I made my way to the entrance and checked the map. The South American guys that I’d done the work for were, inevitably, at the far end of the second great gallery. A distance of perhaps a kilometre. A couple of small electric buggies were used to ferry people from one end to the other, but were supposed to be reserved for the elderly and infirm. Just being a bit tired, I assumed, wouldn’t be enough. I wondered if I should affect a limp, and then decided against it. I wasn’t such a terrible person. Not quite yet. I set out to walk.
The exhibition space consisted of two great galleries and whatever outbuildings and warehouses could be pressed into service. Many of those countries that had never managed to find a permanent home at the Giardini now had their pavilions here along with individual artists and collateral events. The Arsenale covered about a sixth of the square area of Venice and seemed to hold an inexhaustible supply of art. It was everywhere. One year I had actually tried to see everything and gave up once I realised the exercise of ticking off installations one by one was a genuinely Sisyphean task. As soon as you thought you were finished, another space would appear as if by magic. Eventually it became too much, a complete sensory overload. By the end of it all I no longer knew what I was looking at. On one occasion I found myself staring at the interior of a shed, trying to decide if it was an installation or not. Art or shed? I genuinely couldn’t decide. At which point I decided it was probably time to go home.
At the height of the Republic’s power, it was said that the Arsenale could turn out a ship a day. I had no idea if that was true or not but, walking through the vast interior space of the first gallery, I wondered if perhaps it might have been. Here, in this vast, cavernous hall, the Venetians – by sheer weight of manpower – had pre-dated the assembly lines of the Industrial Revolution by over five hundred years.
Art slid by me. Huge kinetic sculptures. Tiny, scratchy little drawings. Light installations. Sound installations. Video work. It was impossible to take it all in. How, I wondered, was the casual visitor with a one-day ticket expected to do more than scratch the surface of it all? I’d come back later and do it all properly, I promised myself. Well, probably. Possibly.
I paused at the mid-point, wondering if I should break for a drink, when I noticed two familiar figures up ahead of me. Lewis Fitzgerald and Vincenzo Scarpa, deep in conversation. Good. I’d been hoping I might run into them. I walked up and gave them a jaunty ‘Good morning!’
Neither of them seemed pleased to see me. Scarpa looked me up and down, and then turned to Lewis with a quizzical expression on his face.
‘This is Mr Sutherland, dottore . He was at the opening of the British pavilion.’ Scarpa moved close to me and stared up at me. He really was a very little man. No wonder he always wanted to be in the front row for photographs. He moved closer still, staring through those thick Shostakovich glasses of his, until his nose was almost touching the tip of my mine. Then he stepped back and shook his head. ‘I don’t remember you. Are you an artist?’
‘I’m the UK’s honorary consul.’
‘Ah right. Yes, I remember now. You work for the ambassador, right?’
‘No. Not exactly. I mean, he’s not my boss or anything.’ There was silence for a few seconds, as they stared at me. ‘So. What brings you both here this morning?’ I said, trying to inject as much breeziness as possible into my voice.
The two of them looked at each other. Scarpa shrugged his shoulders. Evidently he didn’t do breeziness. Lewis turned to me. ‘I just wanted to ask the dottore if he felt there was any chance of being able to reopen the Pavilion.’
I was prepared for this. ‘I’m sorry, Lewis, but I don’t think so. I mean, there’s been a violent death there. There’s still a police investigation going on.’
Scarpa gave a little smile and inclined his head. ‘Are you a policeman?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. For a moment there I thought you knew what you were talking about.’ I opened my mouth to protest but he shushed me. ‘Presumably once the investigation is complete and actions have been taken, we will be free to open the space up again.’
I shook my head. ‘The Comune will never agree. They—’
This time it was Lewis who interrupted. ‘The dottore has been in Italy a little bit longer than you, Nathan. It’s possible that he knows what he’s talking about.’ He gave me the warmest of smiles, which I returned. Both of us, I suspected, were thinking what it would be like to punch the other. ‘Anyway,’ I said, turning back to Scarpa, ‘I thought you hated it.’
‘I do. It’s trash.’
‘Trash, eh? Really. You hear that, Lewis? Trash.’
‘The dottore has strong opinions, Nathan. That’s not uncommon in the art world. But we’d both like to see it reopened.’
‘Well yes. Who knows, perhaps it’ll even bring more visitors in? The British Pavilion of Death. They’ll be queuing up, Lewis. They’ll be queuing up.’ Lewis gave me a look of utter contempt, and the two turned to leave. I made my way after them.
‘Can we help you with anything else, Sutherland?’ Lewis, I had worked out, used my first name when he wanted to sound patronising and my surname when he wanted to sound threatening. He didn’t seem to have any other settings, except, perhaps when he used an honorific in order to be obsequious.
‘Well, I’m going this way anyway. I’m meeting a couple of Argentinian artists that I did some work for. Passarella and Kempes. Do you know them, signor Scarpa?’ He nodded. ‘And what do you think of them?’
‘Trash.’
‘Trash. Funny, but I thought you’d say that. Wonderful thing to have an open mind, isn’t it? Don’t you agree. Lewis?’
‘Look, Sutherland, is there a point to all this?’
‘A point? No, no point at all. Just nice to have some people to walk around with. Anyway, I just thought you might like to know that it seems that Paul won’t be joining us.’
‘What?’
‘He won’t be joining us.’
Fitzgerald looked thrown. ‘That’s annoying. I told him I needed him to be here this morning. And that after he could take things easy for the rest of the day.’
‘Ah, well maybe not as easy as all that. He’s off to—’ I paused.
‘Off to where?’ said Lewis.
‘Milan.’ Why Milan, for God’s sake, where had that suddenly come from? ‘Yes, he’s going to Milan.’
‘You what?’
‘Off to Milan. He wanted to see the Brera gallery.’
‘How’s he going to get there?’
‘Oh, I’ve been there once or twice. Every so often I need to go to the High Consulate. I gave him some directions and told him what train he’d need to get.’ I paused. ‘I also lent him a few bob. You know. For his train fare.’
Lewis stopped walking. ‘You gave him money?’
‘A hundred and fifty euros. Enough for his train fare and a good lunch.’
‘A hundred and fifty euros.’ He rubbed his face with both hands and swept his hair back. ‘You idiot. You bloody idiot.’
‘Something wrong?’
‘You bloody fool, Sutherland. He’s not going to go to Milan. He’ll be out buying booze. Or something worse.’
‘I don’t think so. He seemed very keen on the idea of Milan.’
Lewis raised his hand, and reached towards me as if to grab me. Then he thought better of it, and swept his hand through his hair again. ‘Paul’s had problems, you know that? Big problems. It’s taken all I’ve got to keep him on the straight and narrow and now – and now you tell me you’ve given him over one hundred euros with which to get off his face. You imbecile.’
‘No need to be rude, Lewis. And he seemed fine. Relaxed. Happy.’
He screwed his eyes shut. ‘He seems fine because he’s taking his drugs. If he stops taking them . . .’ I could see him counting to ten under his breath. Then he opened his eyes, breathed deeply and turned to Scarpa. ‘I’m going to need to go back to the hotel. He’ll turn up there eve
ntually. God knows in what state, though. What’s the quickest way back?’ He reached down to pick up a small rucksack at his feet, and slung it over his shoulder.
Scarpa removed his glasses and gave them a quick polish on his jacket. There was, I thought, the faintest of smiles on his lips. ‘There’s an exit point after the next gallery. You can get a buggy back to the entrance from there.’ Lewis gave him a quick nod, and dashed off. ‘I wouldn’t run,’ said Scarpa. Lewis disappeared through some heavy black curtains at the end of the corridor. A few seconds later we heard a loud cry, followed by some impressively creative swearing. Scarpa shrugged. ‘I did tell him. There’s a light installation in there. Almost completely black. You need to give your eyes a few seconds.’
There was, indeed, a warning sign at the side of the curtained-off entrance. I recognised the name of the artist, an American guy who I’d always quite liked. I jabbed my thumb at the plaque and looked at Scarpa. ‘Trash?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No. This one I like.’
We stepped through the curtain.
The room was, as expected, completely dark. Yet, as we stood there, we could see the far wall almost glowing with a faint grey light. As our eyes adjusted, the wall appeared to glow brighter still, and then dim again. The effect was similar to a work by Mark Rothko suddenly appearing and disappearing before your eyes. Hypnotic, beautiful, restful; save for the steady stream of expletives from Lewis.
I could barely make out his form, but he seemed to be bent double. ‘Ran into a bastard bastarding bench.’
I stretched my hand out towards him. ‘You want to sit down for a moment?’
He swatted my hand away and got to his feet. ‘Just let me find the bloody way out of here.’ He stumbled behind me. ‘Bloody, bloody curtain is bloody here somewhere.’
Then I felt it. A brief tearing of fabric, and a shot of pain through my shoulder. The shock was greater than the pain, but enough to raise an ‘Ow’ from me. I reached my hand behind my shoulder and patted around. My jacket was torn, and my fingers came away wet. Had I stepped back and cut myself on an exposed nail in the wall?
And then Lewis screamed. ‘God! My God!’
‘Get the lights on,’ I shouted. ‘Get the bloody lights on.’
Lewis continued screaming. I could see his form, bent double, his hands clutched together. ‘Are you hurt, Lewis? Tell me.’
A ripping sound came from the back of the gallery, and light flooded in. Scarpa had simply torn the curtains from their railing. Gallery attendants came running from both directions.
‘My God. I think it’s gone through. It’s gone through my hand.’ He held a bloodied handkerchief against his left hand. He sank to his knees. ‘It’s gone through my hand. Oh Jesus, my hand.’
‘Someone go and get a first-aid box. There must be one nearby. And call an ambulance, he’s going to need hospital.’
I swayed a little on my feet, and then someone gently manoeuvred me over to a bench. ‘Sit down, okay. You’ve cut yourself. We’ll call an ambulance for you both.’ My head swam, and I bent and stuck my head between my knees, trying to breathe evenly. And then I saw it. Lying on the floor, stained with blood at the tip, was a glass spike. No, not a spike. An arrow. A perfectly cast glass arrow. And there, only a few feet away, lay another; this one now snapped in two. Glass arrows.
Chapter 16
The water ambulance raced across the lagoon, carrying the two of us to the Ospedale Civile on Fondamenta Nove. I’d only ever been in one once before, when a friend, under the influence of strong drink, had bounced downstairs at a wedding reception at Paradiso. It was actually quite a fun way to travel, unless your life was hanging in the balance. Free to ignore all speed limits in the lagoon, ambulance drivers were at liberty to hoon around as much as they liked in the case of an emergency.
Lewis looked grey and sick the whole time. The paramedic kept trying to console him. ‘It’s a bad cut, but you’ll be okay. All right? Just keep your hand up, and keep the pressure on the bandage, okay.’ He nodded, but was blinking away tears. ‘It’s gone through my hand,’ he kept repeating.
They met us at the pontoon with a pair of wheelchairs. I felt slightly light-headed, but more from the shock than the pain. I thought I could probably walk, but it seemed rude to refuse. Lewis slumped drunkenly into his, his head bowed and hand held shoulder-high. They rushed us through the halls of perhaps the most architecturally schizophrenic building in Venice. Through gleaming white corridors that smelled of antiseptic, through to a courtyard in which half a dozen bored-looking cats lazed in the midday sun, through the fres-coed and statue-lined corridors of the original building – the Scuola Grande di San Marco – and through to pronto soccorso , where we were wheeled our separate ways.
It was, the doctor assured me, nothing serious. It would just need a couple of stitches. The arrow had ripped through my jacket and shirt, and neatly sliced my skin. It had, of course, ruined a perfectly good shirt and my best jacket. No, more than that, it had ruined my only jacket.
The doc helped me as I struggled back into my clothes, and gave me a friendly pat on the other shoulder. ‘Just come back in a week to have the stitches taken out. There, you’re free to go.’
‘Is my friend ready?’
His brow furrowed. ‘Not sure, one moment.’ He stepped out of the room, and returned just a few seconds later. ‘He’ll be okay, but it needs a bit more time.’
‘Is he badly hurt?’
‘Not badly, it seems, but he’s in shock.’
‘Will he need to stay in?’
He shook his head. ‘No. But he needs someone to take him home.’
‘Okay. I don’t think he knows anyone in the city. I’ll wait for him in the bar. I could do with a drink.’
The doc grinned. ‘Good luck with that.’
The bar in the Ospedale had once been one of the best little bars in Venice. Panelled in dark wood with red leather padded chairs, it was part-gentleman’s club, part-classic 1950s coffee bar. I remembered my first visit, when I’d thought that – if it were only a bit closer to home – I’d have been tempted to become a regular. But then they stopped you smoking. And then they stopped you drinking. And nowadays, although you could still get a decent coffee and brioche, it wasn’t really a bar at all any more.
The barista laughed and shook his head when I enquired, more in hope than expectation, about the possibility of a caffè corretto . I sighed, and ordered a macchiatone instead. I had no idea exactly how long I’d have to wait. I wished I had something to read. I took a look around the bar in the hope that someone might have abandoned their newspaper, but I was out of luck.
I sat down and sipped at my coffee. And then a little more. And then a little more. And then I was finished. How much time had passed? I checked my watch. Five minutes. Great. I ordered another coffee and slid it over to the other side of the table in order to discourage me from simply knocking it back.
It lasted, perhaps, ten minutes this time. I sighed, and reached into my pocket for some more change as I made my way back to the bar. Eighty cents. Not enough. I reached into my jacket pocket for my wallet and extracted it with some difficulty, my pocket being jammed full of receipts and flyers, as was typical at this time of year.
I asked for another macchiatone . Three coffees in quick succession was not the smartest of ideas, but at least these were diluted with a healthy dose of foaming milk. I looked in my wallet. Not a five-, ten- or even a twenty-euro note to be seen.
The barista slid my coffee across the bar. I proffered a fifty-euro note. He gave me a sad little look.
‘You don’t want to take this do you?’
He shook his head. ‘Got anything smaller?’
‘I’ve got eighty cents.’
He stuck his hand out. ‘That’ll do.’
‘You sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. If I give you change of a fifty it’ll clear the till out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You shouldn’t drin
k so much coffee.’
‘I know. It’s not my fault you stopped serving proper drinks.’
He nodded, sadly. ‘I know. It was better in the old days. More of a party atmosphere, you know?’
‘Erm, yes. This is kind of a hospital, though?’
He shrugged. ‘Can you think of a better place for a party?’
I took my coffee back to the table. I pushed it as far away from me as I could. Then I placed the saucer on top of the cup. That, I thought, should help me eke things out for a bit longer.
I placed my wallet on the table and reached into my pocket to have a clear-out of all the crap that was blocking it up. Receipts, mainly. I always kept receipts. As far as I knew, it was still the law that you had to keep receipts until you were at least one hundred metres from the place that issued it. Living upstairs from a bar therefore meant that I had acquired quite a collection over the years. Federica and Dario kept telling me that this was all a load of rubbish, and that the law had changed years ago. I, however, was not prepared to take any chances.
Receipts, then. And flyers. You always accumulated flyers during the Biennale. It reminded me of my brief period in Edinburgh, when Jean and I would compete to see who could acquire the most flyers for Accidental Death of an Anarchist in a single day.
I stacked the receipts in one pile, the flyers in another. I replaced my wallet in my jacket. Then I removed the saucer from on top of the cup, took a mouthful of coffee, and replaced it. I felt quite pleased with myself. Then my shoulder twinged as I leaned back in my chair, as if to remind me of what had happened less than two hours ago.
Vengeance in Venice Page 10
