Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  It took almost twenty-five minutes (which included two intervals while Fabrizio dealt with customers) and they listened in silence, with just a few requests for clarification, an occasional cospetto from Fabrizio and an occasional intake of breath on Lucia’s part (the killing of Zosimos, the escape across the roof). I tried not to overdo the drama but I cannot deny that Lucia’s reactions were gratifying.

  “So you are a confidential agent of the Missier Grande,” said Fabrizio. He did not sound enthusiastic.

  “I have been one,” I said. “The Missier Grande himself made it perfectly clear that my days as such are over. Or rather my day as such is over.”

  “And I’m glad to hear it,” said Lucia firmly.

  “Well, so am I,” I said. “Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “Well, everything is so unsatisfactory,” I said. “I would rather have finished having at least concluded something.”

  “I’m sure your performance was splendid,” said Lucia. She seemed almost radiant, now that she had learned the real explanation for my sudden interest in occult matters. This was more than gratifying.

  “It was not bad,” I said, “though I say it myself. But I wish there could have been a last act and final curtain.”

  She nodded. “Nobleman Garzoni clearly should be arrested, along with his bravi, from all you say. But I have no doubt that he’ll be watched from now on. And I for one am glad that it is not you who has to do the watching.” She smiled. “There may be a good deal of theatre in Venetian life, as you say, but things aren’t usually as neatly arranged as in an opera libretto.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t get rid of the notion that some kind of grand finale is being prepared all the same.”

  “Yes, but you needn’t be involved,” said Sior Fabrizio. “Leave it to the sbirri. That’s their job.”

  “But will they do their job?”

  Lucia was looking at me seriously. “Sior Alvise, I can see you are troubled. What is it you really fear?”

  “That Garzoni is planning something. And something imminent. Maybe…”

  “Maybe what?”

  “I don’t know, but I suspect it’s something to do with the Feast of the Ascension.”

  “Tomorrow?” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then you must do something about it,” she said.

  I looked at her with some surprise. “But didn’t you want me to keep out of trouble?”

  “Out of unnecessary trouble,” she said, and she smiled. “And anyway, I’ve come to realize that that sort of advice doesn’t work with you.”

  “I don’t go looking for trouble,” I protested.

  “No, but when it comes, perhaps you don’t do all you could to avoid it. Though maybe…” She stopped.

  It was my turn to pick up the unconcluded sentence. “Maybe?”

  “Well, maybe it depends on the person who asks you to get involved.”

  I felt myself grow red. “Siora, I assure you –”

  “Oh, don’t bluster,” she said. “I don’t blame you. It was natural enough.”

  “Lucia, my dear,” said Fabrizio, “if you’re referring to Siora Boscombe, I think you’re being a little unfair.”

  “It was merely an observation,” she said, “not an accusation. And in the present case the young lady’s charms clearly have nothing to do with anything.”

  “No,” I said, “they don’t.”

  “And in this case I think you do well to get involved. I don’t see what else you can do. Not if the safety of the city depends on it.”

  I looked at her a little warily, wondering if she was making fun of me, but she was entirely serious. “It may sound absurd,” I said, “but I think that it quite possibly does.” I turned to Fabrizio. “Can you tell me anything about a certain Drebbel? Apparently he invented a kind of clock or a telescope, and was connected with the Emperor Rudolph. And with Prince Henry, although I don’t know who that would be. They’re names I saw among Garzoni’s papers.”

  He tried the name over and over. “Drebbel, Drebbel…” It sounded quite charming in his Venetian accent. “I think I’ve come across it but I couldn’t say where. Give me time for a little browsing and I’ll see if I can come up with anything.”

  “All right. I’m going to try to find out about Garzoni’s time at the Arsenale.”

  “And how will you do that?” said Lucia. “You no longer have any official status.”

  “I hardly had any before,” I said. “I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone I was a confidential agent. I’ll just have to rely on my natural charm of manner.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll find out all you need to know,” she said. It was not clear how ironic she was being. “Who are you going to ask?”

  “I’ll start with my old gondolier’s brother, who works there.”

  “Ah, Bepi,” she said, with a smile. She had always liked Bepi. “Give him my best wishes. And if I can be of any help…”

  “Lucia, my dear,” said her father, in a vaguely admonitory tone.

  “Don’t worry, father, I’m not intending to storm Palazzo Garzoni.”

  “They wouldn’t stand a chance if you did,” I said. And I was not sure how ironic I was being.

  “How sweet of you,” she said, with a bow. “Let us know what you learn from Bepi’s brother.”

  “I will do so,” I said, and took my leave.

  I made my way to Bepi’s usual waiting place near San Moise. He was there, apparently playing the same game of dice with the same two gondoliers.

  “Are we back in business?” he said.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah.”

  “No. I was wondering if I could talk to your brother.”

  “Which one?”

  “Is it Giacomo? The one who works at the Arsenale?”

  “That’s right. What do you want from him?”

  “Oh, just a chat. I’ll explain it all later.”

  “Well, they come out early today. La Sensa, you know.” He glanced upwards to see where the sun was. “Should be coming out in about an hour and a half. Do you want me to take you to the Arsenale?”

  “That would be very good. I don’t want to drag you away from your game, though.”

  “Don’t worry. I sometimes think I play too much.”

  The larger of his two companions said: “What that means is he’s losing.”

  Bepi gave a shrug and a smile and pushed a small pile of coins in the direction of the man who had spoken, which suggested there may have been some truth in his remark. “Come back in half an hour,” he said. “Give me time to win some back.”

  I did as he said. He was looking calm enough when I returned, so I imagine he must have had some better luck. He bade goodbye to his companions and then strolled with me in the direction of his mooring place.

  “Have you found any other work?” I asked him.

  “Nothing regular,” he said. “I’ll be ferrying people for the Sensa later this afternoon and evening.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, stepping into the gondola. “Sure I’m not taking you from business now?”

  “Wasn’t planning to start work till later in the day,” he said. “Tell me what you want with Giacomo.” He untied the mooring rope and leaped lightly to his post.

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “I was asked by the Missier Grande to investigate nobleman Garzoni.”

  “You?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “There’s no need to sound quite so surprised.” Actually he had merely uttered the second-person pronoun in a mildly interrogative tone: “Ti?” “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone but now that I’ve been dismissed from the job I see no reason to keep quiet.”

  “But you’re still investigating,” he said as he pushed us away from the mooring poles towards the Grand Canal.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Something’s happeni
ng that is a long way from the Lepanto spirit.”

  He gave a kind of all-purpose grunt, which might have been an acknowledgement of the justice of my remark but might equally have been an expression of disgust at my shameless exploitation of that one time he had revealed something of himself to me.

  I chose to believe in the former possibility and went on: “I need to know something about some of the people around Garzoni. Your brother might remember them.”

  “He might. He doesn’t notice much, mind you.”

  I hoped that this was just an elder brother’s typical lack of appreciation of a younger sibling. And I remembered that Bepi tended to regard most people born more than three years after him as hopelessly ignorant, even if they were not wholly to be blamed for their condition; as I myself was nearly ten years younger I sometimes marvelled that he had ever agreed to work with me. But possibly he put me, as a semi-foreigner, in a different category.

  We travelled past the church of the Salute, and the wide basin of the lagoon opened up before us. There were more craft than usual on the water, as people were making their preparations for the great celebrations the following day. Some of the more elaborate ceremonial boats were already being tried out, so that the lagoon seemed suddenly to have spawned hosts of golden-bearded deities and mythological creatures, all tossing and tumbling on the glittering water.

  “Some of these people,” muttered Bepi.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You’d think they’d never been on the water before,” he said, gesturing towards a flamboyantly decorated boat to our right, with ten oarsmen who, despite having Neptune as figurehead, did not seem very familiar with the aquatic element.

  “Well, you know how it is,” I said. “Every guild likes to have their representatives out on show for the big day. I expect they’re bakers, or barrel-makers…”

  “They could hire proper gondoliers,” he said sourly.

  “Anyway, it looks as if it should be a good day for the ceremony,” I said. The Bucintoro, the ceremonial boat that bears the Doge to the Lido for the wedding ceremony, is so overloaded with gilded carvings and allegorical ornaments that it is unable to venture outside the lagoon, and even within the lagoon it cannot sail if the water is at all choppy. Gaudily splendid but impractical, confined to its own native waters, it is perhaps all too suitable a symbol for the city as it is today. And even as they enjoy the spectacle, I suspect many Venetians secretly realise this.

  “We won’t be able to go up the Arsenale canal,” said Bepi.

  “No, I suppose not,” I said. It was usually off-limits to private boats and this was even more likely to be the case today, since all sorts of preparations would be under way. The Bucintoro is moored throughout the year in the docks within the Arsenale itself, but tomorrow it would make its stately way down the canal into the lagoon, ready for the Doge and assembled dignitaries to board it near the Piazzetta.

  Bepi steered us in towards the poles alongside the Riva. He tied up the gondola and we disembarked and set off down the narrow Calle del Buso. A minute later we emerged from the gloom of the alleyway into the sunlit animation of the square, directly opposite the magnificent entrance into the Arsenale, guarded by its impressive array of marble lions. I could not help glancing up at the statue of Santa Giustina, perched on top of the tympanum above the gateway; every curve and fold in the saint’s form had become very familiar to me.

  The workers were already emerging from the gateway, with that extra spring in their legs bestowed by the knowledge that several days of holiday awaited them. Bepi greeted a number of them in his usual laconic fashion (a nod and a bondì, sometimes accompanied by a name). At last he said, “Bondì, fradeo,” and introduced me to Giacomo. Apart from a slight facial similarity, it was difficult to believe they were brothers. Where Bepi was unemphatic in movement and voice, Giacomo was expansive and noisy. He greeted his brother with a loud salutation, throwing out his arms in a gesture that combined welcome and surprise; his arms seemed to be too large for his body and were in constant motion. Although he must have been in his late twenties, his whole demeanour was that of an enthusiastic child let out of school early.

  He greeted me with a vigorous handshake and said, “Ah yes, you’re the foresto,” beaming happily as if my presence were the crowning touch to the day’s joy.

  I guessed that foresto was how I was known in the Zennaro family. “Well, yes, but my parents are Venetian. Anyway, do you mind if I ask you some questions about some people who used to work here?”

  He did not stop beaming but said: “What’s it about?”

  “It’s unofficial inquiries for the Missier Grande,” I said, in as vague and unofficial a fashion as possible.

  “You can trust him,” said Bepi. “He’s not a sbirro.”

  “Well, all right,” he said; but his broad smile had become a trifle wary.

  “Let’s walk towards Bepi’s gondola,” I said. “You do all live…”

  “We all live together,” said Bepi. “One big happy family,” he added, in his flattest tone.

  “That’s right, fradeo,” said Giacomo, and gave him a jolly fraternal punch on the shoulder, which merely caused Bepi to raise a weary eyebrow.

  We crossed the square to the corner where Calle del Buso began, walking behind a number of other workers. It was too narrow for us all to walk side by side so we waited till we reached the sunlit Riva to begin the conversation. When paused by Bepi’s gondola I said: “The Missier Grande is interested in nobleman Garzoni.”

  “Oh, God,” said Giacomo.

  I looked at him. The expression of amiable cheeriness had sagged somewhat. “Did you have any dealings with him?”

  He laughed. “I’m not that grand. Just a caulker, me. But we all knew him.

  “Was he respected?”

  “He was feared,” he said.

  He would have been pleased to hear that, I thought. But then he undoubtedly already knew it.

  “Most of us hated him,” Giacomo went on. But then he added: “There were some who respected him. Even worshipped him.”

  “And how many would they be?”

  “A handful,” he said, indicating a tight-knit group by cupping his hands together. “And they stuck together. Like a – well, like a secret society. Even had their own codes.” He paused. “Or so people said. I was never close enough.”

  “Doesn’t sound good for the overall spirit of the place,” I said.

  “It wasn’t. That’s why people were so glad when at last they managed to get rid of him.”

  “And do you think he kept up contacts with any of these people? The ones in the secret society?”

  “Look, I’m not saying it was a real secret society. Just acted like one.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But did these people stay in touch with him after he had been dismissed?”

  “Well, I’ve heard stories…” He paused. “And there were those who joined him when he left.”

  “Right,” I said. “Luca, Gaetano and Giorgio.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Nice trio.” He gave a guffaw: “I don’t think!” He was one of those who like their irony to be well signalled. His brother rolled his eyes to heaven and then bent down to the rope and began to unmoor the gondola.

  “What can you tell me about them?”

  “Well, Gaetano and Giorgio were both haulers.”

  “Haulers?” I said.

  “They do all the heavy lifting around the place. Barrels of pitch. Uncut poles. Iron hoops. You want something carried, you point it out to them and they carry it wherever you want it. You have to tell them exactly where. Can’t let them work it out for themselves. Story goes that Gaetano once carried a barrel right out of the Arsenale all the way to the Piazza because no one told him to put it down.” He threw out his arm, pointing all the way down the Riva, and guffawed again. “Probably would have gone on walking all the way to Santa Marta and then into the lagoon if a guard hadn’t stopped him outside the
Doge’s palace.”

  “And they respected Garzoni?”

  “Loved him. Knew where they were with him. They wanted orders. He gave orders.”

  I said hesitantly: “Were there ever any rumours about … about their relations?”

  He guffawed again, as if it was the funniest thing I’d said so far. “Garzoni couldn’t stand inverts. You heard about the man who was flogged.”

  “Was that for sexual practices?” I said.

  “Well, not officially. The poor man had been late three days running. But people say that there was also a rumour that he liked bending over and that was what made Garzoni come down so hard on him.” He suddenly realised the possible double meaning of what he had said and roared with laughter again. “If you know what I mean!”

  Bepi looked up from the rope and said, “Sometimes the people who speak out the most against it…” His voice tailed away but his point was clear enough.

  It was obviously a new thought to his brother. “Do you think so? You mean … Cospetto!” He seemed quite flummoxed by the idea. Then he said, “Anyway, I can’t imagine Gaetano and Giorgio getting up to that sort of stuff.”

  Bepi shrugged. “I’m not saying they do. But maybe Garzoni likes having them around, all the same.”

  “What about Luca?” I said.

  “Oh, Luca Sartori,” Giacomo said. He sounded contemptuous. “He was master of ceremonies, responsible for all the spectacles that get put on.”

  “Is that an important job?”

  “Well, it never used to be, but under him it became all-important. I mean, we arsenalotti have always taken part in the city’s ceremonies – rowing the Bucintoro, escorting foreign diplomats into the city, acrobatic displays in the Piazza … you know the sort of stuff.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said.

  “Well, Garzoni seemed to decide that that was what the Arsenale was all about, and Sartori spent all his time preparing the shows. Even if you weren’t directly involved you had to take part in the drills every morning. Can’t deny that it impressed foreign visitors when they came. They would see us all marching to our work places in step.” He did a strutting parody of a military march for a few paces to make the point. “But it got too much and people started asking when we were going to try to design something useful – a ship that could really take on the Turks, for example. Somebody told me once that Sartori had actually worked in the theatre and it sounded likely. He certainly didn’t know much about ships.”