‘Oh, it’s very good. She can paint, no doubt about that. I don’t think it’s the sort of thing that wins awards but it’s good. Why are we whispering?’
‘I don’t know. It just seems appropriate.’ I heard footsteps behind us, and I couldn’t help giving a little start. Federica sniggered, and the atmosphere was broken.
We emerged into the sunlight. Gwenant Pryce smiled at us.
‘They’re beautiful,’ said Federica.
I nodded. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Could I just ask you – the seated figure? Who is that?’
She smiled. ‘Well now. Who do you think it might be?’
‘Your husband?’
She looked genuinely shocked for a moment, and then laughed. ‘Oh my goodness me, no. No, we split up years ago, I wouldn’t waste any more paint on him.’
‘Oh right. Sorry. I thought I was being ever so clever. Could I ask who it is?’
She smiled again, but her eyes looked sad and tired this time. ‘That, cariad , is for me to know and you to find out.’
Chapter 9
It was, perhaps, a forty-five-minute walk to the Scottish Pavilion just off Strada Nova, a part of town that I normally tried to avoid. In the summer months it became blocked with the hordes of visitors making their way from the railway station down to Rialto. Whatever time of day you found yourself there was the wrong time of day. The sun inevitably seemed to be at its highest point, there was no shade to be found and there was always one more bridge than you might expect.
A shame in some ways, as there were some proper shops to be found mixed in amongst the tat. Some nice cichetterie , some decent bars and quite a few not-so-decent ones. A Wild West theme bar that I had never been into and almost certainly never would. And, everywhere, abandoned buildings had been pressed into service as temporary galleries for the purposes of the Biennale.
The street, in that first week of May, was less hellish than it would become at the height of the season. It was, nonetheless, a relief to turn off and make our way down a narrow calle towards the Palazzo Fontana. Part Renaissance-style, part Baroque, the façade had a curious asymmetry to it that made it look downright odd when viewed from the Grand Canal, as if they’d run out of money before they could finish off the left-hand side.
I recognised a famous Edinburgh arts entrepreneur from my time in the city, deep in conversation with a group of critics in the courtyard. I smiled at him and he nodded as if to say that he wasn’t sure if he knew me at all, but thought it as well to be polite.
I took Federica by the arm, and steered her inside. A bar had been set up in front of the water gate, the light on the canal casting constantly shifting reflections on the ceiling.
‘Is it time for a gin then?’
She checked her watch. ‘It’s not even four. Are you serious?’
‘Oh absolutely.’
‘And why gin anyway? Shouldn’t it be whisky?’
‘It probably should. But there’s something about drinking whisky during the hours of daylight that seems a bit hardcore. Gin is different. That’s almost like not drinking at all.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand your culture.’
I walked to the bar and caught the eye of an inevitably attractive and black-clad young woman. My smiley request of ‘two gins please’ froze on my lips. There was only prosecco to be seen.
‘No gin?’
She chuckled. ‘Not this time. Not after the last one. It was a nice idea, and the sponsors loved it but—’ She shook her head. ‘Just prosecco this time.’
‘Hell. Well in that case, two prosecchi would be lovely.’
Federica and I clinked glasses. She could see the disappointment on my face. ‘It’s probably for the best, you know.’
‘Oh I know.’
‘And we don’t really need to start drinking neat spirits in the afternoon, do we? Not yet, anyway.’
‘I know. It’s just that I remember having such a nice time two years ago.’
‘Bachelor days, tesoro . Bachelor days.’
‘Anyway, there was something you were saying earlier. Something about waking up with Vincent Price.’
‘Go on,’ her voice was full of doubt, unsure where exactly this was leading, yet at the same time sure that it couldn’t be anywhere good.
‘I mean, would it be so bad? I sometimes think a little pencil moustache might suit me.’
‘You can have one after I’m dead, caro .’
I grinned and squeezed her arm. And then, in the middle of the crowd, I saw Francesco Nicolodi. ‘Just one moment, there’s someone I really need to speak to.’ He was, I could see, sans drink. I grabbed another glass from the bar, gave the attractive black-clad girl what I hoped was my most winning smile and made my way over to him.
‘Francesco!’
‘Nathan. A pleasure to see you.’
I gently pushed the glass into his hand. ‘Let’s just step outside for a moment, eh? I could do with a cigarette.’
‘Of course.’ He laughed. ‘You promised me some Scottish gin, Nathan. I’m disappointed.’
‘Prosecco it must be, I’m afraid.’ I firmly steered him to the courtyard and reached in my pocket for a non-existent packet. ‘Damn, I’m all out.’
‘No problems.’ He produced a packet of Marlboro, and offered me one.
‘Thank you. Oh, and thanks again for sorting everything out with Mr Blake-Hoyt. Did you pass my details on to his family?’
‘Yes. Yes, well sort of. His colleagues at The Times said they’d pass the information on. He doesn’t have a partner. I think there’s a brother or something.’
‘A brother or something. Good, good.’ I smiled. ‘Well, I expect he’ll be in touch in the next few days or so.’
‘I expect so.’ We stood in silence and listened to the Edinburgh arts entrepreneur hold court. Nicolodi checked his watch. ‘Four o’clock.’ He dropped his cigarette, and ground it out with his shoe. ‘Sorry, Nathan, can you just hold that for a minute. I need to make a call.’ He pressed his glass into my hand, then took his phone out and walked away from me. I caught just the one word before he was out of earshot. ‘ Salut .’ Romanian. He was gone for, at most, thirty seconds. He smiled as he walked back to me, and took his glass.
‘That was quick.’
He shrugged. ‘My insurance broker. Just a reminder for him.’ He drained his glass and looked keen to be away. ‘Well, thanks for that, Nathan. Lovely to see you again.’
‘The article,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You should be.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Yes you do.’ He looked left and right as if hoping to find someone else he could go and talk to, but the entrepreneur had led his entourage inside. There was just us now. ‘The art icle.’ I repeated. ‘In The Times . I’ve seen it.’
‘Oh, that.’ He flustered. ‘I sorry, but I haven’t even seen it myself. I had to file it extremely quickly, as you can imagine. They asked me if I could contribute a few words. By way of tribute, that sort of thing.’
‘You didn’t care about contacting the relatives, did you? That was just a pretext so you could get your foot in the door. “By the way, I’m a journalist myself and saw the whole thing, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in an article?” ’
He flushed red. ‘Now just hold on one minute, Nathan, you’re not being fair.’
‘Not fair? You were as nice as pie to Considine yesterday, and then you completely rubbished him in your article. You made him out to be mentally unwell, and practically accused him of plagiarism just to top it off.’
‘That’s not what I meant to say at all. Look, as I said, I haven’t even seen the article yet. You know what editors are like. It’s probably just been subbed poorly.’
‘I don’t think so. You exploited me under the guise of an act of friendship. Then you exploited a dead man, and a guy who’d just seen the greatest day of
his career end in disaster. Are you proud of that?’
He raised his right hand, palm open, and for a moment I wondered if he was about to slap me. Then he took a deep breath, and patted me on the chest. ‘Okay, Nathan. Okay. Just what, precisely, are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m going to read every article you write over the next few weeks very carefully indeed. And if I find anything – anything at all – that I don’t like, I’m going to tell every journalist I know exactly what you’ve done.’
‘It’s nothing illegal. Anyway, it wouldn’t look so good for you, would it?’ He seemed cockier now, convinced he had me. ‘Might be seen as if you weren’t doing your job properly, mightn’t it. Might seem as if you were shirking?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe. What’s the worst that could happen though. I lose my unpaid job?’ I smiled back at him. ‘So, this is what you’re going to do. There’s a lovely Welsh lady out at Santa Maria Ausiliatrice. You’re going to write her a wonderful review. And I haven’t even got so far as seeing the art here yet. I don’t really care. I’m sure it’s very good. And you’re going to give them a very good review as well.’
He glared at me for a few seconds and then laughed. Then he turned, and slowly walked out. As he reached the exit, he turned to face me again and shook his head. Giving me the best hard-man stare that a middle-aged arts journalist could muster.
‘Oh, Francesco,’ I said, ‘I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.’ I gave him a little wave of the hand, as if to indicate the way out, and then he was gone.
I smiled to myself, and made my way back to the bar.
Chapter 10
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ said Federica.
‘Oh, I am, I am. So pleased I think I’ve earned another drink.’
‘Shouldn’t we have a look at the art first?’
‘Hmmm. That is kind of why we’re here. Okay then.’
We made our way upstairs to the piano nobile . The last time I’d been here, I remembered the space being full of light, of the sun reflecting off the water of the Grand Canal and on to the ceiling. Adam Grant, however, had done something quite different. The windows were shrouded in diaphanous white material which let in only a dim light. I took a closer look. White silk, but dusty and torn. A shroud? I looked to the ceiling. I remembered frescoes by a minor painter of the eighteenth century, and some stucco in need of restoration. This time, they were covered by the same dusty white silk material. I looked closer. No, not shrouds. Dresses. Wedding dresses and veils. And then, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed more of them hanging from the ceiling, casting pale shadows upon the floor. All of them dusty and cobwebbed. The material seemed to intensify the heat, and the atmosphere felt thick, muggy and unhealthy. More than that, there was something funereal about it. Something sickly.
I turned to Federica but, before I could speak, she saw the expression on my face and smiled. ‘Your sort of thing?’
I grinned. ‘Oh yes!’
She patted my cheek. ‘I thought so. You really do like all this Gothic stuff don’t you?’
‘Oh, but this is great. This is great. Just look at it. It’s like Miss Havisham’s version of heaven. Or of hell, maybe.’
‘Even better than that.’ She passed me a leaflet. ‘Just look at the title. Lohengrin .’
I laughed. ‘Fantastic. So Adam Grant’s a Wagner fan.’
‘Elsa of Brabant asks one too many questions of the perfect, gentle knight Lohengrin . . . and so he’s forced to abandon her on their wedding day.’
‘Exactly. I wonder where Mr Grant is. I feel the need to buy him a drink.’ I was about to expound some more, but was interrupted by a clap on my shoulder.
‘Mr Sutherland! How are you?’ It was Lewis Fitzgerald.
‘I’m very well, thanks. Or at least, much better than yesterday. This is dottoressa Federica Ravagnan.’
She made to shake hands and then gave a little start as Fitzgerald took her hand and kissed it. ‘ Piacere, dottoressa .’ I’d never trusted people who do that. I mean, why? Look at me, I’m being introduced to a total stranger, wouldn’t it be great to pretend I’m in a nineteenth-century novel?
‘How’s Mr Considine?’ I asked.
Fitzgerald sucked his teeth. ‘Not so great, if I’m being honest. I was hoping he’d be here. He knows the artist. I think he’s trying to sleep things off.’ I remembered what Nicolodi had written about Considine’s ‘personal and emotional problems’.
‘It must be terrible for him.’
‘Yes. I was wondering if you’d heard anything about the possibility of the pavilion reopening.’
‘Not a thing, but I wouldn’t know any sooner than anyone else. It won’t be seen as any of my business.’
‘It’s just that you said you knew some people in the police. Not wishing to stereotype of course, but,’ he chuckled, ‘given that we’re in Italy, I wondered if you could have a couple of well-chosen little words.’
‘Mr Fitzgerald.’ Federica put the lightest, most delicate of touches on the word ‘Mr’. ‘Nathan’s very good at his job, but even he isn’t going to be able to get the pavilion reopened. No matter how well he chooses his little words. And given that we are – as you reminded us – in Italy, the investigation into this is probably going to take years.’ She gave him her most dazzling smile, one I had learned was reserved only for those she seriously disliked.
Fitzgerald opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. There was an awkward silence, broken by the arrival of the artist, resplendent in tartan trews and wedding dress. ‘You’re the consul, right? Mr Sutherland? We’re just having a quick group photo downstairs if you’d like to—’ He broke off upon noticing Fitzgerald. The two men stared at each other for a couple of seconds. ‘Lewis. I didn’t realise you were on the guest list?’
‘I’m afraid I was terribly cheeky. I used my colleague’s. Mr Considine’s.’
‘Paul? How is he?’
‘Not so good.’
‘I heard what happened, of course. I’m very sorry for him.’
‘Thank you. I did rather think I might have been invited myself though.’
‘You probably were, Lewis. The invitation must be in the post. Like one of your cheques.’ He turned, and made his way downstairs.
Lewis smiled. ‘Oh dear, I don’t seem to be collecting many friends today, do I? Okay, you’d better rush off for your photo shoot, Nathan. Lovely to meet you, signora Ravagnan.’ No dottoressa , this time. ‘And do please call me if I can be of any help.’
‘Spritz?’
‘Spritz. Oh yes. Most definitely.’
We made our way back down Strada Nova to La Tappa Obbligatoria. I could have done without the endless music channel playing on the television, but there was no denying they did some of the best spritzes in this part of town. I helped myself to some chunks of fried bread sprinkled with salt and oregano from the counter.
‘Is it just me,’ I asked, ‘or is there an unusually high percentage of utter bastards in the art world?’
Fede chewed on her olive, and put her head to one side as if giving the question some proper thought. Then she delicately removed the stone from her mouth, and plopped it into her glass. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe at this level, perhaps. But at this level it stops being about the art and becomes about the business.’
‘I mean, I’ve met two pretty unpleasant people in the last twenty-four hours. There might even have been four if signor Scarpa had deemed me worthy of attention and Mr Blake-Hoyt hadn’t—’
‘—been cut off in his prime?’
‘Yes. The artists seem nice though. I have to give them that.’ I checked my phone. ‘It’s gone six. I guess nothing’s going to happen with the body tonight. Tomorrow might be busy though. So what are we going to do now?’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Well, I’ve got a few invites. Friends of friends of friends, you know. Fancy being my plus one?’
‘Marvellous, dottoressa . I’d be honoured. What have
we got?’
She rummaged in her handbag. ‘Let me see. Ukraine are in Campo Santo Stefano. Angola at Palazzo Cini. You’ll like that, you’ll be able to look at art by dead people as well. And then there are a few private openings on the Zattere at which, I’m afraid, there will be music by and for young people. Can you manage that?’
‘I’ll try not to grumble too much. When are we going to fit in food?’
She checked her watch. ‘Okay, let’s grab some polpette at alla Vedova. Then get the boat down to Sant’Angelo. Knock off the Ukrainians, then a bite to eat at Da Fiore. Then off to the Angolans, and down to the Zattere. There’ll probably be a few drinks available down there.’
I crunched on my fried bread. ‘You know, some people might think we’re only interested in the v ernissage .’ She grinned. I reached for another piece of bread, but she stretched her hand out and stopped me.
‘You’ll spoil your appetite.’
‘I know. I mean, these things are nice but they’re not that great. And yet I can’t stop eating them. Why do you think that is?’
She swirled her drink. ‘Probably something to do with the spritz. You know, you’d almost think they put something addictive in there.’ She drained her glass. ‘Right, let’s go.’
I put a fiver down on the counter and gave a nod to the barista . We made our way over the road to alla Vedova, and ordered a plate of the best meatballs in town.
‘There was one other thing I thought we should try and do,’ said Fede, ‘but I don’t know if we’ll have time tonight.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘The podule.’
‘The what?’
‘The mobility lift on the Calatrava Bridge. The ovovia . I always think “podule” sounds nicer.’
‘Is that even a word?’
She shrugged. ‘It is now. Pod plus module. Podule. Anyway, you know how it’s not been used for years?’
I nodded. The Ponte della Costituzione, or the Calatrava Bridge as everyone referred to it, in homage to the eponymous archistar , had – in its short life – never been without controversy. I’d always thought it looked beautiful, but it was an opinion I tended to keep to myself unless I was very sure about the sort of company I was in. The trouble is, as elegant as it looked, it failed at the basic purpose of being a bridge; namely facilitating the passage of people from one side of the canal to the other in a reasonably straightforward manner. The varying tread length of each step made the act of crossing akin to a contact sport unless you kept your eyes fixed firmly on your feet at all times. The glass steps were striking but scared the merry hell out of you when wet. And, crucially, nobody had thought about disabled access. The problem was meant to be solved by sticking a little red ovoid cabin on the side which, the theory went, would transport people across, via a track fixed to the outside of the bridge. It had worked for perhaps two months, and now sat there unused, unloved and – crucially – unmoving.
Vengeance in Venice Page 6
