pants. Strapped to his shoulder was a large straw satchel that on a less commanding figure might have appeared twee. Clay had warned Nick that West was dashing, but Nick hadn’t been prepared for how imposing he was. He had the leisurely, uncaring gait of a man who didn’t calibrate his pace to anyone else’s idea of the clock. The crowd barely jostled him. West turned a corner, and Nick followed in pursuit an aisle behind, noticing a pair of red-and-white-striped canvas espadrilles on his feet. It was a typical, inane accessory of the rich, a shoe designed for island rambles and easy removal on boat decks. As Nick kept stride several feet behind, another body cut between them. It belonged to a young man in his mid-twenties with his eyes glued to his phone, his thumbs tapping frantically on the screen. Even with his full attention on his device, he managed to keep on the heels of Richard West and avoid knocking into oncoming traffic thanks to the phantom third eye their generation had evolved to navigate two worlds simultaneously. Nick studied him. He was exceedingly pretty, even with the wisp of a hopeful mustache on his upper lip. He had curly black hair, dark and yet shallow-set eyes, and thin, very pink lips. His jeans were disturbingly tight, and he carried a large shopping bag on his shoulder. At first Nick took him to be Persian on account of his olive skin. But when Richard West attempted a phrase in broken Italian, the young man answered in the easy singsong of a native speaker.

  Had Nick not already known that West was married to a woman—on his second marriage, in fact—he might have mistaken the young man for West’s boyfriend. Judging from the way he sprang to West’s side, it was more likely that he was an assistant. West pointed, and the young man gathered a carton of strawberries and a tin of almonds. West practiced his Italian on a vendor, and the young man interceded and handed over the exact amount of cash. Nick stopped to let the foot traffic sweep around him. West’s assistant was proving to be a wrench in the plan. It was far easier to strike up a conversation with a stranger who was alone. The awkwardness of the introduction would quickly be forgotten in the momentum of the ensuing conversation. Those chances dropped considerably when there was a witness to critique every detail later. You didn’t think it was strange that this random American came up and talked to you?

  To Nick’s dismay, the situation was further complicated by the presence of a young woman who hurried up to West in the crowd. She held a bouquet of orange roses and a cheap wicker
basket with a price tag dangling from its handle. The woman was thin, with long, lank, tea-brown hair and light-gray freckles that flecked her nose and encroached upon the edges of her pale mouth. She was not what Nick would describe as pretty. She was at once plainer and more sophisticated than that. She had darting eyes and the kind of uneven smile that suggested a propensity for sharp, biting jokes. She and Richard West were now laughing at the wicker basket, which she held in front of him and pretended to place on an invisible platform. The assistant wasn’t paying attention, having returned to his phone. Nick couldn’t guess the punch line of the basket routine, but he enjoyed watching the woman’s performance. It caused him to like her, and he even found himself appreciating West for his genuine squall of laughter. Clay had warned Nick about the dangers of liking West.

  Nick was on the verge of being stampeded by the throngs funneling around him, so he walked toward the trio with his face half turned toward the Grand Canal. West spun around to examine a display of sausages, and at the same time Nick felt the young Italian’s eyes latch on to him. He aborted his plan to “accidentally” bump into West and quickly ducked into a side stall devoted to discount underwear. He pretended to scrutinize a three-pack of briefs as he watched West and his two companions drift toward the main fish market. Nick was losing his chance. His eyes froze on the wicker basket that jutted out from the young woman’s arm. The basket was poorly made, with wicker spikes protruding from its weave. An idea came to him, one cribbed directly from the streets of Manhattan.

  Nick had fallen for a particularly clever street scam twice when he was new to New York. A homeless man carried a Styrofoam container stuffed with noodles along a midtown sidewalk. When he found his target, someone naive and kind-looking and preferably from the Midwest—basically Nicholas Brink—who was distracted by the city lights, he would knock into him with force and send his Styrofoam container flying. The result of the run-in was a clump of noodles spilled on the sidewalk. Angry cries ensued—“Man, I spent all my money on that, twenty dollars, and now no food to eat tonight! Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” It was the responsibility of the naive, kind-looking midwesterner to hand over twenty dollars with a sincere apology. Once the dupe disappeared down the block, the con artist scooped the noodles back into the container and was ready for his next victim. It was New York street survival at its finest.

  Nick silently apologized to Daniela for her generous gift to him that morning. He un-scrunched the left sleeve of the Prince of Wales blazer and followed its seam up the arm to a spot below the elbow. He hooked a pinch of the fabric onto the nail head that was holding the pack of briefs. With a quick jerk of his arm, he managed to make a tiny rip. Slipping two fingers into the hole, Nick ducked back into the market, rushing to find the group before they vanished or changed their configuration.

  He found them just inside the semidarkness of the market, where the assistant was ordering a bag of sea snails. The young woman was standing next to West, distractedly talking, the basket still jutting from her arm. When Nick reached her side, he carefully gripped the sharpest, longest wicker spoke and slipped it into the hole in his jacket. He then sprang forward, walking briskly and bringing the entire basket along with him.

  “Oh, no!” the young woman called behind him. “Whoa! Sir!”

  Nick turned around with a look of shock. “I’m caught,” he pronounced and instantly regretted the contrived fish joke. The young woman gave a confused expression as she reached for the wicker spoke that clung to Nick’s arm. When she unhooked him, she saw the frayed threads by his elbow. “I’m so sorry! Shit, I’ve torn your coat!” She tucked the basket punitively against her side as if it were a nipping lapdog. Nick took a second to inspect the rip. It was important not to be too quick with his forgiveness.

  “Ahh,” he sputtered, rubbing the hole as if it were a bruise.

  She stared up at him with gritted teeth in the limbo of remorse. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “It’s such a nice coat.”

  He allowed a smile to break gradually across his face. “It’s okay,” he replied loudly to accentuate his American accent. “It’s just bad luck, I guess.”

  “Eva, what have you done?” Richard West cried in mock outrage. He was grinning mischievously as he looked from the young woman to Nick, half in apology and half inviting Nick to see the incident for the minor matter it was. West had the playful, relaxed manner of someone who could afford to fix any problem. “Was it that damned basket? I told you that thing was going to get us in trouble. I thought it would be limited to Karine’s wrath!” Nick knew that Karine was the name of West’s current wife. “Now it’s destroying the lives of innocent bystanders!” He cocked his head at Nick. “This is my niece. She’s a terror. Make her pay for the tailoring.”

  “I will pay for it!” Eva snapped. “Of course I will! Except I’m out of cash.” She laughed and knocked her forehead against her uncle’s shoulder. “I spent all I had on this stupid basket just to annoy Karine.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take your roses as compensation,” Nick joked. He pretended to reach for her flowers, which won him a round of laughter. The Italian assistant eyed Nick warily over West’s shoulder. But it didn’t matter now. He already had West’s attention.

  “Well, who told you walking around Venice was going to be painless?” West’s voice was dense and steady, each unrushed syllable running on a reliable American motor. “If it hadn’t been a rip, it would have been pigeon shit. And that stuff is impossible to get out. You should be pleased you got off easy.”

  “I’m still learning,” Nick agreed. “This is my first time in Venice, so now I know to avoid women with baskets.”

  “We’re a terrorist organization,” Eva avowed. “Women with baskets. We’ve just expanded into Venice.”

  “First time here, huh?” West asked. He absorbed that fact with a heavy inhale through his nose. Nick understood why the mole above West’s left eyebrow was such a trademark. It was the only feature that broke the perfect symmetry of his face. Nick had never seen a face so evenly proportioned. Even the white hairs of his jaw reached the same ridgeline on each cheek. West’s wide head reminded Nick of the lion knockers on nearly every door around this city. “What a shame,” West said, “that it took you so long to get here.”

  “I know!” Nick replied. “It’s too easy to get trapped in New York and never find your way out.”

  He earned another thoughtful inhale from West. “Ahh, New York. The city?” When Nick nodded, he added perfunctorily, “I love New York City,” almost as if it were required to say so out of cosmopolitan solidarity. “I was born upstate myself, up in Albany, although I’ve spent most of my life in Chicago. I don’t get back to either place very much anymore.”

  Nick was trying to figure out a response that would keep West engaged—he could mention growing up in the Midwest, although Dayton shared few similarities with Chicago; he could return to the dilemma of his ripped jacket; he could ask West how long he’d been living in Venice. Nick’s hesitation led to a lapse in the conversation, and in that expanding lake of silence, West turned to the young Italian, who triumphantly held up a bag of snails as if it were a severed head. Nick had lost West’s interest.

  “Will that be enough for everyone tonight?” West asked his assistant. “Don’t you think we should err on the side of too much, Battista?”

  “I doubt we need that much,” Eva replied. “It’s one of those specialties where you take two bites and feel you’ve done your adventure with hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Not true,” West countered. “Karine loves them. It’s like popcorn for her. I’ve seen her eat double that amount on her own.”

  They had turned their backs to Nick, and he hovered awkwardly on the sidelines like a man at a bar who couldn’t accept that he was not going to be invited home. Any sane person would have walked away. But Nick had yet to accomplish the single objective in running into Richard West this morning. Thanks to Clay, though, he had one more c
ard to play. This ploy wouldn’t appeal to West’s humor or to his ease with strangers, but, far more effectively, to his pride.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you,” Nick said, waving a hand to seize their attention. “I’m off to find this Titian painting of Saint Lawrence that was recently restored.”

  West slowly rotated his head. “Not the one at the Gesuiti church?”

  “Yeah,” Nick said simply. “I hear that now they’ve removed five hundred years of soot from the canvas, it’s mind-blowing.”

  West snapped his fingers at his niece in delight. “Did you hear that, Eva?”

  She nodded, cognizant of her role in West’s self-admiration. She could attest to his altruism so that he didn’t have to.

  “You’re talking to the man who paid for that restoration,” Eva told Nick.

  He looked at West as if he’d been talking to a celebrity in disguise. “You did? No way! That’s amazing!”

  “I can’t believe you know about it!” West howled. “None of the experts thought it was worth the money. A minor work by a major figure. But I put my foot down. I knew it was an essential masterpiece. And now you’ve even heard about it in New York and were told it was restored correctly, and that people love it!” These weren’t questions. They were declarations, and Nick nodded yes to every single one of them. He nodded wildly. Nick was wise enough to know that charm helped to secure a friendship, but often it was being charmed that cemented it. “I’m deeply proud of that project,” West admitted. “And I’m only getting started with my work in Venice!”

  “Isn’t it considered one of the best night scenes in Renaissance painting?” Nick asked, repeating the information verbatim that Clay had fed him.

  West dropped his straw bag so he could put his arm around Nick’s shoulder.

  “Eva,” he ordered. “Hook your basket back onto this young man’s coat. We’re taking him with us!”

  “Then he wouldn’t be off to the Gesuiti to see your painting,” she noted.