Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  “You know where everything is?” I asked.

  “That is my job,” he said. “And if I don’t know where something is, I know whom I must ask.”

  “And does everything also have to go the Inquisitors?”

  He seemed shocked at the suggestion. “Goodness, no. They wouldn’t be able to cope. Indeed…” He was suddenly seized with quiet laughter as he remembered something.

  “What’s the joke?” I asked.

  “There was one occasion when the Inquisitors did insist on receiving copies of our more important documents. Dear me.” The memory was clearly a hilarious one; his little shoulders quivered convulsively. “The Missier Grande knew just how to deal with that. He had copies of absolutely everything sent to them as it arose, hour after hour. After a few days it was they who begged him to stop.” Probably nothing so amusing had happened in the Doge’s palace since the banquet laid on for Henry III of France.

  “Is this rivalry a good thing?” I asked.

  “It’s not a question of rivalry,” he said stiffly. “The issue is a clear demarcation of areas of competence.” He really spoke like that. I was to get used to it – even to grow strangely fond of it. “There is also the fact that the role of the Missier Grande has been unfairly denigrated. It is undeniable that certain holders of the office in the past have proved unworthy of it. But the present Missier Grande has fully restored its honour and prestige. And anyone who attempts to deny this clearly does so with malicious intent.”

  “Well,” I said, “there is the fact that by nature of the job he has to consort with sbirri and zaffi.”

  “And no one has done more to improve the quality and reliability of those men,” he said.

  I remembered Scarface and the hairy man who had arrested me and felt a little doubtful. But it probably was not worth arguing the point.

  “What do you think the Missier Grande expects me to do?” I said.

  “To investigate nobleman Piero Garzoni,” he said, as if puzzled by my question.

  “Well, what does that mean? Am I supposed to follow him around in disguise? Or just to study the files you’ve already compiled?”

  “Well, of course you can consult our files,” he said.

  “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. Remember I’m entirely new to this world. Do you have extensive files on him?”

  “Well, naturally we have reports. And the Inquisitors will have their own files as well.”

  “And do you have access to their files?”

  “I can gain access,” he said, with the quiet complacency of a skilled workman. “If you come back tomorrow I can promise to have everything ready for you.”

  “I can’t just go and potter around in the archives myself?”

  He managed to check his horror at this notion and said, after gulping a few times: “You would not know where to start looking. And access to files is of course restricted.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so.” I did not say that I had just wanted to see the expression on his face. “Tell me, why do you think he’s keeping the Englishman in custody, given the evidence of the other way into the casino?”

  “My job is to gather information and make sure that it is available to those who need it. It is not my place to speculate on that information or to attempt to make any deductions from it.”

  “I see,” I said. “But you must have an opinion?”

  He looked pained at my insistence. “I can only repeat –”

  “Don’t worry. I get the point,” I said.

  But then, after giving a glance around the room, as if to make sure there were no other gatherers of information lurking in the cupboards, he leaned towards me and said in a low voice: “I can tell you that the Missier Grande has been known to keep someone in prison in order to deflect attention from the real suspect while evidence is being gathered against him.” Then, straightening up, he said: “That, by the way, is a purely unofficial remark.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll omit it from the record of our meeting.”

  He looked momentarily puzzled, and then disapproving. Official procedures were not a matter for mockery.

  I went on to another question, closer to my heart: “An emolument was mentioned…”

  “Ah yes. Here we have to base our judgement on established criteria for such financial transactions. Which means we take into account the estimated time required, the level of complexity of the case, and the social standing, the level of education and the experience of the agent in question. And so, making an assessment in line with comparable precedents, I would place you in category 3A and assign you, for the moment at least, a monthly stipend of thirteen zecchini.”

  I did my best not to whistle. This more than doubled my average income. Maybe I could buy myself a new wig.

  “We will lay down ten zecchini at once,” he went on, “so that you can make any necessary purchases. Funding for extra expenses will possibly be available in future, but only with a detailed and written justification of each item.”

  “Coffee in the Piazza to keep me alert?”

  The answer came immediately, without any hesitation, or any hint of a smile. “We would need documentation proving that you had selected your coffee house on sound criteria, whether financial or logistical or a combination of both.”

  “And you will file away this documentation?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Now I require you to sign certain documents and then you will be free to go. We will meet again tomorrow morning, when I shall have assembled all the relevant files on nobleman Piero Garzoni.”

  “Do I come back to the palace?”

  “No. Henceforth we will meet at the Missier Grande’s private offices, in the Piazza. Far more discreet. I’ll give you all necessary directions and passwords required.”

  * * *

  The next twenty minutes were spent signing and counter-signing lengthy documents, none of which I had a chance to read through properly. I might well have been signing my soul away, along with all my property (my books and two sets of clothes). I was then bustled down the familiar narrow corridors and staircases; it was difficult to believe that this was the same building that hosted the splendid chamber of the Great Council, with its massive celebratory canvases by Tintoretto and Veronese. Occasionally I caught a glimpse through half-open doors of people working at desks in rooms adorned with gleaming oil paintings and dark wooden panelling. We emerged into the sunlight of the great courtyard, where senators and noblemen stood conversing with eager petitioners and lawyers. Sior Massaro took his leave of me, with a brisk formal bow, and I headed out into the Piazzetta, wondering whether anyone was asking what I was doing there, at the heart of Venetian government, and deciding that if anyone had noticed me, they probably presumed I had been delivering cakes from one of the Piazza’s coffee houses.

  I went home, comforted by the feel of the shiny new ducats but otherwise more than a little perplexed, and wishing there was someone I could talk to about my new position.

  The first thing I had to do was let Bepi know that for a while at least he would have to find alternative employment. Without offending him, and without telling him the truth. Perhaps an edited version might work.

  I found him at the gondola station by the church of San Moisè, which is where he goes between regular jobs. He was playing dice with two other gondoliers and he looked up as I approached. “So?” he said.

  I shook my head. “I’ve been warned to stay clear.”

  He shrugged. “Well, there’ll be others. Fusina again this evening?”

  I shook my head again. “No. I’m sorry, Bepi. It’s not just the Boscombes; I’ve been told to stay clear of all travellers for the moment.”

  Just for a second I saw Bepi looking startled, a new phenomenon. His two mates looked almost equally surprised: presumably they too thought of him as wholly unrufflable.

  Then he caught control of himself. “For how long?” he said, his voice flat.

  “Until they tell
me.”

  “Well, that’s a nuisance,” he said. Una seccatura was his expression; I’d heard him use it in the past to describe new mooring charges, freak storms and an over-long sermon by his parish priest. Now the loss of his livelihood.

  “You’re telling me,” I said. “I’m sorry, Bepi. You can look around for other work, of course. It’s me, not you.”

  “All right.”

  “It’ll make your mother happy,” I said, unable to resist.

  He shrugged. “If I tell her.”

  “I hope it won’t be for too long,” I said.

  “So do I.”

  “Thanks.” I was oddly touched. “We make a good team.”

  “It works,” he said. “Well, let me know when things change. You know how to find me.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  And that was done. Bepi returned to his dice and his fellow-gondoliers and I to my secret life.

  * * *

  The next people I had to lie to were Fabrizio and Lucia at the bookshop. This would be a little trickier, I guessed. And I was right.

  As I entered the shop Lucia was dusting the books in the corner bookcase, while her father sat at the desk with a volume of Ariosto. Lucia gave me a brisk “Bondì, sior” with only a fraction of her usual smile, while her father was his usual amiable self.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “I thought you might like to know what happened this morning.”

  “Ah yes,” said Fabrizio.

  “How kind of you,” said Lucia, with chilling courtesy.

  “We managed to establish that the casino where Shackleford was killed did have another way out,” I said.

  “Well, that’s excellent news,” said Fabrizio.

  “I trust you have informed the authorities,” said Lucia.

  “Well, yes,” I said, “of course.”

  “And I’m sure they were most grateful for the information,” she went on. “Did they compliment you on your continuing interest in the case?”

  I put on a look of apologetic regret. “Well, as you can imagine, they weren’t too pleased that I had ignored their instructions.”

  “Really?”

  “And they’ve told me I’m to stay away from foreigners for the moment.”

  She said, in the same tone of cold sarcasm: “Well, what a surprise.” All of a sudden the pose collapsed and her next words were uttered in a tone of complete dismay. “Oh, Sior Alvise, how awful.” She took a step towards me, her dark eyes full of solicitude.

  I suppose I should have felt pleased at the success of my performance. “Don’t worry,” I said awkwardly. “It’s just temporary.”

  “That stupid woman,” she said.

  “My dear,” said Fabrizio, in mild reproof.

  “Oh, I’m sure she meant well,” she said, “but it was so unnecessary.”

  “Well, we did find out about the other exit from the casino,” I said, “which will help her cousin.” I thought there was little point in letting them know that the Missier Grande had already known all about it.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “But I’m sure you needn’t have been involved. Tell us, how did you find out about it?”

  I gave them a brief account of our visit to the casino, remaining vague on the décor of the place and the activities that presumably went on there.

  “How squalid,” said Lucia. “So people would pay to spy on other people while they…” Her voice trailed off, presumably to the relief of her father.

  “Yes,” I said. “I expect some people don’t mind being spied on.”

  “We are a city of performers,” Lucia said.

  “How very true,” I said, wondering for a moment whether she had guessed something.

  Her father, understandably enough, decided to change the subject. “And so, Alvise, what do you propose to do now?”

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve decided to treat this enforced rest period as an opportunity to further my studies.”

  “Bravo,” he said. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “In particular, it strikes me that it could be helpful for me to find out a little more about the areas of occult and arcane mystery that seem to interest so many of our visitors.”

  “Ah,” he said, the single syllable clearly indicating his disappointment.

  “Sior Alvise,” said Lucia, “you’re not serious.”

  I persisted, addressing her father. “You were telling me about nobleman Piero Garzoni and his interests. You said he had bought some books from you on such matters.”

  “But why should you wish to follow his example?” said Fabrizio, clearly bewildered.

  “Oh, it’s not his example that interests me. It’s just that my clients are often curious about such matters and it would clearly help me to be well informed, while remaining clear-headed and detached.”

  “Sior Alvise,” said Lucia, “you’re blathering and you know it.”

  “Lucia, my dear, there’s no need –”

  “No,” I said, “it’s good that she should speak her mind. I’m not offended.” I turned to her. “Siora Lucia, it may not be to our taste but perhaps we should try to understand the fascination of these matters.” I was suddenly struck by another possible line of approach. “For example, should I encounter another traveller like Mr Boscombe, so easily susceptible to any frappatore with a vague knowledge of such things, it will be easier for me to protect him if I’m able to counter his arguments.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, but she did not sound convinced. “Are you sure that’s the real reason?”

  “I’m not going to become an occultist,” I said.

  “Siora Boscombe has nothing to do with this?” she said, looking straight at me.

  It was good to have something I could honestly deny. “No,” I said, looking straight back at her, “I swear it. And besides, I’ve been told I am not to see the lady again.”

  “No need to swear anything,” she said.

  I realised that my underlying sense of guilt had made me overplay my part. I still had a good deal to learn as a performer. I turned back to Fabrizio. “So, Sior Fabrizio, as a start, it might be a help to know what books Piero Garzoni was interested in.”

  “Why particularly him?” he said.

  “Well, I have to start somewhere and it seems that Mr Boscombe was drawn towards him because of what he’d heard about him,” I said, hoping it sounded convincing.

  “Very well,” he said, a note of resignation in his voice. “Let me see if I made a note of the titles.” He turned to a ledger on his desk. “Of course, I’m not denying that many of these texts are of great interest; it is just that they are also liable to abuse by all sorts of charlatans and frappatori. I myself can see the fascination of the alchemical works and given time would certainly like to learn more about the Philosopher’s Stone. Ah, here we are.” He ran his finger over a page covered in his neat handwriting. “The Corpus Hermeticum of Hermes Trismegistus in Marsilio Ficino’s Latin translation, Alchymista Christianus by Pierre-Jean Fabre, Le sommaire philosophique by Nicolas Flamel – and then a good counter to that, the Archidoxa by Paracelsus…” He turned the page and continued to read, but my head was spinning by this time and I only picked up the thread again when he mentioned the Rosy Cross: “The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreuz by Johann Andreae, the Fama fraternitatis Roseae Crucis … extraordinary title, begins in Latin and continues in German … oder Die Bruderschaft des Ordens der Rosenkreuzer. Do you read German?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Ah, pity. That might be helpful. Still, so long as you can cope with the Latin…”

  “Just about,” I said, a little doubtfully. “Can I buy these books from you?”

  “How will you afford them?” he said. “Especially if you have no work at the moment. One or two I can lend you, others you will undoubtedly find at the Marciana library.”

  I decided it was not politic to flaunt my newly acquired zucchini, since I could not think of any convincing explanat
ion for them, and so expressed great gratitude for the loan. I left the shop laden with leather-covered Latinate learning; I had decided to start with the Rosy Cross.

  Lucia accompanied me to the door, still clearly perplexed by my choice of reading matter. “Sior Alvise,” she said, as I left, “do remember your promise to remain clear-headed and detached.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said. “If you hear of an explosion in the parish of San Giovanni in Bragora you’ll know my search for the Philosopher’s Stone has gone wrong.”

  It was not much of a joke but she awarded it a courteous smile and I took my leave.

  * * *

  Giovanna was standing at the door of the tavern chatting to a customer as I arrived with my burden. “More books,” she said, shaking her head sorrowfully. She clearly hated to see a young man go astray in this fashion.

  “Siora Giovanna,” I said, “I’ll do my best to turn the pages quietly.”

  She looked puzzled for a moment and then gave a roar of laughter, causing the customer to jump and spill his wine. “Sior Alvise, you’re so spiritoso.”

  “And you’re my best audience,” I said. Which was true. “Can I take up a jug of your best malvasia?” I knew I was going to need some form of sustenance. “Oh, and I can settle my account.”

  “It looks as though your meeting with the sbirri brought you luck,” she said as she handed me the jug of wine.

  “Just some clients who finally paid,” I said. Giovanna’s remark was probably quite innocent but I hoped she would not repeat it to anyone else. I was beginning to realise how full of pitfalls a double life could be.

  17

  I spent much of the night struggling with the Rosy Cross, in Latin and Italian. I had not realised until now that there was – or, at least, there was supposed to have been – a man of that name: Christian Rosenkreuz. After several hours poring over the various books until their different typefaces began to swim before my eyes in the flickering candlelight, I was not very much closer to understanding what the members of the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross were in search of. I passed on to Hermes Trismegistus and found myself equally baffled, as I tried to understand whether he was a god or a philosopher, Greek or Egyptian, pagan or Christian.