“I don’t know who it is,” I said. “But they seem very interested in my client.”
“They? Not just our friend in the cloak and mask?”
“Well, he had gondoliers. They’ve been after us since we left Fusina. And the client refuses to say who they are.”
“Father,” came a new and far more attractive voice. “What’s happening?”
Fabrizio’s daughter came down the stairs in the corner of the shop that lead to the apartment above. Three voices in the shop were presumably enough of a novelty to arouse her curiosity.
“Ah, Lucia,” he said. “Alvise has joined us, with an English friend, and they are apparently on the run from the forces of evil.”
Lucia came towards us and as usual I began to wonder if my wig was straight and my shirt clean. I knew my tongue was going to prove twice as large as usual in my mouth, so that I would stammer and perhaps even slobber. It is not just that she is extremely attractive; it is that unlike most girls of her age (nineteen) she will stare you straight in the face and laugh if there is anything to laugh at. And in my case there usually seems to be. Her supreme confidence can perhaps be attributed to the fact that she grew up without a mother to tell her that young ladies are supposed to lower their eyes bashfully in the presence of men (Fabrizio’s wife died in childbirth and no other female relative was willing to take on the task of her upbringing). Certainly it never crosses her father’s mind to give her any instructions. I imagine he once told her to put away her toys when she was about three and is still reeling from the experience.
“Knowing Sior Alvise I expect it’s his landlord,” she said, fixing me with her dark eyes.
“I suggested that and he fiercely denies the allegation,” said Fabrizio.
“Not fiercely,” I said, making my usual awkward bow in her direction. “Just truthfully for once. I paid my rent last Saturday.”
“I thought the bells of Saint Mark’s rang with unexpected fervour that day,” she said. She gazed at Shackleford. “Who is this gentleman?”
I performed the introduction, and Shackleford made an even more awkward bow than I had done, which was a minor comfort. I imagine he had never met quite such a self-assured young woman before.
“Ah, just a moment,” said Fabrizio, who was gazing towards the window. “I think your friend is back again.” He spoke without turning to us. “Stay where you are.”
Lucia looked towards the window as well. “Do you want me to go and ask what he wants?” she said.
“No,” I whispered. “Pay no attention to him.”
“He’s going,” said Fabrizio, with a sigh of relief.
“Let me ask a great favour,” I said. “Would you mind taking Mr Shackleford back to the Leon Bianco? I just want to find out a little about this man. Then I’ll go straight to the inn.”
“You’re going to follow your follower?” said Lucia. The idea seemed to amuse her. “Yes, I’ll take your friend back.”
“No, Siora Lucia, I meant your father…”
“I know you did. But he has a shop to run.”
“Lucia,” said her father, “I think the shop could manage –”
“Hush, Father. I know what I’m doing.”
And of course he said not another word of protest. Neither did I. “Thank you, Siora Lucia,” I said. “Please be careful.”
“And you too,” she said.
I wondered briefly whether she was truly concerned for my safety but guessed she just had little confidence in my powers as a pursuer. Well, she was probably right. But there was only one way to find out.
“Which way did he go?” I asked Fabrizio.
“To the right, towards the Piazza,” he said. “Be careful.” He did sound concerned.
“I will,” I said. “And Siora Lucia, please do not take a direct route to the inn.” I turned to Shackleford. “This lady will take you back to the White Lion. I’m going to follow our friend.”
“What? Who –” Now he was seriously flustered but I had no time to make reassuring noises.
“I’ll see you back at the inn very soon,” I said, and made towards the door. “Thank you so much, siora – and thank you, Sior Fabrizio, for the refuge.”
“Don’t worry, Alvise.” Then, as if the idea had just struck him, he added: “Next time you could come and look at the books. You might even like them.” But I was already out in the street and staring down the Calle dei Fabbri in the direction of Saint Mark’s Square. I pulled my tricorn well down over my forehead and set off, trying to vary my gait by hunching my shoulders up and swinging my arms. I could see the cloaked figure ahead of me; he had clearly given up all idea of following anyone, and was walking briskly and purposefully, without any sideward or (fortunately) backward glances. There was no mistaking that wiry nimbleness of movement. He weaved around the other pedestrians in the narrow street with a panther-like grace.
He passed under the Sottoportego dei Dai and about fifteen seconds later I did the same, emerging into the sudden breadth and beauty of Saint Mark’s Square. The hectic days of Carnival were gone; there were no raucous crowds in elaborate costumes and masks, no troupes of dancers or trapezists spinning through the air, although anyone unfamiliar with the place might have assumed from the number of people in exotic dress that Carnival was not quite over, until closer study revealed that those in Turkish costumes were indeed Turks, and in Armenian dress Armenians … and above the throng the great red pennants with the golden lion of Saint Mark flapped proudly from the flagpoles.
My man headed diagonally across the square towards the booths selling wine and cakes at the foot of the great bell tower, making for the coffee shop closest to the water. Now he began to look around and I joined a group of Croatian tourists. But then I realised he was looking for someone among the people sitting outside the coffee shop and so with a smile and a nod I detached myself from my politely puzzled Croatian companions and sidled towards the coffee shop myself.
The ganzer had approached someone at one of the tables. I could not see his features – the only lanterns were behind him – but I thought I could make out that he was wearing a nobleman’s cloak. The ganzer hovered a few feet away until the man at the table acknowledged his presence with a raised hand and a few words of vague greeting. He did not invite the other man to sit down, which was not surprising, if he really was a nobleman. However, from the posture he adopted, with his head raised towards the ganzer, he was clearly interested in what the other man had to say.
I realised there was no way I was going to be able to overhear their conversation. And unless I got a little closer I was not going to be able to identify the seated man. Could I do so, without letting myself be seen? It was worth the risk, I thought. I walked forward as casually as possible, at the same time drawing my little sketchbook and a black crayon from my inner pocket. If the man would turn his head towards the light I might be able to get a likeness of him.
As the ganzer talked on, however, the man’s position remained unaltered. There seemed only to be a stiffening of his shoulders, as if he were irritated by what he was hearing. Then he spoke a few short sentences, and the ganzer’s pose became apologetic; with rather flamboyant gestures he threw out both arms, as if to say, “What would you have me do?” I guessed that the story of the failed interception of Boscombe and his bear-leader had come to its climax – or rather anticlimax. And he could not even tell him which inn the men were staying at.
Just at that moment my crayon-holding arm was gripped and I jerked my head to the right and saw my old acquaintance, Walnut Face. I could only presume that he had been keeping an eye on things from beneath the portico.
“What are you doing?” he said in a quiet but threatening voice.
I almost answered in the same low pitch but fortunately realised in time that this would be a mistake. I said loudly: “Do you want your portrait too, sir? Just eight lire. It’ll only take ten minutes.”
As he attempted to grab the sketchbook, I twisted away, holding
the book at arm’s length. “Ten lire, if you want it full face…” People were turning to stare at us. “Please, sir,” I called out, as he made another attempt to grab the sketchbook, “don’t be impatient. You’re not the only one wanting a portrait.”
His grip on my arm loosened as he became aware of the growing public interest in our little private dance. “Give me that drawing…”
“No, sir, I can’t do that. It’s not of you.”
I darted a glance towards the coffee shop and saw that the seated man and the ganzer were also looking our way. Walnut Face, I could tell, was itching to reach for his knife again. That would not go down well with the officials responsible for public decorum in the square but their disapproval would be of little comfort to me as I lay in a pool of blood. I squirmed free from his grasp and turned and ran across the square, swerving past the cluster of conveniently companionable Croatians, weaving around other groups of visitors and revellers, and heading towards the arch of the clock tower. I heard no footsteps behind me and by the time I reached the comforting gloom of the archway I felt able to slow down. The Mercerie, the main shopping street between San Marco and the Rialto area, was crowded as usual, and it was impossible to move fast without attracting attention. I forced myself to a semblance of calm, put my sketchbook inside my coat, adjusted my coat and tricorn, and walked on with as casual an air as possible.
4
I took a roundabout route back to the bookshop, deciding it was worth calling there before going to the inn. When I arrived Lucia was just divesting herself of her cloak. Her father looked a little concerned.
“All well?” I asked.
She turned to me. “I didn’t get lost, if that’s what you mean. And no one seemed to be interested in us.”
“I meant – people not being interested in you. I’m glad no one was.”
“Not your prettiest compliment,” she said, “but I suspect you mean well.”
I did not try to answer that. “Thank you, both of you. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
“My dear Alvise,” said Fabrizio, “are you going to honour us with an explanation?”
“There isn’t very much I can tell you,” I said, “but I’ll do my best.” I told them what had happened at Fusina and then the business with the change of inn.
“Cospetto,” said Fabrizio; it is his strongest imprecation and is roughly equivalent to “Dear me”. “Should you not inform the authorities?”
“Mr Boscombe seems against it,” I said. “They both say they have no idea why anyone should be concerned with them.” I turned to Lucia. “Siora, did Mr Shackleford say anything to you?”
“You think he might have felt more inclined to reveal all to a helpless maiden?” she said.
“Well, yes. I think you might be better at persuading a middle-aged man to confide his troubles than I am.”
“You are full of compliments today, Sior Alvise,” she said. “Sadly, I learned nothing of any consequence. He likes our bookshop and hopes to pay it another visit. He wished to know if we have any of the English authors but I said only in translation, and he asked which authors, and I said, we have William Shakespeare, we have Thomas Hobbes and John Locke, and of course Mr Samuel Richardson, and he wished to know if I had wept over the vicissitudes of poor Pamela, and naturally I replied that I have…”
“And all this was in which language?”
“French, and a smattering of the English I have acquired from you.”
“I didn’t know I had imparted any English.”
“Dear Sior Alvise, don’t I regularly hear you talking to the clients you bring here? Do you think it is beyond my wits to acquire a word a two of your barbarous tongue?”
“I realise I’ll have to be careful in future what I say.”
“I have also been reading Pamela in English. Slowly but steadily.”
That was how I remembered the plot of the novel developing so it seemed a suitable method. “Did you meet Mr Boscombe at the inn?”
“No. When we arrived the landlord informed us that the milord had decided to take a little trip along the Grand Canal with your gondolier friend.”
“Ah. Well, I’m glad Bepi is being kept busy.”
“I think,” she said speculatively, “that Mr Boscombe might have decided to take the opportunity to enjoy the spectacle of the Grand Canal without the added benefit of architectural and historical information.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “I suppose I can be a little tedious.”
She laughed. “My barb wasn’t directed at you.” And then she added, “This time.”
“Ah, yes, I have heard Mr Shackleford in full flow,” I said, “and I can understand the desire to escape from it.”
“But what about you? What were your adventures after you dashed away so precipitately?”
“Yes,” said Fabrizio. “What happened? Did you find out anything about the man?”
“I followed him as far as the Piazzetta in front of the Doge’s palace. There he met with a nobleman.”
“Indeed? Did you know him?”
“I couldn’t see his face, but from the cloak he looked rather like a barnabotto,” I said. Barnabotti are the impoverished noblemen who, being obliged by law to keep up the appearances of their rank, are provided with cheap state-owned accommodation in the neighbourhood of the church of San Barnaba. “I wanted to make a sketch of him but couldn’t see his face properly. But I did do the man who was following us.”
I pulled out my sketchbook and showed it to them. Like other accomplishments that my erratic education has equipped me with, my talent for portraiture is not sufficient to guarantee me a living but is occasionally valid enough to solicit a nod of approval from friends and acquaintances. Lucia went so far as to say “Bravo”, and for once there seemed to be no irony in her voice. The compliment was not unearned, I think; I had done full justice to the man’s sharp, cragged features.
Fabrizio pondered. “It is a good portrait and I’m sure I will recognise the man if I see him again, but I can’t say I know him.”
“I’ll know him too,” said Lucia. “He looks like a tough character. And you say he was talking to a nobleman.”
“I think so. He certainly seemed deferential enough.”
She kept her eyes on the picture and eventually said: “Sior Alvise, you have a skill with the crayon. Why do you not try to develop that?”
“I have tried,” I said. “I think I told you that I first came to Venice as a travelling artist. But I could not make a living.”
“You did not persist, I think.”
I could have made an ironic quip about bowing to the superior knowledge of the world she had accumulated over her many years but did not, mainly because I suspected she had a point. So instead I shrugged and said, “Siora Lucia, you may be right. But at the moment I have another job.”
“Showing bored English boys works of art they are not interested in and the way to the gambling houses and stews.”
“Lucia!” This time her father was angry.
She gave a half-shrug herself. “My language may be unrefined but I think Sior Alvise will find it hard to contest the accuracy of my remark.”
“I try to overcome their boredom,” I said. “And I’ll admit that I suggest the safest gambling houses. As for the other thing, they don’t seem to need much guidance in finding their way there.”
“Lucia,” said Fabrizio, “there is no reason why Sior Alvise should have to defend the perfectly honourable way he has chosen to make a living. It is good to know that there are young people interested in this city’s heritage and eager to pass on their knowledge. And for someone who did not grow up here, Sior Alvise is remarkably well informed about our city.”
“With many thanks to you,” I said, “who have been so generous in lending me books.” His books had helped to fill the many gaps in my education. I had grown up amid actors and actresses, singers and performers, with occasional lessons from private tutors when my mother cou
ld afford it, and two much-resented terms at two different boarding schools, both of which I had run away from. Even though I had somehow managed to acquire a steady reading habit, not wholly confined to theatrical scripts, and a love of art, partly inspired by the Italian scene-painter my mother had taken up with for a few years after her noble patron had finally tired of her, there were many areas of learning where I was painfully aware of my deficiencies.
He smiled. “Well, keep bringing your charges’ tutors to me. Every so often I even manage to sell them one or two.”
5
The moment I reached the land entrance to the Leon Bianco I was greeted by Bepi. “Something’s up,” he said. Brief and to the point as ever.
“What?”
“They’re saying they’ve been robbed.”
“Ah,” I said. “And you don’t mean they’re contesting the bill.”
“No. Robbed in their room.”
“How –”
“You’d better ask them. I took Milord for a short row down the Canalazzo and when I got back there was the tutor wailing and moaning about thieves and bandits and God knows what.”
I climbed the stairs to the piano nobile. In the grand reception hall, Sior Scarpa was distraught; he seemed to have taken over the task of wailing and moaning. Shackleford and Boscombe were a good deal calmer. Indeed, Boscombe looked completely unruffled. Shackleford just seemed a shade more flustered than usual. Some of the serving staff were standing around, looking anxious but clearly not knowing what to do or say until orders should be issued.
“What happened?” I asked, addressing Sior Scarpa in Venetian.
“Sior Alvise, please tell them, nothing like this has ever happened before. This is a respectable inn.”
I translated, hoping that someone would soon tell me what the unprecedented happening was. Boscombe nodded and said, “Tell him we’re not blaming him.”
I did so, and before Sior Scarpa could burst into a flurry of grateful exclamations asked quickly: “Can you tell me exactly what happened, sir?”
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