The Four Horsemen

by Gregory Dowling

  “I’m glad to hear your cultural interests are still thriving, Sior Alvise,” she said. “Not having seen you pass this way for so long. Perhaps he has given up reading, I said to Father just the other day.”

  “But you none the less guessed that the Homer belonged to me.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And perhaps the curious way it reached us was also a clue.” Her tone as she said this was light, I was glad to note.

  I was about to try to respond with equal lightness when the door of the shop was opened.

  Lucia turned to face the door with a welcoming smile. Fabrizio looked up from the diary with his usual mild curiosity. I, however, stared in blank dismay. The man standing in the doorway, gazing around with an expression of fastidious distaste, was Marino Basso, last seen in the library at Sant’Elena.

  9

  A burly man with a Nicolotto cap askew on his large bristly head was standing behind the unwelcome visitor. While Basso, as usual, managed to give the impression that, despite his meagre height, he was raised above us by sheer superiority of deportment, his companion towered over the whole shop by dint of mere physical bulk. I looked back at Fabrizio, wondering if there was any way I could signal to him to thrust the diary into his drawer, but he was already addressing Basso courteously. “Good morning. Do come in and look round.”

  “Thank you,” said Basso, and he peeled off his gloves and handed them to his companion, who took them with a grunt and shoved them into his coat pocket. “I have no intention of robbing you of your valuable time,” he went on, still addressing Fabrizio. “My business is with this young man.” He waved his ungloved hand at me, in a gesture clearly intended to offend.

  I took a conscious decision to remain clear-headed and cool. “And what business might that be, Sior Basso?”

  “I think you know perfectly well, Sior Marangon.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “We met yesterday at Sant’Elena and concluded any business that we might have had there.”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “Because I have discovered that you were not fully honest with me.”

  His companion gave another grunt, as if shocked at such a revelation.

  I moved towards Basso, with the sole intention of blocking his view of Fabrizio’s desk. However, he took my action as hostile and lifted his cane in a warning fashion. His companion instantly stepped forward as well, his bristling jaw thrust out like a battering ram. I spoke as mildly as possible. “I don’t know what you are referring to.”

  Basso lowered his cane. “You told me you had not found Padoan’s diary.”

  I heard a slight rustle of movement behind me, and spoke quickly to draw attention away from Fabrizio and his desk. “It was perfectly true. You even searched me.”

  Lucia spoke up. “Excuse me, sior, I don’t know who you are, but this is a bookshop. If you are not interested in looking at our books I must ask you to leave.” I cast her a grateful glance but then looked away at once. Her expression was firm and angry, and I guessed that some of the anger was directed at me as well as at the new arrivals.

  Basso simply ignored her. “This morning we found the man who had rowed you to the island. He told us that on the way back to the city you were reading a hand-written notebook.”

  I cursed my impatience. Why could I not have waited those few minutes to examine my findings? I should have known how thorough the Inquisitors’ agents were. The exchanged grunts between my boatman and Basso’s gondolier should have been enough to tell me that they knew each other. I should have foreseen the possibility that Basso might question my man.

  I tried to bluster my way out. “And what does that mean? I was just consulting my own diary, making sure I had not forgotten any appointments.”

  Lucia was now fuming. “Sior, I have asked you to leave. You clearly have no intention of buying—”

  Basso turned to her. “I am here on business for the Inquisitors. You will kindly not interrupt me.”

  There was a faint creaking noise behind me, and I realised Fabrizio was opening his drawer. Unfortunately Basso heard him. “Please leave that where it is.” He pushed past me and picked up the notebook. “I think this is what we were looking for. Am I correct?”

  I saw no point in further prevarication. “That is Sior Padoan’s diary.”

  “You admit you lied to me, then?”

  “No. When we spoke I didn’t have it – as you yourself were able to ascertain. I found it in the chapel of Sant’Elena after we had spoken.”

  “And although you knew I was looking for it on behalf of the Inquisitors you appropriated it for yourself.”

  “No, for Sior Padoan’s sister. She has a right to it.”

  “Then what is it doing here? I rather doubt that Sior Padoan’s sister is a client of this establishment.”

  “Let’s just say I was curious and wanted an idea of what was in it. It’s written in Greek and my friend Sior Fabrizio is the only person I know who reads Greek.”

  “I see,” said Basso. “We searched your apartment this morning after speaking with the boatman.”

  “You what?” I said, angered but not surprised. Well, at least it would provide Siora Giovanna with a topic of conversation other than my bare head for a few days.

  He went straight on. “And then our knowledge of your regular habits suggested it might be worth coming here.”

  “Sior Alvise is no longer a regular visitor here,” said Lucia. Her voice was cold and hard.

  “It’s true,” I said. “I haven’t called here for some weeks.”

  “Then we will just have to congratulate ourselves on our good fortune,” said Basso. “You will now forget all about this business. You will certainly not make any report to the Missier Grande.” He looked at Lucia and Fabrizio. “That goes for you as well. If you have read this diary, you will cancel from your minds all that you have found there.”

  “I know nothing about it,” said Lucia, still very coldly. “And I’m sure my father will be happy to do as you suggest.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it. My apologies for disturbing you.”

  He turned round, holding out his hands imperiously towards his companion. The latter pulled out the gloves, handed them to Basso, and then they both left.

  It would not be an exaggeration to describe the silence that followed as an awkward one. It did not last long, however.

  “Sior Alvise,” said Lucia. Her voice was quiet but firm; her dark eyes had a steely glitter.

  “Siora Lucia,” I said, not sure whether to try for airy nonchalance or grovelling humility. In the end I just sounded confused, which was fair enough.

  “You haven’t visited us for several weeks and now that you do come you bring spies from the Inquisitors upon us.”

  “My dear,” said Fabrizio, “that is a little harsh.”

  “Is it, Father? Was it just a social visit?”

  “Alvise simply asked me to—”

  “To inspect a document that he was trying to keep from the Inquisitors’ spies.”

  I winced, but I could not actually fault this description. “I had no idea those people would come along. I am extremely sorry.”

  “You had no idea. That’s clear enough.”

  “The diary was really not anything—”

  “I would rather not know about it,” she said. “I’m going upstairs to prepare our meal. Thank you for calling, Sior Alvise. Please do not call again until you can be sure that you won’t be followed by sbirri and spies.” She picked up her basket, gave me a formal bow and proceeded up the stairs in the corner of the shop that led to their apartment.

  Another awkward silence. Then Fabrizio said, “Lucia is very protective of me.”

  “I understand that,” I said, “and I honour her for it.”

  “She’s angry now,” he said, “but these moods pass with her.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “I’ll stay away for a while.” Perhaps a dogeship or two.

  “Do you still intend to vi
sit this salotto?”

  “I’m afraid I have to,” I said.

  “Are you sure it’s sensible?”

  “I really have no choice. I don’t think I’ll be safe until I find out what lies behind this murder.”

  He gave a sigh and then spoke in a lower voice, with an involuntary glance towards the staircase. “Well, come round this afternoon as I said, around five o’clock. I’ll find some excuse to send Lucia to the shops or something. Then you can meet my friend Madricardo.”

  “Thank you,” I said, dropping my voice in conspiratorial fashion as well. It would have been comforting to believe that Fabrizio was getting some thrill out of this incursion into my way of life, but I couldn’t really persuade myself that this was so.

  I went home to see in what sort of condition the Inquisitors’ men had left my apartment. I was expecting the worst and so was reasonably content to find that their search had been thorough but not brutally destructive. Of course, my possessions were not so many that a thorough search would have required any especially invasive actions. The books had been scattered widely and my few items of clothing had been rummaged through, but there was no evidence of any wanton breakage. The room had sometimes looked worse after I had dressed in a hurry after oversleeping. Giovanna told me that she had been obliged to open the door to the men; it was not the first time such a thing had happened, and I suppose she had come to expect that this was the least you could expect from a tenant who suddenly ceased wearing a wig. I made pacificatory remarks, explaining that it was all a misunderstanding about certain books I was reading. She took the explanation in her stride; I think she knew that she was unlikely to find another tenant who would be prepared to accept the customary noise levels from her tavern at night.

  10

  Things went as planned at the meeting in Fabrizio’s shop. Filippo Madricardo was a little man in his fifties, in slightly dusty-looking clothes. He had a curious habit of repeating one’s last remark before answering it, as if everything had to be carefully tested in his own mouth before it could be properly assessed. Fabrizio had told me that he was a lawyer and had literary ambitions; I imagined he liked poems with convenient refrains. It was agreed that we would call on the salotto that very evening, since it convened twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Sior Madricardo told me that masks were not worn at these gatherings, by special request of Noblewoman Isabella Venier Querini. That slightly put me out; I had hoped to be able to enjoy a certain anonymity, at least when arriving at the palace.

  But I cheered myself up with the thought that the Inquisitors, while thorough, were also quite slow (Sior Massaro had regaled me with some highly comic – in his opinion – anecdotes about this tendency of theirs), and probably it would take them quite a while to arrange for the diary to be translated. For this reason I thought it unlikely that one of their agents would be on hand to report my presence at the salotto.

  So, four hours later, as arranged with Sior Madricardo (I had spent the intervening hours on the windy plain of Troy), we met in Campo Santa Maria Formosa. I had dined, but only lightly, since I had no idea whether a literary salotto offered food for the stomach as well as for the mind; I did not want to offend, either with embarrassing rumbles from an empty stomach or with a display of ravenous guzzling. I was wearing my cleanest shirt, brightest waistcoat, shiniest shoes and least crumpled knee-breeches (although it would actually be more honest to use the comparative form of the adjective in most of these cases). My jacket was the usual one, as I had no choice in the matter; it was certainly not as neatly close-fitting as was fashionable, but this at least meant that the bulge in the capacious right-hand pocket where I kept my Homer was not too vulgarly protuberant. I had tied my hair with a neat silk ribbon at the back. Siora Giovanna had even complimented me as I left the house. I did not tell her that this sartorial display was for a gathering where we would probably talk about books, since that would only leave her gloomily expecting another visit from the Inquisitors’ men.

  Sior Madricardo had apparently found a clothes brush somewhere, since he looked a little less dusty by the light of the lantern that a codega was holding for him.

  “Ah, good evening, good evening,” he said. “Very good, very good. Great privilege to be visiting the palace this evening, the palace, you know.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I’ve done my best to dress suitably.”

  “Good, good. By the way, can you remind me what you wish to talk about, if Noblewoman Venier should be so good as to call upon you to speak?”

  “A translation of The Iliad into English.”

  “A translation of The Iliad into English,” he repeated, as if surprised at the very idea.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Alexander Pope is the author.”

  “. . . is the author.” He only repeated the last three words this time, the foreign name clearly being an impenetrable puzzle. “Well, it’s certainly something new. Something new. People might like it, they really might.”

  “Does Nobleman Querini ever attend these affairs?” I asked.

  “Oh goodness no,” he said. “Much too wrapped up in his antiquarian interests. And a little shy, you know, shy.”

  “Ah,” I said, “so rather different from his wife, I gather.”

  “Very different,” he said. “Doesn’t like the public gaze. He’s never really been involved in public matters. He once went on a diplomatic mission to Smyrna, I believe, but he spent his time studying the antiquities at Ephesus and forgot all about the business he was supposed to be attending to. A scholar, you know, a scholar.”

  We made our way towards the little square behind the church, the codega providing a damp luminescence in the mist to guide our footsteps. This feeble light proved unnecessary by the time we reached the little bridge that crossed the canal to the Querini palace, since not only was there a hazy glow of light from the piano nobile but there were a number of other people with lanterns; some were walking towards the bridge, while others were getting out of gondolas and giving instructions to their gondoliers about the return journey. Madricardo paid our codega, who disappeared into the fog.

  We crossed the bridge with some other cloaked figures. A footman led us up the staircase to the second-storey piano nobile. Another footman took our cloaks from us at the top of the staircase, and we stepped into the great central hall.

  It was clear that Isabella Venier was determined that nobody would ever be able to deny the suitability of the adjective “brilliant” for her salotto. The central chandelier glittered with countless bright flames, and brackets with extra candles studded the walls on both sides. One’s first instinct was to shield one’s eyes.

  The noblewoman herself approached us in all her own glittering glory. She was wearing a silver gown that shimmered with reflected light from the candles; her hair seemed to be of spun gold, and gleaming pearls adorned her ears. There were a number of other people in the room, but they were merely vague shadows for the moment.

  I think I let out a gasp, which evidently pleased her. She turned to Madricardo, and after they had exchanged formal greetings she said, “And will you introduce your intriguing companion?”

  “Signora,” he said, “this is Signor Alvise Marangon, who is here as a lover of Homer.”

  She turned to me and smiled. It was, unsurprisingly, a dazzling smile; it was as if an extra chandelier had suddenly dropped from the ceiling, fully ablaze. Her eyes, I noticed, were of an Aegean blue. She must have been in her mid-thirties, but her vivacity of expression was that of a young girl. “Signor Marangon, all lovers of Greek literature are welcome in this circle. Even more welcome when as young and full of enthusiasm as you clearly are.” Her voice was unexpectedly low and breathy. She spoke in Tuscan Italian, although her accent was clearly Venetian.

  I bowed and said, “Excellency, I don’t know how young you have guessed me to be, but I hope at least to show that I merit your observation on my enthusiasm.”

  “Elegantly put,” she remar
ked. “And I will now look forward to Homeric similes in your longer discourses.”

  “Thank you, signora,” I said. “That is enough to daunt me, like a young lamb at the sight of an approaching pack of ravening wolves.” Now I was just showing off, but she seemed to like it.

  She tapped my shoulder with her pearl-embroidered fan and said, flashing another brilliant smile, “I can see you have already made a fair assessment of the present company. Let me introduce you to some of the pack.” She made a swirling about-turn, which seemed to send shimmering sparks from all points of her dress, and indicated the company with a sweeping wave of her fan.

  I now took in the other people present. They were an extremely diverse crowd, scattered around the long room in small clusters. There were probably about thirty in all. I was a little (but not very) surprised to notice that our hostess was the only woman. My first glance suggested that I had done well to put on my best clothes, since Spartan simplicity of attire did not appear to be the rule here. Everywhere lace ruffles and frills frothed forth from tightly tailored jackets, and powdered wigs took on an extra candour under the chandeliers. However, a second glance showed me that there was at least one cluster of people in plainer clothes, like pewter dishes among fine porcelain. There was even the occasional man wearing his own hair, like myself.

  I recognised a few noblemen and one or two other faces, familiar to me from the Liston. They had all turned to gaze at Madricardo and myself when we entered, but we clearly had not held their interest, and they had mostly returned to their various conversations. Madricardo said a few mumbled words of valediction to me and moved towards a group of older men by the opposite wall, who opened up their cluster to absorb him. His mission had been accomplished, and I must now fend for myself.

  Noblewoman Isabella Venier remained by my side, however, conducting me towards a group of young men standing by the window over the canal. I recognised one of them as Andrea Sanudo, a youthful nobleman with a reputation for rakish behaviour; he gazed at me with his eyebrows just slightly raised, as if challenging me to merit his curiosity. The other three seemed to be waiting for a cue from him before deciding how to react towards me.