Bepi looked doubtful but gave a shrug of assent.
A group of people were heading in our direction, led by Basso, whose strutting march had become more self-important than ever; his upturned chin led the procession like a precious relic. No doubt he had told them that he had single-handedly extorted the truth out of us before we made a break for it. I saw that the group included a number of people in Turkish robes. One of them, a bearded man in a white turban and red robes, looked especially agitated; I guessed him to be the ambassador.
This turned out to be the case. He was the first to board, and Bepi and I stood respectfully aside as he crouched down and entered the cabin. There was an explosion of voices, which gave way to sobbing and wailing. A minute or so later the ambassador led the two women out, the older woman visibly quivering, the younger silent but defensively hunched in on herself. Bepi and I stood aside as other Turks came forward to assist the women in disembarking. Then they all made their way swiftly towards the entrance of the Fontego, the two women in the centre of a tight protective cluster of billowing garments and turbans.
And then began the questioning.
18
The Inquisitors requisitioned the priest’s house at the nearby church of San Degola, and there Bepi and I were interrogated together and separately for at least an hour. As usual the Inquisitors were never introduced by name; the awe induced by their role would be diminished if one could imagine them as specific individuals with relatives and friends and dependants. None the less, I was able to identify Sanudo’s father quite easily; there was not only a strong family resemblance, but there were also clear worry-lines around the man’s mouth and eyes, fully understandable for any man with such a son. As I had foreseen, the moment I mentioned the ruined house on the Giudecca Sanudo took charge of the questioning and carefully steered it towards the condition in which we had found the women and what we had done next.
When I was questioned on my own, Marino Basso was sitting behind the Inquisitors and at a certain point he leaned forward and whispered something into Sanudo’s ear. A few seconds later I was asked about my relationship with the Missier Grande.
I said that I had carried out investigations for him on various matters but that this had nothing to do with the present case. It was all a question of rabbits. And, no, we hadn’t found any rabbits. Quite possibly my gondolier friend had been misinformed. And, no, I didn’t know a licence was required for the hunting of any wild animals in the lagoon. And of course I would be sure to apply for such a licence before attempting such a thing again.
No, we hadn’t been able to communicate in any way with the two women, since not only were they in no state to answer any questions but they didn’t speak Tuscan or Venetian. We had had no idea who they were, just that they were clearly Turkish, and so naturally we had brought them here.
After swearing to keep total silence on the whole affair I was eventually allowed to leave. It turned out that Bepi had been dismissed a while back, and I was going to have to walk home. Possibly I could have got a passage from one of the gondoliers we had talked to earlier, since they would certainly have loved a chance to extract the full story from me for later retelling at their favourite tavern, but choosing between them might well have led to an unseemly fracas. And besides, I was glad for the moment to abide by my promise of silence.
I felt a strong temptation to go to the Missier Grande’s office (he was often there on a Sunday) but decided I would have to resist it. It was quite probable they would be watching the building. I just had to hope that things were now over. Even if Sanudo and his cronies had not been arrested, it was likely that the Inquisitors would make sure that they were rendered incapable of doing any further harm. Perhaps they would all be sent off on missions to their beloved Greek world . . .
But even as I crossed the Rialto Bridge and returned to the side of the canal where I always feel more at home I felt a return of that worrying premonition that things were not over. The figure of Paolo Padoan and his terror of what he had discovered kept returning to me. Certainly Andrea Sanudo and his friends had shown a capacity for evil, but even so I found it hard to believe they were what had terrified Padoan.
Well, time would tell, I told myself.
Late afternoon, having eaten at my usual furatola in Corte dell’Orso, I made my way homewards, passing naturally enough through Campo Santa Maria Formosa. I was gazing rather aimlessly at the window of an antiquarian’s shop in the square when I became aware of a man hovering indecisively by my side. I took my eye from the heterogeneous collection of gilded picture-frames, miniature bronze statues and battered marble fragments that could be glimpsed through the shop window and saw a stooping elderly man looking doubtfully at me. It took me a second or two to recognise Nobleman Marco Querini, since he was, if not elegantly dressed, at least wearing a wig and a nobleman’s cloak, albeit both a little tattered at the edges.
I hoped my embarrassment was not immediately visible. I knew that conjugal fidelity was not considered of prime importance among most members of our city’s ruling class, where marriages were usually based more on questions of familial convenience than on amorous attachment; none the less, to encounter him so shortly after my night’s intimacy with his wife was disconcerting, to say the least.
“Excellency,” I said, stammering a little.
“It is you,” he said. “I thought it was.”
His tone was reassuring; it was not that of a man about to challenge his cuckolder to a duel.
“Alvise Marangon, at your service,” I said, managing to get my tongue at mine. I made a courteous bow.
“Yes, yes. You’re the fellow my wife took up the other night.”
“I – er – that is, I suppose you could . . .”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he said affably. “My wife is always taking people up and then dropping them.”
“Oh, is that right?” I said, wondering whether I should be offended or reassured by this.
“Yes. Seems to like novelties. You’re foreign, aren’t you?”
“Venetian, Excellency, but brought up in England.”
“Ah, that will explain it. She likes collecting strangers. There’s that Greek fellow.”
“Komnenos,” I said.
“Yes, that’s the name. Tells me he’s a poet. He does go on, I know that. Always hearing his voice. Still, if it makes her happy, why not?”
“Certainly,” I said.
“I know she gets a little bored in the palazzo; she was used to a good deal more – well, I suppose a good deal more space back in Cerigo, you know. Not been there myself but I believe it’s beautiful. Birthplace of Venus, you know.”
“Indeed?” I said, and I could feel my cheeks flaring.
“Yes,” he said. “She’s always joking about that. Maybe she wishes I were a little more ardent.” There was a slightly wistful tone to his voice, as if he were dreaming of sweeping his wife off to some rocky cave by the Ionian Sea.
“Em . . .”
He clearly realised the inappropriateness of his last remark. “Sorry, I was just, um, just . . .” He didn’t know how to continue this and so started on a new tack. “Are you interested in antiquities?” He gestured at the shop.
“Well, to a degree,” I said. “I’m a cicerone, so I feel I should know a little about most things.”
“A cicerone, indeed? I did wonder. My wife’s evenings seem to bring together all sorts of people. I think she hoped I would become involved, given my classical interests. But then I found people mostly wanted to talk politics . . . Not my thing.”
“I see,” I said.
“So I left her to it. She seems to know what she’s doing, even if my mother doesn’t approve.”
“No,” I said. “I did get that impression.”
My assent clearly reawoke his sense of the proprieties, and he changed direction once again. “No, antiquities are my thing. Were you wanting to buy something here?”
“No, no,” I said, “just look
ing.”
“Ah, pity,” he said. “I could have got you a fair price, you know. I know the owner well. And he’s often here even on a Sunday.”
And as if to prove the point the door of the shop opened and a small man with an ingratiating expression appeared there, his head bobbing up and down eagerly, as if pre-emptively agreeing with whatever we might want to say to him.
“Excellency,” he said, “are you intending to buy or sell today?”
“It depends on what you have, Sior Visentin. This young man is a cicerone, he tells me. You might want to cultivate him rather than me.” He said it with a kind of forced jocularity; it was clear that banter was not his style.
“Certainly, Excellency,” said Visentin. He at once turned to me, his head still bobbing convulsively. “And your clients . . . ?”
“Mostly English,” I said. “Young noblemen on the Tour, you know.”
“Yes, of course, of course. We deal quite frequently with such clients. We certainly know their tastes. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?”
“Yes, perhaps,” I said, leaving things a little vague. I was not in the mood for such considerations at that moment.
Querini must have sensed my embarrassment. He said, “Sorry, didn’t want to rush you into anything. Sior Visentin is always very eager to do business. Doesn’t realise that it’s not everyone’s prime concern.”
Sior Visentin at once waved his hands apologetically. “Do excuse me. I certainly didn’t mean to be too forward . . .” His head stopped bobbing and started waving from side to side. I wondered if he ever got giddy.
“No, no, I perfectly understand,” I said. “But some other time, perhaps.”
I was in fact quite touched by Querini’s helpfulness – and not a little embarrassed. I wondered whether it was his method of dealing with his wife’s amorous propensities. Making it fully clear that he bore no resentment was one way of preserving some shred of dignity, perhaps.
“Of course, of course,” said Visentin.
Querini gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder, as if to indicate that he need not despair, and the man retired into his shop again, after one last burst of deferential bobbing.
“I understand that you might have reservations about committing yourself,” Querini said, “but there’s really nothing underhand about it.”
“No, no,” I said. “It’s just I prefer to consider these things carefully first.”
“I see,” he said. He gave a little sigh. “Good to see a young person who isn’t impulsive. Very rare, very rare. I myself have my own regrets . . . ” And he gave another sigh.
I was beginning to wonder whether perhaps the final aim of this little conversation was simply to cause me to die from embarrassment. But no, I thought, it was clear that he really was just musing to himself, and not necessarily on his matrimonial troubles. Or so, at least, I tried to convince myself; I just wished there was not such an infinite melancholy in his tired eyes.
We exchanged a courteous goodbye, and he disappeared into the shop (which, I suppose, was blessedly free of mothers and wives) while I proceeded on my way towards the Ruga Giuffa.
The only consolation I could find lay in the thought that I had agreed with Isabella that we would not be renewing our tryst. This, of course, was not something I could say to him, though he would find out soon enough, I imagined. And then maybe I could take up his suggestion and work out some deal with his antiquarian friend – and try not to feel too guilty about it.
I decided I needed a moment of pure evasion from all such thoughts, which could be provided by attending the latest Goldoni play and then enjoying a good night’s sleep.
The former was accomplished successfully, and I made my way back home from the Teatro Sant’Angelo that evening with the best lines still resounding in my head. The latter was successful only up to a point: a point that was marked by a sudden agitated knocking at my door in the early hours of the morning.
This was not the first time such a thing had happened to me, but it was the first time that my heart had leaped in quite the way it did this time in response to the noise. Or rather, in response to the accompanying noise, which was an urgent female voice. In fact, to be more specific, it was Lucia’s voice.
I will admit that being visited in bed by Lucia was something I had occasionally (oh, all right, often) dreamed of, and so one might imagine that my immediate feeling would be one of eager delight. However, dreams are one thing and reality another. And it did not take me much longer than a confused two seconds to realise that Lucia had not come out of an irrepressible craving for my body, or even my conversation. The next two seconds were given over to dismay that she would see the squalor in which I lived. And then the time between tumbling out of bed, grabbing a cloak to cover my tawdry nightgown, shoving the chamber-pot out of sight and making my way to the door was given over to a host of other feelings and worries and thoughts. Absurdly (or perhaps not so absurdly) the overwhelming feeling was of guilt.
It was a kind of generic sense of guilt when I fell out of bed but by the time I was turning the door handle it had taken on the very specific form of guilt over Isabella Venier. By the time I had opened the door I was almost expecting to see the aristocratic lady standing next to Lucia. Perhaps naked.
Of course, there was just Lucia. That should have been a relief, but when I saw her dark troubled eyes and her agitated face I began to take in the words that were spilling from her trembling lips.
“Oh, Sior Alvise, thank God. You must get dressed; you must get away from here. You must . . .”
“What on earth is the matter, Siora Lucia?” I said. I stood in the doorway without inviting her in. It would, of course, have been most inappropriate for me to do so, and in any case I couldn’t have borne her seeing the twisted tangle of my dirty clothes, the accumulated dust, the remains of last night’s fishy supper . . .
Of course, it was already inappropriate – or, at least, highly unconventional – for her to have come all the way up to my door unescorted. I began to think beyond the confines of my embarrassment and my guilt, and a sense of fear began to steal over me.
“Sior Alvise, listen carefully” She paused to catch her breath. I realised that she must have run all the way here. Probably she would have had to ask for directions at some point, since she rarely came to this part of town.
I felt forced to say, “Would you like to come in and sit down?”
She just waved her finger negatively. She did not seem shocked by the proposal, but I took no comfort from that; it was clear that she was far too agitated to be thinking about the proprieties. After a pause she said, “Sior Alvise, there has been a murder and they will come looking for you.”
“For me?” I said in bewilderment. Then I added the obvious question: “Who’s been murdered?”
“It’s a man called Boldrin.”
“Boldrin?”
She caught my intonation and said, “You know him? You knew him, that is?”
“Yes. But how . . . when . . .”
“Sior Alvise,” she said, “get dressed and meet me somewhere nearby and I’ll tell you everything. I think they’ll be coming here very soon.”
Her urgency was catching. I told her to go to the church of San Giovanni in Bragora, which was just a couple of minutes away, and I would join her there.
19
Minutes later I was descending the stairs. I had put a few spare clothes and other items into my old satchel for all eventualities. As I stepped out into the street, Giovanna looked out from the tavern. She gave me a roguish smile: “I just saw your lady friend leaving, Sior Alvise.”
“Ah, yes, she came to call on me . . .”
She smiled indulgently. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. She looked a very nice young lady”
“She is very nice, but she isn’t my . . .”
Giovanna tapped her nose and winked. “Oh, Sior Alvise, I’m not your mother, you know.”
I gave up. “Very well, Si
ora Giovanna.”
“I’m so glad to see you’ve got some company. And maybe she’ll persuade you to get another wig. She looks like a lady with some sense.”
“I’ll be sure to ask her about it,” I said. “Anyway, I must be off. If anyone asks about me, I’m leaving town for a few days.”
“Taking her somewhere nice, I hope.”
“Yes, certainly,” I said. Should I indicate a destination, like the Barbary Coast or the Americas? I decided to leave it vague. “To see relatives,” I said.
“Ah,” she said, looking a little surprised. Despite her facetious reference to my mother I think she had never really thought of my having any family. I was just the lone Anglo-Venetian who didn’t complain too much about the noise and occasionally had some unusual visitors.
Almost out of instinct I set off in the opposite direction from Campo San Giovanni in Bragora. If anyone did come to see me, the first person they would question would be Siora Giovanna. I crossed Ponte Sant’Antonin and headed in the direction of the Greek church. Before I reached it I turned left and doubled back on myself, crossing the little bridge that led towards another entrance into the campo. Then I crossed the square and entered the church.
It was not only my parish church, and the one that I attended when I remembered to do so, but was also one of my favourite. Small, intimate and with some striking works of art. Lucia was standing in front of the altar steps gazing at the luminous painting of the Baptism of Christ that hangs above the high altar. With a veil pulled over her hair and a rapt expression on her face, she looked like a saint from a quattrocento painting herself.
But I’d never longed to kiss one of those saints, as I did Lucia at that moment. And all the time I couldn’t force out of my mind the real but treacherous kisses I had exchanged with Isabella Venier.
She turned to face me. “What a beautiful painting,” she said.
“Cima da Conegliano,” I said.
The Four Horsemen Page 20
