The Gondola Scam

by Jonathan Gash

  It was enjoyable, like having your very own medieval artists' shop. I was annoyed when one of the overseeing goons came over and warned me I'd idled long enough.

  "I know," I said wearily. "Get to work."

  The ships which thumped so very close to that brick wall weren't tiny vaporetti. They were big double-deckers.

  An "island," they'd said. A third due was the freedom with which they moved and talked between our landing point and the steps leading down into our underground factory. Which meant uninhabited. Fourth: those taps and scrapes on my elbows, as I was marched to my night work, spoke of an overgrown place, perhaps some once cultivated island which was now abandoned.

  As I slogged on the capital, copying from the plaster cast, I mentally canceled out the far northern part of the lagoon and the more westerly bits. Big ships avoid shallows, and I'd discovered the hard way that those areas were covered in valli fish farms and crisscrossed by perimeter nets.

  That left the Lido runs, the island channels like to Burano and Torcello, and the southern bit to Chioggia. I'd never been south, but it must be a longish trip. Now, you don't need to stop and feint to conceal direction on a long boat trip, because you can turn ever so casually over a distance. Therefore delete Chioggia and the south. The Lido is always thronged with beach-hunting sun-grilled skin-peelers. So it was among the islands.

  Delete the cemetery island of San Michele—too near, too visited, too much underground to leave room for this vast factory. And cross out the island where Byron (with a little bit of help from his friends) dashed off his Armenian dictionary, because the resident Armenian priests wouldn't appreciate our particular brand of artistry. Delete, too. Saint Francis of the Desert. The legendary friendliness of the eleven resident priests would convert us load of crooks by sheer dogged holiness. No quiet deserted overgrown paths in Murano, because of their obsessional glassmaking taking every inch of space. Ditto for Burano, that incredibly pretty "island of the rainbow barque," where each house is a brilliant spectacle of color and its leaning campanile shows that gravity's all balls. Torcello? Well, maybe, but tourists and fishermen and its few inhabitants and that posh locanda where inquisitive visitors can stay. No to Torcello.

  There were undisguised recesses in our brickwork wall. Seats, where monks could perch and read their office for the day. Adding two and two, as I ground out the maiden's dress in stone, it came down to one island in one exact spot. I began whistling, to everybody's annoyance. They all shouted to shut up and get to work. I did, remembering what the deserted island of San Giacomo in the Marshes looked like from the boat. I'd seen it with Cosima as we'd sailed past on the steamer, of course, but in Venice appearance was entirely for concealment. Cosima's Law.

  Now I had everything, or so I thought. Explanation of the scam. Knowledge. I even knew who was on whose side. Now the fur could fly. I worked on more carelessly than usual, because there were only a few hours left to a showdown. My showdown, with Signora Norman. As long as I winkled her away from that viperous Tonio for a few minutes . . .

  "What're you doing?" Giovanni asked me.

  "What do you think?" I said rudely, wielding the electric drill. "Stone's too soft. It has to be hoisted." The wretch called Luciano across just the same. I greeted him with scorn. "Please, teacher. May I erect a ribbed hoist, to double the speed of this idle burke? There's a strong crosspiece among the heaps of waste materials over there. It'll take an hour, and save us days rolling these bloody stones all over the factory floor. If we've over two dozen to make ..."

  The old man looked at me, then at Giovanni. "Do you really need one?"

  "Answers on a postcard," I prompted, not pausing, doing a couple of shallow holes in the mortar. "Get up off your bum and fetch me some of that chain."

  "It would be easier," my mate said reluctantly to Luciano. "I'd have put one up before, but I've not really had time."

  That made several of us give a derisory snort. Old Luciano plodded off back to his court-hand script. The guards relaxed. The painters painted. And I went inside my head: Now if a wall measures four bricks wide, plus mortar of one inch between bricks, then . . .

  "Shut up whistling, Lovejoy," Luciano called.

  "Sorry, sorry," I called back to everybody. "Won't happen again, lads."

  That was a dead certainty, for the lot of us.

  24

  "Luciano." I stepped out of the alley.

  The old man halted in the patchy darkness which Venice has patented. "Lovejoy? Is that you?"

  The Calle dei Frati leads off the Zattere waterfront. There's always a lot going on at the Maritime Station end. The advantage is that the Zattere is straight. You can see all down the fondamenta paving. Precious few boats at that ungodly hour, though. Twice I'd been disappointed waiting for Luciano, and once I'd startled a lady who was sneaking ashore from a muted water taxi near the great Gesuati church. We'd both recoiled in alarm, then snuck on our respective ways. Live and let live. I was pleased that somebody at least was keeping the exotic carnival days alive.

  I asked Luciano, "Are they watching us?"

  "At this hour?" That amused him. "You overestimate their dedication. Once they hand over to the day shift. . .' He stopped and tutted at his carelessness.

  So each transfer between boats was a two-way swap. One forger going on duty, one off, the factory continuous.

  "And compulsory silence to make sure nobody slips up, eh? What's the punishment, Luciano?"

  "For indiscretion?" The old man glanced apprehensively across the Giudecca Canal. An early thousand-tonner was shuffling eastwards towards the Adriatic. "Nobody knows."

  "Except Carlo, eh?" I restrained him with a hand. "Where is Carlo, Luciano?"

  For the first time he actually seemed tired. His old body sagged. "Don't do it, Lovejoy. You're young and silly. I'm older, wiser. Money's too powerful. It has given us our orders. It will wreak a terrible vengeance on those who oppose its wishes."

  "Don't be a bloody fool. Money's nothing except its own myth." There must be something in the air of Venice that makes everybody talk like reading Shakespeare. "The forgery factory's a send-up, non e vero?"

  "Lovejoy." The poor old bloke sounded knackered, standing in the waterfront gloom. "Do as you're ordered. Work. Take the money. Do like the rest."

  "I came to warn you, old man. Get out. It's a matter of hours."

  "What can one man do, especially a stupid one like you?" He patted my arm, dabbed his rheumy eyes with a hankie. "Go home. Sleep. Come to work. That's the way to live."

  "Like you do? Look." I snatched his hand and turned it palm up. "The best manuscript hand I've ever seen. And you work for a nutter like Tonio? You let people get executed and still do nothing?"

  Gently he took his gnarled hand back. "We can only do nothing. Not even run."

  "But it's evil, absurd."

  He actually chuckled. "It was evil and absurd that a whoring alcoholic horse thief could rule Russia. But Rasputin happened."

  He walked away, stooping with the grounded gaze of the elderly.

  I called after him, "You've got till ten o'clock, Luciano," but received no answer. To think, I had my breakfast in a nosh bar. Day was up and boats were really on the move as I reappeared about an hour later feeling quite good. Sad that Luciano hadn't heeded my warning, but at least I'd tried.

  The Eveline had been moored nearby the previous night. Gone now, but she hadn't been an illusion, though I sensed she represented some sort of threat I hadn't yet reasoned out. At 9:15 A.M. I was inquiring at the Magistrato alle Acque, local ruler of the waves since 1501. Carlo was right about the high water, and so was Mr. Pinder. Two such flood tides happened annually in the 1880s; there were seven a year by 1930; sixteen frighteners by 1955; and now . thirty-two annual dunkings. Long ago the acqua alta barely ' wet the pavement. Now it could waterlog your middle button however tall you stood. I learned too of Venice's six round-the-clock water watchers, and the emergency phone number for tide forecasts: 706-344. I would u
se it.

  I thanked them, and went out memorizing the number and feeling ill.

  "Signora got the kettle on, Placido?" I halted obediently because he had his vast mitt on my chest. "She told me ten o'clock, Placido, so don't blame me if you get your cards."

  He hesitated at that, and I walked into the palazzo and on up the stairs. It's odd how convictions alter things. I don't just mean attitudes, or the way people respond. Once you're committed, a curious order takes over as if all is suddenly well once a battle's begun. No indecisions, doubts. Berserk conflict is tranquillity, utter peace of mind and soul. And if the body suffers it's cheap at the price.

  It was coffee time in the grand salon. Signora Norman in startling orange, with silver jewelry and a brilliant lipstick. She had me gaping. You have to hand it to these older women. Tonio was unbelievable in clumsy-looking satin gear that was probably the height of fashion. I had the odd idea they were waiting for guests.

  "Have I spoiled things? I won't take long."

  Tonio moved his face, smiling his opaque smile. "Cara. We simply can't let this peasant continue—"

  "The white yacht means Colonel Norman or daughter Caterina's hit town, I suppose?" I went to the window and looked down at the gondola ferry, already busy across the Grand Canal.

  Tonio rose. His expression was exactly that of those newspaper cartoons which have empty circles drawn for eyes. I quickly went and sat by Signora Norman. I’d have to stick fairly close to the truth to survive.

  I said kindly, "There's something wrong with your forgeries, chuckie."

  "Isn't there always?" She was being unexpectedly entertained, so was all smiles.

  "He wants Luciano's job," Tonio interrupted. "A chiseler. On the make."

  "Luciano said he's good," the signora reprimanded. "Continue, Lovejoy."

  I said to her, ignoring him, "Name any forgery your factory's doing this minute, missus."

  "Paintings."

  "Right." I drew breath, ready to judge the effect of all this on Tonio. "They're doing them wrong, love. Wrong canvas, wrong paints. Wrong brushwork. Wrong colors. A kid could spot they're duff."

  "Are you so expert, Lovejoy?" Tonio was in his pigeon-toed stance now. His expression became almost human with delighted anticipation. "Better than all our fakers?"

  "You know how long it took us to recruit the teams?" The signora's smile was gone. She got her cigarette in action, I edged away from her smoke and her fury as she surged on. "Two whole years! And a fortune. The best artists, goldsmiths. The world's greatest wood-carvers, manuscript fakers, stonemasons. From every country in Europe—"

  'There's not one worth a groat, from what I've seen," I interrupted. "Your seam's clever, love. But it's cack-handed." I had to turn away from her blinding face. "Look. You age a canvas before you paint it. With a high-intensity ultraviolet light and a thermostatically controlled inspissator you can do wonders to a modern canvas. Yet not one canvas out there has been aged. That Domenico has no idea of brushwork. And he's using some acrylic paints, for God's sake." In outrage I began ticking off the faults. "Nobody's even got a smoke gun for age-coloring new varnish on your fake oils. The wood carving's done in American pine, a clear giveaway—"

  "You've not seen any pine carvers," Placido put in.

  "It stinks the frigging place out," I said contemptuously. "And that San Trovaso altar bas-reliefs supposed to be marble, not lightweight crap made up of latterite dust, Polyfilla powder and polyurethane varnish. Fakers gave that trick up decades ago. And why no watermarks on the paper? It takes a skilled antique paper faker about ten minutes to knock up a class watermark." I nudged the signora offensively. "You're so proud of inventing Italian traditions about cocktails, signora. Watermarks really are a local tradition. Right from the thirteenth century, Italy was streets ahead. The Arabs, Japanese, Chinese, none of them could do a class watermark till modern times. And they gave me York stone, far too light, to fake the Ducal Palace'' carved capitals. Want me to go on?"

  "But we proved it, Tonio. Our reproductions re faultless." She sounded puzzled. In a minute she'd move to worse anger as my news sunk in. I rose apologetically, ready with my explanation.

  "I know we did, cara. That's why Lovejoy’s a fraud." Tonio was practically quivering with eagerness. Placido carefully put the door to and turned to face me. War.

  "You mean that auction? Your Carpaccio painting?" I smiled, but my knees were beginning to wobble, so I rose and walked to the window. Tonio nearly fell about at that, thinking I was sussing out an escape route by a Douglas Fairbanks leap. How wrong he was. Even the thought of all that risk and energy made me palpitate.

  "Why, yes."

  "Didn't Tonio or Caterina tell you? That the wooden stretchers weren't properly plugged?" I lied. Actually, they'd been reasonable. "That the canvas was obviously modem?" It had actually been well aged. "And the varnish could have done with a little more nicotine discoloration, especially over the—"

  "Lies!"

  The doorbell rang, halting Tonio. It rang, rang, rang. A furious knocking on the door accompanied it, non-stop. My relief sweat broke out. I almost fell down. For a million panic-stricken heartbeats I thought the traghetto men had simply taken my money and welshed. She could learn the horrible details now.

  "Is it lies about the murders, Tonio?"

  ''What murders?" The signora's cigarette smoke was vertical.

  'Two antique dealers. They also spotted the flaws. Malleson, Cramphom." In the din from the door I kept my eyes on Tonio, but was speaking to the signora. By a lucky fluke I found myself standing behind the settee. A born coward.

  "He's making it all up, Lavinia," Tonia said.

  "Am I? Signora. Phone any East Anglia newspaper."

  She put a hand to her temple, trying to concentrate. "That noise . . ."

  "It's the fire, police, and canal ambulance out there," I explained cheerfully. "I bribed the gondoliers to phone and gjve this address."

  "Get rid of them. Both of you." The signora rose and crossed to the window. The palazzo's door into the campo was not visible from inside the room. I'd checked. "Explain that it was some stupid tourist's hoax."

  Sadism reluctantly postponed, Tonio and Placido left me with the signora. I let them get halfway downstairs before I spoke.

  "Actually it's only the traghetto blokes. I bribed them to make a hullabaloo."

  She had to smile despite the new worries I'd given her. "You're a pest, Lovejoy. You know that?"

  "Not without trying, Lavinia."

  "And all this about the two murdered dealers and the fakes. Yet more annoying tales?"

  "Come to my apartment at noon, Lavinia. I'll tell you what's really happening to your scam. And who's out to ruin you." I gave her Cosima's address.

  Her eyes were shining. "I may not trust you."

  "Don't bring Tonio or Placido. Nor anybody else. I don't trust you either."

  The downstairs racket was lessening. Time to go. I crossed the room, shutting her in behind me and turning away from the landing which overlooked the noisy hallway. It had to be left turn, and down past the dumbwaiter. That had given me the clue to where the kitchen was, directly below somewhere, and inevitably the back staircase which accompanied it. Which meant access to the low arches of the palazzo's canal exit I'd inspected from the nicked gondola that other night.

  Incredibly, a stout oldish bird was amiably cutting stuff in the kitchen, as if the world was normal, when I passed. She was caterwauling a song accompanying a radio. One more floor down, and I was through a dampish doorway into the sleaziest, longest, and wettest cellar you ever saw. Talk about damp. I looked through a grille which emitted a feeble yellow.

  He was sitting on a small camp stool beside a bed, his face averted from the grille set in the door. It was bolted on the corridor side. A patrician's dungeon, practically inaccessible and frighteningly private.

  "Luciano? It's me. Lovejoy."

  He didn't even move. There was a small table lamp. He didn't look
as if he'd been knocked about, but I was peering in at an abject picture of utter defeat.

  "I'm undoing the bolts, mate."

  There was three. I tried the door and it opened, but by then I was so frightened at the vague thuds transmitting themselves through the palazzo's structure that I scarpered quickly along the passage and unbolted the end door. It had an old tumble lock. No key, but anybody with a wire in his turn-up can unlock it as fast as with the right key.

  Beyond, that narrow set of steps and broad daylight on the canal. The barred portcullis-type gateway between me and freedom was still down, only inches from the surface of the water. It meant swimming, ducking under the portcullis, and emerging into the open canal in full sight of anybody on the nearby bridge.

  I waded down the steps into the grotty water until it was up to my middle. I drew a deep breath and plunged.

  25

  It was predictable. Within two hours I was dry, free, and anonymous as ever. Looking at it now, my public re-emergence from the canal's dark grot was a scream. Of course, anything's hilarious as long as it isn't yourself slipping on that comical banana peel, but on this occasion I needed to play the clown. I clambered out of the canal into an assembly of a few tourists and the stray Venetian, talking nineteen to the dozen. Two laughing Germans even took my photo. In the pandemonium I gave different versions—fell in photographing the bridge, tumbled in after a few drinks, et cetera. Rueful and grinning, I sloshed my way to the Giardinetti, where I sat in the garden and watched folk queue for their loo tickets. Lots of cats and bonny trees—and me, drying out. Odd, but once you're seated you tend to vanish even if you're extraordinary. Stand up, and people are all attention.

  At a different tailor's I bought a tee shirt and had them bag my stuff for carrying. Because I now had no need to hide from Cesare and the other water taxi men, I walked quite openly to the Zaccaria and caught a waterbus.

  The Australian butterfly painter, dreamer Gerry, was on board in the standing-room-only middle bit.