by David Hewson
She keyed the number again and held the phone between them. They could both hear it ring twice, then make way for the click of an answering machine. Massiter’s suave voice recited an unimaginative excuse for his absence. She waited until the message was close to the end, then, a moment before the beep came, said, “I’ll just leave a message and ask him to join us all here, Rizzo. So we can clear this up right....”
“No!” he screamed, and dashed the phone from her hands. The sergeant was over in an instant, wrapping his arm around Rizzo’s neck. She wondered why he bothered. Rizzo wasn’t violent. He was just scared. As scared as anyone she had ever seen.
Giulia Morelli got up and walked to the corner of the room, picked up the phone from the floor, then killed the call. When she returned to the table, the sergeant had let go. Rizzo sat, head down, glowering at her through narrowed eyes.
“Want a coffee?” she asked.
“No,” he grunted.
“Beer? Orange juice? Prosecco?”
“Nothing!”
She nodded at the sergeant. “Fetch some coffee. I can handle him for a while.”
Biagio grunted, then walked out of the room. She sat down opposite Rizzo. He was sweating. She felt fine.
“Just say you remember me. That’s all.”
“You’re a crazy woman.”
She shook her head, put her bag on the desk, then reached inside and retrieved her small police handgun, the one that had wriggled out of her grip in Sant’ Alvise.
Rizzo stared at it. Giulia Morelli lifted the gun and turned it in her palm.
“My hand doesn’t shake anymore,” she said. “I ought to thank you for that. Maybe I could save you, Rizzo. Understand?”
“Fu—”
In an instant she was out of the chair, reaching across the table, grasping his greasy head, holding it tight as she jammed the nose of the gun into his cheek.
“Don’t speak,” she said. “Just listen. I don’t want you. I don’t care about you. Maybe I can even forget about what you did that day. It depends on what you do now. What you say.”
She took the gun out of his face. The barrel left a mark on his cheek, a circle of disturbed flesh. Giulia Morelli sat down and smiled.
“Before he comes back, Rizzo. Tell me you remember me. Then we have something we can work on. Something that might keep you alive.”
Rizzo stared at the door, waiting for it to open. He was shaking.
41
The prison
TOURIST DOLLARS RARELY CROSSED THE WATER TO Giudecca. The narrow promenade where the vaporetto stopped was filthy from construction work. Old mattresses, supermarket trolleys, and plastic bags littered the pavement. Dorsoduro sat across the canal, another world, affluent and remote. Daniel glanced at the familiar shoreline, examined the map, then headed west, towards the ugly red brick monstrosity of the Molino Stucky. After five minutes of dodging bags of rubbish and workmen’s barricades, he turned gratefully away from the waterfront, following a narrow rio populated by small private craft. A modest wooden bridge led over to the Fondamenta delle Convertite and the former monastery which was now part of the prison service.
He stopped for a moment and looked at the oval sign over the white marble entrance. It read: Istituti Penali Femminili. A small video camera was hooked over the arch on a swan’s-neck clasp. This was a place he had never expected to visit. Even now, a day and a half after the strange and terrifying incident in Ca’ Scacchi, he continued to feel that he was walking inside a dream, one which would disappear if only he knew how to press with sufficient force against the dull, persistent inertia which held him in its folds. At times, when his mind seemed incapable of grasping the full extent of the events shaping around him, he hoped this was some momentary nightmare, a brief second of reverie between rolling out of Laura’s bed and landing on the floor. The jolt never came. He had sat for an hour watching Scacchi’s unconscious face in the Ospedale al Mare that morning, praying for answers. He had spoken to the undertakers about the shipment of Paul’s body to an ancient mother in Minneapolis, as the American’s will had requested. He had listened to Massiter’s urgent pleas, half-begging, half-threatening, and sat through the first entire performance of the concerto in rehearsal and found himself both awed and chilled by its strange, relentless power. Dreams did not contain such details. They occurred only in the unavoidable harshness of reality.
He ran his fingers through his hair and briefly found himself wondering about the state of his clothes. Laura always examined him, he realised. He constantly sought her approval, even now. Then he let the single grey eye of the camera record his presence, announced himself at the counter, and waited to be called. Fifteen minutes later he was summoned to a small room with a single window barred with a twisted iron grille. She sat at a low table. A woman guard stood in shadow in the far corner. Laura wore a plain blue shift. Her hair was tied back severely behind her head. Her skin was pale and perfect. Watching the uncertainty in her bright, nervous eyes, sensing the flux of emotions she felt in his presence, Daniel Forster knew then, more surely than at any time in the past, that some kind of immutable bond existed between them.
Her hands were pressed flat on the table. He reached out and touched them. Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew her fingers from his.
“Don’t, Daniel,” she said softly.
The sense that he was in a dream returned. In his head, he was helping her to her feet, they were walking out of the door, out into the hot afternoon sunshine, out into a new life which had no past, only a bright, never-ending future.
“I miss you,” he said finally.
She turned her head to face the wall, and he saw there a single tear resting in the corner of her eye. The guard coughed. Outside, a boat passed noisily along the rio.
“You saw him today? How is he?” she asked.
“He is unconscious.”
She turned and stared forcefully at him. “All the time? He has not woken at all and spoken to the police?”
This sudden practical turn in her manner offended him for some reason. “He has not come to and told them you have gone insane, if that is what you mean. He has had more than one stroke, they say. They don’t know if he will speak again. Why are you doing this?”
Her eyes flashed at him, accusing. “Think of Scacchi, Daniel. Not me. I should have protected them.”
“I’m sorry, Laura. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do or think. I feel as if I’m going mad, because I understand nothing. Nothing. And you’re not there to help me see through the mist. You make the fog yourself. Why, please?”
She sighed and relaxed on the hard prison chair. “Will he never recover?”
He said nothing, merely bowed his head. Laura closed her eyes. A thin line of tears ran down each cheek.
“You owe it to me,” he pleaded. “You owe it to him. To explain. To tell them the truth.”
She seemed affronted. “I owe none of you anything. I loved Scacchi. Perhaps I love you, Daniel. I simply don’t know. But I’m not in anyone’s debt. And you’ve always understood less than you believe. You weren’t there. How do you know I haven’t told them the truth?”
“How?” He very nearly laughed. “Because I recall sitting on Piero’s boat, when I was younger, when I was a different person, hearing you warn me very seriously that you loved those men, both of them, and would be obliged if I either learnt to love them, too, or affected as much. Now you say their blood is on your hands. I know you’re lying, Laura, and I don’t understand why. This is madness.”
“We mustn’t meet again, Daniel,” she said in a low, firm voice. “Never. It’s as painful for me as it is for you.”
“Laura!”
“I will tell them. The prison people. I’ll say they must not allow you admission. I will not see you again. In this place, or anywhere else. You must go now, go to this concert of yours. Forget about us. Make the most of your life. Find the people who are like you. Talk to Amy. Anyone.” She moved forwar
d until her head was back in the light. He had never seen such determination in her face. “If you stay here, you will be devoured for sure. And I’ll hate your memory for refusing my advice. I say this to you out of love, Daniel. Go, and do not look back.”
The vehemence in her voice chilled him. “I deserve an explanation,” he murmured.
“It is a dangerous thing to ask for what one deserves,” she answered primly. “You may whisper for angels and find yourself dancing with demons. Listen to me. Their blood is on my hands. When I wake in the morning, I see their faces staring back at me, I hear their voices rattling around my head. This is my hell, and I do not wish to share it. Now, go!”
He reached forward and seized her hands. “I will not abandon you, Laura.”
She snatched her fingers from his touch, stood, and was immediately transformed. A stream of vile curses flew from her lips like acid spittle. Her hands waved manically in front of her face; her arms windmilled through the air.
The slumbering guard woke up amid Laura’s insane screeches. Daniel stayed on his seat, waiting for his head to burst. The woman in uniform came over and tapped hard on his shoulder. “You’d better get out of here, mister. If she carries on like that, I have to do something and it’s not nice.”
He refused to move. Laura retreated to the corner, shrank down into a small blue shape on the floor, hands around her legs, face buried in her lap, like a child. He heard her sobbing; he closed his eyes.
“Mister?”
The guard’s hand lay heavy on his shoulder. Daniel Forster rose from the chair.
“Laura?” he said, close to tears. She did not budge, making only a rhythmic, meaningless sound.
He walked outside, out into the hot afternoon, sat on the edge of the grimy canal, stared at the rubbish in the water, lowered his face into his hands, and began to weep.
42
A fateful argument
LORENZO!” IT WAS LATE. SHE SEEMED TIRED, PALE, AND out of sorts. “You take such risks.”
There was something foreign in her expression that took me aback. Rebecca was changed somehow.
“I had no choice. We must talk.”
She calmed a little, presuming my urgency came from love, not necessity. “So. What did you think of it?” she asked. “Vivaldi, praising my efforts like that. My efforts. And the audience!”
“I thought ...” This was a time to choose my words carefully. Perhaps she had ideas of her own that might circumvent any plans Leo could in the meantime concoct. “I felt they gave your work no more than the honour it deserved. And that they will not be patient when it comes to learning the identity of the artist who penned it.”
“No.” She seemed somewhat downcast at that last thought.
“Do you know what to do next?” I asked. “The more you hold back, the greater the frenzy will be for someone to claim authorship.”
“I hoped Jacopo would have some notion. Instead, when I found the courage to tell him the truth, he just looked at me as if I’ve committed some sin. He senses danger more keenly than most. He was like this before we fled Geneva, and it probably saved our lives.”
“You might flee?” I strode across the room immediately, fell in front of her, and placed my arms upon her lap. “Do not talk of running, Rebecca. I will not listen to that.”
“Would you have us stay here and face the peril, then? Some love for me that is, Lorenzo.”
These were rash, cruel words, and I could see from her face how distant they were from her true thoughts. Something was wrong between us, and I could only guess at what. I touched her soft, pale cheek. “I will lay down my life for you, Rebecca, and sacrifice our happiness if that means you prosper. But do not run too easily. And if you do, I pray you’ll let me lead the way.”
She drew back from my touch as if this were a promise she had heard before. I assume Rebecca is as new to love as me. I assume too many things.
“Jacopo says it is impossible. They would not accept a woman and a Jew as author of such a work even if I came to them as pure as driven snow. If I stand up now and reveal myself, I risk their derision first and then their anger when they discover how I have deceived them. With luck none recognised me in the church—damn Vivaldi for putting me on show like that. But if I enter the public eye, the game’s up. For all of us. There’ll be a ticket in the lion’s mouth before nightfall, and we’ll be talking to the Doge’s inquisitors in the morning.”
I held her hands tightly. They did not stir in mine.
“Well,” she said coldly. “Tell me I am wrong.”
It came to me then. If love requires a set of proofs, then one of them is this: that neither party may lie easily to the other. But if a set of proofs be required, is this truly love?
“No,” I answered. “You are not wrong. I wish I could honestly say the opposite, but Jacopo sees the situation as it is. There must be a place in the world where you may hold your manuscript in your hand and walk with it freely into an adoring hall. But Venice isn’t it. Nor anywhere else I know.”
The truth, they say, may hurt. She withdrew her hands from my tender grasp. “Then what are we to do, Lorenzo?”
“Stay calm. Stay quiet. We have a few days yet.”
A bitter laugh, a sound I had not heard from her before, rang around the room. “And will the climate be much different three, four days hence? Of course not. This is all my doing, and I have dragged you and Jacopo down with me. What a fool I’ve been. To think that talent’s all you need in this world and that if you have sufficient of it, your sex, your race, your ancestry, all these things become invisible to the masses. They judge us as much on who we are as what we may do. If I were the Doge’s harlot, perhaps things might be different, but a poor Jew stands no chance. This is a Gentile’s world, and one for men at that. I should have known it all along.”
Her dark eyes were full of anger and resentment. How could I blame her? Rebecca sought glory through her work, but more than anything, I think, she searched for some sense of her true identity in a society which would deny its existence.
“Don’t judge us all by the crowd,” I said. “There’re some who’d help you, love, and maybe more elsewhere.”
“Who?”
“Vivaldi, for one. I saw the way he watched you in the concert. Do you think he doesn’t know?”
“No. I assumed he didn’t.”
“I suspect you’re wrong. You played like a giant. You knew that work inside out. How was that possible?”
She realised there was some truth in my words. “And he will keep this secret to himself?”
“He has. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here now.”
“Then let’s hope he continues in this vein.” She seemed nervous. “There is more, Lorenzo. I can see it in your face.”
“Leo.”
“Your uncle?”
“He saw it clearly, too, and sought my confirmation. I denied it, naturally, but he doesn’t believe a word. You’ll hear from him before long, and that was why I came. Beware. Both of you. I know my uncle better than most. He is not to be trusted.”
She gasped, surprised. “Trusted? Lorenzo, it is thanks to your uncle that I first found my place in Vivaldi’s orchestra. Thanks to him that I gained an introduction to the Englishman, without whom that violin over there would still be in some Cremona workshop. He has done me many favours.”
“I don’t deny that. But Leo fancies himself a musician too. He would steal your glory for himself given half the chance.”
“That I cannot believe.”
“He thinks he has the only copy of your concerto in existence.”
“Of course he has!” She spoke as if exasperated with a child. “Do you think I have the money to copy it, even if I had the courage? And why bother? I can re-create every note from my head, and probably improve a good few along the way.”
We had never argued before. It was only much later, when this scene replayed itself over and over in my head, that I understood how little logic ran on either
side.
“You do not know him!”
“And you do? I think you hate to be any man’s apprentice, and colour your view accordingly.”
“I have seen the way he looks at you!”
She laughed in a kind of triumph. “Well, now we have it. This is the true reason for your hatred, and a sorry one at that. You will spend a great part of your life in misery, Lorenzo, if you seethe with fury at every man who steals me a glance. What would you have me do? Put on a veil like the Moslems? Isn’t that scarf you Gentiles make us wear enough?”
Her anger did me a great injustice. “I came to warn you. Leo is not what he seems.”
“Find me a man who is,” she said quietly, and stared deliberately out of the window into the night.
“Rebecca . . .”
She rose and walked away from me. “I am tired, and this argument wearies me. It is too childish to occupy my time.”
At that the redness flooded into my head. I stood upright and regarded, with a growing fury, the back she had presented to me. “As is my love, no doubt. So let me do us both an act of kindness and remove it from your presence.”
She fairly shrieked and wheeled around to face me, eyes brimming. “Lorenzo! Don’t say such a thing. Isn’t it enough that the world tortures us without we torture ourselves? A woman may have cares and worries you cannot guess at. Sometimes they make her speak the very opposite of what is in her head. If I were to tell you that I, that we . . .”
Then she hesitated and fell silent, and her reluctance infuriated me. I recognised neither of us in this conversation. We had been transformed by events, although I was too stupid to understand as much. And so I did the manly thing and hid my weakness through a show of so-called strength. I retreated from her imploring arms and made for the door. “You know my opinion, Rebecca,” I heard myself say, not recognising the means by which the words formed in my mouth. “I have nothing more to add.”
Then I was out the door, ignoring her calls for me to return, bounding down the staircase like a madman. When I awoke the next morning, with an aching head from the wine I downed upon my return, I found Leo in a sweet and happy mood, dressed in his best finery, thinking of his meeting with the Levis, no doubt. Before he left, he despatched me to the cellar with instructions on what to clean and what to move, what to throw out and what to dust off, and even an order for some amateur attempt at masonry to repair some feeble brickwork in the wall. I listened, watching his eyes, thinking how covetously they would soon regard Rebecca’s form, knowing how foolish I was to let such considerations occupy space in my head at a time when I had other matters on my mind.
