‘Okay, prosecco then.’
‘That’s better.’
I went through to the kitchen and poured out two glasses. Fede checked her watch. ‘I don’t have much time, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s okay.’ I filled a pan and stuck it on to boil. ‘Spaghetti with lemon, basil and parmesan. You can be out of here in thirty minutes. Twenty-five if you don’t stop to tell me how brilliant I am. And am I cooking dinner tonight?
‘I think tonight I need to stay in with Mamma .’
‘Oh, and I thought we were getting on so well?’
‘You are.’ She gave me a hug. ‘I’m very proud of you. But I think we should have a girls’ night in. Why don’t you go out with Dario?’
‘He’s busy tonight. Which means—’
‘Sad bachelor night in?’
‘That sort of thing.’
‘Takeaway pizza, too much beer and watch a creaky old horror film?’
‘I thought about that. But I think I’m actually going to do some proper work. Trying to help someone who isn’t even a friend. I think I’m going to do that.’
Fede smiled.
Chapter 14
I had a good afternoon and an unsatisfying evening. I spent some time with the elderly couple at hospital, translating what Dr Vianello had to say. Which boiled down to, You’ve been very lucky . Then I went home to book them a couple of budget flights with easyJet. And then the flat started to feel a bit lonely.
‘Will you help me, Nathan? Please?’
I had, really had, intended to set to work on trying to help Paul Considine. But the more I thought about it, the less it seemed I could do.
I’d tried to go over the facts as best I understood them. The trouble was, there weren’t all that many. It was, I supposed, entirely possible that Gordon Blake-Hoyt would have a copy of Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes in his pocket. A quick check had revealed that the original was in the Uffizi. Very well, then, perhaps he’d just returned from Florence. Hell, perhaps it was just his favourite painting.
And the wallet? Considine admitted it was his. Had he just written down a sick little joke on The Times review, and then stuck it in his wallet? And then dropped it on the vaporetto ? Or had his pocket picked. I shook my head. That made no sense. If somebody had stolen it, they’d have taken the bank notes and then chucked it away. For that matter, if he’d just dropped it it surely wouldn’t have taken long for someone to notice it on the floor of a crowded boat. So had he been on it at the same time as Nicolodi and myself? It seemed unlikely but, on a boat crammed full of people, not impossible.
That just left Juditha Triumphans . Okay, perhaps he had written it, and was too ashamed and embarrassed to admit it to the police. It would make sense. Perhaps I was just guilty of thinking that a little mystery would be a distraction from the treadmill of translating abstracts? It could all just be a coincidence, couldn’t it?
No. It really couldn’t.
It would be useful to speak to Paul again, but then it struck me that I had no way of contacting him. Or his manager for that matter. I should have taken their numbers. Vanni, I knew, would put me in touch if I said it was urgent consular business but that would involve having to lie to him. Then there was Nicolodi. I at least knew where he was staying, but was unsure if he could be any help at all given that we’d been together at the time of the accident. Besides, we hadn’t parted on the best of terms.
At which point, I’d given up. I spent the rest of the evening listening to Juditha Triumphans in the hope of inspiration, as Gramsci and I competed to out-sulk the other.
Still, today would be better. I stuck my head out of the window and craned upwards. A grey day, but I could feel a warm, gentle breeze on my face. The smell of coffee and brioche wafted up from the Brazilians. Today was going to be a good day. No headless art critics. No neurotic artists or shady journalists. I was just going to enjoy the Biennale.
I grabbed a quick breakfast downstairs, and then set out to walk to the Arsenale.
I could have taken the vaporetto , but – the cloudy skies apart – it was an almost-perfect early summer’s morning and the streets wouldn’t be too crowded yet. It was best to make the most of the opportunity. I walked down to Piazza San Marco. Years ago, I remembered walking through it in the half-light of a winter’s early morning, my only companions being a couple of street sweepers. I had never seen it like that since. Even now, at barely nine o’clock, the square was starting to fill up with early morning visitors, and crap merchants jostling for position. Tables and chairs were already in position outside Quadri and Florian, ready to receive those who would pay almost anything for admittedly excellent coffee and croissants in order to enjoy the view of the world passing by in ‘the most elegant drawing-room in Europe’. Unless one were to pass through in the very dead of night, it was never going to be quite as perfect as one might like. It would still, however, take a heart of stone to remain unmoved by it.
I made my way through the square, past the Doge’s Palace, on to the Riva degli Schiavoni and over the Ponte della Paglia. I stopped for a moment to look at the view over to the Ponte dei Sospiri, the Bridge of Sighs. Ruskin, I thought, had been right. It had a pretty name, but there wasn’t anything particularly special about it. And yet, whenever you passed through this part of town, there was just something about it that made you stop, if only for a few moments, and look. Which is why, in the height of the tourist season, the Ponte della Paglia would become impassable and traffic would grind to a halt.
I walked on, past the statue of Vittorio Emanuele and the church of the Pietà. Vivaldi’s church. Or sort of. Legend claimed that he’d worked with the architect, or at least advised on the acoustics; either way, the Red Priest was long since cold in his grave by the time it was finished. The façade itself had remained unfinished until the twentieth century. It was currently undergoing restoration, the enormous advertising hoarding that covered it almost concealing the fact that there was a church there at all. I’d only ever been inside once, when I’d gone to a concert of modest quality and immodest price in order to gaze at Tiepolo’s ceiling frescoes.
Vivaldi brought Juditha Triumphans to mind again. I turned the case over in my mind again. Except, I reminded myself, there really wasn’t a case at all. Just a horrible accident which would be sorted out within a few days.
I’d taken my mind off walking by now, and arrived at the Naval Museum almost before I realised it. I shook my head, annoyed with myself. A walk through Venice seemed like a waste if you didn’t concentrate on it. I still had time for another coffee, and walked down to a bar I knew just outside the Arsenale, where four of the least convincing lions in the history of sculpture stood guard over the main entrance.
Not yet ten-thirty. A little early, even for me, for a spritz. I ordered a caffè macchiato and a glass of water and sat down outside. Then I realised I had nothing to read. Not a newspaper, not a book and only an unintelligent phone. I took a quick look around the other customers. A family with a pushchair and a small boy with a scooter. Venetian, then. A silver-haired businessman reading Il Sole 24 Ore . Another local. A group of young people, all wearing Biennale passes on lanyards. A white rastafarian on the next table, with a dog on a string. Almost certainly a tourist, I told myself, were it not for the dog. A young man with a man bun. Why the man bun? They were everywhere now. Yes, it looked good on Toshiro Mifune in Seven Samurai , but since then . . . ? Ah Nathan, I thought, you’re getting old. My coffee arrived and I went through my usual ritual. Take a sachet of brown sugar, tap it three times on the palm of the hand. Empty sugar into cup. Stir twenty times clockwise. Every time. And it was never quite right if I deviated from the ritual.
‘Mr Sutherland?’ The words shocked me out of my grumpy little interior monologue. ‘Mr Sutherland?’ The words came from my right. Paul Considine was sitting there. I had no idea how long he might have been there.
‘Paul. How are you?’ He shrugged. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ He shook
his head. ‘No, I’m getting you a coffee’, I said. I motioned him to drag his chair over. I waved at a waiter and held a finger up for another coffee.
‘I’m heading off to the Arsenale after this,’ I said, ‘how about you?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’ Then his expression changed, just a touch of slyness. ‘Well, I’m supposed to.’
‘What about Lewis? Mr Fitzgerald, I should say.’
‘Vincenzo Scarpa agreed to give him a few moments of his time. Lewis thought it might be good if I was there as well.’
‘And you don’t want to?’
‘What’s the point? He doesn’t like me, I don’t like him. It’s going to be like last week, it’s just going to be an excuse for him to be nasty.’ He looked upset for a moment, then shook his head as if trying to shake out the bad thoughts.
I tried to change the subject. ‘I was being serious, you know. When I told you how much I loved your installation.’
His face cleared. ‘Thanks.’
‘Why glass, though? Have you always worked with it?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Something happened to me, years ago now.’ I was about to ask him what it was, but he shook his head. ‘I started thinking more and more about glass as a material. As an idea. How there’s an innate tension in it. How you could make an object that’s fragile, beautiful and deadly at the same time. You could make a stained-glass window and then kill someone with the fragments. And then there’s all the other weird stuff. You know how they told us in school about windows in old buildings? How they were thicker at the bottom, because glass flows like a liquid?’
‘Except that— ’
‘Except that it’s not true. Can you imagine how disappointed I was when I found out? But then I read that the speed of light through glass is slower than it is through the air. Which means every time you look through your window you’re looking just a little bit into the past.’ He reached over and grabbed my arm. He grinned. ‘Glass is a time machine, man!’ We both laughed.
The waiter arrived with Paul’s coffee. He toyed with a sachet of sugar for a few seconds, rolling it between his fingers and worrying at it before dropping it back on the tray. He stirred his coffee nonetheless. He took a sip and grimaced. Then he smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sutherland. I’ve always hated coffee.’
I smiled back. ‘I can tell. Drink it anyway. It’ll do you good.’
‘Do I look that bad?’
‘Actually, no, you don’t.’ He did look a lot better. Still a little tired, perhaps, but he was showered and shaved and wearing a light linen suit and white T-shirt instead of the regulation black.
‘I’ve been sleeping better. That’s helped. And I had a nice long telephone call from an old friend yesterday. It made me feel better about things.’
‘Good.’ I paused. ‘Paul, this is a difficult question to ask. But you asked me if I’d help you so . . .’
He shrugged. ‘Ask away.’
‘You take a drug called Priadel?’
‘I do, yes. They found I was bipolar about five years ago. Which explained a lot of things. Why so?’
‘I’m just thinking about your little chat with the police the other day.’
‘Oh Christ, was it that bad?’
I held up my hands. ‘I think they thought you were just tired. But do you ever forget to take your drugs?’
‘No. I never forget. Trust me, I just don’t.’
‘I take it the police didn’t give them back?’ He shook his head. ‘But you have enough with you to get you through your time here?’
‘Yeah. You have to be so careful with that sort of thing, you know? I take 400 mg, but a lot of European countries don’t sell anything stronger than 300. So I always need to have few aside for emergencies. In case planes are delayed, that sort of thing.’
‘Nothing stronger than 300mg?’ He shook his head. I’d seen the blister pack. 150 mg. I opened my mouth to speak, and then paused.
‘Something wrong?’
‘No, nothing at all.’ I didn’t think it would help to tell him, and changed the subject. ‘So this meeting with signor Scarpa? Would I be right in thinking that Lewis is hoping to get the pavilion reopened?’
He nodded. ‘That’s the idea. Be honest, Mr Sutherland—’
‘Nathan.’
‘Be honest, Nathan, do you think there’s any chance at all?’
I shook my head. ‘Not a chance in hell. And to be honest, I don’t know how signor Scarpa would be able to help anyway. He might be a big shot in the art world but we’re talking about a crime scene and a potential death trap. I’m sorry.’
His shoulders slumped for a moment. ‘So I’d just be wasting my time even speaking to him?’
I didn’t want to hurt him, but knew I had to be honest. ‘It’d be a complete waste of time.’
I was expecting him to be upset, but his face broke into a broad smile. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He finished his coffee. ‘Yuck. Okay, Nathan, you remember I asked if you could help me?’
I nodded. ‘Yes. I remember.’
‘Can you do me a favour?’
‘Of course.’
‘A big favour?’
I laughed. ‘Depends how big.’
‘I need a hundred euros. Maybe a bit more, but a hundred euros would be enough. At least I think so.’
‘You what?’
He threw up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s okay. But listen, why do you want one hundred euros?’
He said nothing. ‘Paul, there’s a Post Office with a bancomat just back on the fondamenta . Shall I take you along there?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t have a card.’
An Italian card, I assumed he meant. ‘I know. That doesn’t matter. Mastercard, Visa, a British bank card. They’ll all work.’
‘No. I don’t have a bank card, Nathan.’
I looked him straight in the eye. The British representative at the Venice Biennale. A man who had been nominated for the Turner Prize. A man who didn’t have a bank card. I opened my mouth to speak, trying to think of a suitably diplomatic way to phrase my next question, but he saved me the trouble. ‘I went bankrupt, you know. Five years ago.’
‘Oh right. I didn’t know that. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right. It’s kind of common knowledge. You know the old saying, “If money could talk—” ’
‘ “—the only thing it would say would be goodbye”. I know. I’ve been there myself. Go on.’
He shrugged. ‘I had other problems at the time. Lewis helped me out. I mean, really helped me out. I don’t think I’d be here without him. He helped me straighten my life out.’
‘Did he now?’ I raised an eyebrow. Lewis Fitzgerald, I thought, what a lovely man you must be. ‘You’re still entitled to a bank card, you know?’
He nodded. Then shook his head. ‘I don’t want one. Lewis looks after finances, pays for everything, sticks the rest in the bank. All I have to do is concentrate on making art. Does that seem weird?’
‘Erm . . .’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, okay, it probably is a bit weird. But it keeps me on the straight and narrow. And every day that passes makes things a little bit easier.’
We walked back to the fondamenta and along until we reached the Post Office. The ATM gave me the usual warning that my bank would apply a couple of euros charge, but I didn’t care. I counted out one hundred euros in twenties, and made to pass them to Considine. ‘Just one thing. You’re not going to do anything stupid with this are you?’
‘Stupid?’
‘Booze. Drugs. Gambling. Terrible acts of self-harm.’
He laughed. ‘As I said, I really, really don’t do that stuff any more. It’s all a bit boring really. I’d just like to take an old friend out to lunch. Someone I haven’t seen for a while.’
I smiled, slowly. The suit, the clean white T-shirt. The good shave. It made sense now. ‘Oh, I see. Is it – shall we say – an event meal?’<
br />
‘I don’t understand.’ I gave him a meaningful nod. Then he laughed. ‘Oh right. No, no it’s not an event meal. Just an old friend.’
‘An old friend. Lovely.’ I passed over the money. Then a thought struck me. ‘Do you have anywhere in mind?’
‘I don’t really know the city. Could you recommend anywhere?’
‘Sure.’ I reached for my wallet and took out a business card. ‘Ai Mercanti. Just off Campo San Luca. My favourite place for event and non-event meals. Tell them Nathan sent you, they’ll look after you well.’
He looked delighted. ‘Thanks, man. I appreciate this.’
‘No worries.’
‘Just one thing. If you run into Lewis, don’t tell him eh? It’s just that – well the other person involved – they don’t get on.’
‘Ah. Okay.’ Oh Mr Fitzgerald, you do have an interesting relationship with your artist, don’t you? Then I turned back to the Bancomat, and took out my card again.
‘Everything okay?’ said Paul.
‘Everything okay. It’s just that you might need more than a hundred euros. Even if it’s not an event meal.’ The machine whirred away, and I withdrew the money. I pressed it into Paul’s hand. ‘Quickest way would be a boat to Rialto. But you’ve got plenty of time. Might be nice just to take a walk. If you arrive early, Marchini Time is a nice place for a coffee. Or a pot of tea if you really can’t face any more. Just stay away from the cakes.’
‘No good?’
‘Too good.’
‘Thanks, Nathan.’ I smiled. He turned and walked back in the direction of San Marco. ‘Thanks again,’ he called out over his shoulder.
I made my way back towards the Arsenale, a hundred and fifty euros the poorer. I folded the receipts away inside my wallet. Like Gramsci, I was becoming sentimental in middle age.
Chapter 15
The Arsenale. The great engine of commerce and war that established the dominance and greatness of The Most Serene Republic. The navy still owned a large part of it, typically kept off-limits these days. It also housed the control room for the MOSE project, a series of aquatic barriers that could be raised and lowered in order to prevent the phenomenon of acqua alta . At least, that was the theory. One day, the more optimistic Venetians predicted, it might even work. In the meantime, it served as a great financial black hole that had sucked in a seemingly infinite stream of money and the career of at least one mayor. I’d had the opportunity to look around the control centre and had been terribly disappointed to see that it was, in fact, just a nondescript computer room. For the amount of money involved, I’d hoped for something a little more James Bond.
Vengeance in Venice Page 9
