“What are you doing?” The woman’s voice came suddenly and loudly from behind me, nearly sending me over the edge.
I looked round. Her twitching face was framed in the window, and she was staring at me suspiciously.
“Just inspecting the quality of the wood,” I said as calmly as I could while I got to my feet. I walked back towards the window.
“Did you see what the man you call Pulcinella did on the altana?” I asked.
“Of course not. I’ve got better things to do. Anyway, I told you I’ve answered enough questions now.”
Before I re-entered the house I had one last look around. There was just one house on the same level as this one in the neighbourhood; I thought I saw the pale shape of a face at a window, gazing in my direction. It was not far from the church of Sant’Antonio; possibly this was Marco’s aunt.
I bade farewell to Siora Padoan, who was obviously glad to be rid of me. As I descended the staircase I could hear the steady patter of her toneless muttering. I wondered whether she stopped for meals.
As I stepped out into the street, the man with the pipe looked at me and tapped his head with the pipe meaningfully. I nodded and set off in the direction of the church of Sant’Antonio.
It took me a few minutes to find Anna Biasin’s house, but I was soon knocking on her door, another top-floor apartment. It was opened by a harassed-looking woman in her thirties. A small child was clinging to her skirts and whimpering. I could see that I would have to be brisk and business-like. Probably in this case I should rely on the authority of the Missier Grande to expedite things.
“Yes?” she said.
“Siora Anna Biasin?”
“That’s me.”
“I’ve come from the Missier Grande.”
Her expression grew more harassed than ever, and she pushed the child away. “Let go,” she said to him. Then to me, “What’s this about?”
“A very simple question. Is it true you saw Sior Padoan fall from his altana?”
She was immediately flustered. “No. Who told you that? I never did, I didn’t say that . . .”
I at once assumed a reassuring tone. “Now please don’t worry. We are not going to ask you to testify. This is quite unofficial. But you must tell me the truth.”
“Yes,” she said. She still did not invite me into the apartment, and I did not insist. I guessed that the best way to get results was to rely on a tone of official briskness. Our position in the doorway would help.
“So just tell me exactly what you saw.”
“He was there on the altana with some clothes. I often saw him hanging things out. Then Pierino called me” – she pointed at the child by her side, who took the opportunity to wail plaintively – “and I bent down to pick him up. When I looked back he wasn’t there any more. And I knew he couldn’t have climbed back through the window in that time. And anyway the clothes were all there still, in a heap. I didn’t know what to do. Then I heard people screaming and yelling, and so I guessed what had happened.”
“He was definitely alone on the altana,” I said.
Her eyes grew wide. “Of course he was. He always hung the clothes out by himself. And took them back in.”
“Had you ever seen anyone else on the altana?”
Her face grew more agitated, and now she picked the child up, as if for comfort. Pierino stopped whimpering and stared at me in smug triumph. “Why do you ask that?” she said.
“Just answer the question.”
“Well, just now I saw . . .”
“Yes, that was me.”
“And about a week ago, or a bit longer. A man I’d never seen before.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Well, it’s a long way away.”
“Show me.”
She let me into the apartment. Small, with sloping ceilings, simple furniture, a few toys on the floor. She gestured to a window, and I gazed out. It was easy to spot the altana in question, as it was a prominent feature. At this distance, though, it might be difficult to identify a particular person.
“Well,” I said, “just tell me what impression he made.”
“He was probably a bit shorter than you. Dressed in black. And I thought he limped.”
“Did he remind you of Pulcinella in any way?”
“Pulcinella?” she said in bewilderment.
“Yes. Was there anything that might have made you think of Pulcinella?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember a hump or anything like that. Just the limp.”
“What did he do?”
“Do?”
“Yes. Was he hanging out clothes? Was there any reason for his being there?”
Again she shook her head. “I didn’t look that long. I remember he was against the railing there for a bit. I thought he was looking at the view.” She clutched Pierino closer to her. “Why are you asking these questions?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Just routine. We want to get an overall idea of what happened. We won’t disturb you again. But please do not mention this interview to anyone. This is an order from the Missier Grande.”
She was too nervous to reply but just nodded several times. I could tell she was dying for me to leave, so I took pity on her. I patted Pierino on the head, provoking her to squeeze him even more tightly to her breast so that he started wailing again; Marco was right about the force of his voice. I took my leave, trying to look as imposing as possible, but slightly spoiling the effect by getting my cloak caught in the door-jamb.
As I walked down the stairs I felt more displeased with myself than usual, and not only because of the awkwardness of my departure. It was not an interview I would recount with pride to anyone. I would certainly not tell Lucia about it. And I hoped Anna Biasin would take seriously my final warning and not tell her nephew about it; otherwise I guessed I would never be able to ask those boys for help again.
With that thought in mind I made my way back to the boatyard. The three boys had given up the game with their nets; if the aim had been to spatter one’s opponents as thoroughly as possible, then Lucio, whose face was still recognisable, was probably the winner. They were now just sitting on an upturned boat throwing pebbles out into the lagoon.
“Fioi,” I addressed them, “just a quick question.”
The usual curious but wary stare in response was visible on Lucio’s face; it was impossible to discern any expression on the faces of the other two behind their mud masks.
“Do you remember seeing a man dressed in black with a limp in this area? About a week ago, or maybe a bit longer?”
“Where from? Another foresto?”
“Could be,” I said. My only real hope was that the man was from outside the parish; if so, it was possible he would have aroused remark. Venetians are fairly territorial and outsiders tend to be noticed, at least in the parts of the city usually unfrequented by visitors. I wondered whether to mention the Pulcinella link, but as I had no idea what feature of Pulcinella had caught Siora Padoan’s eye or ear, I thought this might only muddle the issue.
Lucio jumped off the boat and started walking with a pronounced limp around it. “Like this?”
“Probably,” I said.
“You remember what Giacomo said,” he said to his companions, “about the man he saw in the malvasia.”
“Guagliò, aspetta . . .” said Marco, in a thick parodied accent, slurring the “s” into a “sh” sound.
I suddenly had an illumination. “A Neapolitan!” That was what Siora Padoan had meant by Pulcinella. She had recognised the accent and bestowed the nickname, even if she had then forgotten why.
“Maybe,” said Lucio.
“Did you see this man yourselves?” I asked.
“No,” said Lucio. “Friends of ours. They were in the malvasia over by San Domenico and they heard him talking.”
“What about?”
Lucio shrugged. “Nothing special. They just thought the accent was really funny. Like Pulcinella.”
&n
bsp; Street theatre was probably the only encounter they had ever had with Neapolitan culture, let alone with actual Neapolitans. Lucio had told me he had never been to Saint Mark’s Square, so it would be absurd to expect any of them to be acquainted with the world beyond the lagoon itself.
“Thank you, boys, you’ve been very helpful,” I said. “Do you think you could find a boatman for me tomorrow morning? I want to go to Sant’Elena.”
“My uncle will do that,” said Lucio.
We agreed a time and place, and I thanked them again.
“Do we get another lira?” said Marco, bolder than usual.
Feeling guilty at how I had treated his aunt, I drew out a lira and tossed it towards them. As always Lucio caught it expertly in one muddy hand.
It had been an expensive day out, but not an unfruitful one, I thought.
6
The lamps were being lit in Saint Mark’s Square when I crossed towards the Missier Grande’s office. They shone with hazy yellow glows in the mist. I looked up to the first-floor windows and saw that the chandelier was alight up there as well.
Sior Massaro looked at me inquisitively as I entered his room. “Have you found out anything?”
“Do we have any information on a Neapolitan with a limp?” I asked without any delay. It was not a hopeless question. All non-Venetians were supposed to register their presence with the authorities.
He looked doubtfully at me. “Have you got a name? Date of birth? Profession?”
“Well, profession I suspect would be hired killer.”
“Dear me,” he said. “I’m sure we wouldn’t allow anyone like that to be wandering around the city.”
“Well, it’s possible he didn’t register under that title. But does it ring a bell?”
“You might want to study those files,” he said, pointing to a shelf with a number of thick dossiers. “That is where we keep information on suspicious foresti.”
I took the files with me into the inner office. The chandelier was lit for me, and I started another session of depressing research, one that could have led an impressionable reader to the conviction that all foreigners were swindlers, thieves or drunken brutes.
Eventually, after trawling through a hundred cases of pilfering, cheating, wife-beating and house-breaking, peppered with the occasional stabbing and cudgelling, perpetrated by Romans, Florentines, Sicilians, Albanians, Greeks, Germans and Croatians, I found an entry on a certain Antonio Esposito, from Naples, suspected of having been involved in a possible murder case several months earlier in the town of Mira on the mainland. He was described as being short and stocky with dark hair and beard; he walked with a marked limp in his left leg. His date of birth was indicated as 1705, which made him forty-four years old. A report from Naples said that he had apparently been involved in a case of suspicious death there as well. In both instances murder had never been proved; the victim in the Mira case had fallen into the River Brenta and in the Naples case had been crushed by a passing carriage. Antonio Esposito was, according to the description furnished by the authorities, a trader in dried fruits. He had spent some time in Asia Minor, it seemed, where he apparently had associates in the dried-fruit business. It was hinted that this harmless activity might be a cover for various smuggling activities, although no specific details were given.
I could find no clues as to his present whereabouts in the documents. The latest report dated from two months earlier and suggested he had left the city for Genoa, where they were presumably crying out for dates and figs. Or possibly for discreet assassinations.
I took the files back to Sior Massaro’s office. He looked at me inquisitively. “I think I have a trail,” I said, and rather foolishly tapped my nose in a knowing gesture.
“Aha,” he whispered, revelling in this shared secrecy.
“Tomorrow I’ll visit the island of Sant’Elena,” I said. “The monks might be able to help.”
“Aha,” he said again, clearly wishing that he knew what I was talking about.
“All details when I return,” I said with ruthless reticence.
The next day the mist had grown thicker. As I left my apartment Siora Giovanna from the osteria on the ground floor asked me why I didn’t have my hat.
“I lost it,” I said, “and I haven’t had time to buy a new one.”
“Well, you be careful. If fog like this gets into your hair you’ll probably spend all winter in bed.”
She had not yet forgiven me for having given up my wig over the summer months, allowing my hair to grow long. She clearly considered the prestige of the house greatly diminished by the presence of a wigless tenant, and she never failed to find a way to refer to this.
“I’ll be very careful, Siora Giovanna,” I said. “And I’ll buy a hat as soon as possible.”
“You be sure you do,” she said. “You can never be too careful.”
“No, you can’t, that’s very true.”
This was a fair example of our usual conversational manner: sententiously solicitous, carefully courteous and tediously tautologous.
I made my way eastwards, passing by the Arsenale, where the marble lions flanked the great entranceway like ghostly guardians in the mist. The statue of Santa Giustina above the gateway was barely visible. I crossed the angular drawbridge over the canal and made my way down the opposite fondamenta towards the lagoon. When I reached the boatyards Lucio was already there with his uncle Biasio, a burly man, who just nodded to me and told me to get into his sandolo. It looked as if I had found a rival to Bepi for taciturnity.
We slid out into the featureless grey of the lagoon. I wrapped my cloak more tightly about myself.
It was a ten-minute journey, with Biasio effortlessly propelling us forward and humming some unidentifiable tune to himself. Eventually the tall shape of the church of Sant’Elena grew more and more solid ahead of us, with its steep triangle-topped facade. I had never actually visited the island, although I had passed it many times in Bepi’s gondola.
There was a simple landing stage by the grassy patch of ground in front of the church, and I disembarked. Biasio agreed to come back in a couple of hours. Within a minute or so he had disappeared into the fog.
One could almost have believed that the rest of the world had been silently eliminated and that only this small island, with its gaunt brick church and quiet monastery, was left. There was no visible sign of life, but listening hard I heard a plaintive chanting from the church. The monks were at their devotions.
I approached the entrance; there was a fine fifteenth-century statue over the door, which I remembered from my preparatory reading was by Antonio Rizzo, representing a Venetian sea-captain kneeling before a tall stooping figure of Saint Helena.
I pushed the door, which opened easily. The monks were in the stalls around the apse of the church, and their service was clearly coming to an end. I stood in reverent silence until the last echoes died away. They trooped out by the sacristy door, just one of them leaving the group to walk down the central aisle towards me.
“Can I help you?” he asked. From his accent I guessed he was from the mainland, not Venice itself. He was an elderly man, small, but with a natural dignity of bearing.
Time for me to adopt today’s role. Concerned neighbour.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Father; I’ve come on behalf of the sister of a man who died recently in tragic circumstances.”
“Who is that?”
“His name is Paolo Padoan. He fell from the roof of his house.”
“I know the man.”
“Well, his sister has been looking for a diary he was keeping. She seemed to think he may have left it here.”
“Here?”
“Well, perhaps in the monastery. I understand that he regularly visited the island.”
“He had a particular devotion to Saint Helena.” He gestured towards the chapel that opened off the right aisle.
“Do you have many visitors?” I asked.
“People come to our e
vening Mass,” he said. “And some people are granted permission to consult the books in our library.”
“Was he one of them?” I asked.
He gave a stately nod of the head.
“Do you happen to know what he was studying?” I asked.
His sharp eyes looked hard at me. “Can I ask you why you wish to know?”
“His sister is trying to understand what he was doing in the last days of his life. It seems he was a very reticent man. I think it would just be of some comfort to her to feel a little closer to him.” I felt almost ashamed at how easily these lies came to me. The one thing I knew was that a mention of the Missier Grande would be fatal to my inquiry with these people.
“He was reticent with us too. And perhaps his reticence should be respected.”
“But I presume that he must have given you some reason for wanting to use your library.”
He gazed at me without speaking for a few moments. Then he sighed and said, “It seems he was not happy with the life he was leading. Or the life he had led. He wanted – well, the only word is redemption.”
“Redemption?” I said.
“You understand the word?” he said.
“Yes, I know what it means – in abstract terms. But in Sior Padoan’s case in particular . . .”
“In all our cases,” he said. “There is not one of us who does not need redemption.”
“No, of course not,” I said. “But given that it is so universal a need, I wonder what made it so particularly pressing with Sior Padoan that he voiced it here.”
“He did not do so explicitly,” said the monk. “I am to a certain extent interpreting his actions. But I’m not sure I have the right to express my reading of a man who was so naturally private.”
The Four Horsemen Page 6
