Lucifer's Shadow

by David Hewson

  “What kind of simpleton are you, lad?” he demanded. “Asking a sailor for something to write with.”

  I thanked him, then, penniless and starving, joined the other destitutes picking scraps from the remains of the Cannaregio market around the corner: a mouldy piece of bread, a half-devoured apple. I stole some oranges from a cart, and dashed into the darkness when the trader saw me. In an alley near the ghetto, I devoured what little food I had. Under the light of an illuminated alcove Virgin, I tore the paper into pieces and wrote—in a different hand, I hoped—a similar message on each. Then, exhausted and half-sleeping, I walked the city, into San Marco and beyond, finding each of those bronze lions’ mouths I could remember and making a small offering which might, I hoped, give the Doge’s men pause for thought when they read it, and provide us with a chink in the English armour.

  The last I posted in the figure close to the palace itself, then, to remind myself of the stakes in this game, I walked close to the dungeon by the Bridge of Sighs, and heard the wails and plaints that drifted out of those high windows with their iron bars. In a dank doorway nearby, I spent the night, sleeping, dreaming. A dreadful dream, too, for in it I saw from behind the silken figure of Delapole stalking the slumbering Rebecca in a half-lit bedroom full of mirrors. He crept upon her stealthily, like some common criminal. Then, brutally, while she fought beneath him like a tiger, he took her by force, screaming like an animal all the while.

  When this deed was done and he hung over her still, the saliva dripping from his mouth onto her white neck, he lifted his face and stared into the mirror. There I saw myself, in Delapole’s guise. I was the true perpetrator of this act in concert with this devil, who stood behind us both, having watched approvingly, and now applauded with foppish claps of his hands, as if it were some performance on the stage.

  I woke with a start, these frightful images still in my head. With them came some lines I recalled from that English play I had once, in my innocence, thought the likes of Gobbo might have read.

  The Devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

  An evil soul producing holy witness

  Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,

  A goodly apple rotten at the heart;

  O what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

  The sun had barely risen. I trembled, still damp from my night adventures, although behind those shivers lay something deeper. In my dream I had, I felt, seen some glimpse into Delapole’s true identity. What was he in his own eyes? For want of a better word, the Devil. What did he seek? To hold others’ lives in his grasp, to do with and dispose of as he wished. What Delapole coveted, above all else, was title to that piece of a man or woman they thought their own. Beside this, lust and greed and deceit were but everyday sins, practised by the many. In his own mind Delapole wore these trophies as the primitives of Guinea sport the heads of the defeated upon their belts. The more the merrier. Rebecca was not the first; she would not be the last. His thirst was unquenchable.

  I shook this miserable thought from my head and, looking every inch the ragged beggar, stumbled to the waterfront, not a hundred yards from La Pietà, thinking of my next move. The makings of a great day were already obvious. Hawkers were arguing over their pitches. The familiar scaffold which Canaletto used was being erected on the Arsenale side of the promenade, with the painter himself barking orders at the hapless workmen doing the job. Several completed canvases were being readied for show to attract commissions, among them, as I recognised from a distance, that work I had seen him begin when I was a boy, some months earlier. At first I dared not look at it too closely, for fear of all the memories it might provoke.

  A soldier hammered a notice into one of the tree trunks used to tie up gondolas by the water’s edge. I waited until he had finished, then, to satisfy my curiosity—though in truth I knew what to expect all along—I wandered over and read the poster. It was a call for the arrest of one Lorenzo Scacchi, an apprentice of San Cassian, who had murdered his master most foully the previous evening. A description of the scoundrel followed, one that none seeing me then would begin to recognise. And there was the promise of a reward, from the city’s newfound English benefactor. If he could not take my head himself, Delapole would pay the Republic to do the job for him.

  I damned him, damned Venice, too, and, in spite of my fears, walked over to see Mr. Canaletto’s canvas, taking care to observe that the artist himself was busy roasting a carpenter on the other side of his scaffold. The painting was magnificent, yet cold. Between this frozen moment in time and my present state lay entire chapters of sweetness and misery. All the artist offered was an exquisite testament to spectacle and grandeur. I glanced at the work a final time, then slunk back into the shadows to dream of our escape.

  56

  An unexpected bargain

  DANIEL CLOSED HIS EYES AND SWAYED UNCERTAINLY IN the heat, his head full of the smell of cypress and the chemical odour of the lagoon. They had travelled with the coffin in the funeral gondola, standing in the stern, stiff and awkward. To begin with, he was aware that he wished it were Laura by his side in the black, gleaming vessel. Then, as they crossed the narrow stretch of lagoon that separated San Michele from the city, Amy took his arm and squeezed it gently. Daniel responded in the same way and was immensely grateful for her presence. He did not wish to be alone, and there was business to be done.

  As they docked, he stared at the white Istrian stone of the quayside church, almost blinded by its brightness in the fierce midday sun. Behind them Venice went about its business. Vaporetti darted in and out of the jetties in a constant stream, a ceaseless movement of life around the perimeter of the city. Ahead lay the red brick outline of Murano, with its dusty furnaces turning out ornamental glass for the tourists. Scacchi must have made this journey many times, burying friends and relatives in the cemetery, where they would rest for a decade, after which their remains were forced to seek some other sanctuary. It was a curious end for a human life, Daniel thought, but one on which Scacchi’s will had insisted. It was the Venetian in the old man; he could countenance no other fate.

  They left the gondola and followed the coffin, walking slowly in pace with the pallbearers. There was a small group of people waiting on the quayside. Massiter stood alone and had changed into a black suit. Daniel recognised the woman who had handled the admissions at La Pietà and a local shopkeeper who made deliveries to Laura from time to time. And Giulia Morelli, in a black trouser suit, impassive behind thick plastic sunglasses. He should have known the police would attend. Finally, there was a huge figure in a shiny blue suit. Daniel blinked, fighting the light in order to see this man properly, then realised what was missing: a small black dog by his side.

  Piero came forward, vast arms encircling him, tears in his eyes. “Boy, boy,” he sobbed. “Such an occasion.”

  The big man looked at Amy, unwrapped himself from Daniel, then pumped her right hand with both of his. “And our American friend, too, Miss Amy. We had such laughter. Then this?”

  She kissed him on the cheek and said, “I’m so sorry.”

  Daniel felt proud of her. They walked on, through an old stone arch, into the cemetery proper, turning right past a collection of shiny coffins half-hidden in the shadow of an open storage room. He had promised himself he would come here one day and rubberneck like the tourists, searching for the more famous inhabitants. But that was a different Daniel Forster. There was now only one memory of moment in San Michele’s brown earth, and Daniel swore that whatever happened, he would return ten years hence when, briefly, it resurfaced again. Scacchi deserved as much. For all the old man’s cunning and deception—and Daniel was by no means sure he appreciated the full extent of either—he had provided him with a life.

  The party left the buildings behind and entered the fields of the dead, where row upon row of small headstones, most of them with a recent photograph on the marble, ran to the perimeter wall at the rear. He glanced at the marker: Recinto 1, Campo B. Each small line
of graves identified by its row and plot, dug and redug every decade, a continuous cycle of humanity moving through the parched orange soil.

  They stopped by an empty grave. The pallbearers manoeuvred the coffin onto the sashes with care. The priest began to speak in a flat, monotonous voice. Daniel closed his eyes and captured the moment: the scent of cypress, the dry dust of the soil, and, overhead, the lazy clamour of the gulls. He felt Amy’s hand on his arm and tried, with scant success, not to think about Laura, wondering where she could be, knowing that he could never understand what might have kept her from this ceremony. Behind him he heard sobbing: a woman’s voice and that of a man, loud and uncontrolled—Piero, who had seemed so familiar with death from his time in the city and had sworn he would never set foot on San Michele again. Scacchi drew them all to his side, even in the grave.

  The priest bent low, picked up a handful of dust, then threw it into the open earth, where it rattled on the lid of the casket. Daniel watched Massiter do the same, feeling no need to join him. Piero was right. The bond one felt with another died with their final breath. These rituals had their place, but they were for the benefit of the living, not the dead. Daniel Forster knew he had no need of them. What stood between him and Scacchi was now frozen in the amber of his memory. Only the future was mutable.

  Piero watched him keenly, seeming to approve. Then, when it was apparent the ceremony was over, he made some excuse about needing to retrieve Xerxes from the caretaker and was gone. The other mourners drifted away aimlessly. Daniel waited by Amy’s side.

  Massiter came over, placed an arm around each of them, and said, “I still can’t believe it, you know. The old man was sick. We were all aware of that. But one never really appreciates ...”

  “What?” Daniel asked as Massiter’s words trailed into nothing.

  “That it might happen so suddenly. So brutally.”

  “I believe Scacchi did,” Daniel said. “I think he half expected it.”

  A voice came from behind them. “Gentlemen?”

  Daniel turned and scowled. Giulia Morelli stood there.

  “Yes?” he snapped.

  She joined them and smiled most professionally. “I merely wished to offer my condolences. Nothing more.”

  “Not much use to Scacchi, are they?” Massiter grumbled. “I don’t suppose you’ve picked up the hoodlums who were responsible for this outrage?”

  “No,” she replied, taking off her sunglasses and staring at them with intense blue eyes. “But we always have hope, Signor Massiter. Where would a policewoman be without hope, eh?”

  They said nothing. Giulia Morelli nodded at them. “Ciao. And thank you for the ticket, Daniel. I’ll be there. I can’t wait.”

  Massiter watched her go. “Damned woman. Why doesn’t she go out and catch someone, instead of pestering the likes of us?”

  “It’s what she does,” Amy observed. “It’s in the job description.”

  “Perhaps.” Massiter tapped her lightly on the bottom. “Run along, my love. Rest, please. You’re the star performer tonight. I don’t want you exhausted. You’d be letting us all down.”

  She glowered at him but still turned to leave.

  “No,” Daniel objected, gently taking her arm to stop her. “There is something you must hear, Hugo. It can’t wait any longer.”

  Massiter eyed him. “I believed we were due a private discussion?”

  “We are, later. I don’t know how to say this except bluntly, Hugo. This nonsense about you and Amy can’t go on. For one thing, she’s mine. We were together last weekend, though I’m sure she was too discreet to mention it and I foolishly neglected her after Scacchi’s death. For another, I simply won’t allow it.”

  He watched a little of the tan drain from Massiter’s face. Amy gripped his wrist tightly.

  “It’s quite wrong, Hugo. Juilliard? Amy needs the inspiration of a foreign college. I’ll talk to people at the Guildhall and the Academy in London. She would be much happier there, near me. Not trapped in some apartment in New York.”

  “I see,” Massiter mumbled.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, old chap,” Daniel added earnestly. “I’m not a jealous person. I’m not offended by what has happened between you and Amy, not in the slightest. If you should care to renew your friendship at some stage in the future, it’s fine by me. But you must curb your natural greed, Hugo. She can’t go along with your ideas. Tomorrow I’ll disappear somewhere with Amy. We need to be together. In a few weeks, when the fuss has died down, you and I must talk about this again and make sure our friendship is in no way damaged. I owe you much, Hugo. I admire you greatly. But on this I must be adamant.”

  Massiter rocked on his heels. “As you are, Daniel.”

  “Indeed. She came to you on the rebound. That’s the truth of it, and you should feel no less flattered for that. I’m sure I’ll feel pleased if some young thing flings herself at me when I’m your age. No hard feelings?”

  He extended his hand. Massiter took it with a firm, dry grip.

  “Of course not,” Massiter replied. “You’re right. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”

  Amy ran her hand through Daniel’s arm and kissed him on the cheek. He caught her eye, approving her performance. “You’re so sweet, Hugo,” she said. “It just went too far. Can we still be friends?”

  The diplomat’s grin, all charm and persuasion, returned. “Of course! This is Venice. We’re excused a little madness, aren’t we?”

  The three of them stood by the grave for a moment, wondering who would speak next. It was Daniel who broke the silence.

  “But Hugo’s right, my love,” he said. “You must go and rest. Tonight you shall amaze us all.”

  “Yes,” Massiter agreed. “Do that and I’ll forgive you everything.”

  They watched her walk down the path, back towards the distant jetty. When she was gone, Daniel turned to Massiter. “You never fought, Hugo. You disappointed me.”

  The older man watched her go, an avaricious glint in his eye. “Oh, it was too fine a performance. I doubt I could have done better at your age.”

  Daniel kicked some earth onto Scacchi’s coffin. A pair of sweaty grave-diggers were approaching. There was work to be done.

  “But you didn’t fight? Damn. She wasn’t worth that much to you, was she?”

  Massiter shrugged. “Amy is beautiful and more talented than she thinks. But to be honest, she bored me somewhat. She is so... passive. I like them to fight a little. Don’t you?”

  Daniel thought about his choice of words, noting them for the future. “But you see my problem?”

  “No, frankly.”

  “I keep looking for the right price, Hugo. You take so much from us. You almost steal our souls. All I want is a little of the same in return. To relieve you of something so precious it gives you pain. I thought that Amy, but ...”

  “You’ve an excellent bargain,” Massiter warned.

  Daniel laughed in his face. “What? I’ve nothing I couldn’t have taken for myself, at any time I felt like it. No. It’s not good enough.”

  “Careful, Daniel.”

  He stared into the grey eyes, no longer in awe of them. “About what? You must meet my price, Hugo. Something precious. Otherwise I’ll tell them all. Tomorrow. What’s it to me? A little notoriety and a few months in jail at the most. I can never go back to the way I lived before, in any case. You, on the other hand—”

  “Don’t threaten me,” Massiter snapped.

  Daniel opened his hands wide. “I threaten no one, Hugo. I only ask for a fair reward.”

  Massiter paused. He would always want to know the price, Daniel understood. It was in his nature. “What, exactly?”

  “Scacchi told me you had a secret place,” Daniel said. “His exact words: ‘Massiter must own a treasure trove where he keeps his objects of a greater beauty.’ ”

  Massiter said nothing.

  “I think,” Daniel continued, “that you don’t come here for the music a
lone. You’re a merchant, Hugo. You buy and sell. All manner of things. Much like Scacchi, except on a higher scale.”

  “Say what you want,” Massiter grumbled.

  “I want a piece of your treasure, Hugo. I want to be taken there and see your objects for myself. When I do, I’ll pick the one I desire. That’s my price, and then we’re done.”

  Massiter pulled himself away and stared at the grave-diggers, who now stood immobile, leaning on their shovels, waiting for them to leave the site. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Tonight,” Daniel said. “After the concert. A few glasses of champagne and then a private viewing.” He stared at Massiter. “You’re not offended, are you?”

  “Not at all,” Massiter answered. “In fact, I’m flattered. You learn quickly, Daniel.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “But then I have the finest teacher of them all.”

  57

  Marchese’s entrance

  I’VE NO MONEY, LAD. WAVE THAT PALM ELSEWHERE.” I tugged hard on Jacopo’s jacket and pulled him into the shadows by La Pietà. He had not been hard to spot. That yellow star on his chest stood out a mile, even among the milling masses headed for the concert.

  “Hey!” His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks sallow. Still, he had lost that doomed expression I had seen on his face the day before, when he sought to drown his misery in wine. He peered at me in the darkness of the passage. “Lorenzo?”

  A pretty sight I must have looked, a beggar from head to toe. I had dirtied my face—not that it needed much work—and torn my clothes. No self-respecting Venetian pays much attention to a scruffy vagrant. Or so I hoped. “Keep your voice down, brother,” I whispered. “I’m a sought-after fellow these days.”

  He leaned against the wall, face half-caught by a shaft of late-summer sun, then sighed. “Murderer, too, I hear. To think I entrusted her to such a rogue.”

  “She’s with a rogue now, Jacopo. And you know it.”

  He watched the crowds milling on the waterfront. The mood was mixed. The public was beginning to lose patience with this game. Delapole had kept his hand over the prize for too long. They were anxious for some swift resolution.